Rain dripped down the pub’s weathered brick walls. A man in military overalls, Paulson, stood just outside the front door. The interior of the pub was heavy with smoke, and Paulson could see from the window that the place was practically empty. He made his way inside and over to the counter. A barkeep tending to a table took notice of him. He gathered the rest of the stray cups and made his way over.
“What’ll you have, soldier?”
Paulson took a look around the room.
“A beer.”
The barkeep bent down, opened a beat-up ice chest, and brought a beer to the counter.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Colonel Nelson. Heard he was in here.”
“Corner booth.”
Paulson turned away from the bar, and as he neared the corner, a voice called out.
“Whaddya want?”
“I heard you know how to sail a boat,” Paulson said as he sat down.
Nelson rested his fist on the table. It was covered in scars and nautical ink.
“It’s my day off.”
“This is important.”
Nelson craned his head forward. His weathered features were accentuated by the poor lighting.
“Our orders are to stay here.”
“I have different orders.”
Nelson smirked.
“Where to?”
“Foundling Rock,” Paulson replied.
Nelson’s face tightened.
“Why’s a Private carrying off a secret order?”
“They reward those who are committed to the cause.”
“Guess that’s why I’m sitting in my own piss then.”
With that, Nelson waved for another round.
After a few hours and many more bottles of beer, Nelson rose drunkenly from his chair. Paulson leapt to grab hold of him but ended up joining in his drunken dance. After what felt like minutes of shuffling around the bar, Nelson’s amusement wore off and he let Paulson take control. Worried Nelson might puke, Paulson put his arms around the drunk and led him out the door. As they stepped into the rain, Nelson mumbled and wept.
Wounded civilians wandered aimlessly along the streets. Armed soldiers were perched along the rooftops, looking down in amusement at the sights of the fallen. Nelson wiggled free of Paulson’s grasp and marched drunkenly into an alleyway, where refugees lined the walls. From there he entered a clapboard two-story home. Paulson, still trying to get a grip on the drunken fool, followed closely behind. The house was dark, but through streaks of light, one could make out the deteriorating nature of the place. Paulson followed the sound of footsteps into a dimly lit room, where he found Nelson sitting at an old, beat-up card table.
“Pull up a seat,” Nelson said.
Nelson took a deck of cards from his weather-beaten slicker and shuffled them with a flourish.
“What’s your game?”
“I don’t play... What is this place?”
“A place civilians go to get away.”
“From what?”
“Us.”
Paulson turned to face the window. Outside, the rain turned to hail. Ice bounced off the devastated town and turned the world’s waste into a rhythm. Nelson gave a dissatisfied grunt.
They played cards well into the night.
It was early morning when they woke up. They raised sail at ten and anchored at two. From there they used a small skiff to carry them the rest of the way to Foundling Rock.
At camp, the fire rose to a violent crackle. As Nelson prepared their rations, he asked, “Seeing as it’s just the two of us, why not tell me what your ‘secret’ mission is?”
“I can’t.”
Nelson took a long, hard look at Paulson. As dusk settled, something shot down from the sky. It struck the campfire with ferocious speed. Embers flew, setting fire to Nelson’s tent. Together, they managed to stamp out the flames. While Nelson inspected the damage, Paulson turned and saw, sitting among the embers, was a capsule. He knelt down and unlatched its small door with his army-issue buck knife. Inside was a punch card.
“What is it?” Nelson asked, still out of breath.
“It’s nothing,” Paulson said. “We need to go back.”
“No, it’s too dark to sail.”
“We have an order. We need to go back.”
“No, you have an order. I have nothing.”
Paulson shoved the punch card Nelson’s way, letting him see it clearly for the first time: a stiff piece of paper. Nelson recognized it. Paulson saw that Nelson knew what it was. They held eye contact for a brief moment. Then Paulson said, “This wins us the war.”
Without missing a beat, Nelson said, “At what cost?”
Paulson sighed and took a seat on the sand. Nelson frowned, then took a flask from one of his many pockets and drank. He offered it to Paulson as he sat down next to him.
The two drank well into the night. They passed the flask back and forth, and by the time it was dry, Nelson found another bottle lying around somewhere. They kept going with that one too. Half of what they drank ended up on their blouses, and whatever was left they threw into the fire. It grew so high they couldn’t see through it, so they met on one side and interlocked arms. They danced, with Nelson leading the parade. He danced manically. Paulson stumbled over his own feet but kept going. Nelson crooned the military songs they both knew so well. As the night grew old, Nelson switched to old sailor hymns, the ones sailors used to sing hundreds of years ago. Eventually they both fell to the sand. Paulson stood and raised the punch card into the air, feeling its weight in his hands. Nelson stretched out his legs, causing Paulson to trip. The punch card flew out of his hands and into the flames. The fire changed hues, and new sparks rose where the old ones died. Paulson turned in disbelief to Nelson, who was smiling.