2nd regiment, medic
When the steel was placed in my hands it was the coldest metal I had felt, and I saw our reflection in the unscrewed cap of the flask. All was shades of grey. Somewhere, sometime we had lost our color. Or maybe we had only lost our perception, but there is no way of knowing any more. All we know now is colorless, like the steel in my hands, or the steel that we keep by our beds. The only metal save the flask that keeps us alive these days. Fortitude and fatality, the two no longer seem so far apart. They are more like my left and right arm; both are necessary. The entrance to our sanctuary is without light, pure darkness as if nothing lies beyond the door. I used to think it was due to it being night, but it has been dark for so long. The light of the room comes from the flask, our only compelling source of warmth. We take turns holding the light up to our faces for illumination.
Although the steel was cold as hell, the fire it held lit my head like a mortar. All I could hear was the buzz of war and in that flash I saw color again. We are men, yet nothing more than children. The line has crossed back on itself. We live like men but we die like children. No one else exists. We receive no mail and we write no one. My grey brothers are all I know or can remember. In our sanctuary there is only the truth. I have forgotten how to lie. I look across our circle and my brothers look back at me honestly. Their faces are dark and sunken but true. Their pupils shine like stars. My own eyes used to be blue. Now they look like photographs of the moon. We are like animals, all eyes facing the light. We wait in darkness, lie in contempt, until our moment is upon us and we make ourselves a beautiful spectacle of the night and paint the blue-green grass a violent shade of purple, until we fall asleep with our eyes facing the night. Oh, until we finally sleep…
My brother reaches for the steel. He speaks with his eyes. I close mine and yield; it is his turn to shine.
2nd regiment, corporal
God, I love it here. Not that it's pleasant, because it isn't particularly. Everyone complains a lot. The food is pretty bad when we have it, but we haven't for awhile so that’s not so bad. The drink from the flask is good, and not only good but useful and perhaps even necessary.
The only thing that bothers me about this place is the lies. Not the only thing, that's not true; just the thing that bothers me the most. The lies are what make all of this mess the most uncomfortable. Everything leading up to this moment was a lie. It started with the lies we were told to convince us to come to this place, to the lies that we're told to keep us here, to the lies that we tell each other to get what we want or to keep us from killing one another or ourselves, or for whatever other reason. I guess the lies are necessary. They serve a purpose and I'm not going to pretend to be the righteous one. I'm as full of wonderful, life-giving, euphoric lies as the happy fool who was lucky enough to remember to bring the flask.
With the flask we can be honest at last. The honesty seeps out, happily at first when something that is needed to be said is finally made blunt, but later seriously as it is revealed fully, and finally remorsefully as all of the hidden implications of honesty are revealed. Here, in this place, honesty is not a virtue. I'm only going to go so far as to say that I wish that the lies were not the solution. Everyone else seems to like it though.
Maybe like is too strong a word. Maybe need would be better, or they just find it amusing or allows them to keep some dignity. I guess everyone can have their reasons. Sitting here with all of them and the occasional noise and none of us possessing any kind of future except the kind we can imagine and only the kind of past that can be lied about, what is there not to like? I have raised the flask to my lips three times now, and in order to remain happy I will stop.
5th regiment, private 1st class
It is so god damn cold in here. It doesn’t matter what we do, or how many times I send home begging for socks, new boots, wool shirts, long-underwear, anything to kill this fuckin’ cold, I am still gonna freeze my ass off and it won’t mean a fucking thing to anybody. I guess that's why I stopped writing letters now. I guess that's why I quit writing them any more. Sometimes I feel bad, but there just isn't anything left to say any more. It's sad to realize that's why I ever wrote.
The only thing that has been keeping me warm the past couple days is the liquor I stole from the 3rd regiment captain’s quarters. Two bottles of Knob Creek, not bad for the purpose it serves. Yet, even this is bull shit because I have to share with these helpless bastards just so they don’t get me into trouble. At least these cowboys have the good decency not to borrow cigarettes without some sort of payment in return. I got promised wool socks from the butcher yesterday for a pack of lucky strikes. Cigarettes are the best sort of currency ‘round here. The only good thing my sorry excuse for a step dad has done for me is to keep me stocked with more cigarettes than I have time to smoke. And I have an ungodly amount of time to kill.
Oh that’s fuckin’ brilliant, the flask is already running dry and it’s only a quarter past. Sons-of-bitches always linger with the flask, suckling it like it was their own mom’s godam tit. Clark says it helps him reflect and he’s a medic so I guess he knows what he’s talking about, and you need that in a place that’s as big a shit hole as this is. Growing up in Jersey I never saw anything so disgusting. I wish to god there was a way out.
The pathetic faces, they must need it more than I do. I can hardly drink this shit anymore anyways.
5th regiment, sergeant
I've seen too much of this war. I've seen it fought on the ocean, I've seen it fought on the land, and I've seen it fought in the sky. None of it is half as glamorous as these kids make it out to be in their letters back home to their sweethearts, wives, whatever. They want to be big men. They want to own the world, and thought this damn war would be a good place to start. They're not half so keen now I'd wager. They're not half so idealistic sitting in this trench in the mud, freezing their asses off washing away their misery with stolen whiskey out of a flask. They're as pathetic as me.
I like to drink. I like the way it feels, and the way that it's always felt. I like that it's a crutch, and I don't mind saying so. We're all drinking for the same reason now. Now we're all sharing the same crutch. I bet only a handful of these pups ever drank for any real reason; only to make themselves look better, only to make themselves look like men who can do whatever they want. They want to be tough guys, and it's the same damn reason they're here, just plain macho egotism. They want to be men? They're welcome to it. They've got no stomach for this anymore; I can see it in their faces now that they've been drinking. It's as clear as if they wrote it down. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them wanted to end it all right now. Goodbye, "coward's way out", they call it. It's all right there on their faces. They might as well just say it because it's plain as anything that's what they want. Then there are the few who know what's going on. There are a few, but they're all drinking like it's their last drink, every mother's son of them.
5th regiment, private
It's alright. Everything is alright. It's going to be alright. They've stopped the big guns now, so it's not as loud, but I can hear rifle fire. I think that's rifle fire from the front. My god, if they come in it'll be man to man. I have to remember training. I have to remember everything if it comes down to man to man. I wonder if Sarge will shout like we're doing drills. I wonder if he'll be just as scared as me if they break the lines. It sure doesn't look like it now, he's steady alright. It makes me angry just to look at him, or any of them for that matter. How can they all just sit there and act like everything is okay? Like we aren't all going to be dead in a matter of moments. If some one would just say something, or anything to take my mind off the damn war. At least someone has a flask, thank god for the flask.
Sometimes I try to think about home. That used to help but I don't remember it right any more. Nothing is the same as it was back at home. I wish to Christ I was back at home. If they could see me now wouldn't they be proud. Never touched a drop in my life. Just look at me now, it's wonderful. No one else seems to care. Look at their faces. Sunken, pale, blood shot, stupid faces, I hate when they look at me. They always stare at me as if to say, "Oh yeah, he'll be dead real soon." The rifle fire keeps up and they don't even look interested. Then of course, they're all drinking too. I wonder sometimes if they like the war. I think some of them do, how else would they stay so calm? Sick bastards.
I wonder what they think when they see me shaking. I have to hold the flask with both hands just to keep it steady. I hold it close to my chest and each swallow hurts. I don't want to give it up. I want to keep it. I want to keep it. If I'm going to die tonight I need it.
2nd regiment, private 1st class
This is everything. Every breath, every thought, every moment another opportunity. I think Clark at least understands the importance of what we are doing here. It’s strange to me to see the morale of the men so fickle. It is as if they have forgotten. They’re happy if they’re given a good meal. They’re happy if they’re given a weekend leave. The problem is that they believe they deserve it, and as soon as it’s back to their real duty they piss all over themselves.
I am not a hero, I’ll bleed just as red and fall just as hard as any one of these men. But I won’t fall pointlessly like a poor old bastard dying in his wheel chair. The thought of finishing it, whatever that entails, is what keeps me motivated, keeps my blood course, keeps my fingers from going numb, and my mind sharp and alert. Nothing can ever take that from me, no one can. If I go home it will be finished, no other way about it.
It’s sad that the flask is such a necessity here. I liked it much better when we didn’t have it. It breaks everyone’s focus. We have to be ready, we must stay vigilant. I will take a swallow and leave the rest to the others, hopefully it helps them remember.
5th regiment, corporal
I've shared everything with these men, and now the flask. I wish I could say I was one of them. I'd be proud of that honor. I wish I was but I'm not.
Some would say what separates us is our ideology, and that must be true at least partially. It has to be, otherwise what's the point? It has to be a struggle for ideas that are bigger than any of us and all of this. And yet part of me thinks that it is just a matter of circumstance. I shouldn't think like that. This kind of thinking won't help anything.
This isn't something I want to think about at all. I'd rather forget about it until it's all over tomorrow, but the flask helps. I feel the most badly for Jeremy. The others have seen enough death to accept it, but Jeremy is like a scared puppy. There's something about that pathetic raw fear, the rejection of the rules of war in favor of self interest that makes it harder for me to follow through. He doesn't want any of this, and he clearly doesn't believe in anything anymore. It isn't that he won't get there eventually. I've seen the cycle over and over, and even in myself. With me it was different I guess, living with the enemy for so long. When the optimism vanishes, all you have is fear for awhile. Then if you survive that, you begin to build again. With everyone the building is different. Some make it a poetic experience, while others embrace the reality of it. Sometimes the only thing you have is the camaraderie of your fellow man. Jeremy doesn't know any of this, but I guess I can't help that.
Tomorrow my German comrades will have the maps and details of each regiment that crouches huddling and freezing in these trenches on the front lines. It isn't likely these men will survive.
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