The days are packed

Of course, it is raining. The rain is beating down on the earth, the mud, the sparse trees, the bare bushes. As if someone in heaven has forgotten to turn off the tap in the kitchen. The water is sloshing down from the black sky in a soulless, meaningless stream.

The Soldier is sheltering under a wooden canopy. The pounding of the guns sounds like the beating of his heart. Everything around him is dirty. Everything is filthy, grimy, withered, broken. The walls of the trenches, his clothes, the cutlery, the weapons. He has no sense of time. Maybe it is noon. It could also be night.

He tries not to think about it. But inevitably, the meaninglessness creeps into his soft thoughts like a virus. How long has he been at the front? And what has been achieved? What is the goal? Who is the enemy? So often have they heard the stories of their generals. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow the breakthrough will take place. But after the morning inevitably follows the afternoon, the night, the next day. Everything has remained the same. The smell of runny blood, pus from the fresh wounds, horrific moans of the wounded.

Is this the life he imagined when he was younger? Did that time ever exist? A time of long, sun-drenched days. Blissful moments of laughing, eating, singing, dancing, making music, daydreaming. Life seemed to have meaning then. Without anyone knowing what that meant. But everyone was lively, cheerful, content. Why would you doubt it then? The purpose, the value of life?

Would it ever happen again? That he would take life for granted? Like a child takes its toys, like a fish takes the murky water? Would he be able to live again without the images? The images of mutilated bodies, disfigured limbs, loose skin, dead friends

Is this the ultimately hell? A space without love, attention, trust and hope? A period of pure sarcasm. Of clear causticity. Days in which fate is tormenting, mutilating, torturing all humanity. Just for fun. So that nothing remains but decay, rot, suffocation, death.

The Soldier is startled. He hears someone approaching. A friend? An enemy? Suddenly someone is standing next to him. Filthy, stinking, disgusting. A human, yes. A fellow creature.

The Enemy is startled too. He makes a gesture as if he is reaching for his weapon. But he is too tired for that, too dejected. He plops down next to the Soldier. As if they are allies. Acquaintances.

The Soldier knows what he has been taught. As soon as you see the enemy you must stop thinking. The opponent is not a human being. He is a rat, he is vermin. The only thing that matters is that he is eliminated. Butchered. Crushed. Exterminated. Dispatched.

But after all those long days and nights of loneliness, of rain, of cold, of homesickness, the presence of a fellow human being feels like a pleasant distraction. The Soldier has seen enough blood. Enough coercion, aggression, brutality, anger, inhumanity.

First the Enemy hands him a tin bottle of old coffee. But it tastes like expensive cognac. Then the Soldier shares the last bit of old bread with his buddy. It smells like sweet cake.

They don't talk. They know they don't speak each other's language. And even if they did, what could they talk about? About the war? About sleeplessness? About hunger and thirst? About the inconsolable longing for peace? For silence, rest, calm, relief?

Meanwhile the cannons roar, the rain beats on the mouldy canopy. But in their small, soaked, cold space they sit like second guards who wait silently for the morning, for the sun to rise.

The Enemy opens his leather jacket. And takes out a bundle of papers. He takes great care that no drops of rain fall on the pile. He hands the Soldier his precious treasure. The Soldier looks up in surprise. As if he has been handed a parcel of fresh sunlight.

Now it's the Soldier's turn. He also takes something out of his jacket. Also, a stack of papers. Seeing the bundle, the Enemy starts to smile. And not so much later, tears roll down from their unwashed cheeks as they point out to each other the funny figures, the hilarious situations, the antics of the Calvin and Hobbes.