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„I’m afraid of what's to come.“
„Don’t be.“
Paul knew it wasn't true. He could see the fear in Kat's eyes, the uncertainty and the worry. Inside Kat was as agitated as he was, he was just used to suppressing his thoughts.
Terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks – but it kills, if a man thinks about it.
Normally, Paul managed to push his worries away, the loud artillery fire that constantly accompanied the soldiers helped, but now there was nothing to hear. The only sounds that filled the air were the laughter of the other soldiers, the clinking of their bottles and Kat's steady breathing.
Kat, my friend, Kat with the slouched shoulders and thin, soft moustache, Kat I knew in a different way to any other person.
He treated Paul so much differently than the other men did, more loving and gentle. And Kat also dealt with him in a fundamentally different way than he did with the other members of their little group; Paul remembered well how he had once reprimanded Tjaden or shouted at Albert and he had never done anything like that to Paul. Kat had such a sharp-tongued, rough way of speaking, but when he talked to Paul there was still something almost tender about it.
The fire outside, lit by the bawling men, also illuminated the little house with its yellow glow, where Kat and Paul tried to find peace.
Paul looked at his friend. He sat leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Despite the circumstances, despite the war and the violence he had experienced, he looked somehow peaceful. Half of his face was lit up and although it was covered in dirt and mud there was something about him that reassured Paul.
And blood. His face was also stained with the blood of their friends and enemies alike, of men, innocent men who had laid down their lives for nothing.
The grip on the scarf in his hand tightened. Originally, Franz had once received it from the pretty French woman after spending a night with her. That was one of the moments he remembered fondly. They had been so carefree, all wanting to smell the cloth once and hear every detail Franz had to tell. It was one of those moments when you realised how young they actually were. They were boys of not even 20, they were supposed to be at home and having their first experiences with girls - with life in general. But instead they were here, fighting - fighting for what, actually? They no longer knew themselves.
After Franz had died, Tjaden had had it, he had put it in his hand only a few hours ago.
You must show braveness, he said. You’re alive, remember? For that, you have to be grateful. For us. For those who didn’t make it.
And now he was dead himself. Paul didn't want to – couldn't – think about it. He could hardly believe it, he had lost all his friends. Every single one. Only Kat was still there, but who knew if he wouldn't die too. Or even he himself.
When he thought about it now, he didn't understand in the least why he had been so enthusiastic about going to war just a few months ago. He had forged his parents' signature because they didn't want to let him go. They had been right. But he would not listen.
Slowly, Paul lifted the cloth to smell it. There was nothing left of the original smell of the French woman. What was her name again? In the end, it didn't matter. It had smelled so clean when he first held it. Like soap and flowers and so fresh and soft had been the delicate fabric with the beautiful pattern. Now it was the opposite: it smelled of sweat, dirt and blood. And of death. Everyone who had once held it in their hands was no longer alive by now. And he himself would probably soon follow.
Paul sighed. He had experienced so much, seen so much suffering and violence, and he was exhausted. His young head was not made for this – no one was. Actually, he was still the young boy who read the books on his shelf in his room and played with his friends. With Albert, Franz and Ludwig. Who were all dead now. And Paul just wanted to be comforted.
So he didn't think much about it and got up to sit next to Kat. Kat paid no attention to him, almost as if he were asleep.
After a moment's hesitation, Paul took Kat's hand. It felt rough and showed what they had all been through. And it was as dirty as Kat's face and his own body. Covered in dirt and blood. But it didn't bother Paul, almost the opposite. He was used to it, over time all the mud had become the world he knew and felt comfortable in. And it brought him back to reality, made him realise that this was not a dream his brain was spinning to distract him from all the horrors of war.
At some point Kat turned his head towards him and looked at him with his beautiful blue eyes. They were the colour of the sky he hadn't seen for so long without shell smoke, or of the lake he had swum in so often in his childhood.
Paul almost wanted to pull his hand away again, so penetratingly did Kat look at him. Maybe he had gone too far and Kat didn't mean it.
But before he could bring himself to make a decision, Kat wrapped his free arm tightly around Paul's shoulder and pulled him onto his chest. And so he lay there with his head on Kat's heart, listening to the steady thumping. Reassuring proof that he was still alive. That they were both still alive.
Very gently, Kat's hand slowly found its way into his blond curls and began to tenderly comb through them with his fingers, picking out the little bits of dirt.
The two soldiers, so different and yet so alike, as they lay in an abandoned cottage, so close together and quite forgotten by the rest of their little world. They were a comfort in a world that promised no comfort, had none left for them after all it had already done to them. And yet they could comfort each other and make them forget everything around them.