The Sky Was Too Blue

[POV SWITCH: ENZO RUSSO]

They called my name on a grey August morning in 1940, in a hall that smelled of wet wool and dust.

"Russo, Enzo."

Just like that, I was a private in His Majesty's Army. The officer didn't look up. The ink on the papers might as well have been blood already.

Standing outside, Mary stood waiting, gripping Richie's hand so tightly that her knuckles were whitened. She tried to smile for my sake. Richie was only five, standing stiff beside her, coat sleeves too long. He didn't cry, just stared at me with those big, solemn eyes, like he was trying to carve my face into memory before I went off and changed.

I hugged them both hard. Mary smelled like soap and flour, and Richie's hair was warm from the sun. I promised things I wasn't sure I could keep: "I'll be back before you know it. I'll show you my new kit, Rich. We'll have stories to tell."

Then I walked away. Boots heavy, heart heavier.

The camp was mostly mud. That's what stays with me. Weeks of it, thick and clinging, sucking at your steps so it felt like the ground itself didn't want to let you go. Mud in your socks, mud in your tea. Mud crusted so deep in your cuffs that it dried like plaster.

Most nights, we'd strip off our boots and check our feet by lantern glow, the sergeant barked that trench foot was worse than a bullet. Harris would wiggle his toes, make them dance a jig, and try to crack me up. I laughed sometimes. Other nights, I watched the cracks in my heels and wondered how far they'd carry me.

They drilled us from first bell to last, shouted until your name felt like an insult. Said we were soft. Said we'd thank them later. By the second month, my shoulders were stronger, my hands calloused. I could clean and reassemble a Lee-Enfield with my eyes half shut.

Sometimes, we'd forget to be scared when the sun dipped low and turned the whole camp gold. Harris, a loud-mouthed Scouser who took to me for some reason, would sling an arm around my shoulders.

He once split half a stale biscuit with me when my rations ran light. Said, "Better we both starve together than you watch me eat, eh?" That's the kind of men we tried to be.

"Look at this lot," he'd grin. "Might almost fool a bloke into thinking the Empire's in good hands."

We always laughed because the other choice was to sit in silence, listening to our own fear.

I wrote Mary every night, letters cramped and smudged from cold fingers.

"Tell Richie I'm learning fast. Tell him I'll bring home stories of ships and tents and the daft faces these lads pull when the cook forgets the salt."

Sometimes I'd pause, pen hovering, and let myself drift back to our kitchen. Mary was humming over the stove. Richie was chasing pigeons in the yard, laughing so loud it rattled the window glass. Those little ghosts sat with me more faithfully than the chaplain.

When they finally gave me a weekend's leave, Mary made a broth so thin it was practically just warmth and hope, the best thing I ever tasted. Richie perched on my knee, showing me how he could make neat little R's and S's. I ruffled his hair, hiding the twist in my chest and trying not to count how few days we had.

In March, they loaded us into lorries and drove us south. We spent two nights packed into a cold hangar at Southampton, then onto a ship that stank of oil and men's nerves. Some were sick before we even left the docks.

The rumour mill went wild. North Africa, some said. Others swore Greece. In the end, it was both, in a way. We landed at Alexandria, and the sun nearly split us open. Rows upon rows of khaki tents, crates of ammunition stacked like tombstones, the air buzzing with flies.

I'd never known heat like that. It clawed under your helmet, cracked your lips until they bled. You learned quickly to wrap your rifle bolt so the grit wouldn't foul it.

They sent us on patrols near Tobruk. The Aussies we relieved warned us to keep our heads low at dawn. Jerry liked to drop mortar shells just to see who'd jump.

Once we passed a boy no older than Richie, hauling water in a battered can. He stared at our rifles with hollow eyes. Didn't flinch when a shell went off in the distance. That did more to unsettle me than the shell ever could.

The trenches there weren't even real trenches, more like jagged grooves scraped out of rocky ground.

Rats the size of kittens darted across our boots, bold as you please. We'd flick pebbles at them, curse when they got too close. One morning, I woke with one on my chest, sniffing for crumbs. Nearly put my bayonet through my own foot jumping up.

Days were spent checking perimeter wire, reinforcing sandbags, and cleaning your rifle over and over. Because if it jammed, that was it.

Nights we clustered in the shadow of trucks, smoking bitter cigarettes we'd traded for stale biscuits or sticky dates. Harris would close his eyes and breathe deeply when he read his girl's letters, perfume smudged across the paper.

We'd joke then, call ourselves 'The King's Walking Graves.' It got a laugh, but it was brittle as old glass. Better to laugh at it than let it hollow you from the inside out.

I had Mary's careful handwriting. Always steady. Always hopeful.

"Richie misses you. He tries so hard to be brave."

Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it made me want to walk out into the desert until the sun swallowed me whole.

I'd be lying if I said I never thought about slipping away in the dark, just letting my boots carry me off until the sun or thirst did me in. But then I'd see Mary's smile, or Richie's proud little face, and I'd stay put. I owed them that much, trying, even if it killed me.

By June, talk of Rommel was everywhere. They said he was massing for another push east that we'd see real fighting soon.

They were right.

The ground shook for days. Nights glowed with fire on the horizon. The air tasted like cordite, hot metal, and something darker. 

Worse than the shelling was when it stopped. When you heard nothing but flies on open wounds, the far-off sob of someone trying to dig out a mate with their bare hands.

We stopped using dugouts after one caved in and buried half a squad alive. After that, we just slept where we could, rifles propped across our chests, eyes half open.

A lot of lads were down with something by then, trench fever, dysentery. You could smell it. All the men were squatting behind crates, groaning, praying their stomachs would quiet so they could sleep. Harris caught something and shook with chills three nights running, but still laughed it off, said he'd rather die shivering than from some bloody bullet.

One morning, I woke to blood crusted under my nose. Just the dry air, I told myself. Still, it felt like a warning.

I tried to laugh it off with the lads. "Means I'll be lighter on my feet."

Harris cracked a grin, but it was thin as paper.

Some nights I whispered Hail Marys into my sleeve, though I doubted she listened to men with so much dirt under their nails. I still begged for a clean death. For the sort that might let them lay me down in a churchyard back home.

The day started no differently from the rest. It wasn't marked by anything, no strange dreams, no odd feeling in my gut.

I tied my boots twice. Checked my rifle's safety twice. Patted the lucky coin Richie had pressed into my palm last Christmas.

We were clearing a half-ruined supply shed. Harris and I were on point. He was humming under his breath, something from the music halls back home. I remember thinking: I'll tell Mary in tonight's letter how cheerful he was. Maybe that meant things were turning.

Then the mortar whistled in, lazy as anything. The first landed close enough to knock the air out of me. I hit dirt. The second, I didn't even hear. Just felt everything go slack inside like my ribs were holding nothing at all.

I dropped behind a busted wheel hub, clutching at my chest. Red bloomed under my fingers, warm for a breath, then cold.

Mary. Richie.

Their names rattled through my head. I wanted to say them out loud. 

Couldn't.

The sky was too blue. Cruel in its beauty.

I hope someone finds my kit and my tags and sends them home so Mary knows. I also hope Richie knows it was never his fault, that he was the best thing I ever did.

If there's anything after this, if God's still listening to the likes of me, all I'll ask is simple:

Let Richie keep his laugh. Let Mary find mornings where she stands, and it doesn't hurt. I'll pay any due you ask, Lord, just spare them the worst of this world.

And if I'm ever allowed another chance, another scrap of life, let it be in a warm kitchen, bread rising in the oven, sunlight spilling across the floorboards. Mary laughs, Richie's voice cracking as he tells some grand tale.

That's all I want. Just that. A kitchen full of light and the sound of home.

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Hey reader, for the Main Characters' first task, I have the main idea of what I want to do, but I wasn't sure if any of you have any suggestions. If you do, please comment on it right here, and I'll see if they align with my idea or if I can incorporate one of your good ideas.

The task is mentioned in Chapter 12-Foundations.