Articles of War by Nick Arvin Page B

some reason he was unable to go to them, or perhaps he only knew that they needed to work while the sun was up, but anyway it was pleasant to watch them. Eventually they began to maneuver the tractors through the patterns of a waltz. But then he saw Claire on one of the tractors, and she seemed to be looking for someone. Lust and fear and guilt and wonder arose and exiled him from sleep. By the time reveille sounded he had been lying awake for a couple of hours. He fully expected he would be put on a truck and sent back to the front this morning.
    He was not. But Quentin’s number was called. Quentin accepted the arrival of fate with bowed shoulders.
    Heck sat on his cot watching Quentin gather his things. Quentin said, “I’m scared.”
    â€œYou’ll be all right. You’ll take Berlin, then you’ll go home and meet a pretty girl and get married. She’ll be just like you knew she would be, and one day you’ll show her all your letters, and she’ll be amazed that you knew her before you had even met her.”
    â€œI have a bad feeling.”
    â€œI know.” Heck could think of no further, truthful reassurance.
    Quentin thrust the weight of his letters into his backpack.
    â€œI’ll probably be sent out tomorrow,” Heck said, “and we’ll meet up again in Berlin.” He was straining desperately for words. “Hitler’s living room. I’ll see you there.”
    Quentin shouldered his pack and took up his rifle and looked at it like a thing he knew not how to dispose of.
    Heck said, “I’m looking for her, Quentin. I’m trying to find her.”
    Quentin nodded. “That makes me glad. I knew you were in love.” He offered a shy smile.
    Heck walked with him to the truck. Quentin climbed in and they exchanged brief waves. Heck walked on toward town, wondering how many more people he would meet for a couple of days, then never see again.
    The day was of such beauty that it seemed a mistake had been made. The air had warmed, and only one or two tiny, cottony clouds floated overhead.
    The streets of town, to Heck’s wonder, were a spectacle of color and movement, of voices and music. Beckoned by the weather, everyone was outside and the town square was full. There was a six-piece band, including accordion and dented tuba. The three old men on their bench argued spectacularly. The doors of the bakery were thrown open, and a yeasty aroma wafted out. Heck was still thinking of Quentin, however, and angrily resolved to himself that he would go back to the front and will himself forward. He knew now what to expect. He only needed to be disciplined enough to set aside reluctant instincts. Children careened in all directions, and soldiers of the various Allied armies strolled about gripping the necks of bottles and cussing merrily. Heck wandered out of the square and around a corner into one of the town’s back alleys.
    The buildings around the square were two and three stories tall, with steeply pitched roofs, built of brick or half-timbered and set tightly shoulder to shoulder. Some sagged or leaned with great age, and many needed paint. Nonetheless, they were evidently cared for and gathered to themselves a certain dignity. In the alley, however, they displayed their shabby side—stained and unpainted walls, boarded windows, scattered broken brick, black burn markings. Heck stopped to look through an empty window into a large open space where the floorboards had been ripped up. Farther down the alley, a door opened and a woman set out a container full of garbage.
    Immediately several fast-moving figures appeared—out of corners or from under stairwells. Some seemed to rise up out of the earth. All of them converged, shambling or loping, on the garbage can. They gathered in a small, gaunt, elbowing swarm, adults and children. Heck watched the little frenzied crowd from a distance. He started forward, then stopped. Among them was