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Carwood sighed, half-heartedly trying to stifle the coughing fit that followed. It didn’t matter if he was loud tonight, he wouldn’t be disturbing anyone’s rest—he could still faintly hear the sounds of conversation downstairs at the C.P. He doubted any of the officers would be sleeping tonight until the patrol was back, safe and sound. He knew he wouldn’t be, regardless of the fact that Speirs had practically ordered him to get some rest.
Well, practically nothing. Speirs had forced him from the C.P. as soon as he had arrived with Winters and Nixon. Carwood had tried to protest but he’d folded under the combined weight of Speirs’ hard-nosed concern and Winters’ open worry. He’d sworn he could hear Nixon laughing behind him as he left, trailing the blanket Speirs had shoved at him like some kind of sad cloak.
Now he was upstairs sitting on the edge of the bed Speirs had requisitioned for him, staring at the wall feeling his stomach churn. Guilt lay heavy in his gut, combining with the sharper pangs of fear and worry to create a toxic mixture. Carwood should be the one leading the patrol tonight, not Johnny. It wasn’t that he doubted Johnny or his leadership capability: he knew Johnny was one of the best combat leaders in the company who’d do whatever it took to finish the mission and protect his men. But Carwood was the senior NCO and practically a Lieutenant, as Speirs kept reminding him. If anyone should be leading a patrol into enemy territory, it should be him.
But he could feel the exhaustion weighing down his bones and clouding his mind; even as wired as he was, he still needed to blink rapidly to keep his eyes open. And that wasn’t even mentioning his lingering cough. He’d be nothing but a liability tonight, but that knowledge didn’t make him feel any better.
He blinked again and rubbed a hand roughly over his eyes. He couldn’t go on the patrol, or do anything even remotely useful for the men, but he could stand vigil. It was the very least he could do.
Minutes creeped by, seeming to drag longer with every passing second. Carwood listened to his own wheezing breath, the faint voices from below, the occasional creak of the house. He suddenly felt very alone in the world, as if he was the only one tearing himself apart in worry, and he knew it was selfish even as he felt it.
Carwood glanced at his watch for the upteenth time and felt his already tense stomach tighten further. The boys would be pulling themselves across the river right about now. He had a brief thought wondering which of them wouldn’t be coming back before he pushed it forcibly from his mind.
Carwood looked up from his watch at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They stopped at his landing and grew louder as they came toward him. Carwood frowned; it couldn't be any of the officers, he could still hear them downstairs and the patrol was just beginning, they wouldn't leave before it was over -
The door to his room opened and Carwood knew who it was even before Bull leaned his head through the door. Only one man in the company smelled so strongly of that particular brand of cigar.
“You mind if I join you, Sarge?” Bull asked, said cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Carwood patted the bed beside him, clearing his throat of phlegm before he could speak. “No, c'mon in.”
Bull shut the door quietly behind him and came over to sit beside Carwood. The bed dipped beneath his weight and Carwood found himself sliding a few inches on the tilted mattress until he was pressed against Bull from shoulder to hip.
“I figured you'd be downstairs,” Bull said, cocking his head to the side to better look at Carwood.
“I was.”
A smile kicked up the corner of Bull's mouth. “Kicked you out, huh?”
Carwood huffed a laugh. “Pretty much.”
“Yeah, did the same to me,” Bull said wryly. “Winters said I should go bunk down, get some sleep.”
“And you somehow ended up here instead,” Carwood said, shooting Bull an amused look.
“Well, sir, I've never been the best with directions,” Bull said, a full grin spreading across his face as Carwood laughed. It was a bald-faced lie—Bull had always seemed to have an innate sense of direction. Johnny had always given him grief about it, wondering loudly if it was some Arkansas farm boy trait while Bill cackled and Bull looked on indulgently. Shortly after D-day Johnny had confided in him that it was that same sense of direction that had led both he and Bull to the rest of Easy in Normandy. Of course, he had done this just loud enough that Bull, seated across from them, could hear him. It was probably the only time Carwood had ever seen him blush.
Bull grinned at him a moment longer before sobering up a bit. “In all honesty, sir, I figured you could use the company.”
Carwood nodded silently. Company was probably exactly what he needed, but he never would have asked for it, loathe to pull someone away from their duty or much needed rest. He should actually send Bull back to bed, just like Winters had tried to do, but he found he couldn't do it. He knew it was selfish, to lean on Bull like this when Bull must be just as worried. He could only hope his presence would be as much of a balm for Bull as Bull's was for him.
“Stay as long as you want,” Carwood said finally. Bull nodded, looking grateful.
“Appreciate it.”
They say in silence for a moment and Carwood imagined where the boys might be right now. They would have reached the other side of the river by now, disembarking and moving through the slush and mud from cover to cover. There wasn't any gunfire yet, for which Carwood was grateful. Of course, there didn't need to be gunfire for things to go wrong.
Carwood tried to clear his throat again and ended up coughing roughly. Shivers ran up and down his spine and he snuggled a little deeper into the blanket around his shoulders.
“Still coughing, huh?” Bull asked, reaching out to rub his hand on Carwood's back. He left it there for a moment after the coughing fit passed before leaning forward on his knees.
“Yeah,” Carwood said roughly. It was an unnecessary question with an obvious answer but Carwood wasn't above taking the offered conversational opener. Talking about inconsequential things was far better than sitting in silence and imagining all the ways twelve men could die in the next twenty minutes.
“Sounding a bit better, though,” Bull said, bumping his shoulder against Carwood's.
“Thank god,” Carwood said wryly and Bull laughed. Carwood hadn't really started to feel ill until they left Rachamps bound for Alsace, but his cough had started the morning after the night in the church. He found it bitterly ironic that he only got sick after the company started to sleep indoors again.
“The ride here was a little rough, yeah,” Bull chuckled.
Carwood snorted. “You're telling me.”
The ride to Hagenau had been nothing less than hellish. There was a particular kind of discomfort that came from being feverish and shivering on the back of a truck, every jolt in the road jarring a new coughing fit out of him. He'd spent most of it in a haze, accidentally dozing on the shoulder of whoever was sat next to him. For the first few hours, it had been Luz serving as his pillow and Carwood had barely been able to straighten his neck after because of the crick he’d had from leaning so far over. He hadn't said anything but Luz had apparently noticed because the next time they got on the truck Carwood found himself sitting next to Bull, Luz and Shifty grinning at him across the way. He'd been too exhausted and sick to question it; he'd just blinked at Bull slowly before closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing. He'd woken up hours later slumped on Bull's shoulder feeling warm for the first time in days.
Apparently Bull made an excellent wind break. He'd have to mention that to Johnny when he got back, Carwood thought absently. He'd probably laugh himself sick.
“Never did find out who ratted you out to Speirs,” Bull said, nudging him again.
Carwood laughed, shaking his head. “It wasn't that bad.”
It actually hadn't been. He'd been confused at first when Speirs had stopped him from getting on the truck, telling him to join Speirs in his jeep for the next leg of the journey before wandering off to check on the supply trucks without offering any explanation. The boys had all waved him off with shit eating grins, laughingly telling him to be careful and avoid accepting any cigarettes. Carwood would have told them off for it if he thought Speirs minded. As it was, the hidden amusement he'd caught dancing around Speirs’ face put paid to that, and he'd let it be.
As it turned out, Speirs hadn't needed him for anything; he'd just hopped in the jeep next to Carwood, shooting him a quick glance before facing forward. Carwood had eventually fallen asleep against the door and woken curled in the seat with Speirs’ scarf folded under his head as a pillow. At least he hadn't woken up on Speirs. That might have been pushing it.
Speirs hadn't said anything about it, just reclaimed his scarf and made it clear that Carwood could spend the rest of the trip in the jeep. He hadn't been planning to do so until Speirs had found him about to climb in a truck again and made it clear that by ‘could' he had meant ‘was going to’. Carwood had spent the rest of the journey in the relative comfort of a jeep, dozing and stealing surreptitious glances at Speirs when he woke himself up coughing.
“Really?” Bull said skeptically.
“He's not what people say he is. Those stories—he's not really like that.”
Bull looked at him, brows raised, obviously disbelieving.
“Well, not always,” Carwood clarified and Bull chuckled.
“If you vouch for him then I guess he must be alright. And he's a hell of a soldier,” Bull said.
“He is at that.”
Bull didn't say anything else. Carwood glanced over at him and found him staring at the floor with a heavy frown on his face, his jaw tight. Carwood reached out and put his hand on Bull's back.
“They'll be alright,” he said, stroking his hand gently across Bull's shoulders.
“You can't promise that,” Bull muttered, still staring hard at the floor.
“I know,” Carwood said. “They'll be alright.”
Bull snorted, finally lifting his gaze to throw Carwood a reluctantly amused look. “Well, hell, Lip, if you say so.”
“I do say so. And I'm not above pulling rank to make you listen to me.” Bull snorted again, his cigar swaying as he smiled. His eyes caught on something just off Carwood's shoulder.
“I thought you didn't drink,” he said.
Carwood glanced to his side, letting his hand fall away from Bull’s back, and saw the empty bottle of potato schnapps that Bull had spotted. “I don't. Well, I didn't. The couple who owns this place swears by schnapps and strudel for pneumonia.”
Bull grinned at him. “ No kidding.” He looked at the bottle again and snorted. “You must’ve been drunk as a skunk.”
“The bottle wasn't full,” Carwood said, but Bull wasn't far off. His memory of the previous evening was blurry and disjointed. He mostly remembered the way the taste of the schnapps had improved drastically the more he drank and the sheer delight on Speirs’ face when he realized Carwood had never had alcohol before.
“It ain't right, your first drink being schnapps. One of these days I'm going to get you a goddamn beer,” Bull said, shaking his head in disgust. Carwood started to laugh, but was cut off by the sudden sound of machine gunfire. The smile dropped from his face immediately, his gut clenching. Bull sat up straight beside him, his jaw working on his cigar.
The gunfire continued, joined by the whistle and concussion of artillery. Carwood reached out to Bull again, putting his hand on his back and rubbing.
“They'll be alright,” he said again. Bull said nothing, just nodded mutely. “Johnny knows what he's doing. He'll pull them through.”
“That's not what I'm worried about,” Bull said, voice so quiet Carwood could barely hear him above the rattling of the guns and the ever growing sound of shouting from the river. Carwood thought it might be kinder to pretend to have not heard him and just kept rubbing his back.
He'd have to be biggest kind of idiot to have missed it. Johnny and Bull had been thick as thieves at Toccoa and they had only grown closer since then. It wasn't like it something he hadn't seen before: there were only so many times he could go to clean a room let to two men and fail to notice that one bed was more rumpled than the other before the pieces fell into place. And that was to say nothing of his time in the military: the rumors of which guys went behind the tents in the evening with whom, the particular flavor of anguish of men who lost someone in combat, the actions of soldiers in foxholes desperate to feel something good for once. Carwood had caught the occasional eyeful or earful when walking the line late at night in Bastogne and he'd always done his best to continue on his way quietly so the men wouldn't notice him. He didn't want them to be embarrassed about being caught or worried about being reported.
But the things a frightened man would do in a foxhole when he thought he was going to die at any moment didn't necessarily last beyond that point. Carwood didn't think that applied in this case, not to Johnny and Bull. Maybe he would have thought that once, but not after seeing how quietly devastated Johnny was after Bull went missing in Holland, how he was lit up like a Christmas tree for days after Bull returned. And Bull opened up around Johnny in a way he didn't around the other men, seemed to relax somewhere deep inside himself.
They were sweet together, one of the few truly good things that had come out of this war. Carwood didn't want to have to watch that break.
Carwood pulled Bull closer until they were completely pressed against each other. He kept rubbing Bull's back as the gunfire continued and the shouting grew closer. He felt Bull sag against him suddenly and was briefly alarmed before he picked out the particular cadence of Johnny's voice shouting outside.
“Told you,” he said and Bull laughed quietly under his arm.
Secure in the knowledge that Bull was too distracted to notice, Carwood closed his eyes in thanks and let out a long, relieved sigh. Whatever had happened, at least one of his men was alright. He was grateful for that.
The guilt would return later, when he found out about Jackson, when it wasn't Bull next to him but Johnny, quiet and hurting, wondering what he could have done differently to save a boy far too young to die. Then Carwood would start wishing again that he'd been able to lead the patrol after all, if only to spare Johnny that burden.
But for right now, Carwood could only be thankful for what he had: the warmth of a friend against his side, the knowledge another friend was safe, even the sounds of movement down in the C.P. letting him know the officers were alright and ready to leap into action if needed.
Bull patted his hand on Carwood's knee, his face open with relief. Carwood couldn't help but smile back, squeezing Bull's shoulder.
This was enough. For right now, this was enough.