Diving into his own hole, Roe is surprised to notice that he's sitting next to both Spina and the missing Heffron, who is leaning catatonic against the medic's shoulder. Spina is hugging him gently, but very awkwardly, as though he realizes he's expected to mother this poor boy and hasn't the faintest clue how to cuddle. Roe unwraps a piece of chocolate and offers a chunk to Heffron, calling him "Edward" in an attempt to be more personal, familiar. "I promised him if he got hit, I'd get his stuff and bring it to his Ma, you know?" Heffron chokes, staring straight ahead, unblinking. "Now the fucking Krauts will strip him!" Roe tries to comfort him. "It's not okay!" snaps Heffron. "We shoulda got to him." Spina still looks like he has intimacy issues, but to his credit he doesn't try to disengage, aware that Babe isn't done mourning. The three men settle in for the night.
Another flare goes up, illuminating the sky. Babe is snoozing gently against Spina, who is wide awake. "What do you call those people again, those Cajun healers?" he asks Roe, whose eyes were closed. Roe gets up and bitch-slaps Spina for interrupting that recurring dream where Florence Nightingale and Scarlett O'Hara are spanking him with a roll of bandages. "Traiteurs," Roe says. "My grandmother was a traiteur." Spina is impressed. Roe insists that the simple touch of her hand healed cancers and sickness -- the two being somehow mutually exclusive. "Wow, you're shitting me!" Spina sputters elegantly. "I remember she used to pray a lot...talked to God about the pain she pulled out," Roe recalls. "Asked him to carry it away. That's what she did." He smiles slightly. Spina is still completely amazed. "I'm still trying to figure out why they picked me as a medic," he marvels. "God knows. Snap of a finger, and just like that, you're a medic." Spina sighs that he's sick of playing doctor. Roe stares blankly ahead, as if seeking the kind of divine guidance his grandmother received, but getting a damn hangnail instead.
An explosion jolts Roe awake. Aware something vaguely resembling feces might be hitting the Allied fan, Roe scrambles out of his hole, tries to get his bearings, then staggers off into the fog to make his rounds. Suddenly, planes zoom overhead. Men sprint toward them, cheering; canisters of red smoke explode along a clearing to cover them, and I'm pretty sure that, yet again, standing behind a bright red plume of smoke is hardly the way to be inconspicuous. Donnie shouts to Roe that these are American C-47s, and they're making a drop. Aid has arrived.