My War Memoirs: The Six O’Clock Reckoning (Chapter 16.)

 

The Six O’Clock Reckoning

The metallic smell of spent cordite, damp earth, and stale sweat was the final curtain call on my first night of war. It was six o’clock in the morning, and the last of the twin-hour watches was bleeding into the grim, slate-colored dawn. These last few rotations were not hours; they were epochs of endurance. The cold was a physical presence, a biting entity that lived under my fingernails and deep in the marrow of my bones. Double socks and woolen gloves offered nothing but a cruel illusion of defense. I held onto my post by fragments of consciousness, my eyes wide and vacant, occasionally dipping into a hypnagogic state where I was both standing guard and tumbling into oblivion.

The echoes of the tank shells—the ones that had slammed into the ground a scant few hours prior—were not merely memories; they were a persistent, high-pitched ringing in the inner ear. I had replayed the slow-motion reel of that impact countless times. The sound had been a physical blow, a sudden, blinding fist striking the air right beside us. We were lucky—a blind, terrifying, statistical stroke of fortune, that the force had pulverized earth and not the thin wooden roof of our bunker. It was only now, standing down from the immediate, adrenalized crisis, that the true danger set in. The body, exhausted and vulnerable, finally gave room to the psyche.

You’re actually just waiting for a shell to fall on your head. That thought was a toxic bloom. You hear the incoming whistle, you count the meaningless seconds, you compress your entire existence into a silent prayer that it won’t land on your small patch of the world. And if it does land, cover is a jest; a tank shell’s lethal radius is a greedy ten meters. I felt a sudden, devastating diminishment, shrinking down to the size of an ant awaiting the careless boot of fate. The trite, foolish sentence ran through my head as I relinquished my place to the incoming comrade: “What’s the point of your life. You’re here today, gone tomorrow!”

I stumbled into the bunker, shivering uncontrollably. The air inside was warmer than the trench but thick with the breath of four other men. Before I could fully wedge my freezing body into my sleeping bag, a comrade thrust a small flask of clear liquid into my hand. Brandy. Alcohol on the frontline. I initially recoiled, associating spirits with celebration or solace, never with this cold, utilitarian application. “It’s folklore, Srele. Not for enjoyment. It’s to ‘shake you up’ in the morning,” someone muttered from the darkness.

I finally gave in. The brandy, crude and sharp, burned a glorious path down my throat and into my chest. It didn’t warm me, but it did exactly what they promised—it violently jolted my nervous system back online, clearing the cotton from my brain.

I was still freezing, especially my feet. The instinct was to kick off my boots, but the chilling fear of being caught barefoot in a sudden attack was too strong. Cripple yourself in battle. So I crawled into the bag fully dressed, my heavy, damp boots still on, and waited for the slow, precious seep of warmth to begin.

Jura, watched me with a cigarette hooked between his lips, inhaling smoke that layered the bunker air. “There’s no sleep, Srele,” he snapped, his voice quiet but sharp. “You’ll only sleep tonight, when the shift comes around eight in the evening.”

We talked in low tones, sharing the meager, hard-won light. As the sleep crisis passed, and the sun began to rise outside, it seemed to pull the temperature up with it. Feeling the need for release, I left the bunker. Outside the trench, the winter sun struck me with a startling, summer-like brilliance. I felt suddenly exposed, absorbing every ray like a starving plant. Carelessly, gratefully, I turned my back to the trench and began urinating outside, right in the middle of the small clearing.

Jura's voice, grim and low, sliced the peace. “The rifle, Srele, the rifle!” His gaze was like a physical reprimand. “You left it in the bunker to relieve yourself. The rifle is a part of your body. You haven't realized that yet.” He shook his head in worried exasperation. “And pee down there, down the trench, where there’s a grove of trees. Not here in the middle of the clearing. Like a clay pigeon, you’re an easy target.”

Ugh, so many mistakes at the start. I was grateful it was Jura, my older-brother figure from the street, administering the dressing-down. I knew this wouldn't affect my standing in the brigade, but it stung all the same. I felt heat rise on the back of my neck. “Jura, I don’t know these things, and my concentration has dropped from fatigue,” I stammered.

“That’s why I’m teaching you  now,” he retorted, the anger fading into a firm resolve. “It’s not that you’re embarrassing yourself; it’s that you’re going to lose your life. You like to play smart, and now you’re failing at the basics. I just praised you for being good on guard duty last night, and now you’re pissing it all off in two moves.”

He had washed me well, and I deserved it. I was failing at the absolute basics, and the failure plunged me into a fresh wave of insecurity. I started over-analyzing everything. Can I even be in a bag in the bunker? Should I be out all the time? Should I wait until everyone has gone to eat? Ten anxious questions spun wildly in my tired head.

Jura, who had always possessed the gift of reading me like a book, recognized the precipice of worry I stood on. He softened instantly, his tone shifting back from commander to confidant. “Here’s some chamomile tea. Now, crawl into your bag and take a nap for an hour. I’m ordering you. It’s your first day. You have credit. Everything will be fine. When you wake up, we’ll all go eat something together.”

How experienced he was, moving seamlessly from Commander to confidant. He was so sure of everything, moving with an ease that radiated healthy humanity and quiet competence, always carrying a full-life smile. Jura had a hard life—poor conditions, a slightly crazy brother, a father who drank and worked the farm—but life's failure to pamper him had forged him into perfect soldier material, humble and fiercely capable. I came from a similar story, and I knew I would be okay. I just needed time. As they say, "The first kittens are thrown into the water."

We spent the rest of the day in the sun, joking and talking inside the trench. A strange, serene happiness took hold of me, as if we were relaxing in a café rather than waiting for death. The sense of togetherness, the shared goals, and the primal desire to survive bonded us. As the day progressed toward the eight o’clock shift, I felt the sharp edges of my anxiety smooth out. The only sounds were the banter of men and, for a blessed moment, the chirp of some small, unaware birds. I was slowly becoming part of the team.