Rain dripped onto the camp, making the fire hiss and the smoke whirl. None of the men spoke, the tap of the canvas spoke for them. They sat about smoking or cutting away chunks of sausage to place idly into their mouths. Some of them were sleeping a light and restless sleep in the fold of their tents. Out on the periphery, some kept guard.
Mikolaj cleaned his rifle. He was too old for this, he’s decided. How many times has he cleaned this rifle? A thousand, at least. He’s too old to be cleaning rifles. Too old to be traipsing around in the dark and in the mud. Too old to be keeping a lid on young tempers. Too old to be crawling through sewers. Too old to be living in fear each night.
A crack. The men spin, some halfway to their feet. It’s just Andrey, coming back from his guard. ‘Your turn,’ he mumbles at Mikolaj.
Too old for staring out into the bleary morning, wondering when they’ll come. He loads silver-tipped bullets into the rifle, grabs his pack, and takes his grumblings to the edge of the camp.
Paddy Dobson
22nd December 2020