I don’t think I realized just how small this boat would be. Two rooms. 42 beds total. 21 beds per room. Three beds tightly stacked one on top of the other. Yikes. I sighed, the tiniest bag in my hand. I was startled as Marty ran in, with a smile on his face. My first thought was: “how could anyone even have the slightest bit of enthusiasm about this crap hole?”. He dropped his bag on one of the beds. They were stacked three by three. There were a handful more divisions in our room with us and in the other room.
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- Jo, take the other one! He said.
Jo came in, clutching his bag in a timid way and sat down on the bed underneath Marty’s. In walked Art and Simon. They were talking about something, but I couldn’t tell what. None of them had lively expressions. Art made eye contact with me and immediately lit up. He walked over and placed his bag on the bed on the very top of our row. I was in between. Simon placed his bag on the bottom. I guess we had our row. Suddenly, a pale-skinned, lanky, brown-haired man with round glasses walked in the room. He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses further onto his nose with his index finger. He looked at us, since we were the only ones in the sleeping room.
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- Are you five from division six? He asked.
We all looked at each other almost furtively. I’m not sure why.
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- Yeah, we are. Said Marty.
The man nodded.
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- Good. My name is George Jones, and I am in division six, as well.
We all said hello and other words of greeting. Except for Art, who was just glaring. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.
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- George Jones. Said Art in a sour tone.
George finally noticed Art and his expression melted into a scowl.
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- Arthur Johnson. He said, returning the tone.
- You two…know each other? I asked.
- Yes. Squinted Art.
- Indeed. Said the other man in the same manner.
I was curious.
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- Well, I’ll just take this bed here, if you all don’t mind. Said George, taking his death glare of Art and onto the bed underneath Jo’s and Marty’s.
He placed his bag down and everyone just stared in silence. Art is a nice person. He’ll only dislike people that really shouldn’t be liked. Or at least I hoped so. We knew that his indifference to Marty was merely playful, but his beef with George was much more… It was full of anger and grudges. They really didn’t like each other, and I would never trust anyone who didn’t like Art. Can you blame me? Art is a likeable person. It’s like if someone said that they didn’t like kittens. Would you trust that person? George put his bag down on the bed.
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- Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must find the restroom.
And with that, he left, leaving an angry Art Johnson with his fists balled up tightly. Marty stifled out a laugh.
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- What’s your problem? He asked.
Art groaned and rolled his eyes.
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- I hate him.
- Why? You’ve known him for two seconds! Said Marty, followed by another small laugh.
- No. I’ve known him since kindergarten and I’ve been hating him for a very long time.
- Why?
Art sighed as if he was an old man recalling his childhood.
- That’s a story for another day. He said, making me almost laugh, but just smile.
He turned to me and squinted.
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- Something funny, Baxter?
I tried to bite back my smile but failed.
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- No, no…definitely not. I said, failing to be serious.
He squinted in what I assumed was fake anger. Marty rolled his eyes.
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- Is there anyone you don’t hold a grudge against? He sighed.
- Of course, but not him. Said Art.
- And you’ll never tell us why?
- Maybe I will…if I feel like it.
We all laughed a bit, except for Simon, of course. I looked over at him. He sat, fingers intertwined and laying between his knees. He stared at the ground with intensity. Like he was deep in thought. He probably was. I looked back at Art, who looked very tired. A small thought crossed my mind…similar to the thought I had back when we waited for the boat… Did Art remember our “encounter” before the war? Or was he just trying to forget it? Was he going to spend the next 16 days pretending we didn’t know each other? I mean, we didn’t really know each other, but we did meet. And it was quite eventful. Was he just going to ignore the day that I have been thinking about since it happened? Was it only important to me? Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s angry because I didn’t call. Maybe he hates me, and he thinks I’m rude. Maybe he hates my guts. Maybe he never wants to speak to me again. Oh god. What did I do?! I ruined everything! No wonder he hates me. I felt the bed I was sitting on dip, meaning someone had sat down. Art and Marty still talked, Marty sitting on his bed, Art sitting on his. I was sitting on George’s bed, since he was gone. I looked to my side and saw Jo. He looked at me with soft, compassionate, yet sad eyes.
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- Are you okay? He asked.
- Um, yeah…I’m okay…you?
- Yeah. I’m alright. He said, nodding.
We sat in awkward silence. I felt bad for this kid. More than I felt bad for myself. He was younger than me, meaning he could have lived longer. Am I that certain he’ll die? No. He could survive. I’m not sure of the training he had. I, on the other hand, am certain I’ll die. I have had no training. Although, they are going to train us on this boat. At least, that’s what I heard. This is the biggest ship I’ve ever been on - despite being quite small -… quite possibly the only ship I’ve ever been on. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had a place where you can train. Suddenly, other men began entering the estate. They set their bags down on beds. They looked equally traumatized. All these people…so many dead. I was worried. Where were we even going? I mean, Germany, obviously, but where in Germany? What were we going to do in Germany? I was nervous. Maybe slightly less nervous than I was before I left, or maybe slightly more nervous than I was before I left. Nonetheless, I was stressed. A loud knock was heard in the door frame. There was no door. Our general stood there, megaphone in hand. He yelled something along the lines of “gather at the front, it’s speech time”, but my brain was clouded. I was going to be in a foreign country, on a foreign continent, with no way out. We all gathered at the main hall of the boat. It was large and there were quite a lot of men there. I stayed close to Art and Simon. We had lost Jo and Marty in the crowd. The general stood on a stage-like platform, so we could all look up at him. He cleared his throat before yelling on the megaphone. If you ask me, with the megaphone, yelling wasn’t necessary, but who am I to question a general?
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- Alright everyone, we set sail in 25 minutes for Lampertheim training area, in Lampertheim, Hesse, Germany. You will have an education of the enemy and other intellectual trainings of the sort, and once we arrive in Lampertheim, the thirteen weeks of physical training shall begin.
I swallowed hard. I was never good in gym, let alone “physical training”. I knew I’d basically die. At least I will be getting training at all, so I won’t have to wander onto the battlefield like a rooster without a head. My thoughts began to branch. Was there even a battlefield? My head dipped. I felt an elbow at my side, and I turned toward Art.
- I’m guessing that paying attention to authority figures isn’t your favorite activity? He whispered.
I laughed a little.
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- Who can pay attention when your brain keeps wandering to question after question until you’re certain God stopped listening.
Art looked at me apologetically. I knew he was trying to apologize without saying it, so I just nodded. It’s not his fault. I’d like to believe it’s not anyone’s fault. The moment you start blaming people is the moment you lose track of everything. I know that doesn’t make sense at all, but it does. I swear. It means; when you start blaming people, suddenly others get involved…and another, and another until suddenly, you have a whole tree of people who have nothing to do with the initial problem. I learned that from my parents. They often blamed others for their problems, and I just came to that conclusion. I’m not one to have “wisdom” or anything like that, but I do admit that it’s a pretty smart line, if you’ll allow me to be modest for a moment. I’ve never told anyone that before. I don’t want to start anything. Maybe you’ve figured that out about me…I don’t like attention. I tried to look like everyone else and not stand out of the crowd as I looked to the general. Although, I felt watched. I looked to my right side, where Simon was standing, and he looked right at the general, look of intensity in his eyes. I looked to my left, and Art was still looking at me with compassion. I breathed out and smiled a bit, maybe to reassure him, but he just looked down and then back up at me. He really is sweet. I guess he’s really just trying to be my friend… nothing more. I might as well get rid of these feelings as soon as possible, if I can at all… I’m sure it can be done. It might take a while, but do I really have something more important on my agenda? Maybe he really did forget that night at the bar. Maybe he’s used to those types of interactions… Maybe I’m the only one who actually cares about what happened between us…I’ve got to stop worrying about this. There are much more pressing matters that I have to think about. The lecture seemed to be over, because everyone left. Except, Art stayed where he was. I had already lost Simon, so I had decided to just stick with him. Once pretty much everyone had gone, Art turned around and jumped a bit as he finally saw me.
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- Oh, you’re still here? He said, surprised, but not angry.
- Um, yeah.. I sort of lost the others. I said, laughing a bit at the end of my sentence.
- Oh, okay, that’s alright. You can just stay with me. I was going to watch the boat sail away for a bit.
I nodded and walked beside him to the edge of the boat where we leaned against the railing and stared out at the dock, that was soon going to be solely water. It was silent. The kind of silence that makes you think, but I just couldn’t. Being with Art made me feel different. Usually, my brain is full of thoughts and regrets, but when I’m around him, it’s like my brain stutters. The only thing said in my mind are things along the lines of “uh…” and “Um…”. Crazy how one single person can make you feel that way… More comfortable silence grew as the loud, sharp horn blew, announcing the boat’s departure. I inhaled a breath of air and closed my eyes lightly. The smell of the salty water filled up in my nose. It wasn’t a very pleasant smell, but it felt fresh. I knew there was going to be fresh air in Germany, it just felt like I wasn’t going to be breathing very much. If you’re wondering what I meant, I meant that I’d either be dead, or too nervous to breathe. Maybe I should just enjoy this moment. This moment full of nature, scenery, fresh air and…him. Why do I speak of him this way? Half the time, he’s my only thought. The other times, merely his name feels like a swear. It’s like I said, it’s crazy how a person can make you feel that way… Now, I just have to figure out if that feeling is good or bad. Maybe both, maybe none. I’m not looking forward to spending every night staring at the ceiling and thinking of the answer to that question. I looked over at him as he looked out at the ocean. He looked a little pale, but all of us did. After all, we were about to go to the heart of the war. He still tried to keep a smile on, though. Was that to reassure me, or himself? Either way, it was pretty to look at. His eyes seemed to be a darker shade of blue than it was when we met. It was an almost lifeless shade, but when I met him, they sparkled with passion and joy… I missed those eyes. The ones that reassured me that he was happy. I sound ridiculous, don’t I? Speaking of a man the same way a man would speak of a woman. I’ve never admitted to myself, but maybe I’d rather speak of a man the same way a man would speak of a woman. I was always taught by my parents and teachers that men belong with women and women belong with men. Correction, it was way more violent than that, they would say; a man needs a woman, and a woman needs a man. They said it just like that, as if one would die without the other. I guess it worked, because I always thought I would die if I acted upon these “feelings”. Not that someone would kill me, just that God would be so angry he’d struck me down with lightning, or something. I guess that may be why I’ve never fully, truthfully, honesty admitted it. Maybe I should, before I die… But not right now. I have 16 days for that. For this matter, I’m not sure if I have enough time.
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- James? Said Art, waving his hand in front of my face.
- Huh? I asked, finally being snapped out of my trance.
- You were just staring at me, brainwashed. He laughed a bit.
- Oh…sorry about that. I said, awkwardly scratching the back of my neck.
- It’s fine. You look…ill. He said, squinting.
He lifted my chin to examine my neck and turned my head side to side. He then placed the backside of his hand upon my forehead. After taking his hand back, Art backed away a couple of inches and examined me through narrowed eyes.
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- Yeah, you don’t look right… Come on, I’ll take you back to the room.
He put his arm around my shoulders and began walking toward my room. A small part of me felt warm on the inside. Maybe he really did care for me. Maybe he actually did like me… and maybe not in a platonic way. Or maybe he was just being nice… Or maybe I should just live in the moment and enjoy being with him instead of questioning my and his every move. Then, maybe I could live a comfortable, non-awkward, relieving life…
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