They started walking back to the barracks. Troops serving in the Army of Occupation were housed at a monastery in Kremsmunster, forty miles south of Linz. German troops had been staying there, along with a number of Czechoslovakian collaborators and government officials. So esteemed were these “quislings,” the Nazis had made an entire freight train available to ship their possessions to the monastery for hiding. When American forces took the Germans and Czechs into custody, they discovered the main hallway of the abbey—twenty feet wide and nearly the length of a football field—was crammed with personal wealth. Dishes, silverware, rugs, paintings, furniture, lamps, books, and all manner of knick-knacks. Stacks of boxes piled deep and high, leaving just a five-foot corridor to traverse.

An outdoor enclosure on the grounds was filled with the Czechs’ automobiles, and there wasn’t an American GI who hadn’t taken one for a spin. Many soldiers did a little discreet “shopping” in the long hallway, appropriating gifts to send home to family, or keep tucked in a pocket or pack as a trophy.

So far, Kennet had taken nothing except a handsome cigarette lighter, to replace the Zippo he’d given to Fisha. O’Hara had never been a man attached to possessions, yet he seemed fascinated by the fabulous hoard. Kennet often saw him poking around the boxes and piles, taking a strange, obsessive inventory.

“Find anything you like?” Kennet asked.

“I don’t like any of it,” O’Hara said.

Kennet let it go. For all their time spent together, he still didn’t know O’Hara any better, didn’t know bushwa about the guy’s family, or if he even had one. Or if he had one and they’d cast him out for being queer, and no way Kennet was going to bring that up. A mere mention of Jock and O’Hara’s demeanor slammed shut like a door. Kennet respected his friend’s pain and did not knock or ring the bell.

He went into the room he shared with O’Hara, Ingle and Maslov. Its proper term was probably “cell,” but a private room, even shared, was such a novelty in a barracks setting, the fellows referred to them as suites.

Kennet sat on his bed, re-reading the article from Stars and Stripes. Trying to imagine five days afloat in open, shark-infested water. How badly burned was Minor? Where on his body? Jesus, the thought of burned flesh exposed to pounding sunshine and salt water, for five goddamn days…

“Minor mine, you are so fine,” Kennet said. He reached for his pack and went digging for paper and pencil. He had to write his brother immediately. Or should he go back to HQ and telegram the hospital? He’d do both. Letter first.

“Hey, Fish,” O’Hara called. He shuffled backward into the room, pulling a large box by one flap. “Look what I found.”