Chapter 13 - The Men We Carry
Collins was buried beneath a gray Normandy sky.
The chaplain spoke.
Rain tapped on helmets.
Eli heard only fragments.
Duty.
Sacrifice.
Country.
Words large enough to hide inside.
Afterward, the men remained.
One by one, they told stories.
Frank said Collins once stole an entire pie from the officers’ mess and blamed it on a stray dog.
Tommy said Collins could name every starting player for the Yankees going back ten years.
Jack held the crushed DiMaggio card.
“He showed me this before patrol.”
His voice shook.
“Said it was lucky.”
Jack swallowed.
“I told him luck was for cowards.”
He looked at the grave.
“I was wrong about a lot of things.”
He placed the card beneath the wooden marker.
Eli waited until everyone else had finished.
Then he said, “He was afraid.”
The men looked at him.
“So was I. So was every man in that field.”
He looked at the grave.
“Being brave didn’t mean Collins wasn’t afraid. It meant he moved when Hale said move. It meant he stayed beside us. It meant he did his job while wanting to go home.”
Eli removed Samuel’s photograph.
“This war is full of names people will never put in newspapers.”
He looked at Hale, Jack, Tommy, Frank, Burke.
“Remember them anyway.”
That evening Burke gave a formal statement.
Major Rusk had vanished through an underground passage beneath the hunting lodge.
Intelligence discovered evidence of months of betrayal.
Patrol routes.
Supply schedules.
Artillery maps.
Rusk had apparently begun passing information after gambling debts and blackmail placed him under pressure before the invasion.
But Captain Warren suspected something worse.
“He wasn’t just selling paper,” Warren said.
Eli stood in the command tent with Hale.
“He was selecting which units suffered.”
“Why?”
“Some reports suggest he was protecting formations commanded by officers who could expose his financial crimes. Other units became expendable.”
Eli’s stomach turned.
“You’re saying he chose men to die.”
“Yes.”
“Like numbers.”
“Yes.”
Warren looked exhausted.
“We may never know how many.”
Eli thought of the nameless graves at Claire Laurent’s farm.
“Then find him.”
“We’re trying.”
“Try harder.”
Warren did not reprimand him.
Instead he handed Eli a letter.
Return address: Ohio.
Mrs. Margaret Reed.
Eli stared.
“What is this?”
“I contacted records. Reed’s decoration had never been delivered properly. They corrected it.”
Eli’s hands shook.
“She wrote back.”
He opened the letter outside.
Dear Elias,
I have wanted to know whether my Samuel was alone.
They told me he died instantly, but mothers are not comforted by official sentences.
Thank you for remembering his coffee. He made terrible coffee at home too.
Eli laughed through tears.
He kept reading.
They tell me he pushed you out of the path of the shell.
Do not make his last act into a chain around your neck.
If Samuel bought you more years, spend them.
Live enough for both of you.
Eli stopped.
Jack approached but kept his distance.
“You all right?”
“No.”
Jack nodded.
“Want me to leave?”
“No.”
They sat together beneath a tree.
Eli handed him the letter.
Jack read.
When he finished, he wiped his face roughly.
“Damn rain.”
“It isn’t raining.”
“Shut up.”
Eli smiled.
Jack handed the letter back.
“My brother Charlie used to build model airplanes.”
Eli waited.
“Every time I see one overhead, I think of him.”
“That ever stop?”
“No.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t.”
Jack looked at him.
They sat in silence.
Across the field, soldiers repaired trucks.
Somebody sang.
Somebody argued over coffee.
Somebody wrote home.
War continued with insulting normality.
Later that night, Tommy found Eli cleaning the German rifle.
“You keeping that thing?”
“Army says it’s useful until they issue me another scoped rifle.”
Tommy sat.
“Teach me.”
Eli looked up.
“What?”
“To spot.”
Eli went still.
Tommy immediately regretted it.
“Sorry. I know Reed—”
“No.”
Tommy stood.
Eli stopped him.
“No, I mean sit.”
Tommy sat again.
Eli took out binoculars.
“A spotter doesn’t just tell range.”
“What else?”
“Everything.”
He pointed toward the dark edge of camp.
“Wind. Light. Movement. Escape routes. The shooter gets tunnel vision. Spotter keeps the world around him.”
Tommy nodded.
“And if the shooter gets stupid?”
“Especially then.”
Tommy smiled.
“Sounds like a full-time job with you.”
Eli threw a cleaning rag at him.
For the next hour, Eli taught him.
Not because Tommy could replace Samuel.
Nobody could.
That was the lesson.
New brotherhood did not erase the old.
It grew beside it.
A week after the burial, a package arrived for Collins.
Nobody wanted to open it.
It sat on his empty bunk for two days until Hale finally found the courage.
Inside was a drawing made in blue crayon.
Three stick figures holding hands.
A woman.
A small boy.
A soldier wearing an enormous helmet.
Across the top, in an adult’s handwriting, were the words:
DANNY DREW THIS FOR DADDY.
Jack walked out of the tent.
Eli found him behind a truck.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.”
Jack hit the side of the truck once, then stopped himself before doing it again.
“He doesn’t know.”
“Not yet.”
“That kid thinks his father’s coming home.”
Eli swallowed.
“I know.”
Jack turned.
“Why did Collins have to die?”
“There isn’t an answer.”
“There has to be.”
“No.”
Jack’s eyes were furious.
Eli continued.
“That’s why people invent easy answers. Glory. Destiny. God wanted him. None of those answers will tuck Danny into bed tonight.”
Jack’s anger collapsed.
“What do we do then?”
“We make the life he gave us worth something.”
“How?”
“Start small.”
Eli nodded toward Jack’s fist.
“Stop hitting things.”
Jack looked at his knuckles.
Slowly, he opened his hand.
They returned to the tent.
Eli folded the drawing carefully and placed it with Collins’s effects.
He added a note for the family.
May you like
Your husband talked about Danny before the patrol. He was afraid because he had so much to live for. He went with us anyway. When danger came, he stayed with his friends. Please never let anyone tell your son that courage means a man feels no fear.
Every soldier in the tent signed it.
