Molodniy ran the rag over the barrel of his gun again, hoping to bring the old metal to a shine but knowing that would be nearly impossible. Around him, other soldiers went about their end-of-day business, chatting amongst themselves. Nearly all of the men in his regiment were conscripted peasants and definitely all of them had better places to be. Most of them had families and children, all of them had loved ones and people to care for. None of them had any reason to be this far from any of them.
Besides, the war was going poorly. Molodniy didn’t know any specifics, he was just a soldier, but he knew the war was bad. There weren’t any successes to be had, no cheers of triumph, no voices raised in song. No one was proud to be here, to serve their country. Everyone was just cold and tired and hungry and homesick and waiting to die.
They would, inevitably, die here. Molodniy knew that in his heart. The war was going poorly and they were soldiers on the front lines. They were moving out tomorrow, and people died every day even when there wasn’t a battle. Disease ran through the camp like wind through grain, the rare doctor trying his best in the face of a mountain of corpses. All there was to do was bury the dead and separate the dying as best they could.
Molodniy sighed and put away his rag. The metal would never shine, the only way that would happen would be to get a new gun, and that would never happen. Not with the way things are now. He stowed the gun underneath his cot and lay back on it, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t have a wife or children, only parents he missed terribly. He imagined they missed him too, thought of him everyday. He hoped they did. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments more, thinking of his parents and his farm and the other children he used to play with and the trouble they used to get in and the fun they used to have and -- He sat up, retrieved his rag and his gun and went back to polishing the metal. It might shine, eventually. If he worked at it enough, it might shine.
The other soldiers were settling down now, lights-out coming soon. Another soldier, Drevniy, came over to him and sat down at the end of his cot.
“Thinking too hard?” he asked. Molodniy nodded without looking up, biting his lip. Molodniy heard the older man nod, his beard scratching against his collar. Drevniy sighed and leaned back on his hands. “That’s dangerous work there, thinking. Might get yourself in trouble.” Molodniy nodded again, not sure what the man was getting at. He almost wished Drevniy would leave him alone to his “dangerous” thinking. The older man was silent for a couple moments, still leaning back on his hands, before leaning forward and looking at Molodniy’s gun.
“You know, that’s never gonna polish, right?” Drevniy said, leaning into Molodniy’s space. Molodniy shrugged.
“It might,” he muttered. Drevniy shook his head.
“No it won’t, it’s too rusted through. Only thing to do now is throw the whole thing out and try again with a new one,” Drevniy said. Molodniy sighed and set the gun down across his knees. He turned his head to look at Drevniy.
“Where, exactly, am I supposed to get a new one?”
Drevniy shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know, but that one’ll do you no good tomorrow.” Molodniy just kept rubbing away at the rough metal. Drevniy was quiet for a few moments, the soldiers around them settling down for the night. Drevniy leaned back into Molodniy’s space.
“Come on, I’ll show ya,” he said, getting up and heading to his own cot. Molodniy rolled his eyes at the old man but stood up anyway, throwing the rag down on his cot. Drevniy retrieved his own gun and his supply of bullets from underneath his cot and motioned towards the entrance to the tent. He waited until Molodniy was in front of him before heading outside himself.
The outside air was warmer than Molodniy was used to, but still not unpleasant. It was quieter out here, everyone having either gone out on patrol or inside to sleep. Drevniy took his gun and went around the side of the tent. The wall of the camp, only four feet high and constructed a few days earlier, ran right next to their tent. Drevniy picked a discarded can off the ground and propped it up on the wall.
“You watch now,” he said to Molodniy as he loaded his gun and took aim at the can. The shot rang off, shattering the still silence of the camp and earning a couple shouts of alarm from inside the tent. Drevniy yelled back at the tent and picked another can off the ground, propping it up on top of the wall. He motioned between Molodniy and the wall. Molodniy raised his rifle to his shoulder, stared down the sights, and pulled the trigger.
The gun explodes in Molodniy’s hands, bits of the rusted barrel flying back and striking him in the face. Molodniy drops the remaining half and drops to the ground, hands flying to his face. Drevniy’s by his side in second, comforting hands on his shoulders. Drevniy prys Molodniy’s hands from his face and checks the damage. He clicks his tongue.
“It’s just a scratch, boy, you’re alright. If that’a happened while someone was shooting at you though,” he clicked his tongue again, “ you’d be dead meat.”
Molodniy’s hands went back to his face, running his fingers over his eyes to make sure they really were still there. His chest was heaving, gulping down air. Drevniy helped him to his feet, a steadying hand under his arm.
“See, now you really need a new gun,” Drevniy said, a smile on his face. Molodniy groaned, running through all the steps required to do so. He’d need to go to the General,wake him up most likely, withstand a screaming lecture for breaking his gun in the first place, submit an order to the inventory people, fill out paper after paper. Molodniy shook his head. His regiment moved out tomorrow; he needed a new gun now. He turned his head towards Drevniy, still helping him stand.
“Could I take yours?” He asked. Drevniy nearly recoiled in surprise. He stared at Molodniy a second before shaking his head and chuckling.
“Why, if you took mine, what would I fight with?”
Molodniy tossed his head back and forth, thinking about the issue. “One of us could hide when they do roll, and whoever doesn’t takes the gun.”
Drevniy shook his head. “Ain’t no pride in hidin’, son.” Molodniy narrowed his eyes at the older man.
“There’s only one gun between us,” he said slowly, Drevniy nodding, “and you want us both to go to the front tomorrow?” Drevniy smiled and nodded.
“You get it, son. Lets get back to bed, light’s out is going soon,” Drevniy said, herding Molodniy back towards the tent. Molodniy drug his feet, thinking. If he were to stand any chance of surviving to see a third day, he needed a gun. Drevniy had a gun, was an old man who’d die in a few years anyway even if he survived. A slow old man like Drevniy wouldn’t survive anyway, gun or not. Molodniy tore himself out of Drevniy’s hold, wrenching the loaded gun from his grip. He raised it to his shoulder and stared down the sights. If Drevniy was going to die tomorrow anyway...