Comrade (1)
Something about him felt strangely familiar, so I checked the name tag first.
Ralph Schwartz.
I had never heard the name before… yet the face was far too familiar. Where had I seen him? The training camp? The recruit reception center?
I studied his face carefully.
So what?
The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, and the black strands mixed through his blond hair, were distinctive.
Ah. Wait a second.
This bastard…
He was the one who had slipped cigarettes into my pack during the kit inspection at training camp!
Ralph Schwartz’s head turned with a creak.
The moment his eyes met mine, his pupils blew wide in an instant.
“Uh… wait. I think I’ve seen you before.”
“…….”
“Ah! You’re the orphan, right?!”
Ralph tossed his bag onto his bunk and started toward me as if we were old friends.
After secretly stuffing cigarettes into my pack and getting me beaten for it, he had the nerve to act this friendly. There were limits to shamelessness!
“Your name was… um, Chloe Winterland, right? You never told me your name when we met.”
“…….”
“Anyway, good to see you! I figured with your magic aptitude you’d go to the artillery. Don’t tell me you didn’t have any?”
“Hey.”
“Huh?”
“Rank.”
I pointed a finger at the epaulet on my shoulder.
Corporal, no less! Name: Chloe Winterland! And the rank of the guy currently trying to act buddy-buddy with me?
I checked his insignia at once.
Private First Class, Ralph Schwartz.
Ha. You’re dead.
PFC Ralph Schwartz put distance between us with trembling eyes.
“Uh, when did you get promoted?”
“Looks like you wear those eyes just for decoration.”
“Come on, we don’t have to be that strict with each other, right?”
Ralph laughed and closed the gap again, reaching as if to put a hand on my shoulder.
Smack!
I struck the back of his hand immediately.
“Don’t touch me.”
“…….”
“PFC Ralph Schwartz.”
“No, I just—”
“Is that how they taught you to speak to a superior?”
Ralph’s expression hardened as he finally grasped the situation. He straightened his back and assumed proper military courtesy.
“My apologies, Corporal Winterland.”
“Ha. Forget it. Go to your bunk.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ralph withdrew at once to the bunk opposite mine. He shifted his bag under the bed, spread the blanket, and lined up his boots neatly.
The earlier attitude had vanished; only a stiff soldier remained. I liked that.
Hmm.
Better reaction than expected. A good range of expressions.
He didn’t seem the type to dig in his heels out of pride even after being called out.
People who bow their heads right away are the ones who live longest. You look like one of those, Ralph.
In that moment, Ralph’s eyes drifted toward the notebook on my nightstand.
…The diary!
I snapped it shut at once.
Whew…
The surprise cracked my expression for a second.
“Did you see it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“…….”
“I truly did not look.”
“Fine. Got it.”
I stowed the diary in my bag.
Well, even if a half-baked guy like him had seen it, it wouldn’t have mattered much—but there was no harm in being careful.
This was a surprise gift prepared for one person only: Sergeant Müller.
Proper aging for the finest flavor!
That was the least a gourmet of despair could do.
Mm. And I was bored anyway—was this good timing?
The kid had a lively face, and at his core he seemed like a decent person… maybe he wouldn’t be half bad?
“PFC Schwartz.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you still smoke?”
“…….”
Ralph’s hands, still finishing his bunk, froze. A clear reaction—painfully obvious.
So he was still lighting up. Idiot.
“Ah—no, ma’am.”
“That so? So you only like putting them in other people’s bags?”
“That’s…”
Ralph’s lips moved several times, but nothing came out.
The feeling of someone trying to invent a lie on the spot and failing. Clumsy in every way.
He still had that half-baked quality about him.
Heh heh.
I simply waited, and in the end he hung his head and chose the single wisest option in military life.
“I’m sorry.”
“…….”
“I’m truly sorry.”
“…Forget it.”
“Are you forgiving me?”
“No? I just don’t want to hear any more, so shut your mouth.”
I had to squeeze as much entertainment out of this as possible before Sergeant Misty arrived.
I didn’t want Misty—or Sergeant Müller—to see my real nature and face, after all.
In any case, Ralph sealed his lips again, and I passed the time on my bunk.
Why that face? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because the story about another man ran a little long?
Mm, fine. I’ll be precise.
The person who had the greatest influence on my life, and the person I love most—both are you.
If I had to rank Ralph, he’d be fourth… no, fifth or so.
Obviously! That’s the influence ranking!
The only person I love is you! Don’t get the wrong idea!
Anyway, second place in influence was Misty Misty.
That wasn’t love either, of course. In several senses she hit me hard enough to make the back of my head ring.
Truly.
Anyway, the jealousy is getting stale. If you want my attention, maybe revise your strategy a little?
The way I did… heh.
Cough, cough.
The coughing seems a bit worse.
Inhale… exhale…
I’ll continue the story. The flow was broken for too long. That’s your fault.
From that day on, the awkward tent life with Ralph Schwartz began.
He was quick on the uptake, and once a line was drawn he tended to stay quietly behind it.
At ration time he brought my share without being asked; if my canteen was empty he refilled it in silence. He didn’t even spit!
When I muttered to myself while writing that I was low on ink, the next day he produced a small ink bottle from somewhere.
“Did you steal it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then?”
“I traded two cigarettes with the supply clerk.”
“You said you don’t smoke.”
“I said I don’t smoke. I never said I don’t carry them.”
This kid was more shameless than I thought.
Still, he was useful, so I could let it slide.
Later I asked why he had been sent to the medical unit. He said shrapnel from a barrage had hit his left arm.
The wound wasn’t deep, but there was a risk of infection, so they were watching him for a few days.
“Your unit?”
“214th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Battalion, 9th Company.”
“Duty?”
“I was a rifleman, but when I return I’ll probably be a messenger and assistant signalman. They said they’re short on runners…”
“You’re not going to live long.”
“Thank you for the encouragement!”
It wasn’t encouragement.
A messenger… he meant the ones who ran around the trenches under shellfire carrying orders and trying to reconnect telephone wire, right?
Rifleman would have been better.
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Of course I am.”
“But?”
“If I run, they shoot me.”
A realistic answer.
Mm. Hearing it from a boy still young enough for dreams felt a little dissonant.
A far more ordinary human than me.
A small spark of interest lit.
While recording my dreams, I decided to record the human named Ralph Schwartz as well.
Would Sergeant Müller get jealous reading this?
I didn’t think his favoritism came from loving me, but the offer to make me his adopted daughter said otherwise, didn’t it?
To think you would do that to the girl you once offered to adopt.
Anyway, a week passed quickly that way.
From the fifth day I could move around the barracks without a cane, and on the morning of the seventh the army surgeon prodded my ankle this way and that.
And then, at last, the moment arrived.
Stamp.
The seal hit the papers.
Limited combat duty authorized.
Long-distance marches and assault missions excluded.
Magic may be used only restrictively under the permission of a spotter or on-site commander.
“Take care.”
“Thank you.”
“…First time I’ve seen someone thank me for sending them back to the front.”
“Is that so?”
“If you want, I can put in for an extra psych eval.”
“I’m fine.”
The surgeon looked at me steadily.
A man who had watched too many boy soldiers die; only worn-down, dulled emotion showed faintly through.
Anyway, that was how I returned.
Sergeant Misty had finished her forward observation duty and come back as well, and Ralph, cleared the same day, headed with us to the battalion replacement depot.
New assignment orders came down.
Corporal Chloe Winterland and Sergeant Misty Misty.
Return to Sniper/Observation Section, Headquarters, 3rd Battalion, 214th Infantry Regiment.
Operational attachment to the sector of 2nd Platoon, 9th Infantry Company.
On paper we belonged to battalion HQ; the actual command authority would probably rest with the 2nd Platoon leader.
We arrived at the 9th Company barracks, where faces I had never seen before were waiting for us.
“Mm, glad to have you. Want me to introduce everyone one by one?”
Mm. The platoon leader was a remarkably kind human.
Without even being asked, he pointed to each person in turn and told me their name, duty, and rank.
I still remember them.
The hollow-eyed 2nd Platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Eriich Hess.
Sergeant First Class Wilhelm Kern, whose mustache looked oddly like a certain strange German’s—curious enough that it stuck with me.
Sergeant Greta Vogel, former combat engineer.
Corporal Oscar Bremer, who always carried the field telephone and wire reels on his back.
The sniper who scowled the moment he saw my scopeless rifle—Corporal Johann Roth.
And the medic whose needlessly large chest constantly stole my attention—Private First Class Josephine Feld.
Mm. Counting Sergeant Misty and me, that made eight in the platoon?
“And Private First Class Ralph Schwartz, who came in today just like you two!”
Ta-da.
With a sound effect from his own mouth, he pointed at Ralph.
Your military career just got screwed. Congratulations.
The problem was that my military career started going sideways from this point too.
The mass production of early machine guns began…
It was the start of technological progress.
Prototypes had already been found fairly often on the front lines before then, but proper operational use began around this time.