Page 10 of For This We Are Soldiers
Colm seated himself so he could at least pretend to listen to Lysander Locke, and still keep an eye on Ozzie Washington. He already knew that the actor could carry on a conversation requiring little from the listener save the occasionalayeand nod.
Locke was saying something about the importance of being in Deadwood within a day or two as Colm watched Ozzie finish serving flapjacks and retreat to the kitchen.
“I will have you know that I once served in the Swiss Guard and saved Pope Pius from assassination by cutting a man’s throat with my teeth.”
“Aye, sir,” Colm said, which earned him a balled up napkin thrown at his temple, followed by a theatrical laugh aimed at the back wall.
“Ah ha! I could have told you I was Judas himself, and you’d have nodded,” Lysander Locke declared with triumph. “You’re not paying attention. You’re a goner, did you know?”
“I … what?” Colm asked, embarrassed.
Locke’s voice turned into a stage whisper. “Laddie, I know a smitten man when I see one.”
Colm sighed, deciding then and there not to reenlist in September. When even a moth-eaten old actor could see right through him, it was time to take up another line of work in a distant city, perhaps Constantinople. Colm waited a moment, knowing that his good humor would return. It did, but not as soon as usual.
“You’re right, sir,” he said, knowing it would be foolish to argue with a patient who would be gone in a week or less. “I’ve admired Ozzie Washington for years, but—”
“You’ve made no move because she is a woman of color?” the actor supplied.
Colm started in surprise. “Not at all!” he exclaimed, wanting to brain the man with a bedpan for such an observation. He was tired; that was it. How had he gotten himself into this discussion?
“Then why are you wasting time?”
Colm opened his mouth to make some stupid reply, then closed it. “I have things to do,” he mumbled, and left the ward. In the hall, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. What had happened? He was precise and efficient for 364 days a year, until the 365th, when an actor showed up with a broken leg.
“Are you all right, Suh?” Ozzie had such a lovely voice, and she even sounded concerned.
He could have made some noncommittal reply—yesterday, he probably would have—but something had changed. He just wasn’t certain what. The earth’s axis hadn’t shifted, and as far as he knew, no out-of-control meteor raced toward Wyoming Territory. He could go upstairs and busy himself with something, except that he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in the corridor with Ozzie.
“Suh?”
“Never been better,” he told her, and it might have been true. Deep breath. “You know I need help. Ozzie, I’m about to fall asleep.” He shifted to look her in the eye. “Am I asking too much of you?”
Bless her heart, she knew just what he meant. Trust a woman to know. “We’re going to take turns here,” she said, and he heard some uncertainty. “I sort of wish you would be closer than your quarters, in case something happens, but I know you need to sleep.”
“Let’s do this: While you’re in the ward, I’ll sleep on the cot in Captain Dilworth’s office.” No point in standing on overmuch ceremony. “I … I changed my bed linens yesterday, so you can sleep in my house while I’m awake in here.”
She nodded, practical as he was. She turned to say something when a moan came from the ward. Ozzie’s eyes opened wide in fright, but then she giggled. “He’s such an … an actor,” she whispered, leaning toward Colm. “I’ll see what’s wrong.”
He nodded, content to let her do his dirty work, because he was a most typical man. She returned a moment later. “I have been requested to keep Mistuh Locke company,” she said. “You, Suh, get to wash the dishes.”
“And I shall,” he said. “Then I will go to bed. I’ll take the cot in Captain Dilworth’s office while you watch in the ward.”
A worried frown appeared between her eyes. Impulsively, he smoothed it down with gentle fingers. “If anything happens, just knock on Captain Dilworth’s door. I won’t be far.” She gave him a relieved smile, which warmed his heart.
A
Before sitting beside the actor, Ozzie did her own ward walk, something she had seen Suh do. The private with the avulsed ankle was full of flapjacks and settling himself down for the night. When she rested the back of her hand against his forehead, he opened his eyes.
She glanced at the chart hanging at the foot of his bed. “Is everything all right, Private Henry?” she asked. “If you need something, just call me.”
He nodded and closed his eyes. Private Jones with the burned forearm was in some pain. “I’ll ask Steward Callahan if there is something—”
A mighty crash of pans came from the kitchen.
“You may want to trade places with the steward for a few minutes,” Private Jones suggested. “He doesn’t shine around crockery.”
She laughed and took his suggestion. With some relief, Suh turned over the dishes to her. “Let me measure powders any day,” he muttered as he hurried from the kitchen.
