Milk

I was called on to warfront today, for the first time. Usually I nurse the wounded, but they we short on men and took the stockier of the feeble First Aid crew. The rain splattered, morphing the once cold, hardened ground into sticky, inconvenient mud. When we assembled to discuss the attack plan, the men moaned about the early call, but I took no notice. The fossilized footprints of earlier battles dissolved into nearby streams, an otherwise calm and idyllic landscape. No one would’ve figured hundreds of people dissolved too, away into the banks. The falling thunder took no mercy in the makeshift graves us soldiers made for our deceased friends, their helmet dangling lazily on their weapons. Again, today I made no effort to pay attention. My mind was elsewhere.

I felt no panic, my mind bygone and unable to register the potential fear that lingered in every other part of my body. No, the adrenaline was unable to penetrate into my mind, which would then enable it to bring shock and remorse, something that would surely mar my performance on the battlefield. The Captain spoke quickly, but with a firm, commanding tone. He too, would fight today, which was why his usual uniform, which typically made him look awesomely handsome was replaced by a canvas uniform, still brightly adorned with his badges, but otherwise made him just another soldier. I looked at him but made no eye contact; still, I couldn’t think.

Once we assumed our positions, time seemed to flee. Private Gate, another fellow from my crew was shivering dramatically in my peripheral vision. Soon, the air was thick with gunpowder and the slow, lethargic bang! of missiles, or perhaps canons. I never bothered to teach myself. We steadied ourselves in our positions, both eager yet fearful. Suddenly, and without my consent, a thought, finally, overpowered me. It struck me that I was really here, truly present in the war with my American citizens. It soon came over me that my lack of thought was really an already existing fear, ready to drown me. I let it. A silence took place, anticipating the next bang of another canon, whether from our side or our opposite. Without a moment too soon, shouts filled the air. The Captain was violently red, screaming orders at nearby men.

“Spekzakis! Move forward! Attack!”

It seemed Spekzakis was too scared to run closer up field, already sobbing quietly and groaning, “Juliaaa,” a name I could only assume to be Mrs. Spekzakis. I shook myself back into focus and glanced down at my hands. Being rather inexperienced with firearms, I clumsily placed my fingers in where I was told to put them in training months ago, and stared at an empty target. A German peered over a steep hill, and quickly ducked down. Ha! I would get him the next time he stuck his head up. A minute seemed to pass, I saw those familiar dark features linger over the horizon. Click. He stumbled backwards and swelling of guiltless happiness warmed my stomach. I assume that I killed a man for the first time. Ferocious German and American words battled each other, whether in the name of war or surrender. Definitely not peace, we don’t fight for peace. Despite the patriotic motives each soldier was told they’d fight for, I learned that men don’t fight for peace in the war no more. They fought for pride, men.

The men surrounding me immediately took notice in a small oval-like shape falling to my far left. Some screamed “grenade!”, some screamed, “take cover!”, some screamed “Jesus fucking Christ!” but all took cover, crawling and scurrying away from the death that could await them. Vividly and unsuspectingly, a pain seared my leg. I looked down momentarily out of instinct and saw burnt red, gleaming. With the thunderous rain, the blood trickled down my ankles and ran through my woolen socks. I swore at the pain and masterfully wrapped the now shredded leg of my pant around my wound. It stung but a small relief exhaled in me, knowing I wouldn’t be one of the two that suffered the fate of the grenade. They were being nursed by Private Thompson and another guy I didn’t know, but I knew that they would die within seconds. Rarely did one survive the attack of a grenade within such close proximity. These poor bastards suffered what innumerable others suffered. This was it, the deathbed of thousands: an endless site hosting involuntarily. Now the two, on the brink of their end, were singing what I like to call their death song, wailing the names of their mothers, sons, wives, sometimes even fathers, and how they hoped they were able to fulfill their act of duty. Time was merciless, and soon they were gone. Often when I was alone and had nothing to do back at the tent, I would think whether this was a worthy place to die. The last glimpse of life you had was of a smelly stranger whispering empty consoling words, someone that you had to take in as a war brother.

Hours seemed to pass and the smoke patterned away quickly, with the help of the falling rain. The crude shouts that once shook the air died away. With very little ammo left on our side (shouted our Captain from across the field), we could only assume that the Germans gave up this battle. Men from our side reluctantly brought down their guns, and Spekzakis was still hallucinating in his ditch. Sergeant King, notoriously brave in our region, quickly jumped one step to the other to check whether the Germans surrendered. From the top of the hill, he turned his body around toward the Captain and frowned, his barbaric eyebrows pushing down threateningly on his beady eyes. Bang. King’s face relaxed and she stood very still. His knees weakened and his entire body collapsed like a marionette. The Captain caught on pretty quickly, shaking while he spoke forcefully but quietly – the Germans ambushed. Soon, the riotous atmosphere arose once more, and the death songs of even more Americans sang an almost beautiful chorale. Every so often, another bomb or grenade would set off near by and gradually, I succumbed to my own emotion, and decided to crouch low and remain immobile. With no more ammo left, and the Captain so far away with most of the other squad, my life flashed threateningly fast-forward in my head. Miraculously, the pain in my leg seemed to have numbed and felt fit to scurry to others’ help. I crouched down next to Spekzakis who was comforting a man whose face was grotesque and mutated, chunks from his cheek fallen away, dazzling hues of scarlet, purple and brown.

“You’re gonna be fine, I have water and antibiotics.” A thick New York accent personified through Spekzakis. His highly-arched nose and dark hair made me think, possibly Greek. I took the canteen in my hands, and wiped away trickling blood on his face. He looked beastly.

When I was younger, I remember drinking milk. Daily, we would get our milk in a bottle, but our family was one of the few that bought milk still from the store the very same day. My ma said drinking milk made strong bones and teeth, to help me grow into a proper man. I guess I believed her if I drank all that milk. Sometimes I would sneak honey into it, but I never told ma this. Mrs. Jackson from the pale blue house down the road made me milky pancakes after church. It’s strange how some boys’ memories are of toy cars and baseball, but my most prominent memory was of milk. I think it had something to do with showing my folks how much I wanted to grow into a man. My old man was prouder than most, being a war veteran himself, and told me having a wife and being the man of the house meant nothing, if you weren’t a man to begin with. He taught me greatly of morals and doing right. The day I stole a penny from Farmer Dick, my pa beat me senseless, saying if he can’t put in the good, he’ll just shake out the bad.

“I want Christine.” The man with half a face whispered, terrified.

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be sent back, and you’ll see her again.” My voice found its way to my body. My hands trembled and I stared. For a moment I wondered what this man was from, why he was here, and if he passed, who would be the ones at his grave, weeping.

“I need her now,” he croaked again. This time, a sickly mix of tears, pus and blood surfaced on his face. I grimaced and dipped the cloth back into the antibiotics.

I drank milk till I was about 16, my arms and legs pronounced with slight muscles, my shoulders wide and powerful. My obsession with milk withered, but not the wanton need to be what both my old man and I expected me to be. Last year, I turned 28 and got called into war. If anytime was the time to prove I was a man, it would be now. Sometimes I regret my decision, seeing the death so unceremoniously tended to.

The mood was now tense, the Captain shouting orders again and word caught on more Germans were filing in on the location. I looked over both shoulders and saw what I now considered my brethren shuffling eastward, to where we first came from…away from the Germans!

“What’s going on?!” I cried desperately, seeing the many uninterested and tiresome soldiers half-running, half-walking away. I skimmed Spekzakis’ expression, he too was confused, too enveloped in healing the man with half a face. Someone I didn’t know, but recognized replied, “The fucking Germans, that’s what! We’re heading back, half our men are dead.” For a fleeting moment, I thought this day would end. Happily, I would return to site and not have to go into combat once more. Spekzakis assured me he could carry back the wounded man, I stayed back to collect dropped canteens of water and medicine. We were low on stock. Finally, being the last to head back, I broke into a jog. Amazing, the sun was kissing the very tip of the far off cliff. Ungracefully, a loud bang hit my immediate left side, followed by the rhythm of bullets. Ahead, I saw men shouting and staggering forwards, running with all that God gave them. The Germans struck again.

I ran faster than I have ever run before. A tiresome, stretching pain slashed my lungs, they felt exploded. Even at my fastest, I wouldn’t be able to catch up with my forerunners. Soon, it would be the end, and the finite wish to be a man would hopefully not ebb away in vain. Very suddenly, things became black quickly. I thought of as much white as I could. The cheek of my fiancée Lola, the dress that she promised she’d wear on our wedding day, and milk. The innocence that these thoughts brought calmed the rest of my body. Mulling, milk. God sent me to this earth, and the day I die, the day I finished my quest as a man. I hoped that the good I have done will outshine the chiseled jaw and biceps that lives on in old photographs. The man with half a face, Lola, Spekzakis, my captain, my ma, my pa, my older brother Jeffrey – I think of them. Brilliantly, their faces rolled in front of my eyes. The pain in my legs ceased, and the savage in my chest stopped pounding. My head jerked forward from impact hitting the back of my head. There is now an unfamiliar flavor in my mouth – milk? It takes surface and overflows.

When you’re a man, milk starts to taste different.