“What you wrote about the war taking a minute to catch its breath, and that’s when you see the funny things? Or the proud things? Keep writing that stuff down. The battles go in the newspapers. Or history books. If anyone gets mentioned by name, it’ll be General So-and-So or Major Such-and-Such. Us grunts? We disappear. So who will know what a magnificent bazooka shot Holy Schmitt made into an attic window unless you write about it? How Malinda’s jaw moved while he was chewing gum, making him look grand and casual. Shit, Fish, how’d you put two words like that together and paint a picture? Grand and casual. That’s crazy.”

“Shut up,” Kennet said. Softly, because his throat was oddly tight.

“Keep writing the little things,” Hook said. “That’s just my opinion. It’s the stuff you’ll want to remember. Five, ten years from now, you’ll skim over the logistics and slow down to read the good parts. Like getting a goddamn hard-on while under fire. Holy hell, I thought I was the only sick pervert popping a boner on the battlefield.”

Kennet laughed. “I don’t even know how to begin explaining that shit.”

“See? It’s funny now. So write it down. Write the relief in hearing someone whistle ‘Colonel Bogey’ from behind a tree. Or von Asselt with four bandoliers across his chest, looking like a movie star. Saying he loved you before he died.”

“Shit.”

“And on a selfish note…” Hook drew a tremendous breath. “I got nobody. It’s the dice I rolled and the game I gotta play. But you including me in your journal? Well, I kind of feel like I’ll be remembered somehow. Things I said and did. Us being buddies.”

“Brothers,” Kennet said. “You’re in my father’s pocket, remember?”

“Not many minutes go by when I forget.”

They were quiet a while, watching the logs burn in square sections of rosy orange, outlined white. The pop and crackle and steam as trapped moisture in the wood found its way out to die.

“I’ve never been with a woman,” Hook said, flicking his butt into the fire. “Didn’t know your feelings got that much involved.”

“You will,” Kennet said. “And they do.”

“Hope so. On both accounts.”

Jock moved across the yard, his body dipping in and out of the clouds of smoke, making his way toward O’Hara, who sat on the top rail of the fence. Jock stood in front of his buddy a long moment, then gave a single jerk of his head toward the land beyond the farmstead. He walked off. After a beat, O’Hara slid down and followed.

“Now those poor bastards,” Hook said. “No one’s writing their story.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Kennet squinted through the smoky yard but O’Hara and Jock had disappeared from view. “Isn’t what obvious?”