The overrunning of my town hadn't taken long. The frontline stretched coast to coast, too long to man constantly. Guards had been replaced by surveillance, a "virtual frontline" of information. A suburban Virginian town was far from the highest priority on the North's list of strategic locations. I knew better than to fight back. War was never a gentleman's affair, but the soldiers were decently gentlemanly, coming through. The most damage they did was commandeering the gas station.
At night, I heard the gentle rapping on my door, kind enough to be neighborly, but not matching the well-worn staccato of any neighbor I recognized. I opened the door and came face-to-face with a soldier. Not quite tall enough to be lanky, with catlike eyes and a slight frown. He was dressed in fatigues, the insignia on his shoulder indicating a middle-ranking officer, and gave me a small bow, lowering his eyes. "Hello." He said. "I'm sorry to intrude upon you at this hour." His remorse sounded genuine, and there was a soft twang to his voice.
I wasn't sure how to react. On one hand, here was a hostile gunman, on my doorstep. On the other, it was a young man, being polite and apologizing for the inconvenience. My humanity tentatively prevailed. "It's alright." I replied, with a small nod. "Can I help you with anything?" He didn't respond for a few seconds, his lips going taut. "I'm sorry." He opened with. He put some effort into eye contact. "I've been assigned to use your lodging for the duration of our occupation."
Ah, so this was what it was. So much for the 3rd Amendment. A crap situation, but he had been careful with his wording to make it clear the culpability wasn't on him- or perhaps that was what they had been told to say. Either way, he had some amount of power, and had chosen to exercise it in the gentlest way possible. I shook my head slightly. "I see." He awaited my response. "There's nothing to do about it, then. Simply lodging, or food as well?" "Food as well." "Ah."
There was bitterness in my throat. I supposed that, if I had a snowball's chance in hell, I might have taken up arms at this moment, declared that my home was sacred sanctuary. That simply wasn't an option - it wouldn't do anybody any good, and there were no arms to take up, anyhow. If he was going to be a forcible guest in my house, though, it would be wrong of me to begrudge him for it. Here was someone who may not have long to live, imposing with no choice on his part.
I exhaled and stepped back and to the side. "Please, then, come in." I said. "I'm about to start cooking dinner. You can make yourself comfortable in the dining room until it's ready. I'll prepare a bed for you later." He nodded. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it." It seemed like he wanted to elaborate, but simply stepped in, closing the door behind him. He glanced down at my slippered feet, and bent down to start unlacing his boots.
I had stocked up on some non-perishable foodstuffs when word of war first broke out. Still, I was a little light on the fresh stuff, since rationing had started. I had to stretch what I had, but I had prepared a respectable enough meal. When I walked out of the kitchen with two full plates, he kept his gaze fixed forward until he was served. I set a spoon down next to each of our plates, then I sat across from him at the small wooden table.
We both took a silent moment to bow our heads and pray. My prayer was short, and when I opened my eyes the soldier was still praying. His lips moved with the whispered suggestions of words, with the occasional hesitation. No remembered chant, this, but a real plea to the Lord. I respectfully waited for him to finish before I began to eat.
I'm not sure what moved me to talk. The right thing to do was to eat silently, make the man his bed, and go to sleep myself, treating the situation as a nuisance to be endured. Still, it wasn't often I got to indulge genuine curiosity. "Why are you doing this?" I asked. He met my gaze, and hesitated. "Not the South." I elaborated. "You. You don't seem very..." I trailed off. The unstated description would only be sullied by choice of adjective.
He hummed a little, and took a bite of food, chewing contemplatively. When he swallowed, he answered. "Why not? I believe the war is just, and I love my home." It was my turn to think. "Not why, I guess. How. You're not a grunt, if your insignia is any suggestion, but you're quite polite, for someone presumably battle-hardened." Gentle, too. This time, a swift response. "Why should a battle change that?"
"The horrors of war, or so I've heard. Unless you haven't seen combat?"
He didn't respond, so we ate for a while. He finally introduced himself. "My name's Robert." He said. "Simon." I replied. "Pleasure to meet you." We exchanged nods. I tried another stab at conversation. "How long do you lads plan to be here?" "As long as our stay will end up being. It might be a few days. It might be weeks. I'm afraid I can't tell you more." "Can't or won't?" "Can't, Simon, swear to God." "I appreciate the honesty, Robert. And what'll I need to provide you?" "Just a bed and dinner. I hope that isn't too much." "It's not."
We finished up dinner after that. "Thank you for the meal. It was delicious." Robert said. He was being polite. It was tasty at best, the spam a poor substitute for real meat. "No problem at all." I replied. "I'll go and fix your bed."
His room was next to mine, and for half an hour I could hear the scratching of pencil on paper. I slept easy, and when I woke up, he had already left. On the dinner table, there was a note: For your trouble. It's not what it's worth, but it's what I can give. -Robert Next to it was a five dollar bill. I studied it for a second before pocketing it.
He came back to my house at the same time, for dinner. He asked if he could help with the cooking, but I didn't have a large kitchen, and so an extra pair of hands wouldn't have been of much help. We both prayed over our food, Robert taking a long time with his again. I was the one to open the conversation, again. "An occupying soldier isn't obligated to pay his host, but you did." I observed. The amount was paltry, but the symbolism of it was what mattered. "You've taken me into your house and made me dinner. You've been kind." He replied.
He wasn't the most articulate fellow, but I figured I could see what he was getting at. "Which are you, then? The soldier or the guest? The soldier doesn't give an opportunity to be kind, and the guest does not march on the host's soil." He let out a light laugh between bites, looking off to the side. "I've wondered that myself."
"And what have you decided?"
"Perhaps I'm both. The soldier when marching to your door, and the guest when invited past the threshold."
"Is it the invitation, then, that turns you from one to the other? If I had spat in your face, would you have been less kind?"
"Of course. A guest feels slighted when confronted with a lack of hospitality."
"But a guest regardless? Not the soldier?"
"Yes."
"And what would it take for me to get the soldier?"
"I'd rather not say, Simon."
I understood what he meant. I took the conversation a different direction.
"Where are you from?"
"Small town in Louisiana by the name of Littlerock. Prettiest wilderness you've ever seen, 'till you have to walk in it, or grab it by the gills." There's a wistful gleam in his eyes.
"Saints fan?"
"Sure was." Robert replied, with the biggest smile I had seen out of him so far.
"Go Bills." I replied.
We spent the rest of dinner discussing sports, trading heavy thoughts for meaningless arguments about players and teams. I fetched beers from the fridge for us, and for a glistening moment, we played at being old, sly-eyed friends, the banter filled with affectionate ribbing.
"It only makes sense that some milquetoast suburbanite would bandwagon the Bills", Robert attacked.
"I've been a fan since before your hick ass knew how to read and write - that was what, seventh grade?" I parried and riposted.
"Small town doesn't mean uncultured, or were you also reading poetry collections in first grade?" He boasted, with no small amount of pride.
"And look where it's gotten you - in the ranks with the uncultured swine who would call you a pansy for doing so."
Robert paused, and it was clear that the alcohol wasn't inhibiting him very much, if at all. He didn't withdraw, though, instead leaning in a little. "What about it? Does associating with them diminish me, or dignify them? I'm far from the first warrior poet there was." It was clear he had thought on this. I wanted to give him a proper response, choosing my words carefully. "Warrior poets sing of the glory of battle, the two in one. You separate the two. It seems like you are a poet who happens to be a warrior, or that your poetic mind has led you to war."
There was less of a pause than I expected. "I suppose it has." He said. "You're right - I take no pleasure in the fighting." I took a sip of my beer. "Then why do you do it? You said that you believe in the cause, but you can surely fight for the cause in a way you would enjoy more. Writing propaganda, say." Robert shook his head. "Not if I believe in the cause, I can't. Cowardice takes many forms. Besides, we need as many troops as we-'' His voice caught. He'd already said what he shouldn't. "As we can get. I'll need to be replaced soon, too."
He stared at the table. I reached over and patted his back, without saying anything. A wordless invitation to elaborate, if he so wished. He did, it seems, his voice coming out low. "I've been on the other side of what we're about to do. Diversionary attack. Nobody comes out of it alive." He couldn't meet my gaze. I found myself talking without thinking. "Why, then? Desert, man! I'll help hide you, you can..." He let out a shaky breath, cutting me off. "Cowardice takes many forms, Simon. This martyrdom" - He called it martyrdom, not suicide - "is necessary. Maybe one low-ranking officer won't matter. But they rally around me."
I could tell that the feeling twisting his gut was the same one I felt when I took him in. The knowledge of a more immediately appealing alternative that he couldn't take because of crushing reality. Where my hand was stilled by the force differential, he had to march forward because of his sense of duty. His poetry lead to war. I finished my beer. "How much longer do we have? Before you move on." "Tonight and the next." Robert replied.
I fixed his bedding up while he showered. It was the least I could do for him. He didn't write very long. The next morning, there was a 20 dollar bill on the table, with Go Saints!, a fleur-de-lis, and a little smiley-face on a note next to it. I doubted the increased generosity was because he was holding out on me before.
When Robert came home, I invited him to join me in the kitchen as I prepared dinner. I'd decided to splurge and use what fresh food I could afford. I was about to begin cooking the steaks. I got ribeyes, of medium thickness. Rice and a side of collard greens were already prepared and being kept warm under lids. We chatted as I tended to the steaks, making sure that they were cooked to a nice medium-rare.
"Good to see you again, Robert."
"And you too, Simon."
"I appreciate the money, but it's not necessary."
"I insist you take it. You've been very hospitable."
"If you insist. And you will be moving out tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow morning, unfortunately."
"I see."
I flipped the steaks, leaning back on the counter and looking at him sitting on a chair. He looked like he was at peace, his arm slung over the backrest. "I hope you like steak."
"I do. Why?"
"Because you've been good company, and I want to give you something nice before you go."
He smiled. "Thank you."
As I took the steaks out of the pan and plated them, I said, "There's a change of clothes on your chair. Put them on. Fatigues are nothing to wear at a table." He laughed and left as I poured wine. When he came back from his bedroom, I had prepared the table, and I waited for him to sit down before we both started praying. My clothes were a little baggy on him, but he looked much more presentable now. I prayed for a long time, like he usually does. I opened my eyes to Robert looking at me. We both began to eat. I cut at my steak, he sampled his collard greens and smiled pityingly.
"I did my best on those."
"I appreciate the gesture."
We both laughed.
"What do you have for you, back home? A sweetheart? Family?" I asked.
"God no." He shook his head. "I've never felt compelled to write a poem about someone. As far as family, well, I have my ma and pa. Miss them dearly, same with my little brother."
"What's it like, back home?" I decided not to ask about what news they would hear.
"I miss the people more than the place. Like I said, gorgeous nature, but there are gorgeous views everywhere, even if the scenery is hideous. As long as there are people."
I shook my head, pressing my lips together. "You're wasted in war." I said grimly.
He shrugged. "We're all wasted, one way or another."
"Some wastes are worse than others."
"Who says dying for one's nation is a bad one?"
"Isn't it?"
He stopped eating and locked eyes with me. I did too, out of respect. "You have seen Robert, the poet. You haven't seen the warrior. I am sharp in both. Ultimately, both are instruments, of exerting will upon the world. The pen is not mightier than the sword, Simon, the pen is simply different than the sword. The sword says that this war must be won, and the pen opines that it would not do to fight in a cowardly manner. Towering walls, narrowing to a destination. Do you see? There is no path, but this one."
Tears pricked at my eyes. I held his gaze. "Is that how you view yourself, then?" My voice wavered. "On a collision course?" Robert hesitated, and for a moment I thought his resolve had failed, but he finally nodded. "A sword in swing does not rebel against its momentum. I'm sorry." We ate silently for a few minutes after that.
"It's a shame." I said, finally. Robert nodded. "I wish it were different." I added. He nodded again, and replied, "If we had met differently. But would that be the same? Maybe these strange circumstances are the only way this could've happened." I chewed for a while. There was a fundamental injustice to that idea, that such a thing could only bloom when doomed to end so terribly.
As we finished up our dinners, I said, "You're a good man, Robert, and I'm glad I could know you, even if it couldn't be for long." He smiled warmly. "You too, Simon. And you cook steak far better than collard greens." I grinned and punched him in the shoulder.
After we went to bed, he wrote for a long time. I wanted to ask him what it was about, but decided not to bother him. When I woke up, he was gone. On the dinner table was his notepad, filled with poems. Not a single one was about the beauty of war. On the last page of the notepad was one last poem. He had written it last night, about us.