1. KOWALSKI

He stood on the hill waiting for a sign of smoke, a sign of a home at least. His parent's home. His brother stood behind him with an old dysfunctional flintlock and his own. It was Kowalski, the edge of his ears burning and his cheeks red, the college professor breathed in and out to see his own breath startle back and forth.

He began to feel a dampness seeping through his clothes, a melting snow that soon began to chill him thoroughly. He broke his feeling of motionless notion and looked around his body to where the wet parts where, even though he could already feel them through his skin.

Kowalski sighed, took a deep breath, and started walking down a clear slope, seeing a bit of his parent's home sticking of the thick Maine forest. A fire came out of the old chimney, white smoke. Mother was making dinner.

The professor scratched the back of his head as he slowly limped his way to the house. His brother came bounding easily behind him, coming closer by the second. Kowalski had a right bit of trouble walking down the hill covered by snow, hardened by the boots that walked over it, spite his brother, Richard, who all, without ease, ran down the hill in a matter, half the time of his brother.

Kowalski wiped his mouth of falling snow , his tired eyes fixed on the ground before him, as well as the thin outline of the house, roughly planted on the ground and dead leaves and trees, already knowing of it because of witnessing the flooring of the house many years before. Lumber was cut there before the house was built, but the spot was forgotten and lost and the trees that where cut down, as well as their summer leaves, were left to rot.

He knew who as in the house already, mother was there, ever so close in bonds with the church, and his wife, his, what he thought, the most beautiful wife he could ever love, with the child just 5 months old. Ms. Doris Benton Kowalski and the little Joshua.

Kowalski's father was not there. Elder Kowalski would not be on the bed, sleeping, or going out in town with his friends at the bar. He was at the cemetery, laying his body the last time, feet under the surface. Died after drowning at sea, after what almost seemed to be an innocent fishing trip.

Kowalski was so young, yet to remembered so vividly, so innocently, so unfortunately. He could still see the storm that destroyed the small boat, turning it over, sinking it. He could still see his father, plagued with the water smashing into his face, the hard rain, his own family seeing him from the shore. His cries for help, drifting away, away from safety of the Maine shore. Only was he to be found, a week later, bloated, bloody, and dead with weight.

Kowalski swiped his nose, the winter cold was reaching him, and he wiped his eyes, the sadness.

He began to think of the snow underneath him, the sound he could not ignore, something that would get his mind of the father that left him behind. Kowalski thought of the lesson he lectured a week before, the lecture on snow. The words came back to his head so clearly, like his foggy breath in the cold.

'Snow piles up by the flakes, spread out, yet thick enough see as solid. As it piles up, of course, the pile gets thicker, but squeeze or step on it, it gets hard. Why? Snow gets compressed together by force surrounding it, forcing it to be banded together, stronger, harder, more durable and compact. Just like a large force, connected and powerful, yet destroyable, a large military opposition that could be-' he pictured himself in that classroom, thinking again that he actually drifted off on military knowledge, not science. Not what he was told to teach, what he volunteered for. Volunteers…

As he talked, Richard looked at him by a nearby tree, as he heard him mumbling about snow and soldiers.

Suddenly, Kowalski faltered, twisted, and grunted slightly as he slid his foot in an uncomfortable direction in wrong move down the snowy slope. With one badly executed sigh, he fell down on the snow, even in his already wet uncomfortable state that he was in presently. He put his hands to his head and breathed deeply.

Richard walked to him carrying both their rifles and applied to the sounds around them, "What are you sad on, Fitz? It was just one little slip up here in the snowy forest, no one can see you but us! You've got everything, a nice wife and a child. You're a big time college professor, earning a lot of money each month, well known, and has a good shooting brother!" he snickered.

Kowalski lifted his palms off his face. "You don't understand. You're only 18, you have a lot of time to think about what's in store for you, as for I… well, I…. I'm a…"

"Sad professor? Come on Fitz, let's visit ma".

"One thing".

"Yes?".

Don't call me Fitz".

Kowalski entered the small wooden home of his widowed mother with an odd expression, one person would give after being smacked in the face by a stranger. Doris chuckled lightly as she held carefully Joshua. The cabin smelled old and rusty, as his father left it. The house was ancient, belonged to his father, which belonged to his father, and to his father. The house had been there since the revolution against Britain, since Maine was a part of Massachusetts.

The floorboards creaked with each step, letting out bits of dust, he coughed. They all did. Richard wiped a tear of his face, knew he wasn't so impervious to the subject. Dust. Made him sneeze, cough, made him dry. Made him nearly mad once.

The house had tried it's best to stay stable. The old wooden boards and walls could only seldom keep the snow and wind out. When it rained, the dirt under the floor would smell, letting out the stench of wet dirt and mud and exposed worms and plants. It was only the wood that kept them apart. Nothing more.

The smell of the soup filled the cabin, replaced the smell of wet ground to hot, peppered both. It was good, Kowalski thought. Richard thought better. He loved his mother's soup, the peas and the carrots… excellent.

The bowls they received were tin. Clay or glass dishes were broken when Richard was born. The new child kept on breaking them, he stopped one day, after bitterly learning that smashing dishes weren't just not proper, but painful, as shown by a little reminder, a scar, on his forehead.

Though the two were not infants anymore, the new, Joshua, was already understanding what clay is and how fragile it may be. So in that sense, all dishes, cups, or pans used, must be tin. All the fragile-ware were put on the highest shelf.

Kowalski and Richard were given the same amount of soup, one spoon, and a glass of cider stored from a cellar under a separate shed. Richard drank first, but was scolded by the senior Mrs. Kowalski.

"Start us off, Fitz"

"Lord, we thank you for the food…"

Stopped, said his own silent prayer, everyone in the cabin did.

They opened their eyes, and looked at the food. Began to eat. Kowalski, slowly ate, small amounts, completely contrasted by Richard, who ate heartily, big spoonfuls, filling his mouth with the soup he loved. Home-cooking…. Brilliant.

Richard paused, took a moment to glance at his barely feeding brother. Smirked. He knew what he was going to do.

"Uh, Fitz… I don't think yoo' arr' gettin' the taste fer' ma's soup"

"What are you talking about?"

"I was jest mentionin' that it in't healthy to be a eatin' like that"

"An you are trying to infer…"

"Here". The younger brother stood, took pepper, garlic, and a bottle of whiskey over to the table.

The professor faltered. "Oh no…. you remembered what happened last time, you put the-"

"Shush" Richard hastily said as he poured nearly half the bottle of pepper, most of the garlic, and a pint of whiskey into his bowl of soup. Quietly paused. "Eat it"

"No, I will not eat it, Richard, I don't have the mood-"

The professor was interrupted by the pouring of an odd substance down his throat. It was the soup. More explosive. The newly spun entrée burned in his throat, like boiling water. It roasted his mouth, he screamed.

"No! Stop! Let go of his mouth!" their mother shouted at Richard, who was now well half way through pouring the substance down his brother's throat.

Richard stopped. Sighed. Exclaimed silently, 'Damn…'.

Kowalski choked, gagged, sore bloodshot eyes, a smile started on his face, for an odd reason. He took a sip of the cider and coughed. The smile ran away from his face in an instant. Put his palm to his forehead. Felt dizzy, very sober… his vision turned black.

'The water was cold. Very cold. So was the air. He could see the mist beyond the sea. The cloudy black clouds, mixed with most gray. Felt the ominous feeling of a thunderstorm. The waves crashing to the shore. Tumbling rocks into the sea. Kowalski stood there. A the shore himself. Young. Unprepared. Saw his father on the boat, helplessly pleading for assistance that would never come. He cried. And suddenly, that wave took him over completely. He was gone"

The large crowd of blue, uniforms, brass buttons shining. Their hats cocked, a huge mass of soldiers. Disciplined. Yet, completely unaware. Trained, but not expecting for great defeat. They willed to fight for their country, to preserve it. But somewhere across a Potomac river, there was a smaller army. Ragged. Mostly untrained. They weren't willing just to fight for their country. They were willing to fight and die for it.

Kowalski woke up to the smell of warm medicine, his bedside lay a tin bowl of untainted soup. A glass of cider, and medicine.

Hehe. Fitz, you got pretty sick"

The professor didn't know what to do. He was angry at him, but the person on his bedside was his brother. Instead of negative retaliation, he smiled, well, tried to.

Suddenly, his smile disappeared. He spoke, as loud as he could, which was not a lot. Let everyone in the room hear.

"I'm enlisting"