“I see your fifty, and raise you a hundred,” he said.
Sarge looked at her cards. It was a good hand. Was it good enough? Everyone, except the guy across from her, had folded. He grinned with confidence.
“The bet is one hundred,” said the dealer, “Will you call?”
Smoke from cigarettes hung in the backroom like a silent and inscrutable spectator. Sarge looked around the table and said, “All in,” as she pushed the rest of her chips into the pile.
“That brings the bet to,” said the dealer as she counted, “Three-hundred and seventeen.”
Her opponent carefully counted his own chips and asked his mates, “I’m a bit short, can someone cover me?”
“Blimey, I dunno,” said the player on his right, “You still owe me from last week.”
“He owes all of us,” added the one on his left.
The rest all laughed at that.
“And when I win this pot, I can pay you all back,” he insisted.
This was followed by a silence that suggested a lack of confidence.
“If you can’t match the bet, the hand goes to our guest,” the dealer pointed out.
“I know how it works!” he snapped.
“Tell you what,” said Sarge, “That’s your motorcycle out back, right? I’ll accept that as your raise.”
Heads swiveled toward him, waiting for a response. He looked at his cards, then back up at Sarge. With a smirk, he reached into his breast pocket and tossed his keys onto the pot.
“Call.”
With great confidence, he spread out his hand.
“Full house,” he said, “Tens over eights.”
Sarge made a sour face.
“That’s a pretty good hand,” she said.
He reached for the pot and said, “Better luck next time, eh?”
“Just not as good as a straight flush,” she added, flipping over her cards.
Hoots and hollers filled the room as Sarge pulled her winnings to her.
“Double or nothing,” her opponent offered.
“Mate, you got nuttin’ right now!” pointed out one of his fellow soldiers.
No one would front him the cash for a rematch, so that was the end of the game. Sarge offered to buy them all a round of drinks, which, for most of them, was the cherry on the sundae.
“Glad there’s no hard feelings,” said Sarge to Rufus, a burly soldier who carried three pitchers of beer to the table where they were sitting.
“None at all, Berty likes to press his luck,” he replied, “Innit that right?”
Everyone at the table agreed, except Berty, who responded, “You make me sound like I’m a dodgy villain.”
“Not at all,” insisted Gwen, who had been the dealer, “If you were, you’d still have your motorbike.”
Berty made a face, but they pushed a beer into his hands, and they all raised their mugs to better days. This group reminded her of Echo Company. No one was an exact counterpart to her men, but their camaraderie brought her back to times when they were all still together.
“Hey there, Sergeant,” asked Edgar, one of the others at the table, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she lied, “Just a little beat. I’ve just been hoofing it for a while now.”
“Right! Your jeep gave up the ghost a while back,” Gwen remembered.
“Now you can ride in comfort,” said Rufus with a big smile.
“My feet thank you,” she said to Berty, who sighed.
The rest of the evening was spent drinking and swapping stories. She’d been hiking for about two weeks now, keeping off the roads and sticking to the wilderness. It was damn tiring, as well as lonely. It occurred to her that it had been years since she had been alone. She missed being with other people, specifically soldiers who knew this life.
Luck was on her side when she ran into this group, not from her army but allied infantry. They were billeted in this town, awaiting orders. Lots of traffic in and out, so she was able to avoid too much scrutiny. And they were good folk.
Sarge kept buying rounds until last call. She regretfully told them that she needed to leave the next day. Her new friends said good night and goodbye. The bartender, who was quite pleased by how many drinks she bought, was able to find a broom closet for her to sleep in, complete with a cot. Not the Ritz, but so much more comfortable than a forest floor.
Before she knew it, morning was here. No dreams, which was a relief. She freshened up, drank a quick cup of strong black coffee, and headed out back to collect her motorbike.
An envelope with her name had been carefully placed on the gas tank. Opening it up, it read.
Sergeant,
Please take care of Celia for me. She’s a fine motorbike, and if you treat her proper, she’ll serve you well. I’ve included a list of tricks to keep her running tiptop. I’m going to miss her something terrible, but I suppose the eastern front, where I suspect we’re going, would’ve been hard on her.
Good luck wherever you’re sent next, and if we cross paths again, I hope you’ll give me a rematch.
Barty
PS, don’t tell the others I’ve named me motorbike. They’ll take the mickey out of me something awful.
There were a fair number of instructions on how to keep Celia running smoothly, but she’d have to read them later. Celia started smoothly, and Sarge was on her way.
Spring was in full force. Trees, grass, and wildflowers were blooming as she rode towards her destination. Even the areas hit by shelling were showing signs of recovery. In that moment, she could almost forget about both wars, all it cost her, and those she gave a damn about.
Midday, she stopped by a stream to refill her canteen and eat some of the supplies she picked up in town. Bread, cheese, and a winter apple, which was sweet and a little tart, but still a rare treat.
Continuing on, she passed a few jeeps, but no one saw fit to stop and question her, which was a relief. She still had her papers, but all it would take is one green LT or some other hard ass to derail things.
By late afternoon, everything was coated in a bronze light, making even a burnt-out tank something beautiful, in defiance of its original purpose. Taking a smaller dirt road, she came to the farmhouse where she and Echo Company had sheltered after escaping the caves. No car or cart was visible, but just for safety and courtesy, she knocked on the door. A doleful silence was the only reply.
Going around to the side of the house, she found the shovel, just where she had left it. Walking into the surrounding woods, she eventually came to a small clearing. Running her hand over the trunks of the trees, she found a small nick. Digging in front of that one, she unearthed a small, ceramic jar that, according to its dirty and faded label, once had held jam. Carefully prying off the cap, she reached in with two fingers and removed the religious metal that Pete Sanders had slipped into Spinelli’s pocket.
Step one, complete.
The Writings of Leo Byrne Jenicek 