Chapter Text
Everybody called Private Mike Pritti “Mud Hen,” owing to the ballcap bearing the logo of his hometown team, which he wore when off duty. In a unit dominated by football fans, Mud Hen kept a pair of baseball gloves and a ball with worn stitching in his foot locker. He longed for a friend to throw with during downtime, and often settled for joining one side of a scrimmage for his exercise. Then came the day Private Clyde Logan arrived for duty.
“I’ll throw with you, if you like,” Clyde told him, and the two became fast friends. They remained tight through the rest of their tour, their bond strengthened by the proximity of their respective birthplaces.
“Boone County’s not that far from Toledo, Clyde. It’s only nine hours.”
Clyde scraped up the last bite of his dinner, something hot and brown and filling. “To regular drivers, sure,” he said. “You show my sister Mellie two points on a map and she’ll cut the drive down by at least two hours. Guaranteed.”
Mud Hen laughed, and his blue-green eyes flashed. Clyde flicked his gaze from there to the wisp of russet hair peeking from under the bill of the baseball cap. Mud Hen looked cute when he smiled, but Clyde wasn’t about to point it out in the middle of the mess… or in private. He concealed those truths by choice. While his brothers in arms paid little mind to diversity in their unit (which included at least one other gay solider), Clyde was a private person. Plus, Mud Hen had mentioned having a girl back home, so…
“You should come visit, Clyde.”
Clyde snapped his attention back to Mud Hen, sitting across from him. They were discussing post-tour plans, which for Clyde amounted to a week of sleep in his own bed. He didn’t want to leave his doublewide outside of Danville, much less travel to another state for a while.
“Come in October, for the apple butter stirs and pumpkin picking,” Mud Hen said, his tone insistent. “We can drive out to Put-In Bay and I’ll take you around in my uncle’s boat.”
Clyde reached for his cookie, offering no words or visible signs of commitment. Everything Mud Hen described in Toledo, one found in West Virginia. Clyde’s brother Jimmy, in his last care package sent a postcard of the New River, a hint that they were going fishing when he got home.
“The Mud Hens are still going strong, too, so we may get to see a playoff game or even the triple-A championship,” his friend added. Nice trump card. Boone County didn’t host any professional sports. Though Clyde lived closer to Pittsburgh, he rarely visited.
He blinked up at Mud Hen’s cap. “I’ll have to get me one of those if I’m gonna blend in,” he said.
Mud Hen grinned. “You know it. I’ll get you a jersey, too.”
Voices grew in volume, and the soldiers flanking them took over the conversation with a clunky retelling of a dirty joke heard third-hand from another unit. Clyde and Mud Hen didn’t speak of Toledo or fall festivals or boats again.
Days later, when the transport taking both of them to the airport hit a mine, medics shipped Clyde to the nearest hospital and Mud Hen to the morgue.