A haggard soldier clutched at the red blotch that was forming on his khaki and brown shirt. He didn't have much hope left; that much was obvious; he was losing too much blood.
His brothers in arms could not afford to shed tears or even spare a glance at their friend as he fell.
The man was simply known as six-five-three - his corporal number. If one inquired beyond that, they would find out that he was also called Pale Face. How he came by that name, nobody knew. The black haired youth's face had no remarkable complexion at all. He was certainly not pale-faced.
He had acquired many scars that made him look much older than what he really was. His black hair had greyed prematurely and his hands were calloused from all the labour he was made to do. His unshaven appearance added several years.
The soldier was twenty one years and nine weeks on the night of his death, and his name Brandon . A . Klensing. Like all the other dead men on the battlefield, he too, had been a little boy once.
***********
There was once a window in the threadbare room that one could look out of and watch children frolic and play on the swings and slides.
The window was barred shut. All windows were, nowadays. Stray shells could break the glass and injure the inhabitants. The only way the household could know when to begin the day was to listen for when the gunfire became louder. Not that there would be much to look at.
The playground had become an amalgamation of rust and overgrown creepers. Children didn't play there anymore - there were no children anymore, to indulge in silly games. After all, childhood is the kingdom where mothers and fathers and people who matter do not die. Ever since the war began, not a day had gone by when people didn't fall to their deaths in droves.
The house itself was run down. Paint flakes dusted the floor and stuck to the soles of worn out boots and shoes of those who were fortunate enough to be able to afford them. The window glass was milky and cracked. Carpets were unrecognizable and the kitchen was a disaster. Bedrooms were seldom used. Nightmares plagued sleep and nobody liked to sleep at all.
It was in the midst of all this that Little Bran snored sweetly on the little metal cot that creaked with every jostle.
His faintly smiling face was untainted by the horrors that the world around him bore. He was weaned off milk in a few months after his birth and at the age of five, he still sucked his thumb in his sleep. Nobody quite had the heart to deprive the child off his one guilty pleasure.
It was not quite dawn yet, but the war resumed, and decibels rose, and the nurse ushered into the room to wake Little Bran up for school.
Little Bran had neither a mother nor a father. Even though he had no photographs of them, as no one could afford them, he still had vague memories of them. He had their hand prints on a piece of paper he stored carefully in a little box that he always fastened around his neck. It was a memoir that he cherished with all his heart.
The dark haired boy threw his usual tantrum and clung to the nurse's legs, refusing to go to school. It was the glimpse of her disappointed expression that finally sent him packing.
It was hard for Little Bran to make himself go to school, but did so anyway because his nurse was the only adult who loved him and he hated to disappoint her.
"I'll go to school, Grace. But please give me your hand print to keep," Bran smiled and dimpled. He pointed hopefully at the little red box.
Grace was always telling him that he mustn't play childish games, but this time, she obliged, shaking her head. The middle aged woman brought out a sturdy piece of cloth and bottle of ink and gave her hand impression to the bouncing boy.
The other children were sullen and joyless, and the teachers were mean and strict. He would grit his teeth through it, if it would help make Grace happy.
When things got difficult, Bran would close his eyes and pretend that if he couldn’t see anybody, then nobody could see him.
*********
Bran treasured Grace, and he treasured his little box more than anything in this world. Fortune does not always like to smile, though.
Fourteen year old Bran headed towards the marketplace where he had agreed to meet Grace.
He walked there with his arm linked with Sarah’s, a special friend of his. They chattered animatedly, and Bran watched Sarah laugh at a little joke with a small smile that brought out the happy child in him. He touched the little box around his neck. Not long before, he had added her hand print to it too.
They marched down the road which was meant to take them to their destination.
All they could see was smoke.
Something was very wrong.
The air was sooty and felt chaotic as the boy and his companion began to panic.
"Grace! Where's Grace!" there was a hysterical note to his voice as Bran sped towards the wreck that was once a thriving market. Somebody in the crowd held him back to give way to people carrying make shift stretchers.
The sight made his heart stop. A mangled body journeyed it's way down the street on a stretcher carried by four men.
Grace.
There was not a chance that the charred figure that lay in the stretcher still bore any life. Bran slumped to the ground and buried his face in his hands.
He sought the comfort of Sarah's arms and embraced her. He fingered his little box. It weighed down on him more than ever. Yet, it gave him strength. He rushed forward to help get the little ones out of harm's way and into the medical centres.
For months, people had rejoiced that the war had ceased. From what the bomb blast suggested though, it never had.
The little red box saw him through Grace's funeral. It saw him through the unkind glances and cruel words spoken. Most of all, it gave Bran strength to put on a brave front for Sarah's sake. It also gave him courage for what he was about to do.
**********
Brandon lied about his age. That was the only way he could get into the army. It had not been a difficult process. Judging by how many of the trainees had not even sprouted facial hair yet, he can't have been the only person to have done so.
The hardest part of it all was convincing Sarah to let him go. He had to promise that he'd come back. It was a promise he couldn't keep. It simply wasn't in his power.
Brandon became part of a war he didn't even understand the cause of. All he knew was that he was fighting for the loved ones he had lost - his parents, and his beloved Grace. He knew that he was also fighting for the future he could have with Sarah. Maybe they could get married someday. They would have such beautiful children.
Brandon stood in line for the final evaluation before he was assigned a squadron and sent to the front lines.
Brandon was nervous. He was afraid. He pressed the little box that hung around his neck to his lips and murmured a little prayer. He shut his eyes and went to another world. It was a world where his parents knew and loved him and where Grace and Sarah were by his side.
He smiled. He took control of himself and passed the test with flying colours.
The downside was that he would be assigned to the most dangerous team in the army. He welcomed it though, he wanted to make good the deaths of all those people he knew - neighbours who wrinkled their noses at him and refused to give him food on those poverty-stricken nights when he was forced to beg, and classmates and teachers who had leered and jeered at him. He had to do justice to Grace.
It was in this squadron - squad fifteen, that he acquired a new name - six-five-three.
**************
It was Ralph who gave Brandon the name "Pale Face". He had never divulged his reasons for the bizarre nickname, but the name had stuck. Ralph was in turn, called "Nightingale". This was no mystery though. At least, not to the ones who had endured his drunken nights. The sound of the man's voice made donkeys stop their braying and bow to their ruler.
Nightingale and Pale Face became fast friends. They bickered like brothers and counted on each other to have their backs during battle.
They were inseparable. Naturally, fate had to try and pry them apart.
The fateful mission took place in a safe house surrounded by marshy land all around. Enemy spies had been sighted nearby and five members of Squad fifteen were dispatched to storm the house and flush it.
The beginning of the mission was miraculous and flawlessly executed. The squad members patted themselves on a job well done as they entered the house. What they hadn't realized was that it was a trap; an ambush.
Bullets poured and echoed off the empty rooms and the young men dove for shelter and were forced to retreat. Not Ralph. Being the headstrong soldier he was, he tried to put up a one man fight. Before they realized he was not with them, it was far too late.
Bran wished he could have said goodbye. He wished fervently that he could've at least brought his friend's body back. He cursed at his own inabilities. There was one thing he was glad for, though - the muddy hand print of his dear brother that he had coerced him into giving during one of their last days together.
Once again, the little red box was the tonic that saw him through the funeral. Bran became a little boy once again. He shut his eyes and imagined that nobody could see him but the ones he saw - Grace, Ralph and Sarah. He fancied that his mother and father were present too.
*****************
Bran was twenty years old by then. Old enough, he deemed, to make a man out of himself. So Bran proposed to Sarah, and she accepted, with tears streaming down her cheeks in joy. They celebrated for a little while and decided to get married as soon as possible.
It was a quiet ceremony with no witnesses, save for the neighbourhood dog. The best man's seat was reserved for a dead man, and an invisible spirit walked the bride down the aisle. They had no money for rings or a minister. For this, they made do with the love they bore for each other.
It was a rainy and stormy day. Yet, for Brandon and Sarah, it was the most beautiful day ever. Their love was sweet in the night.
The euphoria was short lived, though, for Bran had to return soon afterward. Nevertheless, the two of them found happiness just by thinking of each other in times of peril. They would shut their eyes and drift to a warm place where the world was an exciting song, and where they could sleep summers away beside each other without a care in the world.
**************
On the thirty first of July, six-five-three received a strange letter. It was seven weeks past his twenty first birthday. The letter bore no signature. There was a strange blob of ink on it. It looked almost like a little child's palm. Bran had taken one look at it and had nearly wept. Not out of despair, but out of jubilation.
The letter bore nine words written in a feminine hand.
Her name is Maisie. She has her father's eyes.
*************
Two weeks later, six-five-three was the one who lay bleeding. Brandon was in a happier place. Pale Face was with him. Bran now beheld everything he ever had, and he laughed and wept at the same time. He was mad with the freedom he had obtained.
Father.
Mother.
Grace.
Sarah.
Ralph.
Maisie - my dear Maisie.
Six-five-three clenched his hand around the little red box one last time, and smiled. He closed his eyes and lay still.
(the idea, I mean).
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