Free Eureka by William Diehl Page B

catching a nap on a cot in the corner. A tattered piece of burlap served as a door to the other room, the major’s office.
    â€œHow’s it going up there?” March said to Culhane.
    â€œWanna take a guess?”
    â€œNo thanks,” March said. “Let me be surprised in a couple of hours when we join you for tea and crumpets.” He walked to the burlap curtain and knocked on the wooden frame that supported it.
    â€œYes?” The voice from inside the room was deep, with the soft roll of the South in it.
    â€œSergeant Culhane’s here, Major.”
    â€œGood, show him in.”
    They entered, saluted, and Major Merrill walked around his desk to grab Culhane by the arm.
    â€œGood to see you, Brodie,” he said.
    â€œGlad I’m still around.”
    The major was a big man, broad-shouldered and muscular, his hair trimmed almost to the scalp, his dark blue eyes dulled by too many attacks and counterattacks and too many “regret” letters written to mothers or wives or sisters. He was a year younger than Culhane, but the war had put ten years on his face. Culhane had served under him for two years, starting when the battalion was formed in South Carolina. Merrill was a compassionate man in a business where compassion was a liability.
    â€œJesus, you’re a wreck,” he said to Culhane.
    â€œSo I’ve been told,” Culhane answered. Haunted eyes peered out from his mud-caked face.
    Major Merrill looked Culhane over.
    â€œSergeant March,” the major called.
    â€œYes, sir,” March answered, peering through the burlap curtain.
    â€œDo you think you can find me a pair of dry boots, ten-and-a-half C, and some dry socks and puttees?”
    â€œYes, sir. Right away, sir.”
    To Culhane, the major said, “I could hear your boots squishing when you came down the steps. A soldier has a right to go into battle with dry feet, damn it. Sorry I can’t get you a fresh uniform.”
    â€œI’ll be up to my ass in mud two minutes after I leave here, anyway,” Culhane said. “But it’ll be nice to have dry feet for a little while. Thanks. Okay if I smoke?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Merrill watched Culhane’s mud-caked hands as he took out a pouch of tobacco, papers, and matches wrapped in tinfoil to keep them dry. Not a tremor, he thought, as he watched Culhane roll the cigarette and light it.
    Culhane took out a roughly sketched map and spread it out on Merrill’s table, but Merrill pointed to the other curtain in the room.
    â€œThere’s a makeshift sink and some clean water in there. Why don’t you wash up before we talk. My razor and strop’s in there if you want to grab a quick shave. I’ll get us some coffee.”
    March came back with fresh footwear, and Culhane put on the socks and boots. When he returned to Merrill’s office, there were two tin cups of coffee sitting on the table. Merrill took a silver flask from his back pocket and laced both with brandy while Culhane rolled another cigarette.
    â€œAccording to our intelligence, whoever the hell they are, the Germans are lining up to take another crack at us,” Merrill said.
    â€œWhat a surprise,” said Culhane. “When?”
    â€œDawn.”
    Culhane looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s the weather look like?”
    â€œWe’re supposed to pick up some wind about sunrise. That’ll clear the fog, then it’s going to be a bright, sunny day.”
    â€œA break for us, for a change.”
    â€œIf we can stop them this time, I think they’re beat. They need to make this breakthrough and get behind our troops. Brodie, you’re going to have to . . .”
    â€œ. . . stall their front line at my forward post until you can move the company up,” Brodie finished the sentence.
    Merrill laughed. He had not laughed for some time. Culhane could sense a lot more relief in his laughter than