* * *
Fitsky skedaddled after a short skirmish with the enemy. Lodi and Rogers soon after. Myles saw Lodi leave, but when he objected, Lodi ran over and punched Myles black out, then ducked into the woods, trigger finger poised, looking for a country road. Van Creerie didn’t want to jump to conclusions. A lot can happen to a soldier, he said thoughtfully to Myles. It was down to Van Creerie, Myles, and Cullers. This sure wasn't the plan, said Van Creerie. One of them kept watch while the other two slept and like this they split the night in three. In daylight, they stretched their intuition and chose a direction. Their spirits swayed low, but then the sun would tease them between branches, or some deer would shyly glance their way. It was hard to resent the daytime, the weather just right. Plus, Myles didn’t want to return to his sweetheart. He’d had his fill of her recently.
The picture Myles claimed and showed, was in fact, not his real sweetheart. His sweetheart was bossy and rail-thin Belle, who wavered between delirious sentimentality, and an aggressive idea of how things should be. Instead, he showed a picture of his cousin Wendy, whom he'd always found attractive. It wasn’t rare for Wendy to have a lady bug walking the length of her finger. She was confident and strong like a very good song. He knew a girl like that was scarce as hens teeth. If he were to die in battle, he thought the ruined picture might be returned to his family, who would be sick with confusion, but somehow the gesture would make it to Wendy, and, well, she wouldn't be pleased either, but maybe at the funeral, she and he might have a secret, and a secret was alive, even when you weren’t.
* * *
The scientists collected hair. Found a small hut of sticks and vines and staked out in the bushes for hours, nibbling on clover until they saw an old deadbeat returning home, beard to his waist. They questioned him about the creature, rolled their eyes when he feigned ignorance, then walked sullenly back to camp. They sat around the fire that night telling wizard stories, eating scraps. Then the talk turned to introduced species, all the wildtypes of mutated organisms: heterozygous, homozygous, compound, genetic, spontaneous, induced. They had a brief but emotional debate on extraterrestrial life, causing each to scamper off to their own tent and lay awake thinking.
The next morning, the woman scientist Meriweather collected bits of hair and feathers, bitten leaves. When she tried piecing together all she had gathered, pinning the feathers to the ground and sketching out some possibilities, she ended up with a nonsense animal, a made-up thing, a scarecrow, a costume, and was embarrassed. She walked to the swamp and collected a sample, but the flies were thick so she did not linger.
* * *
What about walks, thought Jeannie. My legs like them sure, but this hike wouldn’t quit, thought Wallace. He looked at McGrady’s dirt-covered boots. And what about wars? he thought, what's wrong with them? Too dramatic I think, thought Jeannie as she put down her picture. She crawled into her bed wearing all her clothing. With one foot, she pulled the sock off the other. Her cat John Singer Sargent hopped onto the bed in a single deft motion. What’s good about cats? he thought, while she pet hers. She thought, To exist alongside, to be near them relaxed, calmly, sweetly, matter-of-fact. Wallace grinned and sat and waited. She petted John Singer and thought, What about bodies, houses, and grass? But she interrupted herself, How about families? She thought. He said, A good place to start. He ran his hand along the grass beside him, grabbed a few and pulled. He listened to the crickets chime and click their song. Now crickets, he asked, now what about them? She opened her window to listen. Natural collaborators in a close-knit community. He smiled and toyed with one of McGrady’s shirt buttons, then realized and stopped. He had an eager feeling in his chest, like it was striving to get away. Like he might pass his hand over his ribs and hear a xylophone. He felt his breath in his nose and said quietly, Then what about love, tell me, how’s that? Jeannie closed her eyes and ran a finger across her eyebrow. She said, Like having fun as a kid, feeling in common with the sky, a layer of varnish. Wallace found himself playing with McGrady's hair. Jeannie heard her sister knock on the door, but surprised herself by not moving a hair and holding her breath. Her sister called her name and waited. Jeannie waited. John Singer stretched a paw straight out in front of him and licked his leg. Jeannie waited until her sister padded down the hallway, then breathed out suddenly and wriggled into her sheets. And God, she whispered softly, how about him? Wallace looked around, moonlight outlining the trees. His heart beat amateurly. The crickets didn't quiet. The wind blew good and cold. God's not here, he thought, but everything else sure is.
* * *
Cullers went in a baffling fashion. Dead in a way Van Creerie and Myles didn’t know. They’d been living an experimental approach, making soap and foods from whatever they found, and probably it was one of these attempts at traditional living that did Cullers down, but Van Creerie and Myles couldn’t say. They spent a day burying him, deliberating over what to do with the hand-drawn sweetheart, eventually burying that too, though it seemed a waste, a smaller additional loss.
Van Creerie had been nominated Sergeant because of his great thick beard. He was billed as a community leader, a fitness expert. Really, Van Creerie had little experience besides cooking meat and coaching baseball. And he did both beautifully at training camp. Barbequed up some ribs and umpired a rec game. When making assignments, they’d given Van Creerie only eight men, since he had a dreamy manner unsuitable for war. His half-troop was back-up for Sergeant Rangeley’s men, many of whom had been injured and discharged.
Van Creerie couldn’t find the heart to make his men follow the strict rules they’d learned back at camp. To march like wooden soldiers. He felt warmly for these boys who grew candid around the campfire. He had misplaced his order papers and maps. He hadn’t known exactly where to direct his men, but figured he’d receive a sign. Maybe a telegraph man would approach them in the rain, dripping wet, mad as hell, telling them they were off their mark. Or a bird, with a message glued to his leg with gum. This outfit was supposed to be capable, so he’d submitted to his instincts, which led them into a very long camping trip. A retreat, he’d thought happily. Like had been forced on him in youth, in church.
Van Creerie and Myles were so far off track, it felt the only man they’d run into would be an old, ragged, rugged one, who did his living in the woods, and didn’t even know there was a war on. They’d run into one such the week before and Van Creerie had started up a recruitment speech, force of habit, then trailed off distractedly. All their bullets were spent in a target competition Van Creerie had won with controversy. They began to finally feel their vulnerability. If the enemy were to approach them, all they had were two equally dull pocketknives. Myles had lost his bayonet heaving it after a fish. They began to dream other options. First matter at hand was to remove any identifying mark on their uniforms. It wasn’t enough to rip off their badges. Van Creerie burnt parts of their clothes. Myles collected raspberries and made a dye.
* * *
Horowitz laughed for the first time since leaving his troop. He had just bought his train ticket when he saw the sign. Stan Brady’s Gentlemen and Ladies. It advertised a traveling act. A crude painting of a man in hat and tails surrounded by animals dressed in formal wear. He wanted to tell McGrady. He found himself walking to the address of the theater. What a story for Jeannie! he thought. He spent a small amount on a ticket and aimlessly wandered the town before the show.