A Soldier In Conard County. Rachel Lee

sported the insignia of the special forces and paratrooper. His upper arm patch ranked him as a sergeant first class; five golden hash marks on the lower sleeve recorded at least fifteen years of service. A brass nameplate identified him as “York.” He stood tall and straight, every line of him like a fresh crease.

      Then he settled his green beret on his head, squaring it exactly from long experience. The driver exited the hearse and went to knock on the door. Sgt. York had brought home the body of his best buddy, Al Baker, and he intended to ensure that everything was done right.

      The funeral director was waiting. Gil York watched as the flag-draped coffin was rolled indoors on a table, then followed when it was moved to a viewing room and placed on a blue-skirted catafalque. There would be no open coffin. If anyone in the family wanted to see, Gil would prevent it. Some things should not be seen.

      “I’ll notify the family he’s here,” the funeral director said in a quiet voice.

      Sgt. Gil York nodded. “You arranged the honor guard?”

      “We have a group of vets in the area who do the honors,” the director said.

      “The bugler?”

      “Sgt. Baker’s cousin wants to play ‘Taps,’” the director said. “She teaches music at the high school.”

      From gray eyes that resembled the hard Western mountains, Gil looked at him. “It’ll be difficult. It’s tough even when it’s not your own family.”

      The director nodded. “I warned her. She insists.”

      * * *

      An hour later, the viewing room began to slowly fill with quiet, sad life. Sgt. York, now wearing white gloves, stood at the foot of the coffin, still at attention, his beret tucked under his arm, surrounded by the flowers the funeral director had arranged. Quiet voices murmured, as if afraid of disturbing the dead.

      Gil stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing the room or the people. Instead he was seeing the years he had known Al Baker, filled with dangerous, tense, funny and good memories. His brother-in-arms. His friend through it all.

      The flowers reached through his memories, sickeningly sweet. Al wouldn’t have liked them. He’d have understood the need for people to send them, but he still wouldn’t have liked them.

      What he would have liked was the battlefield cross: the empty boots, the nose-down M-16, his green beret resting on the butt. His buddies had planted one for him in the Middle East at their base camp, and Gil had constructed one here, with a variation: he’d covered the rifle butt not with a helmet but with Al’s green beret, a symbol they had worked so hard to win and of which they had both been very proud.

      One more day, Al, he thought. Just one more day and you’ll be at rest. No more traveling, no more being shunted all over the world. Peace at last, the peace they had both believed they’d been fighting for all along. Not the right kind of peace, but peace anyway. Gil wasn’t sure if there was a heaven. He’d seen too much of hell in his life, but if there was a heaven, he was certain Al was standing post already, free of fear and threats.

      His eyes closed for a moment, and Al seemed to stand before him in full dress uniform. Straight and squared away and...smiling.

      Godspeed.

      The murmuring voices suddenly fell silent. Instantly alert, he turned his head a little and saw a man and woman walking toward the coffin. The woman wore black and leaned heavily on the man’s arm.

      Al’s parents. He recognized them from photos. At once he pivoted so he faced the room and the approaching couple. Al’s mother made no attempt to conceal the tears that rolled down her face. His father looked grim, and his jaw worked as he clung to self-control.

      The couple approached the flag-covered coffin, and Betsy Baker reached out a hand to touch it. “I want to see him.”

      Gil tensed, wondering if he would have to warn her off.

      The funeral director hurried over and took her hand gently, sparing Gil the necessity. “Please, Betsy.”

      “I want to see him,” she repeated brokenly.

      Gil nearly stepped forward. The funeral director spoke first. “No. You don’t.”

      Then Betsy startled Gil. She turned her head, and her brown eyes, so like Al’s, locked with his. “You’re Gil, aren’t you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “I can’t see him?”

      Gil broke his rigid posture and went to the woman’s side, taking her hand from the funeral director. “Mrs. Baker, Al wouldn’t want you to see him now. He’d be very grateful if you didn’t. Trust me.”

      “Sgt. York is right,” said Mr. Baker, speaking for the first time. “He’s right, Betsy.”

      The woman squeezed her eyes closed and more huge tears rolled down her face. “All right,” she whispered. “All right.” Then her voice strengthened. “There’s a supper afterward, Gil. Please come. I’m sure Al would like that.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Then he resumed his post, rigid as steel, all the barriers back in place. Little could touch him there, and there he remained. Service tomorrow at two. Interment at three. Then back to base.

      He’d done this before. He wanted never to do it again.

      * * *

      At graveside the next day, Miriam Baker, Al’s younger cousin, stood nervously by the riflemen who were part of the honor guard. She knew most of the guard because they lived in the county, and they’d let her know exactly what to expect and when she was to play her trumpet. They’d bucked her up, too, assuring her she’d do just fine. She wasn’t nearly as certain as she pretended to be. Al’s loss had carved a hole in her heart that kept tightening her chest at unexpected moments. If that happened while she played “Taps”...

      Another car arrived, one she didn’t recognize. It stopped in an area away from the gravesite. Then, unfolding from it, was a tall man in army blue, with white gloves on his hands and a green beret that he immediately put on his head. For a moment, he stood surveying the scene: six uniformed pallbearers waiting beside the gravel road. The three riflemen near her.

      Gil York. It had to be, even though he hadn’t come to the supper last night.

      All of a sudden she felt seriously inadequate. The wind whipped her navy-blue concert gown around her lower legs as if trying to pick her up and sweep her away. Only the familiar weight of the trumpet in her hand pinned her to the ground.

      Gil York was Al’s best friend. Everyone had known in advance that he was bringing Al home. He was also the NCOIC, according to Wade Kendrick and the other vets who had gathered around her extended family in the days since the news arrived. Noncommissioned officer in charge. He would be making sure the entire honor guard did a clean and perfect job.

      And then there was her. She could feel his gaze fixate on her. He exchanged salutes with the pallbearers as he passed them, said something that caused them to relax for a moment.

      Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, looking as if he’d been carved from granite and put in that dressy uniform. “Ms. Baker,” he said. “I’m Gil York.”

      “I know,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m supposed to stand thirty to fifty yards away, right?” Cling to the orders for the day, try not to think too hard about her loss. Everyone’s loss.

      “That’s not as much my concern, ma’am, as you are.”

      “Me?” Her voice cracked. She was not ordinarily a mouse, but since word had been delivered that Al had been killed, a lot of things seemed to have turned topsy-turvy.

      “‘Taps’ is very difficult to play, Ms. Baker. And I don’t mean musically. This is going to be very difficult for you emotionally. If you have any doubt