Mate

Yet another cold day of October started early, before dawn. A cat lied down at the dugout's exit after chasing a rat up and down the trench and dozed off there. Someone's boot stepping on his tail woke him up. "Whoops, sorry, pal," murmured the boot's owner and left the dugout. Didn't even bother to caress him. Having been woken up so rudely and abruptly, the cat sat for a couple of minutes, his fur ruffled and his face sleepy. Outside, there was some commotion, people whispered and tinkled something. It wasn't difficult to guess what it meant: the trench was about to get empty soon, the people would move to another one, that noise and rumbling would return, and perhaps some huge and scary things would land right here, by the cat, the things that made the ground under his paws shake and even fly into the air. There was nothing to do in the dugout anymore as everyone had left. The cat stretched and, sensing the smell of old bread and canned stew, walked on the cold ground the same way as all the hurrying people. Some of them stopped at a corner full of other people, half-dressed, with soap on their faces. Everyone was in a hurry: another sure sign that the rumbling was to begin soon. "Make way, boys!" shouted someone jokingly by the kitchen. "Look who's gonna have breakfast with us!" The people who looked down smiled upon seeing the cat. But it seemed that they didn't even have time for a friendly "kitty kitty". They were stamping their feet, breathing on their hands and, after taking their food, would run away quickly to let others take their portions and say to them that damn tea tasted like vegetables again. The cat sat in the distance, but making sure they could see him, and decided to clean himself for now. Some of the approaching men started throwing bits of beef and cheese, and he thanked them by rubbing his head against their legs, but they rarely stopped. "Here, Simon." A moustachioed man carefully gave the cat a piece of cheese. "I don't like it anyway." "Who the hell is Simon?" another man retorted. "This is Clarence." "Clarence, my eyes! Nobody calls cats like that." The moustachioed one stroked the cat and left, followed by the other man, and they continued their argument, letting small clouds out of their mouths. These people just couldn't decide on the cat's name. Simon, Tabby, Tim, Sparky, Smoke... He could not remember all of those names. However, he reacted in any case, no matter what he was called. But there was one man who was the cat's favourite. He had different names, too: Sir, Sergeant, Sergeant Thompson and Frank. He was the one who found the cat, back when he was a little kitten, among some ruins. He hid the cat behind his coat, stroking him gently with a large hand, and brought him into the trench, a different one. Although they all were alike to him. Whenever people got out of their trenches, or when the rumbling things flew at them, the cat used to hide under Sergeant's low bed at first. If he was in the dugout, the man peeked under his bed and laughed, trying to stroke the cat, but it was too scary to even purr. Later, however, the cat got used to it. He just tried to get to Sergeant's bed in time and lied there until the ground stopped shaking. If Sergeant was there as well, he could lie in his lap, and the man would stroke his head affectionately or scratch his chin. But this time, Sergeant wasn't on his bed. The cat found him only some time later: he was standing in the middle of the trench, with other people, some of them in high boots. Puttees, like the ones Sergeant had, were better. It was nicer to rub the head against them. When the men finished their talking, Sergeant was about to go somewhere, but suddenly saw the cat. "Hello, mate!" He crouched and smiled gleefully. "Where have you been all night? I thought you ran away." The cat rubbed his head against the man's knee and purred. "No, you wouldn't do that to me, eh?" Sergeant asked, his fingers stroking the cat's black fur. These fingers wore the same smell as the short stick he used to put in his mouth and then exhale smoke. "I'd better get you inside." He took the cat in his arms and ran to the dugout. It was uncomfortable, but the cat was glad that Sergeant pressed him against his chest again. Albeit a bit too tightly. "You sit here, all right?" Sergeant put the cat on the bed, ruffled the hair on his head and walked to the exit. "Don't get out, mate," he said, looking back, and then left. The cat didn't want to eat, the men were busy and prevented him from strolling down the trench leisurely, so he decided to sleep again. He was quickly disturbed by a whistle from the front trench. And then the cat heard that the people were climbing up. When he walked to the front trench, it was already empty. It was quiet, people were running somewhere nearby, but he could not see them... Soon a cracking was heard, far enough away, but the cat's heart began to beat faster anyway. His ears moving, he looked up, where the trench's wall ended. What was going on up there? What was this cracking and rumbling? Where the men were running and why were they returning covered in blood or sometimes without legs or hands, or dead altogether? Despite all the months spent here, he could never understand. Someone was crawling back, to the cat. He heard something rubbing against the ground every other second. A few minutes later, the moustachioed man, the one that gave his cheese earlier, jumped into the trench. The cat didn't even get to stand up to meet him, because the man ran quickly into the dugout, where the people in high boots were. Something rumbled outside, the ground shook. And the loud cracking didn't stop. The cat darted back into the dugout and lied down on the bed that smelled of Sergeant. It calmed him a little, but nevertheless, he fluffed his tail up and tried to be closer the soft blanket, pressing his ears to the head sometimes. A man entered the trench and fell, bringing the smell of blood. He moved, murmured something and then went quiet. The earth shook again. The cat looked out of the dugout and headed to a man sitting by the trench's wall. Something felt off about him. The cat sat in the distance, sniffing. The man's hand lying on the ground was covered in blood, as well as his stomach. He did not react to anything, didn't turn to the cat and didn't flinch at the cracking or the ground shaking. Hesitant to approach this strange man, the cat settled nearby, keeping his eyes on him. How wasn't he afraid? He was staring at the wall in front of him, or maybe at his dirty boots, as if nothing else around him was interesting enough. The cat lied there for a while, until new people came, helping others, who were covered in blood. The trench started to fill with people again. The smell of blood brought moans and whispers, and uninjured people went from one bleeding man to another, keeping their heads down, and did something to them. The cat didn't like the smell from some bottles and vials. He returned into the dugout while more and more people were coming into the trench. Their voices grew louder and were filled with anger. It was best not to bother them now: they could kick him under the belly for getting in their way. The cracking seemed to have stopped, and the ground wasn't shaking anymore. A man walked into the dugout, the one who was also called Sergeant, though not Thompson, but Fox. He too lived there. Eyeing the cat, he sat down at his own bed, breathing heavily. His arm was wrapped in bandages. Another man ran in. "Sergeant, the major is looking for you." "Damn it..." Sergeant murmured, and both of them walked out. The cat decided to leave too after all. His sergeant had disappeared again. Only Fox was in the dugout with the men in shiny boots. He was moving his finger across the table while others were smoking and talking. "Hey, Clarence, come here," was heard once the cat exited that other dugout. "Come here, pal, come on." A man was sitting on a ledge, patting his lap. The cat obeyed and hopped on, headbutted the man's stomach, then hand, but did not lie down. He sat, pressing his paws into the human's lap, and kept looking around, sniffing and moving his ears. "Are you looking for your sergeant?" The man called another one who was passing by: "Oi, Jimmy, have you seen Thompson?" "Nope. He must be with the major." "Probably with the major," the man told the cat and stroked him. He started muttering something about "the fight", "Jerries", and "that machine gun", scratching behind the purring cat's ear. Suddenly, Sergeant came. So unexpectedly that the cat didn't even notice that. He hopped down on the ground and ran to his favourite human. Who, it seemed, was looking for someone among other people. Sergeant didn't smell of anything. Neither of blood nor of the smoking sticks. Ready to rub his head against the man's puttees, the cat approached his leg, raising the tail high. But for some reason, his nose met the opposite wall of the trench, as though no one was standing in front of him at all. The cat looked up, confused. No, Sergeant did not disappear. Another man passed through him, the one who was called Captain. Passed so easily, as if people walk through each other all the time. The cat had never seen something like this before. At length, Sergeant noticed the cat. That familiar smile lit up his face again, and the urge to show affection only grew stronger at this sight. Sergeant crouched and extended his hand to the cat's ear, but the cat only felt the lightest touch, barely noticeable at all. "I couldn't go without saying goodbye to you, eh?" Sergeant said softly. His voice was hollow and quiet. Distant. "I am so sorry, mate. That's it. We won't see each other again." Another dead man was carried by, and he smelled just like Sergeant, only the smell of blood was even stronger. The cat's eyes followed him, and then he tried to rub his head against Sergeant's legs again. "No use, mate," Sergeant said, even more quiet, and put a finger on the cat's nose. Although the cat could hardly feel it, he closed his eyes and purred more. "Be careful here, all right? And help the boys. They need you very much." The cat wanted to settle in Sergeant's lap, but the man stood up. "Thank you, mate, I would've lost my mind here without you. Be safe." And suddenly, Sergeant disappeared. Other people were still walking in the trench, but Sergeant was no longer here. Someone picked the cat up, not very deftly, with one hand. He saw Fox's face. Pressing the cat to his chest, the man headed into the dugout. There, he stood still for a while, as if frozen. The cat jumped on Sergeant's bed, and Fox sat beside. His hand stroked the black fur absentmindedly, all the way to the tail. It wasn't to the cat's liking. He got out and lied down on the bed's other end. "I am no Frank, of course, but there's no choice," mumbled Fox apologetically. "You'll have to get used to my bed, they'll give this one to another fellow soon. Frank asked to look after you." He stroked the cat once more and then started collecting Sergeant's things which the cat sniffed thoroughly. Not long after that, another man indeed began to sleep on the familiar bed, and he smelled completely different. Lying on Sergeant's sweater that Fox put on his bed for him, the cat kept studying that new human. He was kind and gentle, but the cat did not like that he occupied Sergeant's bed. He called other people "mate", but no one called the cat that now. However, whenever he heard this familiar and pleasant word, the cat would prick up his ears and look around or stare at the dugout's entrance, expecting Sergeant to come. But he never appeared. And the cat would lie down on his sweater again and relax upon sensing the familiar scent. Until the moment someone would say "mate" again.