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and cut it into pieces to tie the branches together. Little Ned was shot up bad, and if it wasn’t for his clothing and web belt cinched tight, it would have been a lot harder. Miller looked away for most of it, then threw up. When they were done, Big Ned handed him the rope.
    “You pull.”
    “I can’t—”
    Red looked away as three M1s rose up, pointing at Miller’s gut and motioning him to move. He took the rope.
    “Tuck, take point,” said Red.
    They set off, trudging through the woods, hoping to get back to their lines before dark. Clay took the rear, and Jake followed Big Ned behind Little Ned. After an hour, Jake heard Big Ned talking to himself, whispering, the words rising and falling on currents of quiet anger. Straining to hear, he realized Big Ned wasn’t talking to himself, he was talking to Little Ned.
    Shit…what am I supposed to do…you stupid fuck…put up with you for five long months and what do I get? What a fucking stupid thing...almost got me killed too. I always told you…you crawled like a fucking recruit. Now I’m going to have some asshole like Miller here carry ammo for me and he’ll finish the job…point me out to some Kraut sniper…I’m fucking dead…thanks for nothing, shithead.
    The cursing continued into the night, after they made it through their lines. Clay and Jake brought Red to the Aid Station. Big Ned made Miller drag Little Ned back to Company HQ so Graves Registration could get him in the morning. Big Ned covered him with a tarp, pulled up an ammo crate, sat down and lit a cigarette. It started to snow. As the whiteness graced them both he started all over again.
    You fucking bastard.
     
     

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
    1964
     
     
    The wood frame of the screen door was warped, so as the delivery guy knocked, it clattered back and forth against the opening, twice as loud as it needed to be. The rattling hook added a metallic urgency as the knock came a second time.
    “Clay Brock?”
    “Hold your horses, I’m trying to open up in here.”
    Walking through the storeroom and unlatching the hook, his forehead furrowed in irritation. He opened the door for the delivery guy to wheel in his hand truck, top-heavy and wobbly, loaded with cases of cigarettes. Cartons of Raleighs, Luckies, Kools, Winstons, Chesterfields, and Old Golds. The delivery guy let the hand truck go and it fell forward with a clank as it hit the old wooden floorboards. The cases tottered like they might topple over, finally settling down, towering over the delivery guy as he watched them for signs of collapse. He pulled a pen from the front pocket of his blue jacket. Tri-State Brands was embroidered over the pocket, same thing on his cap.
    “You Clay Brock?” he asked again, handing over the pen and a clipboard.
    “That’s what it says over the door. Clayton Brock, Permitee. Why are you so late? Where’s Petey?”
    “Dunno. Heard he had an accident. I’m new, don’t know the route too well.”
    He said all this while working a hunk of chewing gum, snapping it with every other bite, mouth wide open, displaying the gnawed white ball as it rolled around on his tongue. He spoke with disinterest, nonchalant about Petey, the late delivery, everything but his wad of gum.
    “Well, get to know it,” Clay said, signing and thrusting the clipboard back at him. “I needed to make my run in the morning to be back here for the lunch crowd. Now I’m screwed. What’s your name, anyway?”
    The delivery guy didn’t take the clipboard right away. He snapped, waited a beat, then took it, grabbing it forcefully, the sudden movement sharp in the small room. He clipped the pen, slowly and carefully, in his jacket pocket. He was young, twenty, maybe a couple of years older. Thin, wiry with some muscles, it was hard to tell with the jacket and work shirt. Thick dark hair showed beneath the baseball cap with the red Tri-State logo. A good looking Italian kid who thought a whole lot of himself. Not quite arrogant,