This Is War

         Paulmen was staring at me. He always seemed to be staring at me since my refusal to open the only package I’d received in my three years of war. His blue eyes were hard as steel, twice as sharp. I didn’t know how to tell him that I was so afraid of what lay inside the box. He’d caught me twice in the meadow in four days, each time offering a cigarette. I would take one, tuck it behind my ear, sit in silence until he walked away again, growling in his throat. Schreider asked at every meal if he could have a look inside, I would say no. Alan tried once to take it, once to ask about it. I couldn’t tell them that the thing holding them down, ensuring their sanity and humanity, keeping their hopes alive, the one thing that let them dream at night, promised them freedom at the end of this damned war was the one thing that scared me more than hell itself.
         We were standing at the parade ground, shuffling feet, kicking up dust, waiting for the rest of the battalion. The reinforcements were in formation across from us, some older like Schreider and Paulmen, most young recruits like Alan, none as young as me. Their eyes, skin, hair was light. I sighed.
         “What did you do before the war,” I asked. The three looked up, startled. Schreider smiled, two missing teeth making his grin near maniacal.
         “I’ll be,” he hooted. “Burns struck up a question. You feelin’ alright, boy?” I shrugged. “Becoming a right conversationalist, you are, but why you asking?”
         “I was a carpenter, though still an apprentice, made furniture.”
         “How about I commission you for a piece then.” Paulmen knocked Alan’s shoulder, both their blond heads bobbing like the poppies in the meadow. “After the war I’ll need a new rocker for my wife. She’ll spend her days in it, sitting on the porch while I work my own field. That’s what I did -- a farmhand -- but when I get back I’ll be buying my own land, build a grand house with a porch that goes clear around the bottom, be my own foreman and plant what I want wherever I please.”
         “Ha! You won’t find me doing no manual labor,” Schreider barked. “I is more sophisticated than that, driving around the high class gents and ladies, seeing sights you ain’t never seen. I’ve traveled nearly the whole country on that job.”
         “And by the time you get back to it they’ll have made cars to go so fast you’ll be left in the dust!”
         “What about you, Burns,” Alan asked.
         I glanced up, hands in pockets. The battalion was here, one hundred and forty-eight men in lines that weren’t quite straight or even, empty spaces for the men dead on the last four raids. Paulmen and Schreider fell into place, Alan still waiting for an answer. I shrugged again. “I was fourteen.”
         The soldiers stood a little taller as I passed, some tapping their temples, most just nodding. The knew me enough to say I was informal, forgoing salutes and calls of officer-present. They knew me enough to call me Burns over Berness. They knew me enough to tell the story of how I became and over-lieutenant, changing it each time as men do, but they didn’t know me enough to guess I was only seventeen or that I was from Senin or what it meant when I went to a meadow or forest of the edge of camp with Paulmen to share rations. The three men who did were among them, sad and knowing smiles.
         The reinforcement officer hesitated when I asked for the roster, handed it over with further pressing, walked away, his job finished. I glanced over the smooth paper, white as snow in the mountains. Forty-eight names, five to go to 31st Battalion.
         “If I call your name, wait here for Major Lane. Maurie. Winlow. Scotts. Heighan. Treas. The rest of you, pick a spot. Your squad will find you from what you choose.”
         “Isn’t there a major we report to?”
         I shrugged.
         “You’re not a major. Are you?”
         “Over-Lieutenant Berness, 163rd Division, 3rd Battalion. Major Turl was KIA less than a week ago, now fall in.” They started forward, their movements uncertain, packs heavy on their shoulders, fear making their eyes shine as they shuffled into empty spaces in the lines. I knew they worried this was a test of sorts, they were scared of being wrong. I waited, watching, silent until they were still. Not every spot had been filled, but we’d received less than half of the men we needed and most were recruits. I walked toward the back where my fireteam waited. “Dismissed.” The men milled around, slight chaos forming as some welcomed the reinforcements while others walked away, more interested in the promise of food now that the battalion was put together. Alan, Schreider and Paulmen were standing around a recruit, eyeing him as he stood like a statue, shoulders drawn, jaw clenched, fingers twitching as he fought the urge to ball his hands.
         “A new face might not be a bad idea,” Alan mused.
         Schreider was shaking his head. “A fireteam is four, us four, has been for a long time now.”
         “Only because we get along.”
         “Turl never put anyone with us,” Paulmen added.
         “Reason for it, too. What do you say, Burns.”
         I watched him a moment longer, blond hair curly around his face, green eyes glinting like steel. He was tall, skinny, lean and toned muscles showing through the thin shirt, uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, the navy blue marking him as a recruit though his eyes would disagree. I held my hand out.
         “Welcome to Squad Atria.”
         He smiled.
         We took him on a tour of the camp, pointed out 31st Battalion, the camp commander’s tent, the mess tent, the latrines. He nodded in silence, took it in without question or interest as though he’d seen it before. Schreider was distant from him, arms crossed over his chest, burning through his rations. I gave him half of mine though he smoked them all before dinner. We lined up, walked to our tents with the warm beans and sweet bread, a single slice of bacon already in their bellies. I took mine to Squad Grus and traded for a full two rations. Alan and Paulmen emptied their tins in what seemed like seconds, went back to the line, followed by Schreider smoking a cigar.
         “Why do they call you Burns?”
         I took a gulp of water, passed him the canteen. He drank without a word, wiped his lip, passed it back, looked over as Paulmen sat down.
         “What’s your name?” Paulmen took a swig of water, tucked greedily into the beans.
         “Uh. Kurt, Kurt Mathers. But Mathers was my father. You can call me Kurt.”
         “Bernard Paulmen. The old man’s Mait Schreider, then there’s Nicholas Alan and Burns. It’s been just us four in Atria for going on two years, some been around longer and some not so long, so how long you think you’ll on here, huh?”
         “As long as you I suppose.”
         He chuckled. “Three years, all of them right here or closer to the front.”
         “We’ll be going up tomorrow,” Alan said. He’d found a recruit that traded his bacon for beans, and he sat slicing it into smaller strips, passed them out to us.
         “I don’t think you’ll make it back alive,” Schreider grumbled. “Won’t be surprised none if I see your corpse stinkin’ up the field. Damned recruit.” We watched him crawl into his tent. Kurt turned back to me.
         “Why do they call you Burns.”
         Alan looked up. He didn’t know the story, had never thought to ask, Schreider opened the tent but stayed inside, Paulmen sucked on the piece of meat and watched me.
         “When I was a recruit,” I said. “There was a fire. Everyone died but me. I got pulled out, nothing wrong, no burns. Guess the name stuck.”
         I stood up. Kurt was staring at me, frowning, eyebrows drawn. He opened his mouth but I spoke first. “Sleep late. Stay in all day so you’re ready for the trenches tomorrow.”
         Schreider coughed as he lay down. Alan and Paulmen crawled into their tents and it wasn’t long before Paulmen’s snores filled the air. I nodded, crawled into the dark interior of my tent, kicked my boots off. Kurt would ask again, I knew, about my nickname but he would have to find someone else to tell the story, I had no intention to.
         “Don’t worry about him,” Alan said quietly. “He’s never been one to elaborate and all you need to know is he’s the best officer I’ve had, youngest too though you can’t tell. Just do what he says. You’ll get used to it.”
         “Yeah.” There was a shuffling, a contented sigh.
         “Goodnight then.”