The other day one of the soldiers came in with a pig. Caught a bullet or something. Been dead for a while, smelled a bit off, but it is meat, and it will make a great pea soup. The boys will be happy. We’ve been living on potatoes forever it seems. There’ll be pork fat to fry them in now. We can have potato pancakes. That will be nice.
I didn’t buy into this war. I don’t much like that Hitler fellow or this taking over the world thing. Most of us were drafted. Except the officers. I’ll bet they volunteered. They’re driven by something the rest of us know nothing about. They tell us there are supplies coming any day, but that has been the story for months now. I think they are trained to lie.
The nights are cold, and the days are getting shorter. I wonder if we’ll get winter clothes. Morale is low, nobody wants to fight any more. Like they ever did. Like I ever did. I hope they’re not blaming me because we are eating nothing but potatoes. I’m not really a cook. I lied to away from the fighting. It’s not easy work but it is not as tough as being out there.
I would love a real coffee. I roasted some barley that someone stole from a farm. It looks like coffee, its bitter but that is as close as it gets to coffee, I pour myself a cup and close my eyes imagining that I’m having a real cup of coffee with my wife back home on the farm. I miss her. I hope there is no fighting at home. She will be having the baby soon. I hope it is a boy. I hope she is safe.
We’ve never been this close to the front before. I hear the artillery and wonder if I’m safe. I’m a bit afraid of dying. The officers seem to enjoy the danger. Nobody else does. I can see their fear.
It’s a bit noisier today than the past few weeks. Gunshots are closer than ever. There must be some offensive. I hope the boys can hold them. I wonder where all the bullets go. How far before they hit the ground. What do they hit before they hit the ground.
I light a smoke with my ersatz coffee. The boys will start coming to eat soon. I wonder how many will make it back to eat my pea soup — with meat. I hope they like it.
Franz, runs through the tent. “Run!” he yells, “I think our line is going to break.”
“But I have pea soup cooking. And we have meat, and the boys need to eat especially if the fighting is hard. They will be so happy. I’ll feed the enemy if they come though. They won’t kill me, I’m the cook.” I answer.
He doesn’t stop. Six more of the men come running through. I ask them to eat some soup, but they are not interested. “Run!” they say. I stick my head out of the tent to see what is happening. Our men are retreating, I can see tanks and enemy soldiers moving towards me.
Maybe I should leave. Should I turn off the soup? I ladle a bowl full and eat it with a piece of stale bread and go to gather my stuff. The shots get louder, closer. Suddenly the bowl explodes in my hand. The hot soup burns my hand.
I feel a sharp pain in my gut. I put my hand to the spot. It feels warm. wet. Soup, I think. I feel a hole in my uniform. Did a piece of the bowl cut me?
Then I look and I know it’s not the bowl. The hole is round. I stick my finger in the hole. The pain is instant and sharp. Have I been shot? I look at my hand; it is covered with blood. I fall into a chair. More boys come in yelling at me to run. I look at them.
“Are you alright?” they ask. “… I think … I’ve been shot.” I say.
“They shouldn’t shoot the cook,” they say. “Stay still, use this rag to cover it and press to stop the bleeding. We’ll come back with help.”
“Thanks, “ I whisper, wishing I had the strength to run to safety with them.
Two officers run through. “Help me” I whisper. They don’t even see me. They look afraid.
I look at my uniform. It is soaked with pea soup and blood. I feel a chill. I try to get up but I’m too weak. I feel tired. I think I’ll lay down. I slide to the floor. It will be safer under the table. I curl up. I close my eyes, maybe I’ll sleep for a few minutes until help comes.
I hear my name called. It’s my wife. I see her standing in the fog in front of our house. It is hard to see her. She’s waving. She is holding the baby. It’s a boy.
I call out to her.
The fog gets thicker.
I can’t see her any more.
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