Training… But, for the brain. That’s how they described it. It worried me a little. I wasn’t fantastic in school, but then again, I didn’t fail. The truth is, I was more than worried, I was scared. Shaking a little, they called us division by division to go to these little “classrooms”. Each division was in a different one. When we walked in, the first thing I noticed was that there were no chairs or tables… We were going to have to stand the entire time. Art looked at the dingy room, as he stood at my left side. I heard Marty let out a distant laugh.
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- It’s the third grade all over again, right Jo? He joked.
- Yeah, maybe…the third grade was awful, though. Said Jo.
- Remember when the teacher beat me up because I fell?
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Marty laughed at his own recollection, while Jo just looked ahead, clearly traumatized by this. I thought it was funny how close they were. Both were the complete opposite of the other. Jo was shy, quiet and skinny, while Marty was confident, loud and buff. Art tapped my shoulder. I turned around to look at him.
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- Hey, James, why don’t you go in first? He said as though we were a group of kids entering a haunted house.
- No, no, I think I hear someone calling your name from the inside…don’t you hear it? I joked.
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He hit my shoulder playfully, making me laugh a little. Simon pushed ahead of us and went in first. What a brave soul. George went in second, giving Art a death glare as he walked by. I still haven’t found out why they hate each other. Marty went in, dragging Jo by the wrist. I glanced at Art, and pointed my hand toward the entry.
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- After you. I said in a gentlemanly manner.
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He imitated my action.
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- No, no…ladies first. He joked.
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I pushed him into the room. He looked back at me, a fake-hurt expression on his face. I walked in behind him, laughing a little, hands in my pockets. Soon, the rest of the division walked in; the names that I didn’t know. Some tall brunet kid, a short ginger, a round blond… People who went unnamed in my head. I didn’t know everyone here. The ginger stood to my left as Art stood to my right. The young, unnamed boy sniffled, his nose wrinkling in the process. He looked up at me, wide-eyed… I assumed he was intimidated because of my height. He was as small as a child… I don’t think he was medically small, I think it was just that he skimped on carrots as a child. I was a tiny bit over average height… a little taller than usual. He looked down, almost in shame. I wondered for a brief moment what he was thinking about, until I realized that he was thinking about all the same things as me; when am I going to die? Or something like that… He suddenly spoke.
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- I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life, but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. He quoted, voice slightly high-pitched and frail – like that of a chipmunk, or some other small rodent.
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I meant to say something back, so I opened my mouth. I was immediately interrupted by a man, old and tall, walking in with an aristocratic look on his face, tiny, round glasses resting precariously on his nose. He dressed as though he was a professor, or a scientist. A man of high intelligence, that’s for sure. My hand began shaking, I wasn’t sure why, but it did. Art threw a quick glance of worry toward me, sharply cut off by the old man hitting his large ruler onto the wall. He glared at us, expecting everyone to be staring intently at him, every second that he spoke, or even opened his eyes.
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- I was going to introduce myself, and then state the rules, but I think our little friend, here, needs to be taught immediately. The rules are; no talking unless I tell you that you are permitted to, no looking at anything but me, your eyes must follow me when I walk, do not leave the room unless I have given you permission, and most importantly, do not call me by my first name. Understood?
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No one answered, respecting his first rule.
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- Very good…fast learners, I see. My name is John Solomon, but you will all refer to me as Major Solomon. Now, please all state your names one at a time.
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He pointed at the first man, who said his name, the next man saying his, and the next saying hs and so on, so forth. Soon the line approached me.
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- Johnson. Said Art, loud and firm, his assertive voice ringing throughout the room.
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Maj. Solomon nodded his head fondly with a slight smile, liking how appropriate Art was. I was also fond of Art for that, but I don’t think we have the same ideals…
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- What’s your first name? He asked.
- Arthur, sir.
- I can tell that we’re going to get along just fine, Arthur.
- Thank you, sir.
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Maj. Solomon looked my way. I said nothing, since I assumed that he and Art’s conversation was still going on. He raised an eyebrow at me. Immediately I realized that he was expecting me to speak.
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- Oh, uh, sorry, hi…it’s-uh-....James. I stuttered out.
- Last name. He said, loudly, getting angry.
- Sorry, uh, B…Baxter. I stuttered again.
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He squinted and put his face nearly inches from mine.
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- Listen closely, Baxter…
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There was a certain violence when he said my name. I swallowed hard.
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- Screw around with me, I’ll screw around with you… the only difference between me and you, is that I will have zero consequences whatsoever if I beat you to a pulp…So maybe you should pay attention and stop screwing around, got it? I would hate to have to resort to something that could embarrass the both of us… but mostly you. Now, I don’t want to start on the wrong foot with you, so I’m going to pretend like we have never ever met or spoken… What is your name?
- Baxter. I said, loud and firm, trying to imitate what Art had done.
- Very good.
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He walked away. I discreetly looked over at Art, who was holding in a laugh. I seem to often mess up in front of authorities or in front of him. I don’t want to be a total screw-up, it just kind of happened. I want to slap myself in the face, sometimes… Well, all the time really. I’m a very unlikeable, dumb, hateable, annoyingly irritating person. It’s a miracle that he actually likes me… It’s a miracle that anyone likes me. If I knew me, I’d hate me. Maybe I’m just feeling some leftover embarrassment… I don’t actually hate myself…or maybe I do, I don’t know. The more questions I asked myself, the more answers I was short of. I hadn’t realized, but Maj. Solomon was done asking for names. He stood at the front of the room.
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- So, who can tell me what are some rules of war? He said, practically yelling.
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No one answered. He pointed at Art.
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- Johnson, tell me one rule to follow during war.
- Protect those who are not fighting, such as civilians, medical personnel or aid workers. He answered.
- Another one.
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Art’s hand was shaking. I could tell he only knew a few more.
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- Protect those who are no longer able to fight, like an injured soldier or a prisoner. He said.
- Another.
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He swallowed hard.
- Prohibit targeting civilians.
- Another.
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His face turned red as he stared at the ground. He was embarrassed. Emotion took over my logic and I acted without thinking. I didn’t want him to be humiliated after saying “I don’t know”.
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- Specify that medical workers, medical vehicles and hospitals dedicated to humanitarian work can not be attacked.
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Maj. Solomon stopped dead and slowly, carefully turned his head to me. He looked like he was about to explode. His face was red with anger.
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- Did I permit you to speak, Baxter? He said violently, overpronouncing his “k”s and “p”s.
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I looked down in shame, much like Art was doing. I shook my head slowly, feeling the eyes of everyone around me boring into my back. Maj. Solomon walked away from us. Art tilted his head over so slightly toward me, making sure that Maj. Solomon wasn’t looking. He discreetly caressed my hand with his pinky.
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- Thank you. He whispered.
- Always. I whispered back.
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We turned our attention back to Maj. Solomon.
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- Protect those who are not fighting, such as civilians, medical personnel or aid workers. Protect those who are no longer able to fight, like an injured soldier or a prisoner… protect, protect, protect, never attack. Well, welcome to the real world, ladies; it’s attack or die. Protect, and you will die. Stand still, and you will die, hide away, and you will die. Attack, and you will live, unless you are weak, of course. A real war includes nothing but attack… if a German comes near your aid worker, what do you do? You fight him. If you protect the aid worker, you’ll die. He said.
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He walked throughout the room, his eyes falling upon me.
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- Now, I already have my suspicions on who will live and who will die, but I’m sure you will all last longer than six seconds.
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A couple of chuckles were heard throughout the room, making Maj. Solomon smile with pride at his joke.
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- Now, I can tell that some of you have absolutely no physical strength, so listen well, because this might be the only way that you survive…There are two ways to succeed; physical skill or psychological skill. If you have none, you’ll die. You need to be strong and smart. If you are just smart or just strong, you will not succeed. You will die. If you find me repetitive, well, that’s too bad, because I am your only gateway to success…to life. Paying attention is optional, I guess… I can’t really decide whether you're with me or not, in your brain, but that is at your own risk. If you don’t listen, you will die. I hold the greatest secrets of war known to man; I am the reason we won the first world war.
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I was skeptical. I doubt that one man who didn’t even physically fight, was responsible for the victory of half the world. I wanted to say “I thought you said that you had to have physical and psychological strength… clearly, you didn’t fight, so…”, but I stopped myself. This man got on my nerves at a level that I could process. He kept talking, but my mind wandered, despite his whole “if you don’t listen, you die” speech. I don’t believe that… You shoot anyone with a swastika, how hard can that be? I arrived back to earth, just in case. Maj. Solomon brought out a grenade from his pocket. It was clearly fake.
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- McAllan, what is this? He asked, pointing at Marty.
- A Grenade, sir. He replied.
- Weisz, how do you stop a Grenade?
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Simon squinted.
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- You cannot.
- Weisz is right, you cannot stop a Grenade… Peterson, what do you do to stop a Grenade from killing everyone in sight? What is the action that you would have to put in?
- You, um, you jump on it, stomach first.
- You, um, you jump on it, stomach first. Said Maj. Solomon in a weak, nervous tone, imitating Jo.
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I furrowed my brow. That’s not fair. He can’t embarrass someone like that because of the tone of their voice.
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- Young man, if you act the way you speak, you are going to die.
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Jo tensed up, actually believing the things that this moron was saying.
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- Maj. Solomon, I assure you that I am prepared. said Jo, his voice wobbling as he stared at the ground.
- Uh-huh? Then look me in the eye. Said the unpleasant man.
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Jo failed to carry out the task.
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- Look me in the eye. Maj. Solomon repeated, louder.
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Jo raised his shoulders so they were almost leveled to his head. The kid could not look more in pain. I felt exceedingly bad for him.
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- Look me in the Goddamn eye! Yelled Maj. Solomon.
- Hey, sir, I’d appreciate it if you left him alone. Said Marty, defending his friend.
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Mr Solomon was angry to say the least. His face was red with anger, his eyebrows were furrowed lower than a human can possibly go, his back was arched, much like that of an evil witch or a troll and his glare could cut through brick. Marty sure was in for it.
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- You dare speak to me in such a way?! He said.
- Your flexibility amazes me. How do you get your foot in your mouth and your head up your ass all at the same time? Said Marty.
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Gasps were heard throughout the room, as well as things along the lines of “Ooh”. Art stifled out a laugh. Maj. Solomon turned his head abruptly toward him.
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- Is this funny to you, Johnson? He said.
- No, no, sir not at all-
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Art cut off his own sentence with more laughter. Soon, a couple more people began laughing, including myself. After less than ten seconds, everyone was laughing their heads off. Maj. Solomon looked like he was about to turn into a beast. Luckily, he had no power. We were twenty-one. He was one. He looked back at Marty, once the laughter died down.
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- McAllan, I want you to take a look inside your head and tell me how many wars you’ve won. He said.
- About as many as you; none, sir. Said Marty.
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The class lost it, once again. Marty’s calm tone mixed with his brutal, yet true words, were just putting us all over the edge. Maj. Solomon did not appreciate that joke - he didn’t really appreciate any joke, really - as much as we did. He yelled loudly while hitting his large ruler - that I was sure he wasn't going to use for measuring - and hit it against the wall behind him. Everyone shut-up.
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- Martin McAllan. He said, approaching Marty to a close proximity.
- John Solomon. Said Marty in the same, trying to be intimidating tone as Maj. Solomon.
- That is not how I have asked you to address me.
- Do you think I give a damn?
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Maj. Solomon turned red with anger, once again. He then calmed down with a deep breath and a wide, toothy, evil grin spread across his face.
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- Mr. McAllan, I’m sure you’ll appreciate me deducting your pay for the next week. He said.
- I was getting paid this whole time?! Exclaimed Marty.
- Of course! Didn’t you read the letter we sent you?
- Ohh… I may or may not have used it as litter for my cat. Said Marty, followed by a laugh.
- Well, I’m docking your pay, now.
- Right now?
- McAllan, I think it would be better if you just stopped talking, now.
- Right this second?
- MacAllen-
- Sir, with no due respect, I don’t believe you have the power to do that…
- You think?
- Yeah I do.
- Wanna try me?
- Mhm. Marty nodded with a smile.
- Two weeks.
- I don't know, still feeling pretty rich.
- Three weeks.
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Marty fake-yawned.
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- That all? He said.
- Marty, shut-up. Said Jo through gritted teeth.
- No pay at all.
- Sir, I don’t think you can do that. Said Marty with a smug smile.
- No food for three days.
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Marty scoffed.
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- I’ve been through worse.
- Goddamn it, Marty, shut-up! Yelled Art.
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Marty barely turned his head toward Art. There was an intense stare-down between Maj. Solomon and Marty. They stared at each other through squinted eyes, intense glare heavy and weightless all at once. Everyone looked at the scene, wondering how bad Marty’s repremandment was going to be. I could tell that this was going to go on for a while… Suddenly, Maj. Solomon began laughing. Marty softened, his tense shoulders going back to normal. Maj. Solomon put his hand on Marty’s shoulder.
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- Now, that’s a soldier! He said with pride.
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Marty’s eyes widened. He was surprised - all of us were.
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- So… are you still docking my pay? Marty asked with a hopeful tone.
- Docking your pay?! Son, I’m giving you a raise! Said Maj. Solomon, ruffling Marty’s hair.
- Thank you, sir.
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I was happy for Marty. He got a raise, just for being himself. He was an honorable man. It gave hope for all of us, especially me; if Marty’s imperfections could be qualities, then maybe my defaults could be useful as well. I internally laughed at myself. There’s no way that anything that I consider a default could be useful to me or anyone, anywhere. I’m a disappointment. My parents think so, my teachers think so, Art probably thinks so, or will think so. I shook my head; this isn’t the time to think like that. Negativity won’t help my situation. Maj. Solomon cleared his throat.
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- You don’t get anywhere by always being perfect, all the time, every second of the day… Sometimes you have to betray the rules… If it’s for a good cause, of course. McAllan, here, was trying to protect his friend, but it could be a different situation, next time. If a dictator says that you have to murder all children, it’s good to disrespect the rules. Always be prudent of what kind of rules you’re accepting, and what kind of rules you’re denying. It might get you far, or it might pull you back. Always remember that… Not even just for the war, this applies in real life, too. By all means, if something isn’t right, don’t do it. That’s why we’re fighting in this war; because a man out there is doing something that isn’t right. That’s why we’re fighting. I know, it might seem pointless at first… Like war that has nothing to do with you, but if you believe in justice; you believe in this war. Trust me, it’ll be worth your while, even if you die. Trust me on that one, okay?
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A couple of people nodded. I didn’t really buy all that justice crap. I did buy the fact that it would be worth my while, even if I die… Or at least, I told myself that I believed it. It would give me hope to know that even if I get shot or exploded or whatever, I’d still be thanked, remembered, worshiped. The feeling immediately went away once I remembered the radio message from this morning saying that no one knew who we were or where we were. Was I- were we going to die alone? I tried my best to tell myself “no, of course not! You’ll be fine… does it matter anyway if your parents cry after receiving a letter stating that you are deceased?”, but it didn’t work. I am going to die alone. Maj. Solomon approached my terrified, lonely face.
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- Trust me. He repeated, looking directly at me.
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I nodded. I’m not sure I can.
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