Free Flanders by Patricia Anthony Page A

back in his chair and regarded me, perplexed, like my face had just sprouted a hairy ass. Finally he said, “You are the best sharpshooter in the battalion. Because of you, my company totals are extraordinarily high.”
    “Yes, sir. I’d heard that.”
    “So how did you come by your odd conclusion?”
    “Somebody in Ninth Platoon told Dewberry who told Thweat who told Smoot that you’d gotten an updated message about enemy positions, sir.”
    There was a pencil on his desk. He picked it up and toyed with it a while. “Do you know what I am, Stanhope?”
    And so I said, “Sir, I’m real glad you brought that up. This ought to be right out on the table, far as I’m concerned. It don’t matter to me one way or t’other, and I want you to believe that, sir, I really do. Also, I want you to know I have never once spoke about you to nobody. Way I feel, it just ain’t nobody’s business. I considered at the time that you were a real gentleman about it, and didn’t push or nothing. And you don’t go flaunting it, not like some I’ve seen. I like you. I really do, and predilections aside, I think we ought to get together more. Not suggesting we ... but, hell, a good conversation about literature every once in a while wouldn’t hurt nothing, right?”
    The pencil tapped the desk firmly. Once. Twice. “I am a Jew.”
    The roses on the wall were dusty, like the flowers in the little girls’ graves. A Jew. Simple short words; still, I couldn’t quite understand what he was telling me.
    “And as a Jew, Stanhope, I am disliked and distrusted by many of the other officers. It is more difficult for a Jew, you understand, to establish an army career, as I fully intend to do. I will succeed here, Stanhope. Despite them. Despite you. Despite Private Pierre LeBlanc. I would prefer, however, if I had your good will.”
    I nodded. “Sir.”
    “Needn’t be so lackluster about it.”
    “Sorry, sir. It’s just ...”
    “Well, right you are. All settled.” He got up. I did, too.
    “Do take a biscuit with you, Stanhope. My mother sends them.” When I bent to select one, he said softly, “A long way, America. Difficult to mail things, without them going bad.”
    The compassion in his voice. It surprised the hell out of me. And because it was so unexpected, it was needle-sharp with hurt, too. Tears came. I didn’t dare straighten up.
    “I will give you an order that you may not care for.”
    Gaze still on the cookies, I said, “Sir?”
    “I wish you to counsel with Father O’Shaughnessy.”
    I blinked away the last of the wet and turned, my cookie fast in my hand. “I’m not a papist, sir.”
    “Neither am I, but I’m not thoroughly convinced that O’Shaughnessy is quite the good little Catholic, either.”
    The cookie was damned tasty. I’m to meet with O’Shaughnessy day after tomorrow. Confession is sacred, Miller assures me; but what does he want me to say? Should I confess how I lie in my cot and think about him? Not the way you’re thinking, nor the way he’d like; but just wondering what he’s doing, if he’s reading or maybe what he’s eating. Oh, shit. That doesn’t sound like something a normal man would do. I’ve never had a problem. Ask around, Bobby. Near every lady in town—married or single—could tell you that. Still, do you think there’s something about myself I haven’t learned? I hope to God not.
    Considering everything I’ve said here, I believe this is a letter I’ll hold onto until we see each other face-to-face.
     
     
Travis Lee
     
     
    * * *
    JUNE 23, FLANDERS, THE REST AREA
     
     
    Dear Bobby,
     
     
    A comfortable cot, a tent over my head, but still last night Trantham walked my favorite graveyard. At least I think I heard his voice. I yelled back, loud as I could, “Couldn’t expect us to go get you!” but he kept calling, calling, and I don’t know if he was calling for me, or for his ma, or for somebody just to for Christ’s sake go out and take him down off