Whatever
David Webster/Joe Leibgott, PG-13

Webster can’t sleep. The room is crowded, too many bunks have been pushed together in a tiny kitchen. The rest of the house is torn apart by bombs, just like every house in this small German town that he can’t even remember the name of. The air smells like sweat and feet and mud. He should be used to it by now. He is used to it, but once he’s started noticing he can’t stop. The minutes pass and the smells get stronger and the noises louder. Sighs, snores, coughs, the creaking of a bed as somebody turns. He closes his eyes but opens them again almost immediately. The darkness doesn’t help. It just makes everything else more noticeable. To his left, Heffron mumbles something in his sleep, something about snow. In their sleep, it seems like a lot of the men have trouble remembering that they’ve left Bastogne. From what he’s heard about what happened in the woods of Belgium, Webster can’t really blame them. He doesn’t know that much about it though, just what he’s snapped up in random conversations. He stopped asking questions pretty quickly, it was painfully obvious that no one was willing to answer them. It took him two weeks to find out that Muck and Penkala were dead, and he only figured that out when he realised that no one ever mentioned their names, and that the cross Malarkey carried with him everywhere wasn’t his own. He turns to his right, away from Heffron’s mumbling. He can make out Liebgott’s silhouette, just like everything else in the room coloured grey by the moonlight shining in through the broken windows.

They’ve all been treading carefully around Liebgott for the last week and a half, ever since Landsberg. Webster can’t forget how they all silently climbed up on the truck where Liebgott was sitting when it was time to leave the camp. No one tried to talk to him. No one could think of anything to say. He didn’t move at all during the ride back into town, he just sat there with his head hidden in his hands. Even when they were back in town and the truck came to an abrupt halt he remained motionless. He sat like that for two hours, and no one was really willing to leave him. Malarkey, Heffron and Luz started up a game of football a bit further down the street. Lipton and Speirs were leaning against a house wall just beside the truck, talking. Even Major Winters took his paperwork outside, sitting at an old cafe table, every now and then throwing a worried glance in Liebgott’s direction. Webster didn’t even leave the truck. He stretched out on the bench and pretended to fall asleep.

Liebgott has seemed fine ever since then. He hasn’t mentioned the camp, but neither has anyone else. Webster doesn’t believe it though. He is waiting for some kind of reaction, because he knows Liebgott by now. Since Hagenau, after he finally earned Liebgott’s, and everyone else’s, trust again, he’s gotten to know Liebgott a little bit more each day. They’ve been moved off the line, and without the constant pressure of knowing you might be killed any second, there is more time for talking. So he knows Liebgott, and he knows that Liebgott doesn’t just take things. He reacts, sooner or later, and Webster is just waiting for Liebgott to blow up.

Liebgott stirs just then, and open his eyes a little, looking straight at Webster.

“Go to sleep, Web,” he says, his voice to clear for someone who’s woken up.

“You ok?” Webster asks, almost automatically.

Liebgott sighs. “Yes,” he says, annoyed. “I’m fine. I was fine the last time you asked, and the twenty-five times you asked before that.”

“I’m just asking,” Webster says and tries to keep the petulance out of his voice.

“I am fine,” Liebgott repeats, stressing each word.

“Are you sure about that?” Webster asks, even though he knows he’s asking for trouble.

“Fuck, Web!” Liebgott hisses loudly. “You studied literature, not psychology, ok? Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Martin exclaims suddenly. “Shut up the both of you or get the hell out of here. There are people trying to sleep here.

Webster startles at the new voice. He’s managed to forget that there are other people in the room.

“Ah, shit, Martin,” Heffron complains. “It was just starting to get interesting.”

“Mind your own fucking business, Babe,” Liebgott says, but he’s sounding less irritated than a minute ago.

“Leave them alone,” Malarkey mutters sleepily. “Maybe Web is just looking for material for a book, The Wonderful Adventures of Webster and Liebgott. Chapter five: Webster and Liebgott in Germany.”

“Fuck off, Malark,” Webster growls while the room erupts into laughter. Suddenly everyone seems to be awake. Even Liebgott is snickering, and Webster feels a little bit betrayed.

“Don’t make fun of Web,” Liebgott says, his eyes never leaving Webster’s face.

“He’s a Harvard boy. He knows much more about, well, everything, than the rest of us.”

“Whatever,” Webster mutters. “I need some air. He throws off the worn blanket, rises from his bunk and makes his way to the door, stumbling over Heffron’s boots on the way out. He slams the door shut behind him and breathes in the cold night air. The door opens almost immediately again, and Liebgott is right there with him. He smiles, almost apologetically, and leans against the wall, closing his eyes briefly.

“You weren’t in Bastogne, Web,” he says and Webster wonders once again how many times he will have to hear that. “I’ve seen a lot of shit, and I ain’t broken yet. I’ll survive this too.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s said since Landsberg, and Webster should be satisfied with that, but he isn’t.

“This is different though.”

Liebgott opens his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Bastogne was about the war. Everything we’ve been through was about the war. But that camp... That wasn’t about the war. That was just about death.” Liebgott doesn’t say anything, and Webster slowly lifts his arm, and presses his hand against Liebgott’s chest, feeling the faint heartbeat under his fingers. “It couldn’t have been you,” he says.

“It wasn’t me.”

“Yeah, but Joe...”

“It wasn’t me, okay Web?” Joe’s eyes are hard as he looks at Webster seriously. “It wasn’t me. Don’t say anything else, because that’s really the only way I can deal with this right now. It wasn’t me.”

“Okay,” Webster says quietly, rubbing the thin fabric of Joe’s T-shirt between his fingers. “It wasn’t you.”

They remain quiet for a long time, hearing the laughter from inside finally fade out.

Webster moves his hand upward and touches the scar on Liebgott’s neck carefully. The pink skin feels strangely smooth under his fingers.

“We were wounded on the same day,” he reminds Liebgott, not knowing what he’s trying to say.

“Yeah,” Liebgott says and moves away from Webster’s touch. “And I remained at the line and you were gone for four months.”

Webster shakes his head slowly. He looks down on the ground and then up at Liebgott again, clenching his teeth. He’s sick of this. “What do you want me to say, Joe? I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry I was hit, I’m sorry I was sent to the hospital. I’m sorry I wasn’t in Bastogne. Is that enough?” His voice is getting louder with each word and he’s almost shouting the last sentence. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Liebgott says and looks away. Webster takes a deep breath to calm himself down.

“I’m glad you weren’t in Bastogne,” Liebgott continues quietly, looking over Webster’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” He blinks a couple of times and then meets Webster’s eyes. “But you can’t blame us for hating you just a little bit for not being there.”

“Ok,” Webster nods, giving up.

“Besides,” Liebgott says nonchalantly. “You probably wouldn’t have made it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Scholar boy like you, you would have froze to death the first night.”

“Yeah, probably,” Webster says, humouring him, because Liebgott is smiling now, a real smile and not the cynical half smile he uses more often. “Probably,” he says again, and leans in to kiss him.

Liebgott responds immediately, and he seems less surprised by the kiss than Webster is. His mouth is warm, and tastes faintly of cigarettes. Webster pulls back and licks his lips.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says.

Liebgott rolls his eyes. “No shit, Web,” he says and kisses him again. The second kiss is longer, more intense, and when Liebgott pulls back, Webster is breathless. Liebgott laughs and winks at him. “They teach you this at Harvard?” he says, his hands gripping Webster’s arms tightly.

The door opens suddenly and Skinny shuffles out, rubbing at his eyes, hair sticking out in all directions. He walks by without even noticing them and disappears around the corner. A minute later he returns and Webster realises that neither he nor Liebgott has moved, or even breathed in that time. Skinny stops abruptly as he catches sight of them. He opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind and just shakes his head, amused, and goes back inside. They still don’t move. Webster is waiting for another chorus of laughter to be heard, or for someone else to come out, but nothing happens. The recklessness of what they’re doing hits him suddenly, and he steps away from Liebgott so fast that he stumbles over his own feet.

“We should go back inside,” he says when he regains his balance.

Liebgott looks disappointed for a brief moment, but he quickly masks it with a grim smile. “Right,” he says, looking anywhere but Webster’s face. He turns to the door.

“Joe,” Webster says, trying to keep him from leaving. “I mean, we can’t...”

“Forget it, Web.” Liebgott shakes his head, his hand already on the door handle.

“I... It’s wrong.”

Liebgott laughs humourlessly. “Haven’t you noticed anything going on the last three years? The whole fucking world is at war. Who the hell can tell what’s right and wrong anymore.”

“Joe, come on,” Webster says, grabbing his sleeve.

Liebgott turns to look at him briefly, his eyes cold. “Whatever,” he says and pulls away from Webster’s grip. He goes back inside and closes the door behind him. Webster leans against the wall and sighs, feeling like he’s in Hagenau again, when Liebgott didn’t trust him at all anymore. “Right,” he says to himself and the night. “Whatever.”