Ch.242Request Log #019 – The Day the Great War Ended (1)

A uniform becomes sandpaper clothing regardless of the fabric used. While wearing it, the soul becomes worn down, with no sharp edges or hollows remaining.

Michael Husband disappears. Only the Argonne Invincible remains. What’s left is something that allies called the angel of the trenches and enemies called names like Doppelsöldner—something that is human but not human.

Yet this year, despite wearing a uniform, he must be Michael Husband rather than an Argonne Invincible. He takes out the dress uniform he had put away after Professor Albert’s funeral. It still felt too heavy.

Sometimes the weight of medals feels unbearable even with twice the strength and twice the vitality. Nevertheless, he decided to endure it as Cain endured the mark on his forehead.

One medal was received for breaking through the encirclement when surrounded and isolated in the Argonne Forest. The star on the first medal seems to glare at him.

The other was received for volunteering without hesitation to rescue an isolated battalion like theirs. They were desperate. If they had been even slightly late, those soldiers might have made the same choice they did.

Today he planned to meet Bunyan’s family. His comrades also planned to visit the families of the comrades connected to them. Though this was their first visit, they had been in contact every year.

Until now, they hadn’t visited because they didn’t know who was chained to them. Now that they knew, they had to go.

They didn’t need to face it constantly. Since only bitter gall would remain, there was no need to constantly chew on the pain. But they had to do it once.

He thought it would be better if what waited behind this door was terrible contempt. Even with such thoughts, he couldn’t pack his uniform to change at the veterans’ hall. He couldn’t arouse suspicion. He had to appear natural.

After falling from human to something not human in an instant, every action became an imitation of humanity. Perhaps this was why they blended so well into crowds.

He leaves home. Trying to appear as natural as possible, he takes the elevator to the first floor. He steps out of the building. Patriotic decorations in colors borrowed from the American flag are everywhere.

Ignoring them, he heads to his car and slowly starts the engine. He no longer found it nauseating. He just felt like he was living in a different world. He could understand that much.

He feared becoming numb. If he grew number and number until someday he might use the Connection Ritual again… He didn’t want to imagine what would follow. He heads to the veterans’ hall.

Not many people had gathered in front of the veterans’ hall yet. This hall was used almost exclusively by the Argonne Invincibles, so not many would come unless they were families of comrades.

And whether victory or defeat, to them it was just the flame that devoured their families. Even fewer people had reason to come. He gets out of the car. He smiles at the respectful gazes around him.

A forced smile had to appear more natural than a naturally emerging one. He knocks on the veterans’ hall door, and an eyehole opens. Today too, he sees the Professor’s eyes.

The reason they used passwords despite knowing each other’s faces was to ruminate. To not forget.

“Have you been baptized with the blood of the lamb? Have you been purified?”

He didn’t answer mechanically. He remembered. The vision he had stuffed into Sol Invictus’s mind was originally in his own. He swallows. He answers.

“No, that was definitely not a lamb.”

The hall door quietly opened. The heavy door of the veterans’ hall was perfectly suited for the doubled strength of the Argonne Invincibles. Most of the surviving comrades were inside.

The Professor’s voice was tinged with terrible fatigue. He probably hadn’t slept properly yesterday.

“You’re here? I’m dying of exhaustion… Looks like you slept well?”

Sleep wasn’t so terrible if the reason was clear. Having had a chance to face it once when he killed Sol Invictus and saw the vision, he was somewhat better off.

“We’re people who’ve only been sending mail until now and are visiting to commemorate our comrades for the first time. A terrible expression from lack of sleep probably wouldn’t suit us… That’s all.”

“You think that’s how it works? Huh, you’re so inhuman. I’d believe a War Spirit entered a human body.”

Perhaps it was similar. All spirits need mediums. For Economic Spirits, it was money; for Industrial Spirits, engines. What the War Spirit needed was obvious.

As on Veterans Memorial Day, today too they opened a bottle of memorial wine. There weren’t many moments when alcohol wasn’t an escape. They poured small glasses for everyone. It was produced before the Great War.

None of them had been old enough to drink before the Great War, but they shared the thought that pre-war items were better for commemorating comrades.

They all raise their glasses. They drink emotions too numerous to swallow with barely a sip of alcohol. No eulogy was needed. Brooklyn clapped once and spoke.

“If you really can’t face the families, you don’t have to go today. Since there are far more dead than survivors anyway, we’ll need to visit over several days. Take a day or two to collect yourself, then go. Those who manage to visit properly today will be prioritized for visiting other families tomorrow. Okay?”

I’ll probably visit three or four families. Not much has changed since the Great War. The Professor always led, and Brooklyn was still the one who patted backs and offered comfort.

Today is the day the war ended. That’s a lie. There were still places where it hadn’t ended. No one knows when it will end. The gunfire is gone, but the gunshot wounds remain. That’s how it felt.

With such parting words, he pulls open the heavy wooden door of the veterans’ hall. One Invincible is enough for one door. They leave, except for those who decided to stay.

He gets in his car. He drives past people celebrating the end of the terrible war, rejoicing in our victory, or celebrating the dwarves’ defeat. He heads to the residential area.

The more crowded the streets, the quieter the residential areas tend to be. He goes to Bunyan’s house. His real name, not his nickname, was… yes, Nathan. Nathan Sterling. When called by name, they called him Nate.

He was a tall blonde guy. Because he was naturally big and his duty was to smash enemy barbed wire and obstacles with an axe, they gave him a nickname from the legendary lumberjack.

Well, he wasn’t the best comrade. Despite being only a year or two apart in age, he unnecessarily acted like an older brother. He helped well when help was truly needed, but his teasing was often excessive.

Bunyan died quite heroically. Before they used the ritual, when their first breakthrough attempt failed miserably, he took a magic shell with his body. He won’t describe what he looked like afterward.

As he reminisces, he arrives at Bunyan’s house. It’s an ordinary home. He had never asked about childhood, but he had heard the address. He parked by the road and got out.

After taking a deep breath, he approaches the house. He sees someone at the window. It might seem strange for a man in uniform to suddenly visit, but at least he had the excuse of Armistice Day.

Arriving at the house, he knocks on the door. As if someone had been waiting, the door opened without delay. A middle-aged woman who emerged from the door looked him over from head to toe.

Middle-aged woman. Even that term is funny. The last time he had seen a middle-aged woman was two weeks and three days after his fourteenth birthday.

After examining the medals on his chest, she spoke as if she knew who he was. She showed no scars from the Great War.

“So, you must be… an Argonne Invincible who fought with our Nate, right?”

If so, I shouldn’t act gloomy either. I had to act like people who had already swallowed everything and matured. I imitated again.

“Yes, of course. I felt somewhat guilty only contacting you by mail, and since I didn’t visit even on the fifth anniversary of the armistice… I thought I should visit at least once.”

I consciously put on a natural smile. Every expression and gesture is deliberate. The only natural thing is the feeling of guilt. She waves her hand as if it’s nonsense.

“What is there to feel guilty about? Everyone’s busy living their own lives. Nate would be happy just hearing that anyone from his unit visited. Oh, may I ask your name?”

“Michael Husband. And we called him Bunyan. He was naturally big, and his job was like a lumberjack, leading with an axe.”

Talking about nicknames is talking about experiences. She doesn’t know, and I do, so when I naturally bring up the story, she smiles briefly.

“He wasn’t a child who particularly liked red shirts and jeans. Please come in. I’ll make you some tea.”

Suppressing the feeling of wanting to vomit blood, I enter the house. Ironically, Bunyan’s home, though he was gone, seemed to accept the past better than I did.

There was no trace of the Great War. The cozy interior, the shelf with his photos and three medals… everything seemed so peaceful.

When entering a house for the first time, you sense its unique atmosphere. As a detective, I had to close my eyes and ears to such feelings and focus on the job, but not now.

I decide to examine that feeling. To see what the life I had swallowed might have been like. Though painful to swallow, I managed to smile.

Soon, Bunyan’s mother brewed two cups of herbal tea and placed one in front of me. Pretending to be friendly and sociable, I take a sip.

Warmth spread through my body, but the tension didn’t ease. This stiffness wasn’t from cold, so nothing could be done. She carefully began to speak.

“I was wondering… what kind of person was Nate to you? I received several letters, but he didn’t talk much about the war. He only mentioned things like how donuts tasted good… Still, I heard he fought alongside heroes like you. I wanted to know more, but it seemed inappropriate to ask in a letter?”

You can’t tell from words on paper whether the writer is shivering with cold, huddled with others for warmth, or writing comfortably in a warm house.

The fact that she asked only after seeing I was well enough to visit showed she was a good person. There are many good people in the world. Countless good people, yet the world is like this.

And… the Great War was the Great War even before we used the ritual. It took on its gloomy color from the moment the first shot was fired. It wasn’t a war that was terrible only for us.

I take another breath. It felt like breathing with a bullet hole in my stomach. My breath seemed mixed with the smell of blood and gunpowder. It’s just my imagination. Just imagination.

“As a comrade, he was like an older brother, and as a soldier, he was heroic. Because he was big and strong, he always insisted on taking the lead, so we debated whether to nickname him Bunyan or, as a cruel joke, Lemming.”

At that, Bunyan’s mother brightened a bit. It didn’t feel healing. Pain doubles when shared, and joy halves. I swallowed the doubled pain alone.

She shifted her gaze anxiously from side to side, then asked. She had something she wanted to ask. Probably about how he died. Her expression showed she didn’t want to make me dwell on it.

But she probably wanted to know where and how her son lost his life, requiring an empty coffin to be buried at Arlington. I quietly drink my tea, waiting for her to speak.

When the steam from the teacup had thinned, her voice was heard.

“If you remember what happened to our Nate… it must be a memory you don’t want to recall, but could I ask?”

Though she didn’t state her request directly, it wasn’t difficult to understand what she meant. After another sip, I inhaled my breath that tasted of blood without exhaling it.

“When we tried to break through the encirclement in the Argonne Forest, he took a magic shell from the artillery with his body. There were two comrades who hadn’t made it back to the trench yet, and thanks to him, they survived.”

This is something that actually happened, unlike the heroic tales of the Argonne Invincibles. Is this tying up loose ends with the past? I don’t know. It was just painful.

I felt like I could vomit a bucket of blood once I drove far enough away from this house. Still, I decided to see it through to the end.

When notifying of a soldier’s death, they typically used expressions like “unfortunate accident.” While this was to spare people who would be shocked by death alone, it inevitably became a matter of hiding the truth.

I would like to tell them later, but such opportunities were rare. I did what I had to do. Helping others didn’t save me. I shouldn’t entrust the task of saving myself to others.

The silence disappeared as suddenly as it had come. About fifteen seconds of silence. Beyond that time, people become emotional. We weren’t close enough to become emotional.

Afterward, we talked about more everyday matters. She asked what I’d been doing since returning from the Great War. I said I worked as a bodyguard, not a detective. That was better.

She seemed to see Bunyan overlapping with me. Our height, build, hair color, and eye color were all different, but that’s how she looked at me. It was a gaze more accurate than insight. Her voice telling me to take care was moist.

I didn’t say I would visit next year. I’ll probably send a letter next year. A reply will come to the veterans’ hall, and things will probably be a little better than before.

The good part of this year’s Armistice Day is now over. The God-President will spout nonsense on the radio again tonight. Having decided to find something else to do during that time, I left Bunyan’s house.

I get in the car. I scan the house once more with my gaze, so the comrade overlaid on me could see it. I start the engine and gently push the accelerator. This is not a place to linger.