The sensation of being out of place, of not belonging, wasn’t a foreign one to the corporal. It was a feeling he knew better than he knew his own mind, and one might argue that it was the unequivocal and defining truth of his existence: Anders belonged no where. So, when he found himself in Belarus filling the post of a deceased tank gunner, he was not disappointed to find that the same truth awaited him there. An empty, unfamiliar bunk, and a sea of strangers in the mess hall who spared him nary a look. He watched from the sidelines as the cogs of the great war machine came together so easily, and felt his legs twitch, begging to take action. Friends embraced one another fondly, marking the end of a long absence, soldiers marched supplies to and fro, tents erupted out of the earth, and a semblance of order began to appear.
Anders helped where he could, but ultimately found himself propped against the tank to which he’d been assigned. Hiding in its shadow, he wrote in his leather-bound journal idly and without much direction. Beyond the tank that hid him handily, he could hear the camp’s activities streamlining. Fires were being built, casting an orange glow against the autumn sky, and barks of orders had dissolved into the roar of friendly conversation.
