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It was a pub. Someplace in London, Monty thought. Or had it been Paris? Perhaps somewhere in the mountains of Northern Italy. But even if Monty’s memory weren’t clouded by the decades since, he’d be hard-pressed to remember the name of the place, let alone the country or the continent. By the time they’d gotten seated he was already so drunk and giddy he could hardly stand. It was though even then they’d known it was the last time they would be all of them be together. It seemed only fitting, somehow: The war that had brought them together was over. The parting would be pain, but their war was finally, blessedly over.
(An older and wiser Monty would know, of course, that their war—like all War—was never truly over. But for one young, naïve night, he’d allowed himself the hope that the world indeed was changed.)
“Set a plate for a Elijah—“ Jones continued, as Dugan slapped his knee and Dernier hiccoughed.
Monty groaned. Continued the well-worn story. “And the rest of these sorry sods took it upon themselves to convince me he was the eighth member of the howling commandos, and that I was bloody drunk enough I’d quite forgotten.”
“And Rogers, he says-“ Morita began.
“That absolute cunt,” Monty said fondly. Carter nearly spat out her gin.
“He says, ‘I dunno, Buck, he ain’t shown in three thousand years, what makes you think he’s gonna show now?”
“’—I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s being stood up,’” Jones continued in an exaggerated aside, mimicking Roger’s ridiculous Brooklyn dialect. “’But you’d think a fella would get a fucking clue.’”
Carter laughed. Threw her head back and actually laughed, that snorting, braying sound she made when she was truly happy. They were all of them laughing now, then crying, and then they laughed some more.
"God, I miss them," she sobered, pulling out her compact to fix her blotchy face. She'd survived the trenches with the rest of them, looking pristine the whole while. It wasn't as if she or any other attagirl had been adverse to the mud and gore and blood, no. It was that even under threat of gunfire a woman had to look A Certain Way, and Carter wore her womanhood like armor, wielded it like a blade. Off the battlefield it was even more striking, though Monty could never rather bring himself to feel pity for the sods who mistook her decolletage and demure demeanor for anything other than predatory. He'd once watched her lead an Einsatzkommando to his death with nothing but her sly smile and the promise of more to come. She'd executed him with a steady hand, mussed her hair and lipstick, then gone back for five of his friends.
"I suppose I miss them. I bloody well miss them. Every so often I think, 'oh, I'll tell Steve this or show Steve this', or 'Barnes would get a laugh out of this one'. And—and I know I had a life before them. And I will—I do—have a life now. So much life left now. And yet..." her voiced trailed off, wistful.
“There’s no shame in hanging on to memories,” Jones told her. His expression was kind.
«No,» Dernier agreed. «But one cannot live there.»
“Oh, bugger it,” Monty voiced for them all. “You don’t have to go.”
“Phillips asked me to,” Carter explained. “And Howard is there, and—“ she stopped. Took a breath. “And we had made plans. For after. Steve came here, to London. He fought on the Eastern front, the Western front, the bloody Pacific, even. I owe it to him to go to New York. To do what he would have done—what they would have done. Besides,” she sniffled bravely, then smiled. “I should very much like to visit Dr. Erskine. Let him know how it all shook out.”
“Rogers would have wanted you to be happy,” Jones frowned.
“Rogers would have wanted Peg to do whatever the hell she wants,” Dugan scoffed. “And right now the lady wants another drink.”
“Damn straight,” Carter laughed, and slugged it back. “Steve would have wanted me to do the right thing, and I am. And you, Lt. Falsworth?”
“They need me in Egypt and Palestine. India, too,” Monty rued. “My God, but the Empire’s made a bloody mess of things.”
“I’ll be stateside,” Jones informed them all. “Finishing my degree.” Then, more softly to Carter, “I’ll catch a train up to the City to see you.”
“Dugan?” Carter wondered.
But Dugan only shook his head. “I’m gonna hunt Nazis,” he belched. “Europe, Africa, South America, Asia, hell, the moon, even. I’m gonna hunt ‘em til they’re dead.” Monty couldn’t say he’d ever grown to like the man, uneducated and uncouth as he was, but it was a sentiment Monty could respect.
“Jim?”
“Wrong coast, doll,” Morita shrugged. “We all know Rogers wouldn’t’ve let them drop those bombs. I’m going to find a cure for radiation sickness, or I’m going to goddamn die trying.”
“Jacques?”
The Frenchman shook his head. «I have a feeling I shall soon be needed in Marseilles.»
“Yes,” Carter’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I quite agree.”
“Why?” Dugan frowned, looking back and forth between them. “What’s in Marseilles?”
«My family,» Dernier shrugged, and took another sip of wine. «And easy access to the Mediterranean.»
“DPs,” Monty heard Morita mutter under his breath.
“I feel as though we could spend the rest of our lives trying to clean up this mess,” Carter sighed. “For all the bloody good it’ll do us.”
“I remember, something Barnes said, once,” Monty mused. “’Good isn’t something you are, it’s something you do.’”
“Well, he was Jewish,” Jones interrupted with a wry smile. “He didn’t have to worry about all the fire and brimstone and the crippling guilt.”
“I’d drink to that,” Morita said, and motioned for another round, while Monty himself was seized with a sudden urge. To this day Monty couldn’t say exactly why he’d done it, perhaps it was the Britishness in him, perhaps it had been Jones’ teasing about Passovers past, but it’d seemed right, and only fitting at the time. Equal parts farewell, remembrance, and invitation. If there were such things as souls, if theirs indeed still walked the earth, well. Perhaps they would see, and perhaps someday come to join them.
“To the Captain,” Monty raised his glass as the others did the same. “And his Sergeant.”