Read Online Friendly Fire by C. D. B.; Bryan - Free Book Online

papers.”
    Michael hoped to be released early from Vietnam so that he could be readmitted to the Agriculture School. Peg and Gene discussed for a moment what they thought his chances were; Michael himself had written that he felt they were very good. The only part of his letter that bothered them was that he would again be going into the field, that he wouldn’t be in the relative safety of the fire base bunker line anymore. Still, in one of his first letters, Michael had written that he was in “probably one of the better places over here,” a comparatively quiet part of Vietnam.
    â€œSo he might be coming home in June,” Gene said.
    â€œLooks that way,” Peg said, “knock wood.”
    Gene finished his coffee and stood up “Well, Mother,” he said, “I guess I might as well try to fix the television antenna for you.”
    â€œWhat’s it like outside?”
    â€œFine,” Gene said. “Cold, but it’s fine. The wind’s stopped.”
    He buttoned up his heavy woolen red and black plaid lumber jacket, turned off his hearing aid, put the earplug into his pocket and went outside.
    The windblown television antenna was attached to a post near the east side of the farmhouse. Gene was just coming around that east corner, blowing hot breath on his fingertips and trying to remember where he had last put the light wrench he would need, when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two automobiles turning into his driveway. Without his hearing aid he had not heard them approach and he fumbled beneath his lumber jacket for the earpiece, inserted it and thumbed the volume up.
    Gene thought he recognized the first car, believed the parish priest, Father Shimon, had one like it, but that second car.… Gene read the black letters painted on the Chevrolet’s olive-drab door: U.S. ARMY — FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY. Gene’s chest tightened, and he stood still while the priest and the Army sergeant stepped out of their cars and slammed shut the doors.
    Gene watched them walking toward him as if in slow motion, their footsteps thundering across the metallic crust of the drifted snow. He tried to see beyond the country priest’s black metal-framed glasses to what might show in his eyes. But Father Shimon’s downcast lenses reflected only the snow. Not until the priest forced himself to look up did Gene recognize the fright, the despair, the agony within them, then very quietly Gene asked, “Is my boy dead?”
    Father Shimon halted so abruptly that the Army sergeant, who was following, bumped into him from behind. “Gene,” the priest said, “this is Sergeant Fitzgerald. He’s from Fifth Army Headquarters. He.…” Shimon was silent.
    Gene looked beyond Father Shimon to the sergeant and asked again, “Is … my … boy … dead? ”
    â€œLet’s go into the house, Gene,” Father Shimon said. “I want to talk to you there.”
    â€œNo!” Gene said, not moving. “I want to know! Tell me, is … my … boy … dead? ”
    â€œI can’t tell you here,” Father Shimon said, his hand fluttering up toward Gene’s shoulder. “Come into the house with us … please?”
    Gene spun away before the priest’s pale fingers could touch him.
    Peg Mullen heard the back door open, heard Gene rushing up the stairs into the kitchen, heard him shouting, “It’s Mikey! It’s Mikey!” His voice half a sob, half a scream.
    She hurried out of the sewing room in time to glimpse the Army uniform entering the kitchen. Peg found Gene standing with his back to the sink, clutching the counter behind him, the Army sergeant halted just to the side of the doorway. Father Shimon, between them, had removed his glasses to wipe away the steam. Peg started to move toward her husband but had to turn away. Never had she seen such terrible devastation in his face, so raw a wound.