“Was this your only brother?” Scottie asked gently.

“No.” Kennet pulled a deep breath through his nose. “I’m oldest. Then Minor, I mean, Erik. He’s in the Navy. Then comes Nalle… Björn…” He gestured with the telegram. “He’s with the 10th Mountain. Was. Shit, I can’t fucking believe it. Sorry, Padre.”

“Don’t be.”

A long moment stretched out. Kennet felt both officers were waiting for him to do or say something, but he had no idea what was expected of him right now.

“Do you want to talk about it?” the chaplain said. “Don’t be bothered if the answer is ‘no.’ It takes time to sink in. You might even be feeling absolutely nothing. That’s all right. I mean, it’s normal.”

“I think I… I can’t take it in yet. I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Jorgy said. He didn’t add any canned phrases about honor and sacrifice and service, for which Kennet was intensely grateful.

“Why don’t you go be with your men,” Scottie said. “Nothing takes the place of a brother, but your men are a different breed of brothers. Your bad news is theirs, too.”

He stood up and offered Kennet a handshake, and offered his time whenever Kennet did feel like talking. Jorgy shook his hand too and dismissed him.

The boys were waiting outside. Not just Ingle and Hook, but all of them.

“My brother’s dead,” Kennet said, holding out the telegram. “Killed in action. In Italy.”

Anderson put a hand on his shoulder. O’Hara reached in his breast pocket for cigarettes. He gave the pack a shake and held it out to Kennet. It was the last smoke in the pack. Kennet took it. Hook lit it.

Nalle is dead. My little bear-brother is gone.

Kennet’s mind wrestled with the idea, trying to pin it to the mat, line it up somewhere. He didn’t know what to think, but a world of feeling gathered in his throat, impervious to the hard drags he was taking on the cigarette. It wasn’t exactly grief. It didn’t feel like grief. More like depletion. Surrender. He didn’t have the strength or will to grieve, which felt shameful.

Nalle is dead. Do something.

He could only stand there and smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Anderson said. His hand had moved from Kennet’s shoulder to his nape, where it squeezed. “I’m real sorry, Fish.”

As the bit of yellow paper passed from hand to hand, the circle chimed in softly, like notes building a chord.

“Rotten news.”

“Aw, Fish, my heart’s broke.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So sorry, Pescado.”

Jock kicked his toe at the ground with a grunt. “This war’s a real…”

“A real fucking cunt,” Anderson said.

A shocked silence as everyone looked at Anderson as if he’d spouted fire. Then loud laughter, even from Kennet.