Fisha thrust out a hungry hand. Kennet patted his pockets but he had no more candy. He gave Fisha his Zippo to examine. He’d had this lighter since 1942. Once shinier than a show girl, it was dull silver now, worn to brass at the seam from Kennet’s thumb flipping it open countless times. One flat side was engraved with his name, 21st AIB and the battalion’s motto, Tonitus Fulmen Secuti: Thunder Follows Lightning.

Fisha flipped the cap open expertly and struck the wheel. The flame reflected in each of his eyes.

Watching the tiny fire, a tangible feeling settled into Kennet’s heart, solemn and clean as a key fitting into a hotel room door: he was profoundly, purely grateful Hook was not here to see this.

Keeper of the Flame

“Sir, he won’t stop calling me captain,” Kennet said to Jorgy. “I keep telling him I’m just a—”

“I know, son,” Jorgy said. He’d gone entirely grey. His incoming beard sparkled white and silver. “I know and it doesn’t matter. We know who’s who and it just doesn’t fucking matter in this place. If it makes him happy, let him call you captain. If it makes him happy to call you shithead, just let him.”

Kennet laughed. At least, he meant to laugh. It sounded shrill and maniacal in his ears.

“Take a walk, Fish,” Jorgy said in Swedish. “Take a break, walk it off and come back.”

“Take a walk in the woods,” the soldiers were told when it got to be too much. The woods were cool and green. Kennet, unable to smell, imagined a scent of dirt and life and better times. Hope for the future in the leaves and sap.

No more. Not now. Not ever.

No past. No future. No rules.

“Take a walk with me, Fish,” O’Hara said.

Kennet went. Fisha followed. And other boys, too. They smoked and ate chocolate and sang the “Colonel Bogey” parody lyrics, which Ingle taught them.

Anderson sat at the base of a tree, his little pocket bible clutched in both hands, shaking and sobbing.

“Another hanging,” O’Hara said.

Kennet sat on a root and shook out a cigarette. His lighter was no longer in his possession: it was now Fisha’s job and exclusive privilege to flick the Zippo for Kennet’s smoke breaks.

The keeper of the flame, Kennet thought absently.

“My God,” Anderson said through clenched teeth. “My God, why have you forsaken them… Why… My God, why…”

“O’Hara? Guys? Give us a minute alone,” Kennet said. They all went, except Fisha, who couldn’t be sent away. He lay down in the cool dirt and instantly fell asleep, his head tucked by Kennet’s leg. One dirty hand holding the Zippo, the other on Kennet’s service revolver.