FSE

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It has been six months since Damien left home. He was deployed to the front lines in Germany a couple months after the initial invasion of Normandy. Base camp was a busy place, home to constant noise of vehicles, planes, people talking, people yelling, cursing and complaints about the food. He shared a bunk with a guy he had met back in the States. They both grew up in New York, just Damien was from rural, upper New York and this other guy was from the city. His name is Micah Stolas, a black and white fox who was assigned to the same squad Damien was. Damien stood slightly taller than him; he was about six foot, two and Micah about five foot, ten. Micah originally wanted to work on tanks and jeeps instead of risking his life on the front lines, but not everyone gets what they want. He was denied the opportunity and instead was stuffed into our squad as an infantry man. Although he was disappointed, he still enjoyed working on and cleaning guns. Anything that included taking things apart and putting things back together, and even improving them in the process, fascinated Micah and he took pride in his talent.

"I wanted to be an engineer," said Micah back during training, "but I just couldn't bring myself to suffer through college. You see, in college, they can teach you the basics, they can teach you what is already known. You know what they can't teach you? How to innovate; how to come up with new and intuitive ideas. That's all up to you. There was nothing they could teach me that I didn't already know, so I dropped out, determined to figure things out on my own."

He joined the army to help pay off student loans for an education he did not receive. Cole never had the opportunity to go to college, his family was simply too poor, it just want an option.

Damien sat on his bunk with a piece of paper on one hand and a pen in the other. The blank piece of paper was the canvas for a letter, but it was yet to be decided on whom the letter should be addressed to. He was being sent out later that day with the rest of his section to help capture small town that, otherwise, would be considered extremely remote and non-important. But in actuality, this town consisted of a crossroads that the Germans were using to move armaments and troops to feed their defensive line. The town was believed to be well defended and probably would not fall easily.

He had finally given up on writing a letter to either his parents or his girlfriend. The words and thoughts were not flowing and he could not bring himself to write an empty and meaningless letter. Stepping outside the tent, he decided to walk around base. He knew that by the next day, he could be in the heat of combat. How could he relax with that weight on his shoulders? This would not be his first taste of action, but it doesn't get any easier, even with experience.

Damien spotted a crowd forming in front of an airplane down towards the runway that was on base. In the heart of the crowd stood two men, one was Micah and the other was someone Damien did not recognize. He was a big, tall character with brown fur and long, unnaturally blue hair. Micah was deep inside the plane's engine, tinkering around with things Damien himself would not even dare to touch. By eavesdropping on some people's conversations, it became clear that the man with the curiously colored hair was working on the airplane and failed to get the engine working properly. Micah, being a bit of a show-off, yelled from across the runway that the mechanic made an error while assembling the engine. The wolf insisted that everything was checking out and that Micah was full of shit. Micah, of course being a natural at anything mechanical related and being pretty good at making people do what he wants them to do, he made a bet that he could get the engine running on his first try. The wolf felt pretty confident that whatever the problem was with the engine was something that was far from a user error, so he took the bet figuring it would be an easy hundred dollars.

Micah was visibly working hard to get the thing running. After a couple minutes passed, Micah closed up the engine, and said, "That should do it."

The wolf was still pretty skeptical. He had looked over the engine multiple times himself over the course of hours, and here is a fox, a private, a fucking new guy, trying to out-do a trained military mechanic with years of experience working on engines. Surly enough, when Micah gave the pilot sitting in the cockpit to give it a try, the engine sputtered to life with almost no effort.

"I'll be damned." Said the wolf.

"That's how we do it in New- fucking- York!" said Micah.

An exchange of money took place between Micah and the wolf, along with a few other unlucky gamblers in the surrounding crowd. After Micah shook hands with the wolf, the crowd dispersed and Micah made eye contact with Damien and waved at him with his hand full of cash.

"Getting a little cocky there, huh?" commented Damien to Micah as they approached each other.

"Well, maybe. Sigmund's a good guy, he just overlooks small details."

"Sigmund?" asked Damien.

"Yeah, Sigmund Phenex."

"Do you two know each other?"

"No, not really. I met him the other day in the mess hall. He's from Cali."

"He's a long way from California."

"We're all a long way from home. Hey, Germany isn't too similar to New York, right?"

"New York City, maybe. The fields feel like home to me."

We began walking around aimlessly. Micah continued, "That kid's been through a lot in his short time here. He lost his brother a couple days ago."

"Damn."

"That's putting it lightly. He's handling it really well, though. If he's feeling anything, he's doing a great job at hiding it."

"Does that make you feel bad about taking his money?"

Micah laughed, "Yeah, right."

Micah didn't have any siblings. He grew up poor, just like Damien. But life was harder for him out on the streets of the big city than for Damien in the country. He'd rarely talk about his home life. It was kind of a touchy subject that Damien tried his best to avoid. For Damien, he did have a brother once, but it didn't last long. The poor guy didn't even survive his first hour.

Later, Damien found himself in the back of a rickety truck being sent out on their nighttime assault on a small village. The darkness and quiet of the night was comforting to Damien. In a way, it reminded him of home. It was cool, quiet, not much around; though he knew this would be the calm before the storm. The other men in the truck with him were not speaking. The guy sitting to his immediate right was holding a cigarette in one hand and a small photo in the other. The light was dim but the photo showed a woman holding an infant. Damien didn't know why, but he felt compelled to ask, "Is that your family?"

The guy didn't speak at first, only took a puff of his cigarette. He eventually spoke up, "Yeah. You wanna see?"

He handed the small picture to Damien. The two looked happy. The woman depicted kind of reminded Damien of his girlfriend, Alice.

"Cute kid." Damien said.

The man said, "Thanks. His birthday was last week, and I wasn't there." The silhouette of the man inhaled another lungful of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. "It hard not being there for your kid, you know? You have any kids?"

"No... I don't. My girl and I haven't even considered it yet."

"Smart thinking in a way. A kid shouldn't grow up without his father. A father should always be there."

Micah was sitting across from Damien. Micah was looking at the floor, almost like he was transfixed on something that wasn't there. Damien tried to make eye contact with him, just to see if anything was the matter, but Micah just looked away.

The truck hit a bump, causing everyone in the back to sway around a bit. The sky was clear. The stars were so beautiful here, it's a shame that such violence was bound to take place.

An M1 Garand was resting on the floor in front of Damien, the barrel was in his left hand. The ammunition was heavy, but he was used to it at this point. The helmets were uncomfortable but everyone wore them. If there was even the slightest chance that a shitty helmet could keep you alive, any rational person would wear it. Damien watched as the man next to him tucked the photograph into his chest pocket and stomped out his cigarette on the wooden floor of the truck.

A state of unrest overcame the people in the truck as the commander announced in a hushed tone, "Approaching target."