Читать книгу The Texan's Convenient Marriage - Peggy Moreland - Страница 8

War is fear cloaked in courage.

—William Westmoreland

Smoke hung in the air cloaking the darkness, its acrid scent burning the noses of the soldiers hiding in the tall grass. Some had taken advantage of the lull in activity and had stretched out, eyes closed, their guns held at the ready across their chests, their packs pillowed beneath their heads. Others were hunkered down, watching…and waiting.

Antonio Rocci, or Romeo as he was called by his friends, wanted to sleep but couldn’t. Fear kept his eyes open and his ears cocked for any sound of movement in the inky darkness. In the distance, red embers and thin curls of smoke marked where a small village had once stood. Reconnaissance had reported that Vietcong soldiers had infiltrated the village and were using the area to store artillery. Earlier that day, while the sun was still up, an air attack had taken place. Constructed mainly of grasses and bamboo gathered from the surrounding countryside, the hooches that had once formed the small village had gone up like dry kindling. All that remained were burning embers and the cloying smell of smoke.

When morning came, it was the job of Romeo and the other soldiers in his unit to go into the village and search for the cache of artillery and ammunition reportedly hidden there. A side duty was checking for survivors and counting the dead. Bile rose in Romeo’s throat at the thought of what he might face, and he quickly swallowed it down. It’s war, he reminded himself. It’s either us or them, and he’d a hell of a lot rather it be them.

“Romeo?”

He jumped at the voice, then forced the tension from his body when he realized it was Pops, their team leader, who had spoken.

He set his jaw to steady his voice, hide the fear. “Over here.”

He heard a slight rustle of grass, and angled his head, watching as Pop’s shadowed form moved closer.

“You okay?” Pops whispered.

Romeo released his grip on his gun long enough to drag his arm across the nervous perspiration that beaded his forehead, then settled his finger over the trigger again. “Yeah, but I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew we were the only ones out here.”

“Yeah,” Pops agreed soberly. “I hear you.”

Silence settled between them, as both continued to watch the darkness.

Romeo would never admit it, but he felt safer, less vulnerable with Pops at his side. Older than most of the others in the unit, Pops—the nickname given to Larry Blair by the rest of the team—had already completed one tour of duty in Vietnam and was working on his second. Romeo couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly sign on for another tour. From the day he’d arrived in country, he’d felt as if he’d been dropped down into the bowels of hell and couldn’t wait for the day he could board the plane that would carry him home.

“Pops?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever regret signing on for a second tour?”

“No sense regretting what you can’t change.”

Romeo angled his head to peer at the man whose opinion he respected as much as he would his father’s. “Do you ever get scared, Pops?”

“Yeah,” Pops admitted quietly. “It’s the soldier who fears nothing that gets himself killed. If you use fear to your advantage, it’ll keep you alert, on guard, prepared. Give in to it and it’ll make you helpless, weak.”

Romeo considered that for a moment, but found little comfort in Pop’s advice. He’d always considered himself brave, even cocky. Now he wondered if he had a bright-yellow stripe running down his back.

“Is being afraid the same as being a coward?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. A coward runs and hides.”

“Some of the guys think Preacher’s a coward.”

“Well, they’re wrong. Preacher just can’t bear the thought of taking a human life. It’s his beliefs he struggles with, not cowardice.”

Romeo considered that a moment, then shook his head sadly. “Hell, it doesn’t matter if you’re a hero or a coward. We all die just the same.”

Pop pulled a package of gum from his pocket. “Don’t think about dying,” he warned, and offered a piece to Romeo. He unwrapped one for himself and folded the strip of gum in two, before popping it into his mouth. “Think about living, about what you’re going to do when you get home.”

Romeo gulped, thinking about what he’d left behind, what would be waiting for him when he returned. “Have I ever told you why I joined the service?”

“Can’t say as you have.”

“I got a girl pregnant.”

He felt Pop’s gaze and, for once, was grateful for the darkness so that Pop couldn’t see his face, his shame. “She was putting pressure on me to marry her. I figured the army was as good a way to get out of it, as any.”

If Pop had an opinion, he kept it to himself, which Romeo appreciated. He wasn’t looking for absolution…or a lecture. What he wanted was a sounding board, someone who would listen.

“It was wrong,” he admitted with regret. “Running away, I mean. Even if I didn’t want to marry her, I should’ve at least agreed to share responsibility for the kid. It’s mine, a part of me. I shouldn’t have left her to deal with it alone.” He glanced over at Pops. “Do you think it’s too late?”

Pop frowned in confusion. “For what?”

“To provide for the kid. I was thinking maybe I could send her some money.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate it,” Pop replied.

“Yeah,” Romeo said, warming to the idea. “And when I get home and get a real job, I could send her a set amount every month. Kinda like the child support my dad had to pay my mom after they divorced.”

“Sounds fair,” Pops agreed. “A man should take care of what’s his.”

Romeo frowned, as a new thought rose. “But what happens if I don’t make it home?” He glanced over at Pops. “Who’ll take care of my kid then?”

Pops clasped Romeo’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to make it home. We all are.”

Though Romeo appreciated the reassurance, he knew Pops was blowing smoke. There were no guarantees. Not for any of them. And if he did get killed, what would happen to the baby he’d fathered? He didn’t have anything of value to leave behind. No savings, no property. Hell, he didn’t even own a car. He’d sold his old heap to his cousin, before he’d left for ’Nam.

“Pops?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember the deed that rancher tore up and gave to us the day before we shipped out?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“The old man said he was going to give us his ranch when we got home. My portion of the deed is in my footlocker back at camp. If something happens to me, would you see that my kid gets it?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Pop maintained stubbornly.

“But if something does, promise me you’ll send it to Mary Claire Richards. Tell her it’s for the baby.”

There was a long pause of silence, before Pop said quietly, “Consider it done.”