In the absence of Hope and Charity

She sharpens the knife on the oiled whetstone, humming a tune she heard years ago. What did they call that boy that taught her the tune? Flipper, Catcher, she can’t remember. She just remembers seeing his body on the stretcher, legs blown away from under him. 

She pulls the blade with long full turns, the steel and stone rasping in unison. Then there was Simon, she remembers his name. Different war, but then she was different too. So much older but still looking as young. Perhaps, if it wasn’t for her infatuation, she could have loved Simon. An uninduced love. Pure and of her choosing. But it was not to be. The sergeant with the green eyes and shaggy hair was crushed under the wheels of mobile infantry.

She inspects the blade. Her finger tip weeps crimson as she applies the slightest pressure. So many faces, many without names, gone. Lost in time and memory. Long ago, she once heard her father sprout the old expression; the point of war is not to die for your cause but to make some other poor bastard die for theirs.

She slides the knife into its scabbard and fastens the clasp holding the weapon in place. It’s so draining. To care. To love. And even more so to want it in return. War is so much simpler. Especially when some bitch fucks with someone you love.