The Shed: A Grievous Experience of a Veteran

Part II

Out of this hefty consideration of life and death, I was able to breathe a little. Johnson approached me out of the cold and offered me a bottle of Cognac. His appearance took all of my attention.

"Still fresh," he pleasantly remarked, shaking the bottle before me. "Snatched it from the Weingut, or winery as they calls it. This people have amazing tastes in alcohol—I mean I could've snatched the whole winery, Scotty."

"It's cold, and I don't want a sore throat killing me on our way to Belgium. And I don't drink alcohol."

My reply made him chuckle, and a distinct chuckle it was, it made me smile.

"Not if you get killed by Hitler's monkeys first," He said, sitting beside me. "And you not drinking alcohol sounds miserable. It is as if you have not lived, Scotty."

He opened the bottle with his knife, threw the cork, and began chugging it down. I watched him with full eagerness and stupefaction, like one hypnotized by a magician. He chugged till the bottle was quite half, raised it down, and let out a handful of icy exhalation. He then noticed me watching him as if he was entertainment.

"I thought you weren't alcoholic, John."

I smiled to his reply, but how things were currently, how insidious and repetitive the suffering and sacrifices I had to face, and actual reality of war, I could not help but laugh out my soul. Not a thing made laugh this hardest and loudest before this one. I laughed as if it was my last, and Johnson joined me too. I laughed as if I was slapping the face of Death. It was the most honest laugh I ever did in my life, and the reason why, I never really figured it out. Perhaps it was Johnson's affable yet nosy comedy that seems to heat the air with his every presence, his noble face that expressed an indifferent yet varied sociality, or his being Johnson at all? I know not of the ways of men, especially of dignified men like Johnson.

I stopped laughing as I turned away my face from Johnson, and stared towards the infinite skyline, expecting Allied planes to pass by any sooner. I still can still recall how vast was the stretch of the scar that seems to bleed with calm, blue-stained sunlight. Johnson continued drinking the Cognac.

"Hey, Johnson," I inquired his attention.

"Hmm?"

"Have we lost all our minds?"

"Ask that to a Nazi and he'll blow your head before answering you"

Another round of chuckles. This time, Johnson straightforwardly answered me:

"No, I think we all lost it once we joined this goddamned army. It's foolishness, Scotty, which drives most younglings to war. That's why one of God's greatest blessings might be ignorance. But I was all for it—I was all for my country. Whether it was Uncle Tom or the persuasion, I was ready to serve for my people. But at some point in my life I thought it was foolishness that drove me here into this pickle. I wanted to be a teacher, or a philosopher, perhaps have a book written and published. And this war pickle turned me into something undesirable, something I shouldn't have been. But it was all ignorance, Scotty, and sometimes, ignorance is a way to good things.

"But have I lost my mind? Almost. That's my answer for you: almost-- because war has killed us all already, and it's our rationality that matters and remains: good and bad are the things that really matter here, and nothing else. I can still tell the difference between them—but can you?"

His reply astounded me. I felt the cold air again pass and sweep through me. A sprinkle of snow fell above our heads and the chatter became apparent again. What confab must they be so deeply focused in, they forget that this is war. Their momentary exchange of the past and the imaginable comforts them in this time of madness. It is also comforting to watch them experience their old lives again through expressions and normal language. Certainly, it is a waste of good men. What a good factory War is! Producing men who are coerced to release their banal ways of living and assume a transparent one whose reward is but death. You may ask, "but, what if they lived?" Then they have already lost time to explore the rest of their lives. That is one more sad reality.

Hours passed like minutes, yet not a sign of command to proceed towards Belgium. We were duly commanded two hours ago to hold our positions and wait for the next command. We waited, and nothing yet. The men were losing themselves; I could see it from the dramatic and observable vicissitudes of their weary faces; one by one lost brightness on his smile, and the confabs soon died away. Reality began to cling on their skins. The sun was leaving heaven, and night would be coming. Command or no command, we had to move now.

An odd sizzle came from somewhere. It was the radio, and it had received a message. Geoffrey went on to hear the news. Afterwards, he assembled us to pass the message.

"Good news, gentlemen," he formally started, scanning us with his squinting eyes. "Buccaneer and his regiment were able to clear a passageway for us to safely walk through. We are expected to meet up with those guys at the eastern part of the city. Situation's pretty critical. I'll get you all updated while we're on foot, but right now, you all need to quickly and efficiently pack up all your things, because we are moving on."

Sometimes, what is more lucid and satisfying than silence is the sound of work: the patting of boots upon the soft snow, the strapping of cumbersome bags, the chain of commands, and the sound of chugging--yes, beside me, Johnson was finishing the bottle of Cognac to its last drop. It might be his last.

"You will never find a drink colder than this in hell," he said gullibly, with a slight frown on his young but stern-looking face.

"What if I find one?" I asked out of my boundless curiosity as we continued our journey towards Belgium.

He looked at me like one amused very conspicuously.

"You're still here—so don't start looking."