Sitting in the cafeteria, the noise and speaking turned to a muffled sound, as if I were blocking my ears. Yes, the events of today were traumatic, but I might as well get used to it. I witnessed someone die in the most peaceful way someone could die in a war. Usually, when someone says that one died in the war, you assume that they were violently shot to death… Or something in that range, but this guy jumped off the ship and died before he even got the chance to get shot. In a way, that’s sort of smart… I would never do so myself, I wouldn’t be able to live with it, but it isn’t the dumbest idea. The general - sorry, the colonel didn’t seem too happy about finding the man in the water. You could technically say that he fell by accident, but he purposefully took off his dog tags and placed them on the railing of the ship, so he wouldn’t be forgotten… So clearly, it wasn’t an accident. But it could technically be an accident if they tried really hard. I think what hit us the hardest out of that, was the fact that he’d rather kill himself than actually get to Germany and fight and/or do training. It’s only day two… How could things already be this bad? I mean, it is a war, but… Who knows? You’d think this was a sign… I poked my fork at the mashed potatoes, that really didn’t look like mashed potatoes… It looked like that fake food they put in pictures. Marty devoured it like there was no tomorrow (which was entirely possible), while the others either ate slowly or barely at all. I didn’t even stab my fork in. I couldn’t eat anything at a time like this…
“James, eat your food,” said Art.
“Alright, mother,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
“You know, a thank you might be nice…”
“Thank you…” I paused, “...mother.”
Art scoffed. “Stop that. Do you want to die of starvation before you even get to Germany?”
“No, sir,” I joked, sitting up straight and saluting.
“Don’t joke about that, they might enlist you.”
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I laughed a little. That’s when I noticed George staring us down. His eyes were squinted, fixated on us, as he slowly lifted his fork to his mouth and ate his food, making sure that we never left his sight. What a weird guy. He doesn’t seem to be like everyone else… I found something that I like about everyone, but not this guy. I don’t dislike him, I just don’t get him. On top of it, he and Art don’t seem to get along very well… That could also be a sign. I looked over at the others to avoid his stressing gaze. Marty shoveled the food into his mouth, taking a break to look up from his bowl, eyes wide with curiosity. He looked right at Simon.
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“Weisz, how did you know that guy was a colonel and not a general?” he asked.
Simon furrowed his eyebrows at Marty as the latter continued to shovel.
“The eagle,” said Simon hesitantly, as if he didn’t really want to answer him.
“Which eagle?” asked Marty with his mouth full.
“The eagle pin on his shoulder. That’s what colonels have. Generals have stars.”
“Hey, you know a great deal about the army for a kid like you…”
“A kid like me?” asked Simon, waiting for Marty to elaborate.
“Yeah, a kid like you. You’re young. How old? Eighteen? You gotta be… Any older and I wouldn’t believe you. You must have spent ages learning about that stuff. I didn’t even know what military meant until I was sixteen… even then, I didn’t know a damn thing. And even now, I couldn’t differentiate a colonel from a general… You’ve been studying?”
“That’s right. My father was…a real patriot, you could say. Which was ironic, considering… you know. Well, he was obsessed with the army, and forced me and my brother to learn all about it.”
“Then he must have been thrilled to find out about this little party…” said Marty as a joke.
Simon nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Believe it or not, he was pleased to find out that there was a war going on… and that I was going to fight. As the youngest of two, he was quite excited to see me go off in a military sense. That’s all he wanted. He always told me that fighting in the war was the best way to earn manhood. One thing that would make him truly die content, was if I became an officer… But that never happened. My brother also never turned out to be an officer. He wasn’t disappointed, just pleased that I could even get my hands on this war.”
“What a childhood that must’ve been,” said Art.
“Yes, me and my brother were raised quite military. Me, him and four other girls. Maybe that’s why he was so excited that I got to go to war. He has six kids, but only two boys. We were like the classic army-raised family. He called us with a whistle and everything… forced us to salute at any given moment, we referred to our father as ‘sir’... And, hell, people were impressed. Very impressed. I can’t count the amount of parents who’d come up to him and say things like ‘your boys are so well tamed…’. Of course we were. But that was pure conscience, not training. We always had discipline so it could lead to potential. My father expects me to come home, on top of it. He’s expecting me to come knocking on that damn door, the exact day the war ends. Because if I die here, I’m letting him down. He told me that to my face. He sat me down and said : son, I’ve trained you all your life for this moment. All your life! Now, all you have to do is win. Win the war and come back home. You know how to do it, you’re supposed to. And if you don’t, we’ll be disappointed. I wasn’t sure what to say about it when he first told me… I feel like if we don’t win, he’ll blame it on me, so I might as well just…not come back home if we lose.”
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We were all surprised. We’ve never heard Simon Weisz talk so much, nor did we know anything about him. It was interesting to know all of that. If I’m being honest, the most interesting person at this table (or at least, I always assumed), was Simon. Art was interesting. I knew he was, as I just found out a little more about his homelife, but Simon was equally or maybe even more interesting. It’s sort of funny that I was paired with all these interesting men. Marty makes jokes at such an awful time, Art is…probably the most amazing human being that I have ever met in my entire life, Simon is a bucket of information, and Jo probably has something to his name. He can play the saxophone. Oh yeah, and George. George is interesting because he’s angry. Why is he angry? What made him angry? See? The interest grows. All these compelling people, and then there’s me. Why did God put me here? Maybe he had the intention of developing my personality by forcing me to hang around these guys. It doesn’t really matter, though. At least I get one good thing out of this damned experience, a relatively nice group.
“Geez, Simon, I never heard you talk so much,” said Marty with a smile.
Simon shrugged, his cheeks dusted with a light shade of pink.
“I don’t know… Maybe I’ve started to feel a little comfortable here…” he paused. “I’m not an uptight, army-obsessed machine… I’m a normal guy. Just like all of you. I’m scared.”
No one said anything. We all understood because we’re all scared. It’s terrifying just to be here. The air is thick and it feels like the only word on everybody’s lips is ‘death’.
“Well, I’m not scared,” said George with a superior look on his face.
“That makes one of us…” said Jo under his breath.
“Okay, Pvt. Georgie, why don’t you take your bravery over to Germany and lick Hitler’s ass, if you’re so unscared?” said Marty, squinting and leaning forward on the table.
George’s expression was disgusted. Maybe it was the fact that Marty questioned his bravery, maybe it was the fact that he called him ‘Pvt. Georgie’, or maybe it was the comment about licking Hitler’s ass… Marty always said the most…apropos things.
“I’ll have you know, Pvt. McAllan, that I am not willing to do that, but I am not scared.”
Art scoffed and took a sip of his drink.
“Something funny, Pvt. Johnson?” asked Jones.
“Georgie, you’ve been shaking like a leaf since you got on this Goddamn boat. You’re scared, kiddo, it’s normal. We’re all scared here. You are too,” said Art.
George looked down at his plate, didn’t answer and took a couple of bites.
“Pvt. Jones,” he mumbled between bites.
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I looked back over to Art. Truly, I envy him. How does he get to speak so freely about what he thinks of people? I also wanted to tell Jones that he was scared, because I knew he was, but I would never do that in a million years. Art gets to speak his mind. I only wish I had the same skill. I just wish I could talk to him. He has so many qualities that I want to adopt and ask him about, he has so many anecdotes I’d like to hear… But I’m not sure how…personal…our conversations can get in this crowded boat with an entire army breathing down our necks. I moved my hand one small millimeter at a time, ultimately making the tip of my index finger touch Art’s. At the action, his eyes went a little wide in surprise, but he didn’t look over at me. If we drew attention to ourselves, it would be all over for us. At least it looked relatively natural. Marty turned over to Jo and they began to speak. Simon leaned his cheek onto his hand and George sat with a very straight posture, eating his food as if he were eating with the queen. Those are the things you notice when you’re not allowed to look down. Art shifted his gaze toward me. It’s very stupid to say, but as he did so, my heart jumped a little. He blinked.
“You should probably eat, James,” he said, removing his hand from mine.
and placing it on his thigh.
“Right… I probably should.”
Marty observed us and leaned over the table.
“Did you guys know each other before the war?” he asked.
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I threw a quick panicked glance over to Art. His cheeks were a little flushed. He always knows what to say, so I hope he can talk our way out of this. With the lack of an answer, Marty lifted his eyebrows and leaned in even further. I looked back at Art again. He looked as if his brain were empty. I decided to save him from embarrassment, despite the fact that my answer could be even worse than whatever he could come up with in his sleep-deprived, clouded brain.
“Yeah, sure. Not for long, though. We met a week before we were sent here,” I said.
“Coincidence of a lifetime,” said Marty. “Where’d you meet?”
I shrugged. “Someplace.”
“Where?”
“Just a speakeasy down in New York. That’s where James and I lived,” Art paused. His eyes went wide. “Well, not where we live, not we lived as in together, just we as in…uh… You get it.”
“Yeah I do. I lived in New York too. What’s the name of the place? Maybe I know it…”
“Oh, no, you’ve probably never heard of it…” I said.
“Yeah, sure. I’ve had my encounters with blind tigers in my day… Jo hates them, though, so I didn’t go often,” he looked up and smiled. “God, I miss those days…”
“You’re a punch-drunk bum, Pvt. McAllan. You shouldn’t be talking like that here,” said George, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the group and staring down at his plate.
“Yeah, not in front of the lady,” said Art, pointing back at the colonel who was eating at his own table with all of the other officers.
George’s face was red with anger.
“You know, Pvt. Johnson, you really butter my bread!”
“Well, what a coincidence, because you really peanut butter my jelly,” said Art.
“And Lord knows you turkey my cheese!” said Marty.
“Disgusting. All of you.”
“Alright, Pvt. Georgie,” said Art, rolling his eyes slightly.
A couple of others in the division (including myself) snickered a little. George did not look pleased. He never looked pleased. Art looked the most pleased when George was the most upset. That was the relationship. George looked down and hunched over.
“It wouldn’t kill you to care a little more,” he said.
“It wouldn’t kill you to care a little less,” said Art.
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