Heroes of a forgotten war

Caitlin takes the boy's small, warm hand into her own. Gusts of a cold wind carry dry leaves down the alley, and an overcast sky promises rain. Not that she minds, it has been hot and dry for far too long. The town's water resources are almost gone. No, rain is never bad. Not in this decade of droughts, famine, and disease. But she dreads the coming of the cold season, the long months of hunting for fuel to heat their shelter and cook their meals.
With a frown, she pulls her threadbare jacket around her shoulders and hurries on, urging the short-legged boy along. He tugs at her sleeve, dark eyes wide and a drop of snot running from his nose.

"Nana, why the hurry?"

"Sorry, Bud, it's the cold. My old bones hurt to be home."

Deliberately, she slows down and turns left at the junction. They cross the marketplace, the boy taking in the attractions, mouth agape. The travelling folk have settled down for the winter, their colourful tents and wagons compensating for the flowers of the park Caitlin remembers from her youth. A youth faded together with her health, the beautiful park, and the carefree days before the breakdown.

Beyond the fountain, she turns right into Main Street. No tents here, but none of the once busy traffic either.

In front of the former bakery, she has to stop. A column of soldiers marches down the road, their rhythmic steps accompanied by the squeaking of new leather boots and the clatter of equipment hastily packed.
So the rumours were true—another war is imminent. Caitlin presses her back against the boarded up bakery window and pulls the boy close to her side. She keeps her head lowered, staring at the swirls of dust the soldiers' boots stir up, wishing them to be gone.

But her wish has no power over the pair of worn boots that stops right in front of her. Other steps falter, and Caitlin raises her head to look at the lean man in his late fifties standing before her.

"Caitlin. I mean Major. Major Bernet. I'm so glad to see you again, before this..."

His husky voice trails off. Caitlin reads in hazel eyes what he intended to say. His once beautiful, sparkling eyes, dull and bleak without the past vitality, the trademark glimmer of humour, and hope.

"Captain Somer. Still following the call of duty. Where are you headed?"

"The north. We have intelligence the Gordians are about to attack."

Caitlin nods. Yes, she heard, hoped the rumours were wrong. Seems they weren't. Her gaze wanders over the Captain's small contingent, counting heads, checking equipment with the routine of years in the service. Too few men and women, not enough munition, insufficient winter equipment. She manages a smile, for old times' sake and an old acquaintance.

"You shouldn't bother with talking to an ancient crone, Captain. Your troops are eager to follow the call and their comrades."

"Sometimes it's better to consider your next step. I learned this from a talented officer and good friend."

Caitlin smiles, a real smile this time, meant for a real friend.

"Thank you, Captain. And good luck."

"Goodbye, Major. May the gods protect you and your grandson."

"May the gods watch over your path, Daniel."

The man almost winces. Like her, he lost his faith in benevolent gods in too many wars. Eyes brimming with tears, Caitlin watches him walk away, shoulders straight, his gait hampered by the stiffness of his left leg. She shivers, recalling the ambush where he got shot, forty years ago, and how she carried the teenage soldier back to their own line in the darkness. They survived and became heroes that day, heroes of a long-forgotten war.

Ignoring the soldiers' inquisitive glances, Caitlin turns around and pulls the boy along, towards the shelter of their makeshift home. Bud struggles to keep up, his breath foggy in the cold air.

"Nana, what's a Major?"

"Just a name, Bud, nothing important. Come, let's find something to heat the stove. We'll have rice with veggies tonight."

"Aye, Nana... Nana, the soldiers will win the war, won't they?"

She thinks of eager faces and boisterous talk. Of insufficient equipment and rusty weapons, of the futility of wars against people suffering the same fate and fighting the same daily fight for survival. Who's to say who's in the right and deserves victory?

"When I'm grown, I'll become a soldier too, Nana."

Yes, Caitlin thinks. But you use the wrong preposition, young one. Not when, but if you grow up. And if you do, and finally become a soldier, your death will be as futile and messy as all the others.

And yet she would do everything to ensure his chance to grow up.