Recollections of a Little Soldier (I)

Part 1 - The Makings of Winter

No snow this year. Not anywhere, even up north, the dusted hills and pictures of mountains, calling out memories of Yuletide chocolate – gone now. Probably not coming back. It’s safe to consider the situation dire when you start to miss its problems. They haven’t once had to rake out the old furs, the scarves that gave a weird sense of autoerotic asphyxiation on contact with the enemy, choked and near-guiltily scoping the bare pink that trundled along – they don’t feel a thing, you know- monitors glaring the signal to attention through the dark, met with a resounding crotch response that gave men the real fear of turning the lights on. The giants could notice just fine, but Christ, not the guys you bunked with. Instead it’s the same old, the stuff that gives you a clear chance at escape but isn’t nearly as fun in the dark, that’s fastened down in uncomfortable places so nothing trips you, and a nice, liquid-proof nametag to identify you, given, of course, doesn’t stick to the foot that smeared you out across the ground, and stuck you flat on that grimy sole like the old toilet-paper-on-foot scenario, though, I suppose in this situation, it’s a tad more humiliating for the toilet paper. Giant etiquette isn’t well known. Many doubt it exists.