This Is War

         Alan was above me, reaching over me with something in his hand. I knocked into his arm, rolled twice, glared at him. He let out a yelp, fell onto his backside. Schreider cackled, rocking back and forth on his stool. “I told you to do it quick,” Paulmen hollered. “Now quick, you better run!” But I was already on him a fistful of blond hair in one hand and his dirty uniform shirt in the other. I butted my head against his, let go at the same time so the movement pushed him back onto the ground. He lay sprawled out. I put my foot square on his chest. Schreider’s laugh grew in volume until Paulmen joined in and other soldiers looked over at us. One group walked over.
         I pulled Alan up, clapped him on the back. He smirked, sighed. “You fellas alright.” We looked at the man, tall, slender, full cheeks and eyes, hair almost dark enough to be brown in the right light, skin like copper. He looked like Alan had in the first six months.
         “Nah.” Alan picked his hat up off the ground, slapped it against his leg, brown eyes shining. “That’s twice I been beat in one day. I’m starting to think Paulmen’s right. Might need those lessons if it’s no mind, Burns.” I held my thumb up in the familiar fashion. Paulmen and Schreider controlled their laughter with some effort, Schreider still rocked back and forth until Alan kicked the stool out from under him.
         “They told us there was a group of fellas,” the man said slowly, helping Schreider to his feet, “close as family. You must be them.”
         “What else did ‘they’ say about us,” Paulmen asked. His voice was low, almost menacing, arms folded over his chest, leaning back with his legs wide.
         He hesitated, blue eyes shifting between the four of us, shuffled his feet, hands deep in pockets. He glanced over his shoulder but the other soldiers were just as new, inexperienced, confused about the sudden change in attitude.
         “Who’s they?” Alan was leaning back on his elbows with a cigar between two fingers. Schreider passed him a match then lit a cigarette with the same.
         “Well,” he drew a breath for courage. “The recruiting and training officers at camp back in Sullinsbourh. They said if we were lucky we’d end up in Third Battalion.”
         “This is Third, sure.” Schreider let out a breath of smoke in a contented sigh. “But there’s lots of Thirds, lots of divisions you see. Maybe you found the wrong Third Battalion. What then, eh?”
         “They said -”
         “Who’s they. I want a name. Who was your recruiter, who was your trainer at Sullinsbourh.”
         “Paulmen," I said quietly. He growled and stalked off, his faded uniform vanishing into the haze, kicking at rocks or men’s feet. Schreider and Alan remained silent, smoke filling the air. I sighed. The men filed away, casting glances over their shoulders, nervous waves and nods. They wouldn’t be back soon, maybe never.
         Paulmen had overreacted. That might get us separated more than a few trainers or recruiters telling stories. Colonels didn’t like it, a fireteam being close like brothers. It made them think we would desert together, or if one died or went missing. There was a precedent for it, back before the trenches, before the war was full-on war and was only border skirmishes with Rounagh. Whole fireteams would disappear at night, reappear a few weeks later at home or in a random town. But in the war lots of men disappeared. Whole battalions were swallowed up by the front lines, falling inside the trenches, sprawling on the no-man’s land between lines, sometimes sounding the alarm at Rounagh and never coming back. If you were lucky, your colonel knew it, recognized it because he was fighting next to you, but most sat in their tall houses and wrote out orders. So if a man were to disappear and none could claim him dead with multiple accounts he’d be charged with treason, though never found.
         “Put a word in to your recruiter friend,” Schreider said suddenly. His eyes were closed, the cigarette burnt to his lips, elbows on knees. “I sometimes think leave would be nice, see the family and wife, sleep in a bed. I’ve been here one year. Alan the same. You and Paulmen been here three. See if you can get him leave. He needs it, earned it and does still every day.” He mashed the cigarette into the ground, crawled into his tent. Alan finished his cigar in silence, gave a small smile, disappeared into his tent.
         I stood up, grabbed a box of ration cigarettes, walked through camp. Tents were lined in order, two battalions split apart from each other, broken smaller into squads and fireteams. Each man had his own tent, big enough for him and his pack or two men sitting knee to knee, most squads used a tent big enough for all of them. Men were always coming and going in the squads, dying or transferring or injured and sent to hospitals, recruits as reinforcements and only the occasional experienced soldier brought in to take their place, men with shifty eyes and quick fingers, men that brought with them quarrels and arguments as pointless as money. Their uniforms were new, fit, with shiny brass and sharp cuffs, boots polished, hats starched and crisp. They were men who had escaped the start of the war, missed the draft and call-to-arms that other countries felt cold as ice, lower classes felt like an iron fist, men that thought themselves better than others. A war wouldn't last half as long if the men knew they were all the same, all dead in the end.
         I saluted a major on the edge of camp then found myself in the meadow. Paulmen would be out here, lying down somewhere with his face covered to hide the tears. Anyone stumbling up on him would think him sleeping, lagging his duties until the last minute. But I knew in the three years we’d been on the front we would go as a pair to someplace out of camp where we could be found if someone looked, though not immediately.
         I sat next to him, lit a cigarette and took a drag, showed the pack to him. He took one. We smoked three each, the silence and familiarity of each other’s breath a comfort. The air in the meadow wasn’t as thick a haze, one could almost see blue patches of sky above, red poppies bobbing their heads among the brown grass.
         “I hate this,” he sighed. His words were quiet, muted by the surrounding serenity. It seemed strange that such places could still exist, areas of the land unmarred by war that was all we knew. Our lives had become consumed by death, fear, anger, such animalistic behaviors. Yet here we were in the silence of a meadow as friends, not soldiers.
         “I hate it all. I hate the reinforcements they send us, boys with everything to live for and nothing to die for, who know nothing of life or death. They learn quick about that though. And fear. But what of hope and love, what doe they learn of the good in the world? Nothing! Nothing for it’s not taught here, how could such glorious things be taught amongst such wretchedness, among men as reprobate as us. Such youth does not deserve these things. I would not wish the front, the trenches, the machinations of war upon any man. It should be illegal, as inhuman as it is. Yet it is not. It is our lives, ahead of us as full of war as behind us and before ue. Is it punishment from God? Have I done so much wrong to deserve this awful state. Anger. Separation. Hatred. Envy. Fear. I get so scared, Burns, so scared and I can’t say why. I hate it, this fear that grips my very soul and causes me to tremble. I shake and become so cold, so lifeless, so hopeless, it’s all I can do to keep myself from acting a child, calling out for my mother, my wife, my children to save me. ‘Take me from this place,’ I plead though they cannot and I know it. Why do I fear so that my being quakes? If fear was put to us, by God or man, to keep us alive why is it that those most fearful die most often, most sudden. These boys who are not yet men, these ones older than you. I know why you are here, though, Burns.” He was silent a moment, long enough to light a fourth cigarette and smoke half. The rest he passed to me, hands steady as stone. “You are God’s angel, a strange one that kills others to save those close to you. Nonetheless, Burns … Berness, you keep me alive out here.
         “I am better now. Let’s go have some mess before Schreider gets it all.”
         We walked straight to the mess tent. We had stayed many hours in the meadow without worrying for time. I knew Schreider and Alan would have our tins with them, tucked under their arms, arguing with Cook to say it wasn’t for themselves, still they were arguing when we arrived.
         “I told you, dunce! We got two more coming. You ain’t allowed to serve out extra till you served all of ‘em a first.”
         “Hey!” Alam tossed us our tins. “What took you so long. Almost got to a fight twice until we said we was waiting for you.”
         I walked up to Cook, smacked the mess tin against his head. He sprung away, holding his massive forehead in his hands, shouting for the lieutenant to come running to his aid. The man did, seized my collar, Paulmen jumped forward, Schreider held him back, Alan refilled his tin, snatched three pieces of bread and raced away. A crowd gathered around, begging for a fight. It was easy to see who would win. The lieutenant was older, taller, broader, fresher than I. He had arrived with the last reinforcements two months ago, had yet to see the front where I had spent all my years. I could feel the strength in his hands. As much as he was bigger than me in life, I was bigger than him in the army.
         “Try anything,” I said. “Subordinate.”
         His hand flew to his temple in a salute, boot heels clicking together, green eyes staring at the metal pin on my shoulder. It was a single silver bar, so covered in dust, sweat, and filth to become the same grey-brown as the uniform shirt, with only a corner where his fist rubbed to show its true identity.
         “I’m sorry, sir,” he said smartly. “I didn’t realize, that is I didn’t notice, Lieutenant, Over-Lieutenant, sir. I -”
         I shrugged it off, filled my tin and Paulmen’s and again Schreider’s. The other soldiers took the cue and shuffled forward, eyes eager, mumbled Thank You’s before tucking into the still warm beans. The pot emptied quickly. Cook whimpered something to the lieutenant still standing in salute, unwilling to respond without permission.
         “What did he say,” Alan inquired, half a crust of bread in his mouth, plate still full, standing in the shadow of the setting sun, smile wide on his face.
         “Uh.” He looked at me. “He said he had yet to eat.”
         Paulmen mused over it, took a bite, chewed slowly. “And you, sir Lieutenant? Did you eat yet, or waiting for the extras.”
         “No, I ate.”
         “But I didn’t,” Cook whined, eyes wide and flitting about, fingers tapping against fingers, sweat breaking out on his bald head as I watched him. I stepped over to him. He shrunk but held his footing, drawing his shoulders tight, clenching his jaw. The silence of the onlookers was almost suffocating, their curiosity piqued though not enough to abandon their meal. I took a breath.
         “Don’t do it,” Paulmen said quietly. “He don’t deserve it, not him.”
         I handed Cook the mess tin and turned. “Just get it back to me.” I walked back to my tent.
         The package was still sitting on the stool where I’d left it, unopened, untouched. I picked it up, looked at the label. It had fourteen county stamps, five border stamps, inspection dates from two years ago, the original writing too light, too smeared to make out. I crawled into my tent, kicked my boots off, slid beneath the blanket and lay on my stomach, staring at the small package in crinkled brown paper. I couldn’t say why I was so afraid to open it.
         “Burns.” I sat up. The three were crowded in the tent opening. “You could have at least punished him.”
         “The lieutenant.”
         “And the cook.”
         “You should have. They’re both your subordinates.”
         “They both insulted --”
         “Disgraced --”
         “You.”
         “And you give one your meal though he don’t need it, and forgive the both of ‘em without so much as a reprimand, not even one word.”
         “Sometimes,” Paulmen said, rubbing his chin and the scar there. “I wonder who decided to make a heart like yours into a leader, but you sure are a leader of men. Youngest man I ever met, twice the man I ever met. Still, Burns.”
         “The lieutenant did almost fight you.” Alan’s mess tin was empty now, tucked under his arm with his hat.
         “But he didn’t,” I stated mildly. “And neither of them will again.”
         “Who’s the box from?” I shrugged, handed it to Schreider. “Too faded to tell,” he grumbled. “Sure took a journey though, and made it. I think I’d like to see you open something, Over-Lieutenant. Might just make you smile.” He handed it back and I took it, tossed it lightly to the corner, fell back on the flat pillow.
         “I’ll have a look in the morning,” I mumbled. Schreider sighed in exasperation, Alan clicked his tongue, Paulmen ushered them away, letting the opening fall closed. I lay in the darkness, heart pounding in my chest. I knew where the box was from, why it had taken so long to arrive, who had sent it though the original label was unreadable. It made my stomach tie in knots, my muscles tense, my breath catch in my throat. It made me want to cry, to scream, to hide away where no one could find me, to laugh in such a maddening way they would send me to a hospital. But I could do none of this. Instead I sat watching a box, staring intently, begging myself to open it though I knew I never could. If ever I saw the contents of my package I feared it would be the unravelling of my soul.