We went back to our barracks in a large truck convoy. No copters for the return; it took a lot longer.
The post-maneuver cleanup—scubbing the equipment used, cleaning weapons etc.—we didn’t think about, just went through the motions. Then lathered in the showers, reluctant to leave the steaming sprays, throughly soaping our bodies to rub out the stench that seemed to stick to us.
“Those guys . . . ” I said. “They must have been . . . well, what else? Idiots.”
“I thought about it on the way back,” Schwarz said. “Maybe they were young and too far from home. A lot of us are. Who isn’t? We’re all too far from home.”
He leaned down to pick up the soap that had slipped from his hand and added: “Yeah, maybe they hadn’t acclimated themselves yet. Maybe, with the cold and all, they just wanted to sleep and not wake up and face . . . where they were. Sobering, right?”
“Well, somebody’s gotta be over here to keep the Commie hordes from overunning Western Europe,” I said, trying to lighten him up and immediately regretting the flippancy. I suddenly felt ashamed of enjoying myself so much the afternoon and evening before the deaths. “Ah, hell, wrong thing to say. Wrong time. I feel bad about them, too.”
“Damn!” he said, clutching the back of his thigh. “Damn. All that sliding must’ve given me a charley horse.” He was in pain of some sort, bending forward to the waist, grimacing.
“C’mon,” I said, slapping him on the back, “let’s hit the town, forget about this, have a few beers. And then a few more.”
He grabbed a towel and without another word limped toward his locker to get dressed.
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