Army of Worn Soles

by Scott Bury

Maurice put the bottle on the ground beside him and took off his uniform shirt. He spread it on the smoothest piece of ground he could find, then laid the bottle near the officer’s insignia on the collar and pushed down. He rolled the bottle over tattered, light-brown material until the lice cracked under the glass. Back and forth, twice, three times. He felt a dull satisfaction at his first pathetic victory in more than half a year. Crunch, crunch. The effort was exhausting. His stomach ached and his throat burned with thirst. He slumped back until he leaned against the barracks. Men in grey uniforms stood or walked across the cobbled courtyard of the ancient castle. One came toward him, a slim man with light brown hair and hazel eyes. He stopped in front of Maurice and leaned down. “Maurice? Is it you?” Breathing required effort. So did looking up. Maurice had not eaten in days, but he still trusted his sight. He knew the man with the light-brown hair and hazel eyes, even in a Wehrmacht uniform. “Maurice?" the young man said again. "What are you doing here?” He couldn’t swallow. His mouth held no moisture. “Dying. I’m starving to death.” Maurice closed his eyes and hung his head. Bohdan crouched beside him. “You got drafted?” Maurice made the effort to look up at his old friend. “The Red Army made me a lieutenant. What the hell are you doing here and in a German uniform, Bohdan?” “The Germans kicked the Russians out, something we couldn’t do. Why shouldn’t I join the wi...