by Amy Lane
Walter’s forehead wrinkled, and his eyes grew shiny. “That’s too many promises, and they’re too big,” he said, sounding upset. “I’m . . .” He breathed deeply and patted Nate on the shoulder. “I’m a field worker. I’m . . . If I hadn’t signed up for the army, I’d be a hobo ’bout now. You can’t . . . you can’t go saying big things. Don’t mean nothin’ . . .” He turned his head away, wiped his face on the covers, then took another deep breath and looked at Nate with resolve. It was like he had a handle on what to do, what to say now. Well, good, because Nate didn’t.
“You’ll have a regular life after this, Nate. I’m something to toss away. I always have been.”
Nate made an indeterminate sound—an angry sound—and grabbed Walter by the hair, pulling his head back. He lunged up, taking Walter’s mouth, grinding into him, possessing him. Walter’s arms flailed, beating against Nate’s chest, and Nate kept the kiss, kept possessing, rolling over until he was on top, pressing Walter’s slighter, stringier body into the mattress.
Nate felt the moment his resistance broke, and Walter quit struggling, went pliant, started kneading Nate’s shoulders, burying his fingers in Nate’s hair, begging for more touch.
Nate was the one who pulled back, and Walter lay beneath him, blue eyes huge, body limp and needy.
“I would not leave my faith for a man meant to be thrown away,” Nate rasped and rolled off the bed and to his feet. He dressed, still angry, shoving his shirt over his shoulders and buttoning it with fingers made clumsy with emotion.
Walter, after lying on the bed wriggling and whimpering for a moment, made his way to his feet with shaky determination. He moved in front of Nate and grabbed his shirtfront, grumbling, “Here, let me.” Competently, he started to button Nate’s shirt. “Hell, I don’t know if it’s airmen or officers. You’re always saying stop when it should be go and saying rest when we want to move. Saying love when it should just be fucking. And us enlisted men, we got no choice, you know?”
“You do,” Nate said softly, taking his hands. They were shaking. “You could not enlist.”
“I can’t help enlisting,” Walter said, voice bleak. “I was a goner from the first time that Indian kid winked at me and I sprung a boner. But . . . but I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to be a plaything. I wouldn’t mind being just a grunt, like with Jimmy. Having each other’s backs. That was good. That hurt when he died. I won’t lie. But you, Lieutenant Meyer . . . you’re—” Like his hands, his voice was shaking, and the emotion Nate had hoped for was there for the hearing.
“Shh,” he murmured, “sha shtil.” He was not sure how he had come to be the leader here when Walter seemed to know so much more about being what they were. “It’s fine, Walter. It’s a—” he flailed for a metaphor “—a field promotion. You have gone from not very important to very important. I don’t know how to fight the battle on the ground. You know that. But I know the big things. The important things. What battle we’re fighting. Why we’re doing it.” His voice softened. “Why it’s necessary.”
Walter turned a vulnerable face to Nate then, and Nate’s mind took another picture. Walter’s eyes, red rimmed, his hair, greasy and falling forward into his eyes, and his lower lip, trembling and full.
“And why is it necessary?” he asked, and he craved something from Nate, something huge.
“Because people need to be needed,” Nate said, trying to smile.
“I don’t know about needing,” Walter muttered, like he was trying to deny it. But he was naked, gazing up at Nate, and no pretense would veil his features, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, he surrendered. “I wanted you so bad,” he whispered.
Nate took his mouth softly, tasting salt. He pulled back and rubbed his thumb along Walter’s lower lip.
“I wanted you too. But if I did not love you by the time we were in that closet, I would have moved your hand.”
“You would not!” Walter argued, genuinely upset, it seemed.
Nate nodded, touching lips again. “I would,” he said, meaning it. “There is much to love about you, Walter. I wish you saw it.”
Walter turned away, looking for his own clothes. “That’s a fancy boy’s way of talking right there,” he said, and he was trying to be practical, Nate could tell. “Men don’t talk like that.”
“Of course,” Nate said with a sigh. “Because we wouldn’t want to be queer or anything.”
“I am queer,” Walter snapped. “That don’t make me not a man.”
“Does being in love make you weak?” Nate asked, trying to follow Walter’s train of thought. He was running up against something here, something as infuriating as the fact that Nate’s family had more money or Nate had been to college, and Nate couldn’t put words to it.
“Fucking’s fucking,” Walter snarled. “But love is for the rich. My dad married my mom ’cause she was knocked up. You can be in love, and people think that’s just fine. If I’m in love, I’m a pansy. I’m in love with a man, and I might as well cut off my own balls, ’cause a man don’t fuck for love. Not where I’m from.”
Nate pulled on his trousers and buttoned them while Walter raged, and then stood for a moment without replying. His boots were downstairs, and suddenly that’s where he wanted to be, whether or not his temper cooled enough to want to be with Walter again.
“We’re both men, Walter,” he said wearily from the doorway. “That’s why we’re both in this room.”
“Where are you going?” He looked earnestly worried, and Nate kept that thought close to his chest.
“To the outhouse. I don’t know about you, but it’s past time I relieved myself.”
“Oh.” Walter’s mouth opened and closed helplessly, and Nate took grim satisfaction in the fact that he didn’t seem to have a response. Nate padded down the stairs with what dignity he had left.
He didn’t return to the house immediately after putting his boots on and using the outhouse. Instead, he went around the garage, to the back where the garden that had provided such bounty sat. He looked around, wondering what remained that Walter hadn’t picked yet. He saw a patch of cattails by the irrigation ditch and walked there, pulling out the older ones to wash off the roots in the small stream.
He knelt in the rich black earth, feeling the sun on his back, and closed his eyes as the water sluiced over his hands. How long had Walter lived here, alone, during the winter months? What was it, early May? Nate’s plane had gone down over a month ago, but Walter had been in this place in the depths of winter, living off canned preserves and caught game. His lover had been killed; he’d been captured, then escaped under brutal circumstances, and arrived here. Where he’d spent months when the woodland, the garden, and the house itself were covered in snow.
How long would Walter have to stay here? How long would he have to gaze through the boarded slats of the deserted house before his heart froze? Before he believed that love was an illusion, and that joy was for anyone, anyone besides the man who had never had another soul to cling to?
Nate had just reconciled himself to working a little harder, being a little more patient with his stubborn lover when a woman’s voice sounded across the clearing.
“Bonjour!” she sang in French, and Nate shot to his feet and started running, stopping halfway to the house to drag in air because he wasn’t quite ready for a sprint.
“No! No, don’t go,” she continued in that musical, lower-class French. “If I meant you harm, I would have told Horst about the boots!”
That froze Nate in his tracks. The boots—the boots he and Walter had placed outside the doorway. Slowly, he turned around and saw the girl to match the voice. Dark hair, dark eyes, tiny upturned nose, and a square jaw—unmistakably French. She emerged from the forest growth surrounding the garden clearing and regarded Nate cannily. He regarded her back, staying stubbornly silent. He was not sure his French was up to conversation.
“Yes, see? You are the one with the larger boots. Where is your smaller companion?”
Walter. “I am alone,” he said shortly in French, hoping his accent was close to the working-class French this girl spoke.
“Mesonge!” she exclaimed, laughing. Lies. Bullshit. Well, it was, but she didn’t need to know that.
“What is it you want?” he asked, not joining her in laughter.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she said, arching her brows lazily over her brown eyes, “the man I’m fucking, he’s an officer in the SS. At night, you should maybe tuck your boots in, or I’ll have to tell him why I can’t return.”
Nate almost dropped his water. He had to knot his stomach to keep from disgracing himself right there as he stood at the edge of the irrigation ditch. When he spoke, his mouth was gummed together by sudden dryness and his voice crackled like dried leaves.
“That is good to know. How often do you plan to be fucking him in the abandoned house?” Their home. Not a home. An abandoned house. The first place he and Walter had made love. It was theirs. They had mourned the family who had left it, and now they would leave it too?
“He has a day off next week—same time, same place. I plan to be there at his leisure,” she replied, nonchalantly, and Nate racked his brain for the words she was using. She was trying to tell him something.
“Will there be any other plans made for that night?” he asked, and she primped her hair with one hand. The action was unnecessary. It was in a sturdy braid down her back. She was wearing men’s trousers, which fit tight around her hips, and a man’s shirt. She looked at ease in these clothes, and they were frayed at the cuffs and at the knees. He thought perhaps she was more used to roaming these woods than he was. For his part, he was grateful that he’d been wearing some of the lighter summer clothes that Walter had found in the garage. They very nearly fit him—only a little loose in the legs and thighs—and they had no betraying insignia for military.
“My only plan is him,” she said archly.
“Did anybody else have any plans?” he asked. The French Resistance. Hector had been helping OSS officers foster resistance near Provence Claire La Lune. Oh God, father of serendipities, let there be a way to be lifted out of enemy territory. That canister of film sat accusingly in the back of the cupboard, and Nate would dearly love to send that to Naval Intelligence to see what it contained. What hornet’s nest had he stirred by taking recon pictures unexpectedly? What had been worth calling in untold numbers of planes and starting a major dogfight to protect?
The girl smiled insolently—and also as though she approved of the question. “Maybe you and Mr. Little Boots hide yourselves real good next week, and if nothing stops my plans, I’ll come tell you about them.”
Nate nodded. The food could not hold out forever. Eventually, he and Walter were going to have to try to venture into town. But here, it appeared, they had found an ally—perhaps.
“Next week,” Nate said, wondering if he and Walter could spend the next week sleeping in the garage.
“Oui,” the girl said, cracking her gum. Abruptly, her expression sobered. “And I’d advise you to trust me on this,” she said, meeting Nate’s eyes. “Your accent is atrocious—American French always is. You can’t go into town speaking that French, and there are posters about turning in Jews all over town. I don’t care if you’re Lutheran—with your looks, you’ll find yourself in an SS Office, producing your pedigree. Unless your companion is a native, I suggest you hold tight in your little house and wait for me to get back to you. I may have a way to help you take a trip.”
Nate nodded. “Oui,” he said, making sure his voice was measured. “Il est toujours agréable de voyager en été.” It is always agreeable to travel in the summer.
“It is indeed,” she confirmed. “Especially with a charming companion.”
“I have a charming companion,” he told her, praying he wasn’t betraying Walter in the worst of ways. “All I need is a destination.”
She nodded. “We can give you that, my friend. Have faith. Next week. Same time. If you want me to see something, leave it in plain sight. Otherwise, hide everything—boots included—and make sure you and your companion can’t be seen from a cursory inspection of the house. I should hate for my companion to get adventurous. It was all I could do to keep his attention away from your boots and your cards this time.”
Nate grimaced. “You did a very good job of it,” he said politely, remembering the way she had issued such explicit directions.
She had a lush mouth, painted red, and he could admit that if he leaned that way at all, he would have been watching her lips purse with undue fascination.
But now, he only waited to see what the woman would tell him.
“I’m glad you approved,” she murmured. “I could boss you around a little, should you want it.”
Nate flushed under the hot sun of the clearing.
“I am afraid my heart is otherwise engaged,” he said simply, and she shrugged. He was flattered: she was a beautiful woman, and it seemed as though she’d been interested. Well, good for her.
“Another time,” she said, that lush mouth impossibly smug. “Until next week.” She executed a little bow and faded back into the forest, leaving Nate standing with a handful of cattail roots and a furious need to pee.
He used the outhouse first and then, when his hands were shaking less, took the cattails into the house. The smell of fried bread hit him, and he smiled sadly. He’d been looking forward to that.
Walter was standing at the stove, finishing up with the last dollop of bread in the grease. “You took a while,” he said, then his face lit up. “Cattail roots? I ain’t tried them! Is that what took so long?”
“Yes,” Nate said, taking them to the sink to wash. “No. Something worse.” He was acutely aware of Walter’s apprehension, his fear and vulnerability, as he washed off the roots and broke the shoots down to where they started to be tender enough to eat. He turned around then and dried his hands before looking at Walter and getting ready to speak.
“What?” Walter asked. He’d taken the pan off the stove and was regarding Nate with alertness. Not a child. No. But vulnerable still.
“You do recall how we left our boots outside last night?”
All of the color rushed from Walter’s face, leaving his freckles in greenish relief. “Oh God.”
And Nate told him about the pretty woman in the woods.
“She knew we were there?” he asked when Nate was done. “But didn’t tell her man? That’s—”
“Frightening,” Nate broke in bluntly. “She promises to return next week.”
“How do we know she’s going to wait that long? She could come tonight! Or tomorrow! She could bring the entire German army marching—”
“It’s France—”
“It could be Times fucking Square!” Walter cried. “You just . . . you let me finish breakfast and brought in cattail roots like nothing was wrong?”
“What if they’re waiting for us to leave, Walter?” Nate said, his hands shaking with the thought of all they didn’t know. “What if the whole conversation was a trap so they could keep this house intact, safe for other refugees, a honey trap for unwary flies?”
“That’s insane,” Walter snapped, running his hands through his hair. “That’s insane. If she’d wanted us, she had us. If her boyfriend really is SS, we would be dead by now. Or captured. She’s—”
“Resistance?” Nate offered, afraid to hope. “She knew about Provence Claire La Lune.”
“What in the hell is that?”
“The place of the clear moon,” Nate translated. “It’s . . . Before I ran the mission, a friend of mine was going on recon to listen. There are OSS officers here on the ground. They broadcast useful information to circling planes, and the contact in the planes gives them instructions back. Did you know that?”
Walter’s mouth opened and closed again. When he spoke it was in bitter mimicry. “‘I’m not really an officer, Walter. I’m just like you are, Walter.’ No, Nate, I did not know that, a
nd it would have been spectacular information to have!”
“Well, it wasn’t relevant to crashing a plane and falling in love!” Nate yelled back.
“Would you stop saying that?” Walter demanded, his voice breaking. He pulled his hands through his unwashed hair, and Nate had a moment to wish him clean and dressed in clothes that fit, dapper and pretty, so he would know that Nate’s world—where you could be in love—was for him too.
“Why?” Nate asked, lowering his own voice and regarding his lover with compassion. “Now, of all times, is the time for you to know I love you. When tomorrow is uncertain, and we may be on the run, or worse. Isn’t this when you want to know that you’re important to me? That I’ll care for you if I can?”
Walter’s mouth went weak, like he was trying to square up his jaw and keep his lips from quivering. He ran the back of his hand over it, and then again, before sagging back against the counter next to the stove.
“It was hard enough,” he said, almost to himself. “It was hard enough when we had something like a home. I could pretend, you know? This whole month, I been pretending. I could take care of us, and we could be friends. And then . . . you . . .” Walter looked up at him in agony. “How come you had to want me back? I don’t want to leave this place now. Part of me wants to run, rabbit for the hills, live in a cave until this war madness is over. But most of me wants . . .” Walter swallowed. “We didn’t do everything. We just . . . we just got to where we could sleep in that bed!”
Nate’s heart did a curious thing in his chest. It swelled, stopped his breath, and swept away his fear. “We . . . we shall compromise,” he said after a moment. He took a step toward Walter, and another, grasping those battered, fine-boned, slightly greasy hands in his own. “We shall stay two days. Three. We shall . . . sleep,” he said with a half smile, “in the day. Anyone watching us shall have nothing to see. At night, we shall take the flashlight and clean out the garage, make a safe hole where we can watch the house. Two days, three—if we don’t run at the beginning, they won’t think we’ll run at the end. We can watch for a few nights from the garage. If she does what she says, brings the young man here for a tryst and then leaves, we can trust her the next day. If she comes with soldiers, thinking she has lulled us into security, we will be well hidden, and we can see what she is up to.”