Author's Note- I do not know if I truly need a warning for this, but there is some...heavy language in this chapter. Anyway, a lot of people cuss like Romano, and even to know who that is, had to go through the first time reading/listening/experiencing his joyous language. So don't yell at me! :P
A canopy of white greeted my eyes when I awoke, not realizing I fallen asleep. I shot up from the cot, scanning the tent, even before my vision cleared from drowsiness. No one, not even the nurse, was present. I grunted while rising from the bed, rubbing my neck and hobbled to the exit.
The sun was peeking out of the horizon, washing the empty camp with orange rays. Everyone must still be in their respective tents, sleeping. It was a powerful habit of mine to start the day as early as possible. Why waste precious hours of light lying in bed?
I crouched to snap the binding close to serve as a warning in case someone decided to come inside. Turning away from the exit, I noticed that the campers left anything and everything out for searching eyes to see. There were several blankets bundled against the furthest wall, and I peeked into a bag to see a collection of crude medical tools. Other than a small chest and the metal frame, the space was empty, lacking certain things medical tents needed to be effective.
I glanced over my shoulder before kneeling in front of the chest. There was a chain for a lock, but apparently the inhabitants thought they did not need it hooked and closed. I could put the container on my lap, that was how small it was, and inside held a pitiful collection of journals.
Putting the chest on the ground next to me, I grabbed the top notebook, flipping through the pages. The language had several features of Spanish, but I did not know what the words inside said. Are these Italian notes? Calling them notes was a compliment. The scrawls were sloppy, as if written when moving or distracted. As I paged through the book, I noticed the writing grew into drawings. The paper was riddled with sketches of the outside world; trees, tomatoes, and wild animals.
My fingers ran over the lines, the marks heavily embedded onto their page. Flipping forward, another sketch consisted of several kinds of bullets to their respective guns, how to avoid being shot (which was shown by a stick figure running away from an onslaught of bullets), and a diagram how to tie a white flag onto a stick. I let out a short chuckle.
"Hey, wait a minute, I know those models," I said. "Those are no longer used after the newer models came out a few months ago. The older ones had a staggering backfire rate."
Is this journal several months old? The paper was crinkled and crunchy between my fingers; it was believable. Nothing else was written or drawn, although there were more empty pages after the sketches of weapons. I paged through the remaining parchment until a scribble on the last available sheet caught my attention. My eyes went wide.
Several crudely drawn figures were fleeing from an enormous fire consuming over half the page. The person in the foreground had a smudged expression of terror. A tank was coming forth from the background, aimed and ready to fire. I recognized the vehicle as an older model of my nation's rival, also no longer used.
"Those were swapped out at the end of the first phase, before the first attempts of negotiations began," I put a hand over my mouth thoughtfully. I realized I was gazing at the pages for a considerable amount of time, so I gave myself a shake and grabbed the other journals. They only had diagrams and instructions for medical procedures, so I set them back into their original place and backed away once the chest was back on the ground, surveying if anything was left out of order.
I stepped away, reaching for my backpack. I pulled my notebook out and immediately set off in recording what happened since the last time I wrote and what I found. Why is there not any more recent information? Have these men been here since before the war picked up its antics again? Are they even aware of the start of the Second Phase?
There was only a few ways to find out, and that was going to be asking questions, or more 'investigating.' Since the regiment spoke a language far from my own, that left the only option of snooping around. I needed to find maps and information before I set out to find my old camp. They may have not planned to harm me in anyway, but that could change if they discover me digging around for information they may want to keep hidden.
Something ran into the tent, followed by an exclamation of surprise. I jumped off the bed, snapping my journal closed. A figure stood before the entrance, and reached up to open the tent. I quickly slipped my notebook into my bag and settled on the bed, pushing up the light strands of hair tickling my forehead.
The entrance flipped open, and Feliciano's head popped into view. His face immediately lit up when he saw me. "Ve, chow, Ludwig!"
More chow time? "Uh, yes, chow time," I could handle more food. I have not eaten anything fulfilling until last night.
He opened the tent all the way and stepped inside, ordained in dry clothes now and walked up to the bed, spewing out more (possibly Italian) words I did not understand. I stared up at him waving his arms, somewhat amused, and of course confused. He grabbed my arm and gave it a tug, urging me off the bed.
I followed more willingly than I did yesterday. The sun was higher now, and the camp had awakened with the brighter light. Some men were preparing for another meal, but then again, it seemed so soon because I slept through the night. Several were hunched over, grinding stones against stones in a primitive fashion to crush flour. Others were stoking a building fire, and stacking planks of wood over it to make a cheap furnace. To rapidly utilize such methods of old style cooking, these men had to be in the forest for a considerable amount of time.
Feliciano prompted me to take a seat on one of the thick logs laid around the pit, and he snatched a pile of dried grass, carefully poking the straws into the flames and laying the burning pieces in areas in need of heat. Another man came over to my unoccupied side with a bowl, calling out, "Chow." to us.
Apparently 'chow' was a greeting, and not a way to tell someone that they have food for you to eat. I turned to him and tried it. "Um, chow, sir."
He stared, surprised, and then nodded, setting to work in adding a container of water to his odd lump, kneading it until it slowly became dough. I watched them diligently work, chatting merrily and laughing at things I would not know. The man beside me asked me something, but Feliciano shook his head, most likely telling him I did not understand.
He does not speak Italian.
The man looked at me, shrugging. That must be a bad time for him, then!
It was a bad time. I sat there, staring at them busying themselves when I felt useless. I loathed not working when I should, but how could I be of help when I cannot ask or offer it? I grumbled under my breath, shifting side to side on the log. Something splattered across my back and I gasped as a flurry of white flew from behind me. Feliciano cried in surprise while his fellow soldier's eyes crinkled with heavy laugher.
I shot up from my seat and spun around. Feliciano's look alike glared, with his hand coated in flour. I reached behind myself and brushed my jacket, examining the dust on my hand. He performed an obscene gesture as he waltzed over to the pit and knelt down, adding his pile to the man's forming ball of dough.
Feliciano stood as well, brushing the flour from my back. "Err, thanks," I said. He tilted his head and smiled, not understanding. "Gracias?" I tried. I was positive whatever flour the look alike threw did not hit that low, so I lightly shooed Feliciano away, settling back down with a disgruntled glance at the brunet offender.
"So, are you good today?" I asked, earning quirked glances. "N-need help...with anything?" Was anything remotely similar to German and their language? "Sorry..." I looked at my feet, feeling truly stupid.
"Don't you know no one can understand your potato language?"
I snapped my head up. The look alike flickered his eyes from his own ball of dough to me, curling his lips in distaste. He just spoke Spanish! I am not adept at the language, but I could still communicate effectively in it! If only the other speaker were more friendly, like Feliciano.
His eyes widened and his mouth popped open. I realized he was mocking my expression. I clamped my mouth shut, bewildered from his childishness. "Y-you speak Spanish?" I asked stupidly.
"No, I'm just talking shit and you can understand me."
I looked away.
"What are you doing here? I know you are not Italian. You don't sound Spanish, either."
"I-I-"
"I-I-I-I...duh..."
"I'm German," I snapped. He growled and set his blob on a metal tray.
"Eugh, why in the world did my brother bring a walking potato into our camp?"
"Oh, you are the brother of Feliciano?" I asked, trying to be civil.
"No shit. Shouldn't you be back in Potatoland rather than the Italian countryside?"
"Why do you think I am here?" I gritted my teeth. The war, dammit.
"How should I know? Why should I know?" He shoved his tray over the fire, narrowing his eyes and yanking his hand away before it was burned.
"What do you know?" I hissed in German.
Feliciano glanced between us, murmuring worryingly. His brother grimaced. "You look like one of those macho infantry men, but that is no German gear I know of."
"How do you not know the colors of one of your country's allies?"
A fierce growl. "Do not consider your nation and mine all buddy-buddy! Things are different now. Once the war is wrapped up and peace talk is made, our lands will have nothing to do with one another...hopefully."
I found myself staring at him, my eyebrows furrowing. "What are you talking about? There were negotiations, but they failed the first time..." I trailed off. That is what prompted the Second Phase, but there are rumors of another attempt of negotiations. I will not know for certain until I get back to my regiment, and we join the other garrison in the South.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" The look alike snarled, breaking my train of thought. "There are no negotiations. Not yet. Those dumbasses won't put up the white flag until they are all beaten to a pulp, because of some 'honor code' or some stupid shit."
They do not know? My mind went back to the drawings in the journals I flipped through. The sketches were outdated to me, but not to those still trapped in the past, not to these Italians in the middle of the woods. It clicked; they were from the First Phase, clueless of the failed peace talks and the revival of the battles. Then why in the world are they still camped out in the woods?! They should have returned to their homes by now!
"Yo, bastard! Did you lose your train of thought? There are not that many places to go, anyway, so I would not be surprised."
I shook my head. "Forget it," I grumbled, putting my head in my hands. Why do they not use maps to go back home? Do they have maps? I tacked another objective to my list of things to investigate.
"Gladly!" The brother said. He called to Feliciano and asked something in Italian, though it sounded like a demand. Feliciano gasped and clapped his hands together excitedly. He reached over and latched onto my jacket, giving it small tugs. His sibling snorted and looked at me. "Feli says you were creeping around the woods and you made him fall into the river!"
"I helped him out of the water," I retorted, glancing to Feliciano leaning against my arm and craning his head up to smile warmly. I doubt Feliciano worded the occurrence in that crude way.
"Yeah, I'm sure that's what happened. Why were you sneaking around the woods? You make a shitty spy if that's what you were aiming for!"
"No, I was not spying. People spy when their enemies have something worthy of seeking, but I can see you did not know that," I retorted, trying to keep my voice even.
Feliciano's brother spat something I did not understand. "Did you the stupid potato get lost from his sack? Is that why you are here? Huh?" He snapped when I did not answer right away, "I want to know."
Feliciano called out to his brother, who huffed and crossed his arms, turning away. He glared in my direction, as if it were my fault he was lightly scolded. I did not have the slightest clue to why he was so malevolent to me, a near stranger. Once the bread was baked, however, the rest of the men joined us from their toils, and all crude thoughts and feelings aside when I sunk my teeth into the warm dough. The delicious food did not ameliorate the feeling of me seeing myself as a dirty spud amongst cherry red tomatoes.