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The noises without increase in volume, pass into my dream and yet linger in my memory. In a half sleep I watch Kat dip and raise the ladle. I love him, his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure—and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace, to me, a soldier in big boots, belt, and knapsack, taking the road that lies before him under the high heaven, quickly forgetting and seldom sorrowful, for ever pressing on under the wide night sky.
A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and the shut heart, who marches because he is wearing big boots, and has forgotten all else but marching. Beyond the sky-line is a country with flowers, lying so still that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them-perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there?
Is my face wet, and where am I? Kat stands before me, his gigantic, stooping shadow falls upon me, like home. He speaks gently, he smiles and goes back to the fire.
Then he says: "It's done."
“Yes, Kat.”
I drag myself to where he sits, legs crossed and large boots protecting him from the dirt floor. He picks the ladle up and I lean forward and grab it. My side presses his as I stir. I fumble for my pocket knife and fork as he does. He lets me be slow, it is harder while leaning against him. Even for a meal better than I’ve experienced in any weeks past I don’t unlatch from him. He does not care. When we eat, his arm is around me. We can hear each other chewing slowly, I hope he can not hear the fast beating of my heart.
"How does it taste, Kat?"
"Good! And yours?"
"Good, Kat."
His name fits so nicely in my mouth, I say it but what you can do a often for that reason. He presses the choicest pieces to me, I push them back to him. He avoids them, eating the lackluster parts to make me do as he wants. He stops after swallowing and looks up at me. He tells me with his eyes what I should do. I want him to have them but I instead eat the preferred bits. His face told me he was okay with it, I was not. However I will always do as he wishes.
He smiles and puts away his fork and knife. His empty hands take mine and fold them, so I don’t have to move. I want to, though. He leans over and smiles to himself as he puts each in the appropriate pocket of my uniform. The remnants of the goose should be packed up. I think we should take them to Kropp and Tjaden. I’ll suggest it later.
Now, we sit still. I still hear the drone of various sounds outside. My right ear is pressed to him, but I can still hear clearly.
His touch reminds me of home. It is far from that of my mother. My father and I don’t have any similar understanding, so I know it is not the same. I would compare it to a woman’s if I had such an experience. Kat is not a woman though, he is tall and broad and masculine. Even his clean shaven face wouldn’t bring him any closer to a woman, yet I feel so comfortable in his arms.
“Kat.” I say. He looks at me and for a second and I think it might the way in which I look at him. My head is on his shoulder and I don’t want to move. His arm is wrapped around my back. We share more than just experience and understanding of shell covered grounds that lay outside. My dirt stained nose presses into his equally dirty sleeve.
“Need more sleep?” He asks. I shake my head. I already slept. We need to get out of the shelter before someone comes and finds us. But I don’t want to unlatched from him, and he seems content. He has lit a cigar and blows the tainted air out in a thin line from his chapped lips. I really need a cigarette.
“We need to leave, Kat.” I say. I look towards our meal, “And the goose..” He exhales grey smoke.
“Alright then. Are you sure?” I’m positive I want to stay in his embrace, but it is too selfish of me to try.
“No..” I let myself say into him. The arm around me lifts up to touch my hair. His fingers dance between the strands that fall over my face before gingerly pushing them to the side. His fingers move to my cheeks. The back of his hand slides down my cheekbone. It almost touches my lips but parts from my skin. I yearn for the return of his caress.
“I love you,” I mutter. It is silent for a moment. I think I prefer it like this. “I know.” He tells me and pauses. Our slow breaths are synced.
“But I can’t.” He says
I know this. I know Kat has sworn loyalty to another and has a family waiting for him come peace-time. I know he can’t feel the way I do because I am wrong to even think this way. But I love him. Moments pass. I lean forward to wrap up the goose with old newspaper. He watches. He would be helping but I know he is shocked by my divulgence. He doesn’t want to hurt me and I think that hurts more than if he did.
I look back at him and smile. No matter how he feels, we hold a deeper and more intimate understanding of each other than any other in the company. I am not sad that I am turned down, because I still sit in his presence.
“How would it be, Kat, if we took a bit to Kropp and Tjaden?”
“Sure,” says he.
His voice is shaky. My heart aches.
We carve off a portion and wrap it up carefully in newspaper. The rest we thought of taking over to the hut. Kat laughs weakly, and simply says: "Tjaden."
I nod. He pulls the paper wrapped bundle towards us. I watch his eyes. They lift to mine. Blue irises make his faded face dull. I wish I could have reason to look at them more.
Our bodies face each other and we stand. I think he will lean to get the goose. He does not. He looks at me and I feel uneasy. I wish for him not to speak but for us to continue in silence, because if he talks I fear it will be about what I told him.
But he doesn’t use words, he pulls me close to him brashly and holds me tight. I selfishly drink in his touch, grabbing all of him so I can breath in the dreadful scent of war on his coat. It matters not what we are covered in, dirt and filth and dread and death. I just want to be with him.
His rough lips speak into my neck, “I can’t.”
He steps backwards and parts from me, ripping my heart from my chest as he walks. “Tjaden might be angry,” He says. We pack away the feathers and leave.
…
He points to Kat. "He is stone dead."
I do not understand him. "He has been hit in the shin," I say.
The orderly stands still. "That as well."
I turn round. My eyes are still dulled, the sweat breaks out on me again, it runs over my eyelids. I wipe it away and peer at Kat. He lies still. "Fainted," I say quickly.
The orderly whistles softly. "I know better than that. He is dead. I'll lay any money on that."
I shake my head: "Not possible. Only ten minutes ago I was talking to him. He has fainted." Kat's hands are warm, I pass my hand under his shoulders in order to rub his temples with some tea. I feel my fingers become moist. As I draw them away from behind his head, they are bloody. "You see-“
The orderly whistles once more through his teeth.
On the way without my having noticed it, Kat has caught a splinter in the head. There is just one little hole, it must have been a very tiny, stray splinter. But it has sufficed. Kat is dead.
Slowly I get up.
“Would you like to take his paybook and his things?" the lance-corporal asks me.
I nod and he gives them to me.
The orderly is mystified. "You are not related, are you?"
No, we are not related. No, we are not related.
Do I walk? Have I feet still? I raise my eyes, I let them move round, and turn myself with them, one circle, one circle, and I stand in the midst.
All is as usual. Only the Militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky has died.
Then I know nothing more.