The mortar fire had died down for the evening. Four men sat around within the bombed-out building that they were using for shelter in the middle of the ruined city. The only light was a small travel lantern sitting in the center of the circle of men, throwing their faces into sharp relief. They all appeared to be about the same age, in their middle twenties, give or take. Two were smoking. They all wore heavy layers of combat equipment, with little patches on the front for rank.
The highest-ranking man there, a Sergeant, looked up through the missing roof at the sky. "Looks like another clear night," he said, quietly. The other three in the group looked at him. He had kept them alive this far in the war, and he commanded their utmost respect and trust. "I expect the shelling won't stop for long." The rest of the men nodded. "We'll divvy up the watches; I'll take first."
He stood and walked stiffly over to the window. They had been in this building now for three days. It stood in the section of the city which had been first hit by the violence, before the city had been fully evacuated, and there were still the occasional signs of the lives that previous occupants had been here. In other parts of the city, the citizens had fled with everything they owned, leaving nothing but empty shells of homes and offices that the soldiers used as nothing more than cover.
He stood and looked out from between a pair of ravaged curtains that hung limply from the top of the window. The night was completely still, with even the far-off rumble of artillery that had punctuated the entirety of the day seeming to have ceased. Light clouds stuck to the horizon, mere wisps on an otherwise clear evening. There was no power anywhere in the city, he knew, and that made the stars stand out like the spread embers of a dying fire.
There was a sound behind him, and he turned from the window. The youngest member of the group, a Private, just out of Basic, had walked over. The other two men had lay down beneath the stairs in an attempt to get some rest. "I'm after you, sir, and then whoever I pick takes third watch." The sergeant nodded.
"Was there something you needed, Private?" the sergeant asked after a moment of silence.
The private fidgeted. "Sir, it's nothing major. I'm just trying to figure out why we're fighting like this."
"Like what, Private?"
"Like... well, you know!" He gestured, a grand sweep of his arm taking in the entire city. "House to house like this. Why we've got to fight where civilians were."
"Why it's not like the old days, where wars were fought by good men on open fields outside cities, in the clean air and on the green grass?" The Private looked at the Sergeant. Until now he had never heard the older man utter a cynical or ironic remark, even under his breath.
"Y-Yes, sir."
The Sergeant sighed. "How old are you, Private?"
"Twenty-two, sir."
"Drafted?"
"Yes, sir. Called up six months ago. I work in an engine plant back home, sir."
The Sergeant was quiet for a moment. "It's lies, you know."
"Sir?"
"You were raised on stories of glory and honor, weren't you? That's what they taught you in school, in history. The stories of the warrior, off to fight the good fight for hearth and home.
"You can't understand war like that. History's not like that. Never has been. In ancient times, when the armies marched across the continent, you don't think they displaced all those poor farmers who were living there? War has always involved civilians, Private. No way around it."
The Private was silent for a moment. "We are on the right side, right?"
"Who knows? All we can do is keep our heads down and do what our commanders tell us to do. That's war. None of us will ever have any real effect on anything to do with this fight."
They stood in silence for a while. "I don't like how quiet it's been. You wouldn't think that the artillery would be let to sit this long." Just as he said this, the distant thunder of shells rumbled again. He frowned.
"Sounds closer this time," the Private said.
The Sergeant nodded, listening. "How old do you think I am?" He asked, still staring out the window.
"Sir?"
"Take a guess."
"Thirty, maybe, sir?"
The Sergeant chuckled. "I'm older than I look. Try again."
"Thirty-five?"
The sound of the shelling was growing, but still a ways off.
"You asked if war was always like this. Private, I'm someone who would know. I used to own a small farm, many miles from here. I learned about war when an army marched through the village, killed all the women and children, and then recruited all the men by force.
"I have seen empires rise and fall in this world, Private, and it never changes. Every time I've ever gone to war, it's always been the last war. The final campaign against evil. Each and every time."
The rumble of shells was quite close now. The men beneath the stairs shifted restlessly in their sleep.
"Sir, what do you mean?"
"You thought I was thirty-five? Private, I marched on this city two-thousand years ago. I've fought in every major battle since before I can remember."
"Good lord. How old are you, sir?"
"I don't even know anymore." The light was playing on his face, and the Private could see, just for a moment, the incredible weight of the years in his still-youthful face.
"Why do you fight, sir? If nothing ever changes, why fight?"
"Because, dammit, you've got to believe in something." He looked up. There was a high-pitched whistling. "Move!" The Sergeant and the Private bolted out of the building just before it exploded into a cloud of dust. They tumbled end over end, and the Sergeant felt his bones breaking as he slid. He lay in the center of the street and screamed as his legs knit themselves back together, the popping and snapping audible even over the sound of the building burning.
He stood up a moment later and hefted his weapon, looking for the Private near him. Wordlessly, professionally, he searched among the debris.
He was lying facedown a few yards away, his legs pinned beneath him, his neck obviously broken. The ancient man looked at the corpse dispassionately, then dug around in his pockets. He withdrew a small flask and a pack of matches, and, after dribbling a small amount of the liquid onto the body, he lit a match and dropped it.
"This is how we disposed of the bodies, a long time ago." He said to the body. "I hope you find peace in your death." He breathed in the smell of the burning flesh, bitter and pungent and acrid, and then began to make his way south.