I closed the notebook after placing a period on today’s entry.
A miserable war.
The end of my notebook, which I’d been using as a diary since the middle of World War IV, was in sight.
I brushed off my pants and stood up from the rubble of a bombed-out building that we had just occupied.
“Sergeant Kim, you’re still writing that diary?”
As I adjusted my gear, a soot-covered white man, blackened by the dirt, spoke to me.
“Someone has to write it down. Someone has to continue that guy’s story.”
The notebook fluttered and pointed towards a person nearby, covered with a blanket.
In this chilly weather, my comrade, who had his face covered up to his eyes, looked so peaceful with his eyes closed.
The white man who had spoken to me started to reply but then closed his mouth as if choked up. He readjusted his helmet and muttered bitterly, almost squeezing the words out.
“Damn it… How does it make sense that the assistant gunner dies faster than the sniper?”
Those were the last words I remember from him.
Not wanting him to die of frostbite on the cold ground, I carried him to the undertaker, no matter what.
Unlike the black friend who had gone before him, this guy had been killed by a counter-sniper relatively close to the city, so we were able to give him a proper funeral.
And so, as one more fell, our Ranger company continued the fight without a sniper team.
“If only… If only I’d done a better job as the assistant…”
The private we temporarily filled in as a replacement was filled with self-blame after the assistant gunner had gone.
He sat on a chair in front of the mortuary where the sniper brothers were resting, his helmet placed beside him, his forehead resting on his knees.
“It’s not your fault, so don’t blame yourself.”
I remember being like that once, too.
I patted him on the shoulder and walked over to the company commander.
He was chewing on an unlit cigarette and then spat on the ground.
“Did it get wet?”
“Yeah. I was worried during the crossing, and it looks like it all fell into the water.”
Contrary to his words, his pants were spotless and dry.
Strangely, the only moisture was pooled on his cheeks.
I took out my notebook and wrote today’s entry.
We were isolated.
The radio operator had disappeared a few minutes ago, leaving only an arm behind after a mortar landed squarely on him and his radio.
In this situation, where we might be rescued by the main force, a Jewish private started to speak.
“Sergeant, you’re still writing that diary?”
“He said that when the war ends, he’d make a movie about it. Since he can’t write anymore, someone has to keep writing and finish the movie for him.”
“Oh, so does that mean I’ll be the main character? Like one of those heroes who starts out as a screw-up but awakens later?”
“Knock it off. You’re still a screw-up.”
“Just wait and see. When I earn the Medal of Honor, I’ll throw those words right back at you.”
“Please do.”
As I was talking with the Jewish soldier, a large mixed-race man approached and joked.
“Well, I don’t need to be in the movie. Just put me on the sound team.”
“You?”
“I’m actually a music school graduate.”
“Then make me the cameraman.”
The war correspondent who had been following our company raised his hand and joined in.
“So I’m the lead, and Sergeant Kim is the director?”
“Why would I be the director? I’m the lead, and the company commander is the supporting actor.”
“What?”
“I’m the one writing the diary. Why would you be the lead?”
“This little punk? Hey, take his notebook!”
The company commander put me in a headlock and smacked my helmet.
The other soldiers, laughing and cheering, tried to snatch my notebook, while I desperately tried to protect it.
Click.
The war correspondent snapped a picture of the scene.
***
“Argh… so boring.”
“Oh, Allen, looks like it’s time for a diaper change.”
Reincarnation Year 0.6.
I grumbled while watching the television my mother had turned on.
My last memory, marked by the sound of bombs shaking the sky, led to a transition into an awesome medieval fantasy world.
Honestly, it was unrealistic to hope for a life while having set up a death flag so blatantly.
Knowing that I would die in an isolated situation anyway, I boldly planted those flags—something normally taboo— and recovered them within an hour, so I wasn’t particularly upset.
But that wasn’t what mattered.
What was important was that I could continue pursuing the dreams I had not fulfilled in my previous life here.
Medieval?
I wasn’t so wishy-washy about my resolutions to be swayed by that.
“Son, what is this?”
“What do you mean, what is it? It’s action! Doesn’t it get your adrenaline pumping, Dad?”
“This time, the counterintelligence department sent a warning letter asking us to refrain.”
“Eek! Censorship is wrong! I seek freedom of culture!”
“… They said that fifteen agents were injured while protecting you this month alone.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
It seems that commercial films were too stimulating in the medieval fantasy world.
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