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Buck Compton looked nothing like the soldier who'd walked off the line a few days before. Well-starched Class A uniform. Hair combed. He was taking quick drags on a cigarette. His driver was waiting for him in a jeep. "I've been reassigned, Malark," he said. "Some desk job in Paris. Director of athletics and entertainment or something." He'd wanted to stay with the company but Winters wouldn't allow it. "That's great, Buck," I said. "Dick said I could come say good-bye." "I'm glad you did. I'm happy for you." He looked around. "Don, there's something I need to know." He paused and looked beyond me, back toward the woods where I'd just made fresh tracks in the snow. Back to where the others were. "What, uh- what do the other guys think of me?" I couldn't lie. "They think you're a hell of an officer, Buck." "Really?" "Really. They wish you the best. Honest." He nodded, his lips pursed a bit. "Thanks, Malark." He looked at me and saluted. I saluted back. And we left to go to the different places we needed to be. (en) |
