How About...

The battle was intense. The bombardment raged on, ferocious and seemingly endless. No one spoke during this time—not that anyone could have heard over the roar anyway. It was best to just stay quietly inside their dugouts. The shelling ebbed and surged, but it never truly stopped. Judging by its sheer duration, everyone knew today was going to be a major engagement. Encouragingly, the blasts were steadily shifting farther into the distance, signaling that the advance was progressing smoothly. If nothing went awry, the penal battalion should have secured the enemy's forward positions by now and would be pushing deeper into their rear lines. That meant the fighting would drag on for quite some time. Seizing the lull while he had nothing else to do, Gao Fei busied himself with loading all of his magazines. Captured weapons were rarely used, but ammunition was always kept, and spare magazines were never thrown away. No one ever complained of having too many; as long as you could carry them, you kept them. By now, Gao Fei had eight magazines and nearly six hundred loose rounds. That ammunition accounted for the vast majority of his carrying weight, leaving almost no room for anything else. The captured magazines needed inspecting, and reloading was time-consuming work. By the time Gao Fei had organized and stuffed his pack to bursting, the fighting had largely wound down. The moment the artillery ceased, Sokholov couldn't wait any longer. "Let's see what the company commander brought us. Compressed biscuits..." Sokholov tossed the biscuits aside in disgust, but his face immediately lit up. "Ha! Haha, canned fruit!" At the mention of canned fruit, Glaski instantly perked up. "Oh! That's good stuff! How many?" "Two cans of fruit! Aha, a jar of pickled cucumbers, some canned beef, luncheon meat, Snickers bars, chocolate—nice, very nice! Four packs of cigarettes, toilet paper... Aha! Vodka! Did a miracle happen today?!" Neither Gao Fei nor Samir cared much for canned fruit. They had barely arrived at the front two days ago, so their craving for fresh fruit had not yet peaked, and canned fruit held little appeal. Yet the moment alcohol was mentioned, Gao Fei couldn't help swallowing hard. He was the type who could drink without ever craving it. In the company of friends, he could easily put away nearly a jin of liquor, but he never sought it out on his own. Today, however, an inexplicable excitement stirred in him at the very mention of it. Perhaps the battlefield environment naturally fostered a thirst for alcohol. It was just like cigarettes. Gao Fei had smoked back in his school days, but after his father caught him and gave him a savage thrashing, he quit. For years afterward, he hadn't touched a cigarette and never missed them. Out here, though, whenever he had a spare moment, all he wanted was to light up. If he hadn't given all his cigarettes away, he would have smoked one during the shelling no matter what. Sokholov called out excitedly, "Come on, come on, gather round. Let's divide the loot." The four men clustered together. Sokholov had stacked the supplies brought by the commander out in the open. He tried to distribute them evenly per person; whatever couldn't be divided would be shared on the spot. There were two cans of fruit in tin containers labeled in Russian, but from the pictures on the side, they were clearly yellow peaches. It seemed Russians had a fondness for canned yellow peaches, too. There was also a 750-milliliter bottle of vodka. A full-sized bottle. Though there was only one, Gao Fei figured it should be plenty for the group. As for the compressed biscuits and canned beef, there was an abundance—roughly three days' worth of rations for each man. Gao Fei began to feel a headache coming on. There was simply too much stuff, and his pack couldn't fit it all. Since his own pack was full, he had no choice but to use one scavenged from an enemy corpse. "We'll eat the canned fruit now and carry the liquor to drink once we reach the new position," Sokholov said. "You've got too much gear—ditch what you don't need." Ammunition and combat gear went into one pack, supplemented by a small amount of emergency food—Snickers bars, dark chocolate, and compressed biscuits. This was the combat bag, the primary pack. The rest of the food was packed separately to be slung wherever convenient during the march. If a firefight broke out, it could simply be abandoned. In short, supplies on the frontline were precious, but when the time came, you had to travel light. Once the supplies were divided, only the bottle of vodka and two cans of fruit remained in Sokholov's custody. That should have concluded the distribution, but Glaski licked his lips and looked on pleadingly. "Can I have a sip first? Just a tiny sip, please?" Sokholov hesitated, swallowed hard, and muttered, "Uh, no!" "What if we get killed by artillery on the way?" "Fair point..." Sokholov wavered instantly. He turned to Glaski and said, "Get your cups out. You two, as well. Come on, let's knock back a cup before we hit the road." "Before we change positions, you mean," Gao Fei corrected. Only Gao Fei was sensitive to the phrase "hit the road"—with its ominous undertones of setting off on one's final journey. Even so, he pulled out his aluminum cup without hesitation. Samir came over as well, extending his cup. Sokholov uncapped the bottle and frowned at Samir. "Aren't you from the Middle East? You can drink?" Samir kept his cup steady and answered casually, "I'm a Christian. Pour some." Sokholov looked disappointed—one more mouth meant less to go around. He had never been as stingy as he was at that moment. He poured roughly fifty milliliters for Glaski, followed by Samir, and then Gao Fei—giving Gao Fei visibly a touch more—before finally pouring into his own cup. A Russian never drank without a toast. Holding the bottle in one hand and raising his cup with the other, Sokholov said solemnly, "Brothers, to good luck!" "To luck!" The others chimed in, and as one, they threw their heads back and downed the liquor in a single gulp. A third of the 750-milliliter bottle was gone. Each man had had roughly a shot, and as the liquor hit Gao Fei's stomach, his head grew faintly light. It was only a slight buzz, but an exhilarating warmth spread through him. Sokholov cast all dignity aside, holding his cup overhead and sticking out his tongue to catch the few drops trickling down the rim. Before Gao Fei could even scoff at Sokholov, he saw Glaski eagerly licking the rim of his own cup. Neither man showed the slightest hint of embarrassment. Sokholov let out a lingering sigh of satisfaction. Glaski asked cautiously, "How about..." "Deal!" Without a shred of hesitation, Sokholov set his cup on the ground. "Come on, pour another round." Gao Fei held out his cup, and the four cups clinked together. Sokholov poured with great care. It had to be said that his precision was remarkable; he poured evenly enough that none of the cups needed adjusting. Glaski hesitated. "How about..." "Deal!" Setting the bottle down, Sokholov grabbed the glass jar of pickled cucumbers and twisted it open with a sharp pop. "It's glass—it'll break easily on the move." Having found an excellent excuse, Sokholov reached two fingers into the jar, pinched out a cucumber, and handed it to Glaski. With a pickle in each man's hand, they raised their cups once more. Sokholov said with utmost solemnity, "To friendship." "To friendship." For the second round, Gao Fei had intended to sip slowly, but somehow, the moment the cup touched his lips, he downed it in one gulp anyway. "Haaah..." Exhaling a breath of alcohol-laden air, Gao Fei bit into the pickle. Truth be told, the pairing was fantastic—the pickle was delicious, and the liquor went down smooth. Before Gao Fei could finish his pickle, Glaski wolfed his down in two or three bites. Staring intently at the remaining third of the bottle in Sokholov's hand, Glaski whispered, "How about..." "Deal!" Sokholov lifted the bottle and poured, filling the four cups until the very last drop fell from the neck. Then he reached back into the jar with two fingers, pulling out four more pickles. The jar only held about a dozen in total, and their sizes varied. Sokholov gave the larger ones to the others and kept a smaller one for himself. Raising his cup once more, he shouted, "If not for Rex, we wouldn't have vodka today. To Rex!" "To Rex!" Gao Fei didn't repeat the toast this time, seeing as it was for him. Down went another cup in a single gulp. Though still longing for more, they had truly finished the bottle. Sokholov tossed the empty bottle out of the trench and popped the rest of his pickle into his mouth. Holding the jar in one hand, he twisted the lid back on with the other. "All right, we'll save the rest for tonight." Samir murmured, "I still have black bread. Let's split it." Sokholov hesitated, then opened the jar again. "Breakfast it is, then." They had already eaten earlier, but with the pickles on hand, Gao Fei felt he could eat a bit more. Glaski added, "Carrying these cans is just dead weight anyway. How about..." Sokholov waved a hand dismissively and picked up the canned fruit. "Fine, fine, let's eat them all. Once they're in our bellies, we won't have to think about them." Now that was the manly way to handle it—good things weren't meant to be saved. Static crackled over the walkie-talkie, followed by a voice. Sokholov listened intently, then waved a hand. "They're telling us to get ready. Eat fast, and once we're done..." Dreading that Sokholov was about to say "hit the road" again, Gao Fei cut in first: "Once we're done, we move out."