A hawk soared far in the distance, drifting on the air currents as if in slow motion. Vaccaro called it, but added, “Cole, if you hit that bird I’ll name my first born after you.”

Seconds later, the hawk tumbled from the sky.

Vaccaro said nothing for a while, which was unusual for him. Then he gave a low whistle. “I’ll be damned. You are scary with that rifle. I’m not sure that even I could have hit that hawk.”

“Vaccaro, you can barely hit that paper target. Who are you kidding? Here, take the rifle.”

Vaccaro shook his head. “That’s the difference between you and me, Hillbilly. I don’t care if I ever shoot a rifle again. What would I do with a rifle in Brooklyn? Nah, once every summer I can go out to the shooting gallery at Coney Island, and that will be plenty for me.”

“Well, City Boy, let me just say it straight. You done earned yourself that trip to Coney Island. Now, you want a ham sandwich?”

Vaccaro took the sandwich, then glanced over a Cole. Most soldiers talked about home, how good they’d had it with mom’s cooking or maybe how lucky they’d been with the local girls, and how they couldn’t wait to get back there. Vaccaro understood that distance put things in soft focus and that home was never as good as anyone remembered it.

Cole, however, hardly ever talked about growing up. In fact, it was hard to think of Cole as a kid—except maybe a smaller version that was just as lean and rangy, with the same serious expression on his face. He did know that Cole’s daddy had been a mean drunk. He knew that Cole had never really gone to school. Beyond that, Vaccaro knew better than to ask.

Cole handed him another sandwich. “Just like a Sunday School picnic,” he said.

“Did your Sunday School teacher bring beer along, too?” Vaccaro wondered. “That’s my kind of religion.”

They sat in the grass and ate the sandwiches and drank the beer, soaking up sunshine. It was the best that Cole had felt in a long time, but he realized it wasn’t because they were playing hooky from the Army. It was because he had finally gotten a chance to do some shooting.

The beer made them both lazy in the warm afternoon. They shared the knapsack as a pillow, both of them stretched out in opposite directions. They had done this by necessity in the war; now it just felt companionable. Cole was starting to drift off when he heard the whine of an approaching Jeep. He sat up.

“Aw, hell. We done made somebody nervous.”

The Jeep was being driven by a couple of MPs, distinguishable by their white armbands and the white bands on their helmets.

Cole and Vaccaro weren’t making any particular effort to hide, but the road was far from the edge of the field. One of the MPs stood up in the Jeep and waved at them.

“If we run, they’re not gonna catch us,” Vaccaro said.

“Shut up, Vaccaro. You ever try to outrun a Jeep?”

Instead, they packed up and headed toward the Jeep, fully expecting to be get in hot water for disturbing the peace.

The MP was a big, thick-necked fellow.

“Are you Cole?”

“Well, I reckon I am.”

“You are wanted at HQ, sir. You’re late for a meeting. We’ve been looking for you since this morning. One of your buddies said you might be out here testing a rifle. We heard the shooting and figured it might be you.”

“A couple of regular detectives,” Vaccaro said.

“Who are you?” the MP asked.

“My name’s Vaccaro.”

“Nobody said anything about you, Vaccaro. But we’ll give you a ride back, if you want.”

They got in the back of the Jeep.

“What’s this about?”

“Nobody told me, sir.”

Cole was getting confused about this “sir” business from the MPs. “Listen, I’m only a corporal.”

“That’s not what I was told. I was ordered to find Sergeant Cole. Apparently, you’ve been promoted.”

“That’s news to me. How can I get promoted and be late for a meeting I didn’t know about in the first place?”

The MP grinned. “That’s the Army for you. You’re always the last to know.”

CHAPTER 11

Somehow, despite the fact that the war was ending—or maybe because of it—new uniforms were in short supply. The replacement troops sent to occupy Germany were the only men with new uniforms, and as a result, they stood out in stark contrast to the combat veterans.

Cole had to make do with the fatigues he’d been wearing since before the Battle of the Bulge. They had been washed, but the uniform was badly worn and patched in places. He did take some time to give his boots a quick polish and to comb his hair.

Cole glanced at himself in a mirror. That’s the story of my life. Always trying to make do with worn-out clothes and a sliver of soap. After living on C rations and cigarettes for months in the field, he had put on some weight during their occupation duty, and filled out the uniform better. Nobody would describe him as beefy.

“How do I look?” he asked Vaccaro.

“Just about right for a court martial.”