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“You know what your problem is, Shifty?” Liebgott demands. “You’re too goddamn serious all the time.”
Shifty smiles faintly, as everyone else at the table only laughs harder. He’s not offended; he knows they’re laughing with him as much as at him. But, truth be told, he doesn’t always laugh with them, partly because he’s just a serious kind of person and partly because he doesn’t always get the joke. It’s not that he’s stupid or nothing, it’s just he doesn’t see the point in mean jokes sometimes, and other times he would probably laugh if he was a city boy with more experience. He’s no Liebgott or Guarnere, that’s for sure, and he can’t always relate to their stories. He does a lot of smiling when other people laugh.
“I suppose that’s true,” he says.
Liebgott shakes his head. It’s hot in the bar, as hot as it gets in Britain in late summer, and his cheeks are flushed and sticky with sweat. Shifty’s hot, too. The bar is close and smoky and he wishes they didn’t have to wear their service uniforms all the time. Liebgott leans forward, his elbow hitting the wooden table hard.
“You know what your other problem is?” Liebgott says, talking just a little too loud. He sucks on his cigarette and blows the smoke in Shifty’s face. “You’re too goddamn nice!” he shouts, and then he cackles at his own joke and his shoulders shake.
They’re all a couple of drinks in; Skinny’s practically got tears coming from his eyes, and Shifty laughs too and waves a hand in front of his face.
“Now, Joe,” he says kindly. “You do that again and I’m gonna shoot ya. And I tell you, I may not be the smartest guy in the unit, but I’m not a bad shot.”
Liebgott grins up at him, a wide crooked wild-edged grin.
“You’re all right, Shifty. Hey, finish that beer, why don’t you, I’m gonna buy you another round.”
-
Sometimes Shifty thinks he smiles at Liebgott too much. He doesn’t know why. He just catches himself doing it when they talk—he smiles at jokes even if he doesn’t get them, and when Liebgott makes a good point in an argument, and sometimes just when he notices the other man joining the conversation after being quiet. Then one day they congregate in the pub after a cancelled jump, and Shifty is smiling at one of Joe’s stories when he catches sight of himself in a rust-spotted mirror and thinks he looks like a dope. He resolves to smile less.
But then he gets too thoughtful. He’s curious as to why he smiled at Liebgott in the first place, because sure, they’re friends, but they don’t have very much in common and they’re not that close. He wants to know what it is about Joe that catches his attention, and so he finds himself staring at the other man, lost in his own head and not paying attention to the conversation at all. Once or twice Liebgott notices, asks if there’s something on his face, and Shifty has to either think up a quick excuse or shrug innocently and play up the simple country boy routine. Liebgott shrugs it off.
Then, when they’re fighting in the Netherlands, he thinks he’s put his finger on the source of his interest. It’s because he doesn’t understand Liebgott. Men like Captain Winters, or Bull Randleman, or Joe Toye, they’re easy to figure out, he thinks. He might not know them all that well but he knows their type. Liebgott is a type all his own, and Shifty doesn’t get how easily the man flip-flops between earnest and cynical. He wants to know how the same man can sneer at his friends but speak so softly and gently to Tipper when he’s wounded, or why Joe never cares enough about being Jewish to mention it himself—to never pray or mark the Sabbath or nothing—but does care enough to get up fists swinging whenever he needs to. He doesn’t understand how Joe can treat so many things with levity and cynicism until you put a rifle in his hand, and then he fights with God’s own righteousness.
Liebgott’s a puzzle, that’s what he is. He’s wiry and energetic and impossible to pin down, so Shifty does what he does best—he settles in to watch and wait. He’s patient. Eventually he’ll figure it out.
-
A few months later the war has gone sour and they’re all trundled into trucks in the middle of the night. Nobody is happy about it; there had been talk of a football game and maybe even real turkey for Christmas, and now they’ve got nothing to look forward to but foxholes and k-rations.
“Where are we going, anyway?” More grumbles, stomping his boots to keep warm and stomping on Pop-Eye’s feet, too.
“Place called Bastogne,” Doc Roe says in the steady, quiet voice he uses when the bullets aren’t flying. “Whole lotta guys coming with us, too. The whole division and at least three more that I heard.”
“Tell you who’s not coming,” Luz says, flicking cigarette ash over the bumper of the truck. “Lieutenant Renner.”
“Lieutenant Renner?” Shifty repeats. “Isn’t he Fox Company’s XO? Where is he?”
“Mmhm. He’s getting drummed out.” Luz pauses to let his audience express their surprise and doubt, and ask him why. “Got caught schtupping someone in Paris, that’s why,” he says with a sly grin, and that’s met by a round of bawdy laughter.
“Hey, if that was it, half the Army would be kicked out,” Perconte says, nudging Luz with his elbow. “Come on, George, what’s the real story?”
“Oh, right, sorry, let me rephrase.” Luz clears his throat. “MPs caught Renner schtupping a lovely little thing named Guillaume in Paris. That make more sense?”
Everyone in the truck boos, hisses, shakes their head, laughs, and Shifty suddenly feels like he’s swallowed a spoonful of hot soup that burned him all the way down. His heart is pounding and his face feels hot, even in the paralyzing cold of the drafty truck.
“But—” He protests. He regrets it immediately because everyone turns to look at him, but he has to press on anyway. “But I thought they didn’t let—didn’t let men like that in the Army. I thought that was why they had doctors at the recruitment centers, to find out people like that and keep them from enlisting.”
“Come on, Shifty,” someone scoffs.
“Maybe your doc was real thorough, Shifty,” Luz shrugs. “Mine asked me if I liked girls and if I’d ever thought of offing myself. I said yes and no in that order and he said ‘Welcome to the Army, son.’ Now I’ve gotta think there’s at least a handful of patriotic pansies who figured out the right answers to those questions.”
“Wouldn’t’ve thought any of ’em would make it into the paratroopers, though,” Bull says around his cigar.
Shifty stops listening. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket—he’s not a big smoker, his pack is almost full—and lights it with shaking fingers. He feels sick all of a sudden. It’s a nasty shock, that’s all, about Lieutenant Renner, who had spoken to Shifty and Pop-Eye a couple of times on maneuvers in Aldbourne and always seemed perfectly nice. It’s that and the lurching of the truck that’s making his stomach turn over and over.
Except that doesn’t explain why he thinks of Joe, and the sweat glinting off his skin and the chain of his dogtags, and the knot of his tie hiked up all the way by his ear, and the dark hair plastered to his forehead.
It’s the smoke. He shouldn’t smoke. God, he feels sick.
-
Bastogne is cold and miserable and deadly. Shifty is grateful. It means he can hone himself into the perfect rifleman, the perfect soldier. When he’s on the line, his mind is wiped clean. He devotes his attention to each patch of land, each glint of light off the snow. He counts trees. When he’s off duty, he scans the area anyway. He draws a map in his head of the endless forest, and picks spots that might be good sniper nests, and figures out exactly how he would make the shot to take them out. He stares at his own trembling hands and wills them to be warm and still. (It doesn’t work. It never works, but he can spend half an hour just trying.)
Sometimes Pastor Stephenson, the Protestant chaplain, comes along, and Shifty prays. He focuses real hard on the prayers, too, recites each one with a fervor they didn’t seem to require stateside, and the chaplain asks him if he wants to talk privately every once in a while but Shifty just puts on a smile and says “thank you kindly, pastor, I’m all right” and mostly means it.
He doesn’t get maudlin and nostalgic like the other guys do. He doesn’t curl up against them in foxholes and talk quietly about everything he misses. He spends a lot of cold nights bundled up in his blanket and pressed against the hard earth walls of his foxhole. Once Pop-Eye gets a little too close and Shifty snaps at him, and then immediately feels bad and says he’s sorry. There’s no reason to be nasty to Pop-Eye.
No reason to be avoiding Joe, neither, but Shifty does it anyway, until one night when he’s walking by Liebgott and Alley’s foxhole and Liebgott spots him and calls “Hey, Shifty! Pull up a patch of snow.”
“Awful sorry, Liebgott, I think I’ve got to find the lieutenant—” he tries, but Liebgott snorts.
“What’re you looking for Foxhole Norman for? Let’s go, come sit with us for a bit. Have a smoke. Haven’t seen you in weeks, you’re like a goddamn ghost.”
Reluctantly, Shifty slips down into the foxhole. He doesn’t have much to say but Liebgott and Alley talk to him anyway, and talk to each other when he starts to get sleepy, his eyes drifting closed more and more often. It doesn’t get all the way dark here, not as long as there’s a sliver of a moon to light the snow. At one point Shifty thinks he sees a shadow jump out of the hole, or maybe he’s already dreaming—and then he almost leaps out of his skin when he feels someone press against his back.
“Relax, Shifty, geeze,” Joe yawns.
“What’re you doing?” Shifty says sharply, crowding against the foxhole’s walls, and Liebgott looks at him like he’s crazy.
“Trying to fucking sleep, what do you think? It’s cold as shit in here, and me and Alley’ve been sharing the one blanket.” He holds up one corner, and Shifty sees that the rest of the blanket has been draped over his own knees. He moves to stand, and the blanket pools on the ground.
“I’ll go to my hole—”
“Nah. C’mere.”
Joe reaches out and takes hold of his forearm, and Shifty tries to pull away again. He can see the exasperation in Joe’s face.
“Fuck’s sake, Shifty, you’re like ice. You’re gonna get frostbite if you’re not careful.” Shifty hesitates. “And you’re falling asleep already. You’ll never make it to your hole. Sit down, buddy.”
He obeys like a sleepwalker. He leans against the wall and stretches his legs flat against the ground, lets Liebgott tuck the blanket around one side and curl up against the other. He wraps an arm around Shifty’s shoulder and pushes him against his body gentle until Shifty turns his head into Liebgott’s chest. His eyelids feel so heavy.
“There,” he hears Joe’s voice from very far away. “Better?”
-
The next morning he’s almost warm, except for the tip of his nose. He wakes up slowly and doesn’t move right away, even when he realizes his face is pressed into Liebgott’s shirt, even when he realizes Joe still has an arm around him. He closes his eyes tight and swallows, then takes a deep breath. He doesn’t feel sick at all. He feels fine. Good, even.
He raises his head a little and studies Joe’s face. He looks different when he sleeps. Not as quick or as clever. He’s got a little scruff, doesn’t bother to shave in weather like this, and Shifty can’t help but think it looks kind of silly. But that’s okay. This weird feeling Shifty has, this odd fascination—it doesn’t hinge on Liebgott being good-looking. There are other good-looking guys in their unit, but none of them are like Liebgott.
He’s been staring for too long when Liebgott opens his eyes. At first they just look at each other; Joe’s face is open and unconcerned, like he doesn’t think it’s odd for Shifty to be caught staring. Then he smiles. He always smiles with one side of his mouth, like he knows the joke.
“Morning,” he says, drawing the word out, and Shifty’s cheeks feel hot.
“Morning,” he mumbles. “I gotta—find my sergeant.”
He scrambles out of the foxhole and can feel Liebgott’s eyes on his back.
Something has changed.
-
It’s beautiful in Germany. Sunny. There’s something wrong in that, Shifty thinks, but riding in an open truck through the German sunshine is miles better than Bastogne or Hagenau, so he doesn’t question it. He squints at the sun until spots flash in his eyes and then he just breathes in the air. Conversation washes over him but he doesn’t pay too much attention until Liebgott addresses him directly.
“What about you, Shifty?” he asks, nudging his ankle with his boot. “What’re you looking forward to when you go home?”
“Oh,” he says. He shrugs. He hasn’t even thought of home in a long time. He missed home like crazy during boot camp, but lately when he thinks of the war ending he imagines it’ll just be like at Toccoa or Aldbourne, endless downtime with the other fellows in his unit. But that’s stupid to admit, so instead he just says “Same kind of thing as you, I guess.”
“A Jewish girl with big knockers?” Luz grins, and Shifty looks down, smiling, and shakes his head.
“No. I don’t know, I suppose. I think I’d like to get a house. Go hunting with my daddy. Normal family stuff, that’s all.”
“That’s it?” Joe says. His boot taps against Shifty’s ankle again. “That’s all you want?”
There’s a smirk on his face and he meets Shifty’s gaze. His eyes are so dark, even in the sunlight, and a funny kind of tingle goes up Shifty’s spine. It feels like—like there’s something else that Joe’s not saying. Like he knows what Shifty might want instead, but he’s teasing him, making him say it.
“That’s all.”
Joe shrugs and lights a cigarette. His lips form a little O when he exhales the smoke—he blows it in Shifty’s face, just like he did that one night in the pub, but this time the wind picks it up and scatters it away.
-
They’re in Austria, and Shifty can’t sleep. There’s constant foot traffic outside his billet, and streetlights that slip through the cracks in the blinds. Finally at 0100 he gives up and goes downstairs to sit on the back porch and look up at the stars. He feels weird, not really in his body, the way it feels sometimes late at night when he has no reason to be up. If he were home he would go for a walk in the woods, testing how quietly he could move through the underbrush. Here he just looks at the sky.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out there when someone comes down the alley singing a German song, loudly and off-key. Shifty looks over and sees Liebgott swaying as he walks down the street. He’s not surprised. This time of night, nothing surprises him. Liebgott spots him—or spots the uniform—and staggers over. He peers at him through the darkness and declares “Shifty Powers,” and then falls down on the porch. His arm swings up and he pours scotch into and around his mouth.
“Want some?” he asks, holding out the bottle. Shifty shakes his head. “What do you want, Shifty?” Liebgott demands. “What, you want rye instead? Beer? You wanna get the fuck out of here? You wanna kill Germans?”
“No,” he says quietly. It’s true. He’s never wanted to kill people, not once. He thinks that makes him the minority in this company.
“I do. I want to—” He stops, shakes his head violently, and takes another drink from the bottle. Then he tosses it to the side. It clatters against the cobblestones and the little bit of scotch makes a dark arc against the pale brick. “You wanna fuck me?”
“No!”
Shifty’s heart seizes in his chest. No is a gut reaction, an instinct, like jerking his leg when someone hits his knee, but God, there’s another part of him, just a little slower to react, that says yes.
Joe is staring at him. He knows. He can hear that part of him, or see it on his face—he doesn’t pull away, he reaches out and claps his hand on Shify’s shoulder—he’s pulling him in—
He can taste the scotch before their mouths even touch, as the scent filters up into his nostrils, and Shifty’s head is spinning like he’s already drunk. It’s—oh, he doesn’t have words for how it feels, he doesn’t want to have words to describe this, he wants to just let it happen, the wetness and the softness, the firm pressure, the demand, the ache in his chest, the scotch, the fear.
Joe’s other hand goes to the back of Shifty’s head and his fingers curl, digging into the skin as he pushes Shifty’s closer. That’s wrong, he thinks hazily, that’s too much. Liebgott bites him, that’s wrong too, and his bruising fingers, and the way his mouth opens more and the alcohol is like fire on Shifty’s tongue. Shifty jerks back and puts his hands on Joe’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length.
“No,” he says. “Joe, you ain’t—you ain’t right.”
“Damn straight,” Liebgott snarls, diving forward, but Shifty shoves him, hard.
“Liebgott, come on now,” he begs. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? You gotta sleep. Sleep it off.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.” He touches his hand to Joe’s cheek, forehead, neck, in a useless placating gesture. “I’m sorry, I know it won’t do much, but you’ve gotta. It’ll—it’ll make you better.”
“It won’t.”
“Do it for me, Joe, okay?”
Joe blinks slowly at him and wags his finger. He taps Shifty’s nose.
“For you—just for you.”
Shifty doesn’t know what that means, but he helps Joe upstairs and gets him settled in his own bed, and waits there for a while until Joe is snoring and peaceful and until he can tell that the rest of the squad is still sound asleep. Then he stumbles through the dark house to the bathroom. He closes the door and locks it behind him, and leans against it with his head tipped back, facing the ceiling. He closes his eyes and takes in deep gulps of air.
Fire. His whole body is on fire.
-
The war is over, and Shifty’s going home. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. By rights he shouldn’t be heading home at all—he doesn’t have enough points, and the rest of his unit is staying. He should be staying with them. But this war has shook him up, and Shifty is ready to go home and have everything be righted again. He puts on his service uniform and stands straighter. He packs his things neatly and sends off his remaining letters. He says goodbye to Major Winters and his friends.
Well.
Most of his friends.
It seems like Easy has arranged for a parade to march past his room, and he says goodbye to every one of them except Liebgott. Pop-Eye and Alley are the last to leave; they apologize, but they’ve got orders. And when they go, Shifty just stands in the middle of the room, hesitating, looking at his watch, his bag, and the door. He ought to go. The Jeep is leaving soon, and the sooner they leave the easier the trip will be. He waits. He doesn’t let himself think about why he’s waiting until Joe Liebgott steps over the threshold, hands in his pockets, and casually kicks the door closed behind him.
“Christ, look at you,” he shakes his head. “Look like you’re going to a goddamn funeral. You’ve got to learn to lighten up, Shifty.”
“Why me?”
He asks it gently, and Liebgott is caught off guard. He swallows, and his shoulder jerks up. He looks like a marsh bird, all limbs and dark beady eyes. He’s avoiding Shifty’s gaze.
“Dunno,” he mumbles. “You’re—you don’t make things complicated. You’re just honest, and… easy.”
“Dumb country folk.”
Liebgott grins.
“Yeah. I like it.”
Shifty looks at him, calm, appraising. Liebgott swallows again, and squares his shoulders.
“It’s wrong,” Shifty says finally.
“Lots of things are worse,” Liebgott says in a low voice. Slowly, Shifty nods.
Joe takes two steps forward and puts his hand on Shifty’s shoulder again. Then his attention is caught by something on Shifty’s jacket, and he smooths both hands over his lapels, his pins and the shiny buttons. He takes a deep breath, and he dips his head and kisses Shifty softly on the mouth.
Truth is, Shifty hasn’t had that many kisses. And the ones he has had, he’s worried through—am I doing this right? What next? But he doesn’t worry this time. He closes his eyes and gives himself into the sensation. This is Joe. He knows Joe. He doesn’t understand him, and he probably never will, but he knows him. He doesn’t have to worry over Joe’s kiss any more than he would worry about the tickle of sunlight on his cheeks. He reaches up and runs his hands over the front of Liebgott’s uniform, too, and for one crazy second he imagines himself gripping the lapels hard, yanking at the knot of his tie and pulling it crooked, pushing his hand beneath the collar of the jacket to feel the thin wool shirt and the muscle moving below.
His ride is waiting. Shifty pulls away. Joe follows him, kisses him again, then a third and fourth time, and then draws back, too, with a quiet sigh. He clears his throat.
“You take care of yourself, okay Shifty?” he says in a hoarse voice.
“You too, Joe.” He picks up his bag and walks to the door.
“If you’re ever in San Francisco—” Joe calls out, and then stops. “Look me up,” he finishes, embarrassed, and Shifty bites his lip to keep from laughing. He’s about as likely to visit California as he is to visit the moon, he wants to say, but the words won’t come out past the lump in his throat.
Joe stands by the bed, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets again. You’re too goddamn serious, he’d said, you’ve got to learn to lighten up, but now he’s the one who looks miserable, like he’s not going to laugh for a long time. Shifty’s heart is pounding. He wants to turn around and go home and put Joe Liebgott behind him. He wants to walk back into the room and kiss him senseless.
He wants to go to California, and finally figure some things out. But for now, there’s a jeep waiting.
“I will,” he promises. “I will.”