Birthday (1)
When I returned to the dugout after finishing my shift on the forward line, something strange was sitting on the table.
Three hard military biscuits stacked one atop another, red jam smeared between each layer, and a candle shorter than a finger stuck into the top.
"…What is this?"
"Can't you tell? It's a cake."
"Apologize to cake."
"What do you want me to do? These are the only ingredients you can scrounge up on the front."
"Wait—aren't these the biscuits Sergeant Kern was hoarding?"
"You talk too much."
Gathered in the dugout were Master Sergeant Müller, Sergeant Misty, Second Lieutenant Hess, Sergeant Kern, Sergeant Vogel, Corporal Bremer, Corporal Rot, and Private First Class Josefine.
Every one of them was looking at me.
Looking back on it now… you really did carve out the time, even with that crushing schedule.
Pardon?
Because I was precious to you…?
Ah.
The institution of birthdays was rather excellent. All I had to do was sit still, and a whole crowd of people would shower me with attention!
"By the way, today isn't actually my birthday."
"We decided it is."
"……."
"You told us before, didn't you? That you didn't have one."
"So you can just assign one however you like?"
"You lived long enough to see another winter. So… why not?"
Something in my chest itched strangely.
Sergeant Misty set a paper cone hat on my head, and Private First Class Josefine poured cocoa into cups, fighting back a smile.
Sergeant Kern set the beat, and everyone launched into a ragged song. The pitches were all over the place, and the distant boom of artillery kept cutting in between the verses.
It was a wretched chorus.
"Make a wish."
Second Lieutenant Hess pointed at the candle.
I closed my eyes and wished.
Please let me eat this cake again next winter! And please let me get closer to everyone else!
The closer we got, the more varied the expressions I'd get to see.
I blew out the candle. Applause erupted.
While the others divided up the biscuits, Master Sergeant Müller held out a small package.
"The gift I promised."
I unwrapped the cloth and found a folding mirror the size of my palm.
On the back of the smoothly polished metal plate, my name and today's date had been engraved.
In the mirror I saw a gaunt face, pale lips, and silver hair gone completely to ruin. A few months of this damned front-line living had done a number on what used to be a pretty face.
Ah, give me back my beautiful-girl face. A shower might bring some of it back…!
Hmm. Then again, this look might not be so bad in its own way?
I lifted the corner of my mouth just slightly and bowed to Müller.
"Thank you."
"Survive until next year."
"Will you give me another present?"
"Depends on how you do."
"Then I'll have to make absolutely sure I live."
"……."
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You seem a lot brighter than when we first met."
Well, I'd been deliberately performing in that direction. I'd been talking a little more, offering greetings first, smiling faintly at jokes.
Over the span of several months, I'd staged the scene of a child who couldn't open her heart easily slowly growing closer to her comrades.
"It's because everyone has been so kind to me."
"…Is that so."
"Yes."
The hard set of Master Sergeant Müller's eyes softened, just a fraction.
Heh heh. I'd received a gift more precious than any mirror.
He checked his watch and rose from his seat.
"Well. Time I was going."
"Already?"
"I've been away for two hours. A mountain of paperwork will be waiting for me back at the inspectorate."
"Is my birthday only worth two hours?"
"In a war, that's on the long side."
"Please stretch it to three hours next year."
I put on a petulant little pout that didn't suit me at all.
It was my birthday, so I figured this much wouldn't come off as awkward. Time to start showing a few appropriately childlike moments here and there.
"If you're still alive, I'll think about it."
"Me?"
"Both of us."
Master Sergeant Müller gathered up his document case with a perfectly unbothered expression.
"Yes. I'll hold you to that promise."
"Don't lose your inhaler, and listen to Sergeant Misty."
"I always do."
"…Is there another Winterland I don't know about?"
"……."
This man had gotten better at joking.
Müller sighed and raised his hand. I stayed still, thinking he meant to ruffle my hair—but all he did was straighten the crooked paper cone hat.
"Anyway. Happy birthday."
"Thank you, Master Sergeant Müller."
He disappeared beyond the communication trench.
I followed him as far as the dugout entrance and stood there until his back was gone from sight. Then Second Lieutenant Hess's voice came from behind me.
"Feeling left out?"
"No, sir."
"The others prepared gifts too. Come back inside and take a look."
"Yes, sir."
When I stepped back in, Sergeant Vogel held out a hand and asked to borrow my mirror. Claiming the clasp looked weak, he pulled out his tools without waiting for permission.
Sergeant Kern refilled my cup, fretting that the coffee was going cold. Corporal Bremer was caught scraping leftover jam off the cake and got a smack across the back of the hand from Josefine.
Corporal Rot talked about nothing but guns.
"My gift is a new bolt. I fitted it to your rifle myself."
"Who gives gun parts as a birthday present?"
"It'll outlast that mirror on the front."
"I like the mirror better."
"So you do care about your looks."
"Of course I do."
Well, as you can see—I'd gotten close enough with this lot to trade jokes.
The platoon treated me as a comrade, and at the same time fretted over me like a child. Whenever I coughed up blood, they stared as if I might drop dead any second.
My surroundings were filled with people who would produce excellent expressions at the slightest prod, ready for me to enjoy whenever I pleased.
Though Master Sergeant Müller's face is still the best.
Cough, cough.
Two coughs, and every eye in the dugout snapped to me at once. Private First Class Josefine grabbed the inhaler. Sergeant Misty was already at my side.
"…I'm fine."
"Does a fine person cough like that?"
"I cough fairly often even on ordinary days."
"That's exactly the problem."
Sss, huu…
I exhaled a plume of white smoke and studied the faces of my platoon mates.
Those worried expressions were works of art.
I considered giving my mana a little nudge and coughing up blood for an even better scene—then immediately abandoned the idea.
My right leg ached every cold day. My lungs and throat could barely hold without the inhaler. A dull numbness lingered in my fingertips, and my contaminated mana circuits could act up at any moment.
A body that had spent months on the front was in no condition to tolerate games. I'd thought about adding one more wound for the fun of it, but I'd probably die before it healed.
The First Principle was still survival.
If I wanted to savor a moderate amount of amusement for a long time, I had to hold back today as well.
"Ah—since everyone's here, there's something I wanted to show you."
Second Lieutenant Hess unfolded a document with a smile.
A familiar set of papers. My shooting record, stamped with Sergeant Misty's observation log and the forward outpost verification seal.
Current Officially Confirmed Kills: 153
Corporal Bremer let out a low whistle.
So the number of people I'd killed since enlisting had already passed a hundred and fifty… Add in the kills Misty hadn't been able to confirm, and the real figure would be far higher.
Corporal Rot pulled out a worn sheet of paper and spread it beside me.
"You showed up in a front-line newsletter we found on a Federation corpse. With a kill count like that, I guess it was only natural."
"…I was in it?"
"Yeah."
On one side of the newsletter was a drawing of a silver-haired girl. The eyes were needlessly fierce, and the nose was longer than mine.
Beneath it, next to the moniker White Sniper, a list of precautions had been printed.
Young female. Distinctive silver hair. Uses a sniper rifle without a scope…?
Prioritizes officers and signalmen. Upon discovery, avoid engagement and request artillery support.
Ah. That's inconvenient.
I frowned.
"The drawing doesn't look like me at all. I'm much prettier."
"That's the part you're worried about?"
"Yes."
"Read what's written underneath."
Corporal Rot pointed to the final section of the text.
It concerned the White Silver Star.
The Empire, it claimed, had faked the White Silver Star's death, concealed her identity, and sent her to the front under the name White Sniper.
"…What is this."
"It's a rumor that's been going around for a while."
"I don't even use mercury."
"Similar face, silver hair, and you're a hell of a shot. What do you expect?"
"Ugh."
Having another name—White Silver Star—draped over my own put me in a foul mood for no good reason.
I was me, and the White Silver Star was the White Silver Star!
It felt like the attention that should have been mine was being stolen by her!
. . .
Just as the party atmosphere was starting to cool, Sergeant Kern—unable to endure the boredom any longer—slammed an empty tin can down in the middle of the table with a sharp clang.
Clang!
Everyone jolted upright in alarm.
"Wh-what the hell?!"
"I'm bored. Let's make a bet!"
Sergeant Kern laid out the terms at once.
"Corporal Winterland makes sergeant within three months. I'm putting two cigarettes on it."
"Impossible. A sergeant has to take charge of subordinates, and Corporal Winterland has no command experience."
"There's wartime special promotion, isn't there? Misty."
"…You also have to consider her age."
"She's sixteen as of today, right? A whole year older."
Ah, right. I was sixteen starting today.
Because today was my birthday. Hmm. It didn't really feel like it.
They're all taking this pretty seriously, though.
Sergeant Vogel casually wagered a piece of candy on the side that said no promotion—just a medal and a special allowance.
"Command will want to keep using her as a sniper, don't you think? Making her a sergeant gets a little awkward."
"Propaganda might take her."
"Hmm…"
"White Sniper, one hundred fifty-three confirmed kills! Put that face in the papers and recruitment numbers would skyrocket."
Corporal Bremer framed my face with his fingers like a camera viewfinder.
Tsk. Unpleasant. I clicked my tongue inwardly.
Why are men always… ah. I probably shouldn't be saying that.
Private First Class Josefine put two candies on the side that said I'd be declared unfit for front-line duty and evacuated to the rear.
"That's too much."
"Then don't get hurt."
"……."
You. I already didn't like you because of those big breasts, and now I like you even less. Noted. Josefine Feld…!
"Hey. Actually, I already submitted a promotion recommendation in secret, you know…?"
Second Lieutenant Hess raised a hand and casually dropped the truth. He added that, given my length of service and age, a sergeant's rank insignia probably wouldn't come through.
A merit medal or a special allowance seems more likely. If the war situation gets worse and a sergeant's post opens up, I might make the candidate list—but that's not what I want.
Huu. How much would the pay go up? Getting promoted without a raise would be a loss.
I quietly wagered my remaining packet of sugar on the side that said I'd receive a medal, a promotion, and a special allowance.
Incidentally—sixteen years old, and still no period. Fine by me, but… hmm. There isn't actually something wrong, is there?
And the night the birthday party ended, I secretly wrote in my diary from bed. Looking back, it's a fond memory.
For months a warped chessboard had occupied my dreams, but I couldn't catch so much as a trace of that unknown woman's voice, nor any sense of magic.
It was despairing.
Do I remember what I wrote? The part you found… ah, no?
Probably something like…
Today, I got a birthday!
Kill count: 153. Alias: White Sniper.
Chloe Winterland, sixteen years old, still alive.
That's what I would have written.