It was getting dark, and the sunlight was beginning to vacate the sky completely in a final farewell of dark oranges and near-purples. There was something strange about seeing a familiar thing such as a sunset in a completely foreign land; it’s close enough to remind you of home, yet strange enough to remind you that you’re not there. I had always wanted to see France, but I never planned it like this. Halfway across the world just to sit in a hole in the ground. I tried shifting my weight to prevent my foot from falling asleep, but no matter the position, it managed to fall asleep anyway. The boots on my feet made it impossible. I reached in my jacket pocket to pull out a smoke. Fresh out. Patting my jacket pockets I started looking around, scanning the horizon.
“Hey, Martin!” I called out to the air. “Martin!”
“Yeah?” responded a nearby voice. “That you, Frank?”
“Yup,” I said. “You got any smokes?”
A long pause ensued. Distant machine gun fire rattled off in the distance as I looked around to find its direction.
“Yeah,” hollered Martin. “I got a few.”
“Great,” I said, expecting a response. “Well?”
“Well what? You want me to throw ‘em? They’re not exactly heavy enough to throw.”
“Bring ‘em over,” I said. “I can’t find my lighter anyways.”
“Ahh geez. Fine, but you’re gonna owe me!”
“Naturally,” I replied. “You can put it on my tab.”
“I think you’re up to a carton now,” he said. “You ready?”
I slung my Thompson off my shoulder and stared down the barrel looking for targets far off on the horizon. “Yeah,” I said. “Hey, Jones!”
“I’m with ya,” said a deep voice, pulling back the caulking rod on a 50 cal several meters to the left of my foxhole. Jones had obviously been listening from his own foxhole.
“Covering fire!” I yelled as I started shooting small concentrated bursts at what I thought were German occupied areas. A loud thunderous clacking erupted when Jones’ machine gun joined the symphony. From the corner of my eye I saw Martin climbing out of his hole as he made a mad dash in my direction. Moments later, return fire started pelting the ground and trees in our area. I was still firing when Martin dove into my foxhole, triumphant and out of breath. I laid off the trigger and crouched back down, making sure he was secure.
“You all right!?” I yelled above the firefight.
“Ya know,” he said opening his breast pocket, lying on the ground of the foxhole, “these things are going to kill you.”
He smiled, handed me a cigarette. I patted myself for a lighter I knew wasn’t there. He held out his flamed lighter as I hunched over to light the cigarette.
“What in the Sam-hell, son!” he said, impersonating our fearless major. “What good is a soldier if he’s not prepared? The standard issue G.I. lighter must be carried at all times!”
Our brief laughs were followed by silence as the gunfire died off. For a moment we were content, and the noise around us had ceased, as if we were decent working men on a lunch break. The sudden distant rumble of Allied shelling quickly sobered our contentment.
“I didn’t used to smoke,” I said.
“You mean before the war?” asked Martin.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a drag.
Martin paused from his cigarette for a moment and looked up and down the line. “How long’ve we been held up here on the line?”
“Just About Five days.”
“Five days, shit. That’s a long time. It’s been the same every day, too.”
“What are you saying?”
“I dunno, seems either we find a way through their line soon, or somethin’ bad’s gonna happen.”
I looked at him with concern and could see he was earnest, his eyes frantically scanning the horizon. “You worry too much, Martin,” I said. “Besides, you don’t actually think you’re going to make it out of this alive do you?” That didn’t come off as jokingly as I had intended.
He took his eyes off the line and looked at me somberly.
“Sorry,” I said, quietly. I searched for some explanation, but one never came. I eventually spoke up, just to break the silence. “Where are you from again, Martin?”
“Montana.”
“Montana,” I repeated. “Bet it’s mighty cold about now in Montana.”
“Sure is. Cold as fuck, actually.”
I laughed but somewhere along the way it came out as a cough. “I hear it’s beautiful there.”
“Oh it is. We got the freshest air, prettiest skies, and the best mountains.”
“You got a girl back home in Montana?”
“Nope, not a girl,” he chuckled.
“Oh really? You’re quite the ladies man are we?”
“Hah! No, not really,” he said smiling. “It’s only Ma, me and my brother back home.”
“You don’t have a father?”
“Of course I have a father, he just don’t live with us.”
I felt a little pressed about prying, but I could tell he liked to talk about things back home. “How old is your brother?”
“Fifteen in two months.”
“He a pain in the ass?”
“Yeah,” he said as he smiled. “But he’s not so bad.”
“Sounds like a good thing you’ve got there. I’ve always wanted to go to Montana.”
“Yeah, well if you ever do, ya know, after and such, you’ve got a place to stay.”
I was taken back and a little embarrassed. So much so I didn’t know what to say.
“So what about you, Frank? What’s life like for you back home?” he said.
I thought about Melissa, the new house, my unborn son. I thought about the school, my students, our church. I looked down at my cigarette and saw it was done and the cherry had burned up. “I’ll tell you what. How about we save that for the next death-defying cigarette break?” I said with a grin.
“Sure thing, boss!” he said. And with that he turned, rose to his feet and started out of the hole. Night had completely fallen, and it was dark enough for him to crawl out and back to his own hole without raising any unwanted attention.
As he crawled away, I noticed his lighter on the ground in my foxhole. “Martin, your lighter!”
“Just keep it till next time,” he said, crawling away.