Excerpt: No Mayonnaise in Ireland

++From "The Beaten Way of Friendship"++

Saunders hadn't expected Hanley and first squad to return by nightfall, but when the next day dragged into the afternoon, he couldn't help worrying a little. He and Grady Long palled around some, but Long spent the afternoon writing letters home, so Saunders had nothing better to do than hang around the camp's perimeter, listening for unfamiliar engines and waiting.

Finally, at dusk, he heard what he'd been expecting all day: a coughing truck engine that had probably been repaired with baling wire and chewing gum too often. He hurried toward the sound, and arrived in time to see a ramshackle farm truck sway to a stop when challenged by the sentries. The driver hopped out of the truck, the same middle-aged Frenchman that had taken Saunders' squad and Hanley out. He spoke to the guard, pointed to the back of the truck, then led the sentry around to the tailgate.

Saunders came closer, and when he saw Hanley climb out of the truck, straw stuck to his trousers and a two-day shadow darkening his cheeks, something inside Saunders loosened, like a fist unclenching. He leaned against a massive tree and folded his arms. Braddock and Caje followed Hanley, and stood in the background brushing off feathers and dirt while the lieutenant explained to the sentry exactly who he was and why he arrived in such an unorthodox vehicle. Another man climbed out last, a middle-aged man whose good looks were starting to fade, probably thanks to his stressful occupation. Colonel Hobey Jabko, Saunders assumed. Jabko stayed in the background, letting Hanley do the talking.

Saunders held back, stayed leaning against his tree, waiting for the B.A.R. man Fergus to climb out of the truck. Hanley finished convincing the sentries of his authority's authenticity, and he, Braddock, and Caje came inside the camp. The Frenchman climbed back in his truck and drove away. No Fergus. Saunders realized briefly that he actually felt more relieved than sad -- only one of his men hadn't come back. And Hanley was among the survivors. Before he could analyze his reaction, the others had reached him. They were quiet, even Braddock.

"How'd it go?" Saunders asked when they were closer. He pushed off from the tree and took a step or two toward them.

Hanley lifted his broad shoulders, then dropped them. "Fergus got it at a road block before we were five miles away." He obviously knew what was really on Saunders' mind.

"I see you found the colonel."

"Yes." Hanley turned to introduce the colonel to Saunders, but Jabko was walking away, hands in pockets, head down. Hanley turned back, and Saunders noticed something unexpected in the lieutenant's eyes. Anger? Lack of respect, maybe?

Braddock said, "You have a nice, relaxing couple of days, Saunders?"

Saunders nodded. "I'll tell you something, Braddock -- it's a lot quieter without you around."

Braddock grinned. "Knew you'd miss me."

"We had hot chow a couple hours ago -- if you stop by the kitchen tent, they'll probably find you something," Saunders suggested.

Braddock looked at the silent soldier by his side. "Whaddaya think, Caje? Should we risk it?" He slung his rifle over one shoulder and said, "What've we got to lose, right?" Braddock left, followed by Caje.

Saunders pulled out a fresh pack of Luckys, shook one out, offered the pack to Hanley. The lieutenant accepted the offer, and Saunders lit both cigarettes with his lighter. He stepped back and leaned against the tree again, and noticed absently that it was almost dark suddenly. "What happened?" he asked quietly. He'd learned weeks ago that Hanley needed a sounding board, needed someone to vent to from time to time. The whole platoon was happier when Hanley got things off his chest and could go about the daily business of bossing a platoon without other things on his mind.

"Some of the Resistance weren't so resistant after all."

"Collaborators?"

Hanley nodded once and took a long pull from his cigarette. He seemed wound up, but also deflated, like a kid who'd been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, then found only socks under the tree. "There was a girl. Regular Florence Nightingale." Hanley snorted.

"The collaborator?" Saunders guessed.

"Yeah."

They finished their cigarettes in silence. Hanley ground his out under his boot heel, but Saunders just tossed his into the middle of the dirt road and watched its tiny glow fade and disappear. Hanley spoke first. "How were things here?"

"There's a bath house with a real shower."

Hanley's back straightened. "A shower?"

"Hot water and everything. Somebody found it just after you left. About a quarter mile out of town."

"Thought you looked awfully clean." Though Hanley's smile was hidden by the darkness, it sounded clearly in his voice.

"There's no soap, but there're towels."

"Soap I have. Thanks for the tip." Hanley started to walk away, then paused. "I'm sorry about Fergus," he said, not looking at Saunders.

"Not your fault."

Hanley made a noncommittal noise and walked off.

Saunders stayed there by the tree, savoring the moment of quiet before he had to rejoin his men. With a small sigh, he eventually headed for his squad's quarters, off to face the reality of another dead squad member, the usual wondering about who would get assigned to them next.