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Babe used to wonder where Gene was from. He got the Southern sort of slowness in his speech, the invisible lump of molasses that many of the boys seemed to constantly be chewing on as they spoke. Babe also noticed, when Gene was irritated, he would growl a word in what sounded like French. Babe realized that Gene must be Cajun, although it took him a little while to piece it together. Once he deduced this fact, however, everything fell into place.
One of the items all soldiers headed for France received was a small English to French dictionary, small enough to slip into a pocket beside a Bible or ammo. Babe lost his almost immediately, and most paratroopers did away with theirs. They wanted to be as light as physically possible, and the book, though small and potentially valuable, was insignificant enough to be tossed or used for fuel. Babe remembered seeing Gene sitting on the steps of the med station, flipping through his booklet, a small smile on his face. Babe watched as he tucked it into his breast pocket, carefully buttoning the pocket closed.
The book had nothing but very basic conversational French, and translations for all military words. Most French soldiers spoke at least some English, and as E company fought across Europe, Babe realized he didn’t need his little book at all.
Bastogne came and chilled Babe to the core, and he turned to Gene. The two had never really talked, Babe was a replacement after all, and even though he had been with the company for a long time, he still didn’t think he had ever had a conversation with Gene. One day, Babe was gearing up with Bill, and he saw Gene standing at a distance from everyone else, gearing up alone. Babe nudged Bill, pointing to Gene. “Bill, hey, what’s his problem?”
Bill squinted through the snow to where Gene stood, quietly mouthing something as he ran a bandage through his hands. “No one really knows. He’s one hell of a medic, as you know, but he just chooses to be alone.” Babe hummed, not entirely satisfied with Bill’s answer.
Babe began to take more of an interest in Gene, and as the two became closer, Babe noticed how often a French word would flow from his mouth, almost without thought. Babe saw him wrapped up in thought when Winters approached him and asked him how he was holding up. Nixon, almost always by Winters’ side, shuffled his feet in the snow. Without looking up, Gene responded in French. After a moment he stopped, realizing his error. Shaking his head lightly, he responded in English, “I’m doing fine, captain. I need more bandages, but that’s always the case.”
Nixon interjected. “I’ll see what I can do, Roe.” After a pause, Nixon said, “I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“I’m Cajun.” Gene responded quietly, standing up. Even though he was almost the same height as Nixon and Winters, he seemed so much smaller when he was hunched into his jacket, as he perpetually was.
Nixon glanced at Dick before speaking in French to Gene. As Babe watched, a new sort of light entered Gene’s eyes. He responded in kind, and though they spoke slowly, Babe could see that it made Gene excited that there was another person he could speak to in French.
One of Gene’s habits, Babe realized, was calling the men by French names when they were wounded and Gene was trying to comfort them. “You’re alright, homme.”, “Hang in there, garçon.” and rarely, Gene would call Babe mon ami. Babe didn’t know what any of this meant, but he knew that Gene only called Babe mon ami. Babe tried to call him that when he saw Gene retreating into himself, growing more distant every day. It startled Gene out of his slump enough to eat the heel of bread that Babe offered him.
One time as they huddled beneath a tarp together in the frozen hell of Bastogne, Gene quietly told Babe about how he learned English in school, and primarily spoke French at home. “My grandma, she told me, ‘Don’t forget this language, mon petit-garçon. Don’t forget our language.’” His voice was quiet with emotion, barely traversing the space between them. Babe listened thoughtfully, imagining a young Gene Roe sitting at a table with a wrinkled old French woman. He wondered if she’s still alive, if she lived long enough to see the US to go war on French soil again.
Babe saw the effects of Bastogne taking over Gene, and Babe tried to help however he could. Whenever possible, he gave some of his food to Gene, or ensured he had a hot drink. He tried to help Gene with his work as a medic, but more often than not, he just ended up in the way and discouraged. Gene was good at what he did, and Babe didn’t want to get in the way of that.
Bill commented one day how close Gene and Babe had become. “Jesus Babe, I know you’re friendly but I didn’t think he would care so goddamn much for you.”
“He doesn’t give me any special attention,” Babe argued weakly, knowing full well that it probably wasn’t true. He had noticed Gene by his side a lot more recently, and Gene had given him chocolate that one time. Gene had also patched up his hand with the blue cloth, even though it obviously gave him some pause to do so.
“He likes you, Babe.” Bill chuckled, moving off. “I don’t know what you did, but he likes you.”
Those words stayed in Babe’s mind as he walked almost aimlessly through the misty forest, making sure not to wander into the German lines. Suddenly, the complete stillness was broken by a soft, familiar hiss. “Mortar!” Babe shouted, diving away. The blast hit about ten feet away, spraying the earth with shards of ice and snow and rocks. Babe cursed as pain erupted in his ankle.
He landed with a thud, twisting to view the damage. Pieces of shrapnel jutted from his flesh, and Babe felt the call of a medic ripped from his mouth as he felt and saw blood ooze quickly from the wound.
Gene skidded to his knees beside Babe, already taking off his bag and using that calming stream of words that he used to keep men calm. This time, though, Babe tought he could hear a tremor behind his words, a sort of fear that was inching its way in. “My ankle, my ankle,” Babe gritted out, attempting to sit up.
The light lines around Gene’s mouth deepened as he carefully picked up Babe’s foot and pulled one of the shards out. Babe cussed and ground his teeth, sucking air in through his nose. “You’re okay, mon ami, nothing but a few splinters, I’ll get this out and bandage you up, alright?” Babe nodded, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes as Gene removed another piece. “You’ll be a-okay, cher, as soon as I clean this up. You’re alright, we’re safe for now, mon cher.” Babe didn’t recognize that term. He couldn’t really focus on it, however, as the pain threatened to overtake him.
Gene didn’t seem to realize what he was saying. He reached for the last shard, but paused, holding his hand in the air. Babe looked and they realized at the same time that Gene’s hands were shaking. Gene looked Babe straight in the eyes and Babe saw how scared he was, how he was actually terrified of messing it up.
Spina came, huffing and puffing. “I heard the call,” he said, digging out a bandage.
“Spina, finish him up.” Gene said, slowly rocking back onto his heels. Babe felt his heart twist and he reached out, almost unthinkingly. Gene reached back and their fingers twined together. Babe gripped tightly as Spina bandaged him up, and he felt Gene’s thumb stroking the back of his palm, which helped calm him. Babe’s helmet had fallen off in the scuffle, and Gene used his other hand to run his fingers over and through Babe’s hair, in an attempt to calm them both.
Before he knew it, the ordeal was over and Babe released a shaky breath. Gene helped him stand and hobble back to their foxhole, and over the course of the next couple of weeks, made sure Babe had everything he needed. They were finally able to leave the hell that was Bastogne, and for a while, Babe forgot that Gene had ever called him anything but mon ami.
Then came Hagenau and its gray dreariness. Babe and Gene shared a bed in an attic, more for emotional comfort than warmth. Nothing romantic had happened between them, but sometimes Babe would fall asleep with his hand on Gene’s, or with Gene’s hand in his hair. He saw the toll that this new place was taking on the medic. There would be days when Gene didn’t say anything at all, aside from his nightly, “Goodnight, mon cher.” or, when his body and brain seemed to be looking back to better days, “Bon soir, mon cher.”
One day, Babe got curious. He decided to go to the one who knew French and was likely to use pet names: Captain Nixon. It wasn’t hard to find the Captain where he was lodged, along with Major Winters. Though their positions were constantly growing more distant, the two men only grew closer over the war. When Babe knocked, Winters opened the door.
“Private Heffron,” he greeted. His jacket was off and he looked relaxed in just his shirt. Babe didn’t know if he had ever seen the Major without the standard uniform to the button.
“Major Winters,” Babe greeted back with a salute. “Is Captain Nixon here?”
“Yes he is,” Winters said, stepping aside and letting Babe in. He closed the door behind Babe, and led him to the parlor. “Nix!” he called.
“Yeah?” Nixon asked, as Babe and Winters walked into the room. He stood by the fire, reading a book. He gave a weak salute at Babe’s proper one. Winters moved off and sat down in one of the chairs by the fire, presumably where he had been sitting before Babe came.
“Pardon me, sir, but you were the only one I could think of who speaks French well, other than Gene--I mean Roe, that is.” Nixon raised one of his bushy eyebrows as a signal to continue. “What I was wondering is, well, what does mon ami mean?”
“It mean my friend.” Nixon said, setting his book on the other chair.
“And what does mon cher mean?” Babe asked, feeling nervous for no reason. Nixon chuckled and glanced at Winters, who smiled a small, knowing smile at Nixon.
“Mon cher means my love.” Nixon said. Babe stood there for a moment, simply trying to make his brain process what exactly that meant. Gene had called Babe ‘my love’. “Thank you.” he said numbly, walking out and closing the door behind him. He walked in a daze of slowly rising excitement back to his quarters.
Time moved very slowly as Babe waited for Gene to get back. He heard the door open and sprang up, intercepting Gene at the door. Before his courage could die down, Babe reached out and took Gene’s face in his hands. He pulled Gene close, pressing their lips together in a chaste, nervous kiss. He pulled away almost instantly, but Gene gripped Babe’s shoulders in an attempt to keep him where he was.
“Mon cher…” Babe whispered, almost in a question.
Recognition flooded into Gene’s face as he whispered back, “Mon cher.” He carefully leaned forward and kissed Babe, softer than the first time.
That night, they laid together with their fingers twined together and foreheads touching, uncertain about the future but willing to go through it together, no matter the outcome.
The next day, as they walked together to the mess hall, they passed Winters and Nixon, who were walking the opposite way. They seemed to be chatting idly, but as the couple passed, Nixon called, “Roe! Vous ne pouvez pas vous tromper avec un roux.” which was followed by Gene blushing scarlet and Nixon chuckling as each pair went their way. Gene refused to tell babe what that meant.
Epilogue
-Two weeks later-
“Nixon, what does ‘je t’adore’ mean? Also, what does ‘tu es mon univers’ mean?”