Bowman had gotten time off. Hit in the knee by a club.
He sat on the bank of the river, watched it ebb and flow.
He looked up to the blinding morning light. He sat straight supported by his crutch, picked at grass, a colour between green and blue.
Lily's grew green and white over large barrows, mass graves marked only by wild growth. sentimental nurses told the men that in the south, lilies were a flower of redemption. His eyes drew back to the river. His mother let the river take her, waited for a storm and walked out into it. Maybe he could do that. Would that make him a coward? He picked at black stones and bits of quartz, tossed them into the stream.
One for the mother, a black stone.
Two for the sisters, quartz.
One for the father, he didn't know what that one was.
He was lost, hopefully in a better place than him.
He had already tried once, in his first week. They made sure he survived. Then beat him when he was well enough to take it. They called him a coward then. He probably looked older than his years.
Nineteen.
What should he have been doing at nineteen? He got up eventually hauled himself upright and propped himself on his crutch. looked down the dirt bank before the living area.His knee ached, it never stopped aching and when it did it was only brief.
He decided he wouldn't die that day. Not in that river.
He'd be back on the forelines in two weeks, word was a few were captured. A man from the capital was coming to interview them. That sort of thing wasn't the business of men like him. It was for real soldiers. We were just hopeful dogs.
The real soldiers rarely interacted with the prisoners. Only to give them commands really, Bowman wondered at the practicality of that.
He walked his way into the barracks, a long series of wooden cabins, locked at night. The stench of humanity flooded his nose and so did its noise. Bowman hated noise, it intruded, irritated. On a battlefield it was a given, same as here. The river was the only peaceful place, ironic as that was.
He went into the barrack. It was empty, a rarity though not surprising. Any of the soldiers staying here would be about their day by now. The room smelled of sweat and mold, mud covered every surface. Nobody here cared for hygiene and nobody came to maintain it.
It was impossible to keep up in trench conditions regardless.
He found his bunk. Usually there was nowhere to sleep in the bunkers. This was nice.
He had no possessions and he had little energy to take off his uniform. He fell asleep the moment after he eased himself down. He got maybe three hours of sleep that night.