Read Online Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye - Free Book Online Page A

Jeb, whose survival was down to one part blind luck and three parts Henry’s protection, was the smallest of them. He joked that he had lied about his height to enlist. By all rights, he should never have even passed basic training, much less been deployed to France, yet he turned out to be fearless in combat and a great comfort to the dying. When Henry caught the shrapnel in his neck, it was Jeb’s small hand that stopped him bleeding to death, under fire so intense that it kept even the medics away.
    Henry peeled off his shirt. “Guess who’s having gator steaks tonight? I had to help Selma get him ready for the grill. Outta the way, Shortstop.”
    Jeb nudged the discarded shirt with a disdainful flick of his boot. “Might as well burn that thing. It ain’t never comin’ clean.”
    â€œNo chance—that’s my best one. My sister can work miracles.” Henry stuffed the shirt under the side of their cabin. “She’ll be there tonight.”
    â€œA woman who looks like you? I scared already.”
    Henry splashed water in Jeb’s face. “That how you talk to your superiors? Where the others at?”
    â€œWhere you think?” Jeb indicated the mess hall with a jerk of his head.
    Henry rubbed himself dry with Jeb’s towel. The little girl on the beach had stayed with him, her green eyes so open and friendly despite his appearance. And her mother’s expression, so familiar to him from his years on the road. He imagined what she would make of the veterans when they arrived at the barbecue after hours of drinking beer in the mess. It would fulfill her every fear and expectation. He was surprised to find it bothered him, as he had long become used to reactions like hers. Maybe it was seeing Missy again, or being in the familiar place of his past, but something felt different. He wanted it to be different, and not just for one silly white woman, but for the men themselves. For Selma. For Missy. And yes, for himself. “We’ll see about that.”
    â€¢ • •
    Henry entered the mess hall and said, “Evenin’, gentlemen,” in his best parade ground voice. The faces at the tables glanced up briefly, then returned to their drinks. Inside the hall was a miasma of sweat and beer fumes. The men looked and smelled like vagrants.
    â€œOh, hey, Henry,” said Sonny, a big placid fellow from Alabama with a lazy eye. “Want a beer?” Sonny had spent the war humping loads from supply ships on the docks of Bordeaux.
    â€œTime to get ready,” Henry said. “Anyone goin’ to town needs to be cleaned up and standing in formation at 1700 hours. We gonna show these folks we ain’t the animals they think we are.”
    â€œWhat do we care what a bunch of Conchs think of us?” This from Two-Step, a heavyset troublemaker from South Carolina with pale eyes and a permanent sunburn, famed for his uncanny ability to evade both bullets and blame. He had spent more time in prison than out since the end of the war. “It’s the Fourth of July, motherfucker! They should be kissing my sorry white ass.”
    Murmurs of assent from the others. Henry’s eyes traveled around the room. No one would meet his gaze until it rested on a big, square gunner from Missouri called Max Hoffman. Although he was wide as he was tall, Max had not had an easy time in the camp. Known as “Kraut,” he was the target of practical jokes and worse, but he was no pushover. Henry had witnessed him stand up to Two-Step, despite the beating that inevitably followed, which was a rare sight indeed in the camp. Max’s eyes registered disgust at Two-Step’s performance. He opened his mouth to speak but then, with a small shake of his head, closed it again. Clearly this was not a battle he wanted to fight.
    Henry’s boys, Franklin and Lemuel, looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Henry understood. They had to live and work