None of the others were paying him attention. Judging by the soft snoring coming from the top bunk, Paul Blakeley, the lanky private from San Antonio who had been commissioned with Dominic in a Military Police unit at Camp Glenn and shipped off to Normandy, was asleep. Dominic rolled over to his little knapsack and pulled out a scrap of paper he’d scavenged from outside the officers’ tent. It had been crumpled up and tossed to the ground, but despite the fragments of a telegram printed on one side, to Dominic it was pure gold. He’d also scrounged a stick of what passed for charcoal from a smoldering forest they’d passed a few days ago. And now, finally, he could bring the two together.
There was no question of what he would draw. The charcoal stick was forming her familiar curves on the paper before he could even ask himself the question. He drew her the way he loved her best, curled on her side in bed, her loose hair a tangle against the back of her neck. Even in black and white, in his mind, he could see the burning color of Sally’s hair on the pillow.
Suddenly, a grubby hand came down and grasped roughly at the paper. Instinctively, he snatched his hand back, but a tiny tear appeared in one corner and he reflexively let it go.
“Well, have a look at this!” boomed a coarse voice. “Who is this sizzling lady?”
Dominic rose to his feet, face burning. Private Kellermann was a towering mass of a man, with the thick shoulders and manner of a rhino. He held the sketch up to the light and laughed, the sound rolling out of him on a tide of vulgar intentions. “She’s a beauty, Bonelli. Don’t you want to share?”
Dominic’s fingers curled into fists. The idea of Kellermann’s eyes on even a fleeting likeness of his wife set his blood on fire. “Give it back,” he said.
But the other soldiers were already gathering around; a sweaty, smelly horde of half-starved men who hadn’t seen a living woman in months, and Dominic’s lifelike portrayal of his wife was more than enough for them. Hooting and yelling, they passed the sketch between them, and with each grubby thumbprint that stained the page, Dominic’s blood rose. Wolf whistles pierced the air as Dominic rushed from one man to the other, snatching at the precious sketch, but his slight frame kept him just out of reach of it as they passed it back and forth above his head.
“Jump, Macaroni!” one man’s voice howled. “Jump for your lady!” Dominic brushed off the all-too-familiar slur.
Finally, Kellermann had the picture again, and he waved it easily and tauntingly above Dominic’s head, leaning back against his bunk. “You heard the man, Macaroni!” he cackled. “Jump!”
Before Dominic could respond, the motionless lump that had been lying in the top bunk sprang suddenly to life. Paul’s hand flashed out from under the blankets and swiped the paper clean out of Kellermann’s hand in one brisk movement. Turning indignantly, Kellermann opened his mouth to protest, but when Paul sat up, he thought better of it. While Dominic’s bunkmate spoke with a Texan twang, his great height and clear blue eyes spoke of some Scandinavian ancestor that had chewed on shields in a berserker rage on Viking longboats a thousand years ago. The expression in his face warned Kellermann that he’d think nothing of doing something similar right now.
“Enough.” Paul didn’t speak much, but when he did, men listened. The group of men dispersed in bits and pieces until only Dominic was left, arms folded, staring Kellermann in the eye even though he had to tip his head back to do so. “That’s his wife, man. Stop it.”
There was a moment of icy silence between them, then Kellermann let out a scathing belly laugh. “Enjoy your little art project, wop,” he growled. “We’ll be off fighting a war.” He slouched off, turning his broad back only to spit on the floor a few feet from Dominic’s boots.
Seething, Dominic turned back to his bunk. Paul held out the drawing to him. “Thanks,” Dominic said, taking it back, surprised at how much his voice was shaking. He smoothed the paper between his rough fingers.
The silence stood heavy and painful. Paul pushed it gently aside. “It’s a really good picture,” he said quietly, his Texas twang softening the thick air between them. Paul had been a stalwart comrade ever since they’d ended up as bunkmates in boot camp. He was one of the few of their platoon who had survived the decimation on those grim beaches of Normandy. Paul’s sturdy good humor had made their slow advance over the devastated landscape less impossible. For all his size and quietness, Paul had quick hands and a quicker mind; the speed with which he’d plucked the drawing from Kellermann’s hands was echoed in card games and tricks by candlelight. Those moments were few and far between, not because they didn’t have idle time but, Dominic figured, because their spirit for games had been crushed on those beaches, all those weeks ago.
“I never knew you could draw, Bonelli,” Paul said.
Dominic shrugged, one-shouldered, then stood and began tidying the thin blanket on his bunk. “I’ve drawn since I was a little kid. I would have loved to go to art school, to find a teacher, but what could I do? I had to start working in the mines just after ninth grade. Then there was Sally, and the wedding, and Cecilia . . . and the war.” He touched his neck where the Saint Christopher medal was so conspicuously missing. “I just draw here and there when I’ve got a little spare time. Helps me relax, you know?”
Dominic realized that for all the time he and Paul had spent together since boot camp, they had only shared snippets of their lives back home. And yet, Dominic marveled, their time together in the face of ever-present threats had bonded them as if they had been together their whole lives. War could do that, Dominic supposed.
Paul had not spoken much of his family. Dominic knew that he had had little time for his father. The old rancher had fought in the Great War and come back broken; he had spent more time looking at the bottom of a bottle than at his son, and his family had suffered for it. Paul’s mother had wrestled five boys through the years of the Depression on a cattle ranch that was falling apart. It had been all she could do to feed the boys, let alone give them affection. Paul barely mentioned them. But he often mentioned Francine. He never once described the girl he loved as beautiful; but the look she put on his face certainly was. The mention of her name had lit him up from the inside out. Dominic knew the feeling.
“You always draw your wife?” Paul asked, his pale legs now dangling from the bunk above.
“Usually,” Dominic admitted, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. “It’s always one portrait or another, though. I’ve drawn most of youse guys and slipped the pictures into my letters to Sally so that she can see what you look like.” He grinned.
“Sneaky. I knew I had to look out for you!” Paul joked. “Who’s your favorite artist?”
Dominic shrugged again. “I used to go down to the library when I was a kid to look at paintings in books. The old masters—Rembrandt, Rubens, you know. But Leonardo da Vinci was always my favorite. I suppose he’d have to be, being Italian and everything.”
“Ever been to Italy?”
Dominic shook his head. “My parents couldn’t wait to get out of there and make a new life in America. I guess they’re more American than Italian, really—they’ve got a full-size photograph of me in my uniform with a giant American flag.” He huffed out a laugh, then smoothed his hand down the front of the stained and tattered remains of his uniform, now a ratty shadow of the splendor that had been photographed that day. “I’d love to visit there someday, though. It would be something to see those masterpieces in real life.”