Written for the birthday of Aliana, who wished for drabbles about discovery.
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Rain clattered on the dugout roof and ran in muddy rivulets down the walls. The smell of coffee and woolen socks rose from the small stove.
“The lieutenant? He’s not a bad sort, as officers go. But when I first saw those books of his, I thought they were written in German — that gave me a turn, it did! The lieutenant says it’s some old kind of English.
“Then he’s always drawing maps, so finally I get up the nerve to ask. ‘Sir,’ says I, 'is that the eastern front?' He just gives me the oddest smile and says, ‘Yes.’”