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“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,
“Except, now and then, a stray picket
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
’Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost—only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, his death-rattle.”
* * * * * *
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon
Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard—for the army is sleeping.
There’s only the sound of the lone sentry’s tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack—his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother—may Heaven defend her!
The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
The footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so suddenly flashing?
It looked life a rifle—“Ha! Mary, good-by!”
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—
The picket’s off duty forever!
-- The Picket-Guard by Ethel Lynn Beers
Johnny kept her picture in his wallet. It was thumbed soft around the edges from months of sweaty hands waiting in-between letters. When they did come, he ripped them open so fast he almost always tore off a corner. Amir watched as he mouthed out each word, eyes darting across the page. She wrote short things, talking about her daddy's corner store and how pretty the apple trees were this winter. She failed to mention much about herself, but he didn't seem to care. He turned it over, reading the back of a stranger's photograph like he had a thousand times before. Lisa McEntire - Class of 74. The year felt strange on the officer's tongue. They were both just kids. A letter told him recently that she had just graduated secretary school and got a nice cushy job at a desk. Her new boss was real friendly. She sounded like a good girl, if you took out the unspoken parts where she was sleeping around.
"Hey, Bronx."
"Johnny."
They had known each other since preschool, Johnny said, and she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. She had blonde curly hair that wrapped around her chin like a bonnet and eyes blue like a jaybird. But they weren't exactly high school sweethearts. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and he told her the same song and dance they every kid did-- he don't want to die a virgin. It turned out that Miss McEntire, like most girls her age, was a generous sort. Mail call was empty of his father's letters; Johnny said they got lost in the mail. His friends names rarely left his tongue and over the past few months, he only spoke about little Miss McEntire when someone spoke of her first. The boy wasn't as lonely as he should've been.
"Hey, Johnny."
He looked down at the other man resting in his arm. His eyes drooped, even in his sleep, and his mouth laid open against the other's chest. His hot breath danced against the exposed skin of his neck. Johnny had been this way since they met. The first thing he did when they met was ask his autograph, and the second was if they could share a tent. He was used to fanatics by now, though the Chinese seemed to care for him a lot less and they don't throw roses at Power Armor mechanics.
"Baby?"
"Huh-- what?"
There was a guilt to it, he felt, or maybe there should be. His feelings were complicated. It would be lying to say that the Alaskan winter didn't make him think about things he hadn't bothered to before. There couldn't be that much difference from a man's lips than a woman's. His hands were soft from being in his Armor and one body's hot breath on his neck had never felt different than another. It would be easy. He was begging for it. Once, their lips had touched in the dark, his quivering from the cold and the boy's from something altogether unfamiliar. Amir broke it before it began and pretended not to notice. Johnny brushed it off with his leather gloves and a nervous laugh. They never spoke about it, not when Johnny's eyes lingered in the shower or his hands found their way into the officer's sleeping bag.
"You're snorin' again."
"Mhm."
The last camp they were stationed in managed to get away with a burlesque show. He'd seen a few real ones in some Nashville speakeasies and had never been impressed, but he promised he'd play the six-string if somebody else would do the dancing. As he expected, freshly waxed legs walked around like newborn calves in high heels across a makeshift stage. He didn't see a thing that interested him, but as long as he kept playing they would keep bringing drinks. It became a game to see who could get the biggest reaction out of the company's musical accompaniment. By the end of the night, some Nancy in a mini skirt wrapped a feather boa around his neck and every man in the tent whistled-- except for one. Johnny had run out then, no longer happy to sit close and hear his guitar. Amir wondered for a while if he should've followed after, seen what upset him. But he knew already.
"So are you gonna stop snorin' or are you gonna torture me all night?"
"You wouldn't have something to bitch about if you'd just go to sleep."
That didn't help the rumors. Course, Amir never bothered to stifle them either. Maybe it was because he felt they were right. Here he was with his body pressed against him in a bed roll, stealing his heat to keep out the snow.
"You're damn lucky I'm cold."
"You're welcome."