I’m traveling again this week. As before, I won’t have time to write while I’m away, so this means I’m pulling some crap out of the archives. Crap out of the archives means, like in times past, more prose.

This is a short story I wrote at least a year ago. I find it just long enough to spread out over three days, much like I did with The Frightening Admission of Mr. Prosit. The story itself is something of an alternate history scenario. I suppose it could be considered alternate history or historical fiction, depending.


Colonel Malcom Brick clacked the stack of paper in his hands against his desk three times, then set them in a neat pile. A dull thud shook the room. Brick heard it through his legs—the heavy, powerful vibration of a blockbuster. A single bare light bulb hung from its electrical wiring over his desk. It shook, pushing and pulling shadows around the bare concrete room.

On the typewritten sheet on the top of the stack was a list of names. This list was accompanied by a stack of manila folders to his left. There were nineteen names. The nineteen corresponding folders were squared off in their pile, nearly twelve inches high. Fortunately it had not toppled.

Each name on the list had been carefully selected. They were all infantrymen, all were fighting on the front line, all were under twenty one. But they also had other, more specific, similarities. None of the men had distinguished themselves in battle. They were not leaders, but all of them were volunteers. There were no draftees on the list. They stood out to Colonel Brick for one reason above all others: these men were completely unremarkable.

Pvt. Harold Anson was the first name on the list. Colonel Brick removed a pen from the sliding tray beneath the desktop. He hovered it near the list, then sat back and stuck the end in his mouth, contemplating what his introductory remarks should be.

You have been selected, he began. No, too formal—and it doesn’t address the voluntary bit. You have come to our attention—but they haven’t. They haven’t come to anybody’s attention; that’s the point. Brick snorted, disgusted at himself for complicating what should be a straightforward proposal. He leaned forward and used the tip of the pen to punch a button on the radio on his desk.

A voice came over the intercom, “Sir?”

“Lieutenant, get Private Anson in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Somewhere nearby another bomb slammed home. This time, the blast killed the light. Brick sat still and counted in his head. When he reached four the light flickered back on. He brushed fallen concrete dust off the papers in front of him.

The door opened, followed by a pale skinny figure in fatigues a size too big. Jesus, he’s just a kid. The infantryman stood at attention and began, “Private Harold Anson, report—”

“Yeah, yeah. Have a seat, son,” Brick said, waving a hand in the vicinity of the simple chair on the far side of the desk.

Anson sat, careful and almost timid, as if the bulky metal chair might collapse under his weight. Brick removed a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Smoke?”

The kid shook his head, “No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”

“Good man,” said the Colonel, but he made the comment under his breath. He cleared his throat before asking, “Do you know why you’re here, son?”

Anson shook his head.

“My name’s Colonel Brick. I’m in charge of intelligence gathering; counter intelligence—I guess spying for lack of a better word—here in Europe.”

Brick paused. The kid just stared at him, giving no indication that he had comprehended a word. The colonel scowled and continued. “For reasons I can’t explain right now, your name came up as a prime candidate for a mission I’m trying to put together.” Prime Candidate? Brick thought to himself. Dammit, I made it sound like the kid is a side of beef. He changed the subject. “Why’d you join the Army, son?”

The kid glanced at the floor before replying, “I wanted to serve however I could. Beat the Krauts. They almost didn’t take me,” he looked up, “but I told them I’d fight real good. I have, haven’t I?”

“Sure, kid. Sure you have.” Brick paused, scanning the other eighteen names on the sheet before him. He was hoping someone near the top would bite, so he wouldn’t have to repeat this conversation any more than necessary.
“I have a mission that’s vitally important. It could win us the war. But,” Brick bit his lip, “it’s extremely dangerous.”

“And you need me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take it.”

From beneath heavy eyebrows, Colonel Brick stared at this young private and clenched his teeth. At last he leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. “I want to make it completely clear that this is strictly a voluntary mission.”

“Okay.” The kid’s eager, I’ll give him that.

“There’s no pressure here. You don’t need to do this.”

“I want to, sir. Anything that can help.”

“Private, what if I told you—hypothetically now, completely hypothetically—that there was, say, a ninety percent chance of you dying, if you take this mission.”

“I still want it, sir.”

Brick drummed his fingers on the desk and turned to look at the stack of nineteen manila folders to his left. “What about if there were—hypothetically still—a ninety-nine percent chance you would die.”

When Brick looked up, he was startled at the change in those young eyes. The soldier in front of him had transformed from a child to a man; a switch had flipped. With a low, even voice, Private Anson said, “Sir. I don’t care if it were a certainty that I die. If it helps us win the war, I give my life.” He slunk down in his chair slightly, and his gaze shifted again toward the floor. As quickly as it had risen, his fire dulled, and again he was just a scared kid, a million miles from home. “Besides,” he added, almost a whisper, “I’m as good as dead anyway.”


[To be continued on Wednesday…]