Chapter Text
Truth be told, this wasn’t exactly how Paul Bäumer envisioned celebrating his eighteenth birthday.
He would have never anticipated spending the entire gray morning searching through the barren trenches of No Man’s Land before him, overwhelmed by the smells of gunpowder and upturned Earth clashing with the stenches of human piss, vomit, and blood. Given the time of year -- November, to be more precise -- Paul yearned for a gentle snowfall that could blanket the carnage before him, providing the dead with a somewhat more proper burial. Unfortunately, he received no such gift. Instead, the weather would occasionally pelt the scattered troops with ice-cold rain that influenced the mud to practically suck him at least two inches deeper into the Earth. The gloomy weather was complemented by frigid temperatures that would snatch the breath from even the healthiest men. All in all, his gloomy mood was made even more so by his assigned task of trudging through the quiet battlefield -- an unbelievable rarity to have an otherwise chaotic landscape suddenly grow unsettlingly still -- in order to retrieve the fallen’s dog tags, stripping men of their identities with a snap of metal and transforming them into interchangeable and faceless fragments of another’s memories.
In hindsight, he would have taken an uneventful and silent morning over the unexpected eruption of violence and bloodshed that lasted well into the mid-day. By the time the dust settled, Paul emerged from his state of impenetrable concentration violently shaking from either adrenaline, exhaustion, or devastation. They all blurred together for him.
He wasn’t spared a minute to rest, for the commander of his company ordered him and the survivors to continue their efforts of gathering the tags of the now newly dead. He obeyed without question, his brain still trying to process the fight that had taken place moments earlier. The teenager -- no, the young man -- aimlessly walked through the once-more quiet landscape and blindly removing the bottom half of countless dog tags. After minutes or hours, a single dog tag managed to penetrate Paul’s dazed state.
He slowly lifted the tiny piece of metal and examined the fading in scripture carefully.
Otto Becker Typical German name.
Lüneburg, Hamburg He’s visited there before!
18.11.03
…
……
………
Paul entered a state of dissociation that would prevent him from fully recalling a few hazy hours: from stuffing the bottom half of the fallen boy’s dog tag into his own jacket, to walking past all of his comrades – including Albert and Franz, both who were trying to snap Paul from his trance – all the way to aggressively shoving the small back pouch, containing the tags of the fallen, into his superior’s chest. It was a bold act that caused everyone nearby, including the normally calm Stanislaus Katczinsky, to watch, with bated breath, for any reaction from their equally stunned Sargent.
It didn’t matter to Paul. Through it all, he remained oblivious and numbly marched away from the trenches and stumbled towards an unknown destination.
In the early hours of the evening, Paul emerged from his nearly catatonic state at the edge of the forest overlooking a sea of gray hills and naked trees, both which were stripped of their luscious greenery and vibrant colors by the harsh Winter season. The brunette reached into the pocket of his jacket to re-examine Becker’s dog tag, cradling an otherwise insignificant piece of scrap metal as if it were rare China.
18.11.03
He was only four years younger than Paul. A child. A child who, like Paul, spent his special day charging through the chaos of battle and slaughtering men, left and right. Unlike Paul, however, Becker spent his birthday – his final birthday – having his entire face shredded by shrapnel and his right arm completely blown off. At the age of fourteen, Otto Becker was killed on his birthday… while Paul, through fate or error, survived his own.
He tore his gaze away from the numbers and stared unseeing into the distance, his brain attempting to recall the events that culminated in him, at the age of eighteen, fighting for his own life by taking the lives of others. It didn’t matter how much effort he put into recollecting and regretting. He was here: far away from home, down one of his closest friends, soaked in freezing rain and blood, and more lost than ever.
“Paul?”
The man in question turned to find Kat standing a few feet from his right side, holding two cups of an undoubtedly warm substance, going off of the steam that sluggishly flowed from the worn containers. Uncharacteristically, Paul chose to ignore the older soldier and returned his attention back to the empty field in front of him. Despite keeping his gaze fixated on the scenery, he could sense Kat tentatively close the distance between the pair before opting to sit down beside him, their shoulders just barely touching each other. Suddenly, he felt warm metal press itself against his knuckles. He found himself staring down into a cup of piping hot tea emitting a sweet, chamomile aroma.
“Drink,” he gently commanded. “Don’t want to start off a new year with pneumonia.”
Paul blinked. “How did-”
“Franz and Albert.”
Great, Paul bitterly thought. “Given my luck, I’ll probably end up catching pneumonia regardless,” he sulked as he placed the dog tag back into his pocket before absent-mindedly rubbing his hands together.
Despite Paul’s insistence, the older man remained steadfast and pressed the awaiting cup against his hand. Paul, lacking the energy or motivation to argue, wordlessly accepted the cup with a semi-grateful nod. He took a few sips and immediately felt warmth seep into his body, providing instantaneous relief from the bitter cold. He unconsciously released a deep and contentful sigh.
“Thank you.”
The pair continued to consume the liquid, happy to sit in silence -- excluding occasional slurps and swallows of tea -- and stare into the distance, embracing the peaceful evening. Finally, the silence was broken.
“Kat?”
“Hmm.”
“When you were eighteen… where did you picture yourself being?”
Even without looking at Kat, Paul could feel the older man’s inquisitive and almost pitiful gaze burrow itself into the back of his head. In order to ease bubbling embarrassment, he took another sip. Meanwhile, Kat leaned forward, resting his crossed arms onto his knees as his right hand maintained a firm grip on the container, and spent a few moments contemplating Paul’s question.
“Eighteen. God, that feels like centuries ago,” Kat began, moving his eyes to the hills. “I can’t recall ever having a picture of my future at that age. I’ve been a cobbler since childhood and any future outside of nails and leather felt unattainable. I was convinced that dreaming was pointless for people like me.” He let out a deep, bone-weary sigh. “I still sort of believe that.” Paul looked at Kat in confusion. “It’s true, isn’t it? Look at us right now. I don’t think any one of us could ever have dreamed of being miles from home, fighting in an international war, and slaughtering innocent human beings.” From the corner of his eye, Kat saw the younger man flinch before looking down at his cup in shame. “It’s dangerous to get lost in dreams, and even more so to expect them to come true.”
“So, you just stopped trying?”
“It’s not that I stopped trying, but, rather, that I allowed myself to become vulnerable to uncertainty. It’s this willingness that led me to the most important person in my entire life.”
“Really?”
Kat nodded. “After I turned eighteen, I met the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Once I saw her, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. But, who was to say that she would return the same infatuation I felt for her? So, rather than trying to force an outcome, I simply let fate unfold. In time, our brief interactions at the shop soon led to harmless get-togethers, which led to us falling in love.” As he continued, his tone and expression suddenly acquired contagiously comforting warmth. “When I was your age, I would have never imagined meeting someone like her, nor could I have ever dreamed that she would be crazy enough to love me -- to marry me -- for nearly twenty-two years… yet she did. To this day, I still can’t believe that all of the adventures we’ve been on and all of these moments we still share actually happened. At eighteen, I accepted that the visions for myself may never come true, and that acceptance led me to people and opportunities I could have never dreamed of. I fell in love, started trying new things like cooking and playing music, and became a fath-”
Paul, surprised by the abrupt conclusion, glanced at Kat and noticed that the overwhelming nostalgia seconds earlier was replaced by somber melancholy… and grief.
“Kat?” he asked, slightly concerned.
After a few moments of silence, Kat shook his head and cleared his throat before asking the other man beside him, “Where do you see yourself, Paul?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you see yourself?” Kat reiterated.
After some hesitation, Paul inspected his own cup before placing it onto the grass. He straightened his posture and turned to face Kat more directly.
“I should warn you that it will all sound so trivial.”
Kat merely shrugged. “Everything is after you’ve killed a man, wouldn’t you say?”