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It is cloudy tonight. The clouds offer reprieve from the bombs, and many men on the beach have allowed themselves to let their guards down. Some stand awake, keeping their eyes peeled for the next ship, and others lie sleeping, some so still that they are almost indistinguishable from the dead.
He is seated; there is little point in wasting strength standing when there is no reason to. He is too tired to walk, too restless to sleep. There is nothing to do but to wait, and he wishes he had anything else to do.
The breeze carries ghosts of the screams of stranded men. The clouds cover a sky that yesterday rained bombs and bullets. His arms are still sore from the afternoon’s rescue; indeed his whole body feels stiff.
What is the point of all those rescues? He drags exhausted soldiers back to a place where none of them want to be, only for a fresh bombardment to threaten their lives anew. And how many of those men were dead now? Did he save them or simply prolong their deaths?
And he could very well die, too – if not tonight, then tomorrow, or the days after that. There would be no body to send to his family. They may never even know that he died. Would his daughter remember him? Would his sons forgive him? Would his wife allow herself to mourn?
How many have died, and how many more will die in whatever battles await them in the future? All of these young lives extinguished, and for what?
His pulse pounds in his ears. A gust sends a shiver down his spine. He hugs his legs closer to his chest, hoping to relieve the sudden chill that has crept into his heart.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you warm enough?”
He starts. “What?”
Before him stands a soldier – likely a fellow officer – with a small pile of blankets on hand. “The last ship dropped off some blankets,” he says. “Do you need one, or are you warm enough?”
“I’m fine.”
The officer gives him a wry smile. “Here, take one.” He tosses Daniel a blanket and heads off before Daniel can protest.
This is ridiculous. Why him? Why not one of the countless men who were soaked to the bone and had no coats to keep them warm? His rank should not afford him luxuries during a time like this.
But this gives him something to do. If he has no use for this blanket, he may as well give it someone who does.
A short walk later, he finds a private lying curled up on his side. Though asleep, his body quakes, either from cold or unpleasant dreams or both. He looks so young, no older than 16. He has red hair. Hair just like his older son’s.
He shouldn’t be here. None of them should, but the private should be in school or training for a job that doesn’t entail killing.
He places the blanket over the private. The private stirs and murmurs something in his sleep but doesn’t awaken.
He finds a place to sit down, a place where he can observe the private from a distance.
There is nothing more he can do. Perhaps the private will go home to his family. Perhaps there will be a life for him after the war. And he is asleep. For however brief a time it may be, he is asleep.
He can only hope that the war ends before his oldest becomes old enough to enlist.
He starts to feel drowsy from watching the private sleep. He lets himself close his eyes. Then sleep takes him, and his dreams take him to his wife’s warm embrace.