Night brings no rest.
Just the sound of Warsaw burning and the occasional crack of sniper fire.
We sit in our positions, eating cold rations, checking ammunition, trying not to think about tomorrow.
Thompson settles next to me.
"You did good today."
"Thanks."
"I mean it. Some of these volunteers froze up first time they saw action. You didn't."
"Didn't have time to freeze."
"There's always time. You just didn't take it."
He offers me a cigarette from his dwindling pack.
"You're either the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met, or you've got the devil's own instincts."
"Maybe both."
He laughs, short and sharp.
"Maybe."
We smoke in silence for a while.
The city glows orange against the night sky, fires burning out of control.
How many people are dying over there right now?
Thousands? Tens of thousands?
"Think we'll hold?" I ask.
"The sector? Maybe. The city?"
Thompson shakes his head.
"No. Poland's done. We're just buying time now."
"For what?"
"For the politicians to figure out what happens next."
He flicks ash into the darkness.
"For people to evacuate. For history to remember we tried."
He stands, joints popping.
"Get some sleep, Castellanos. Tomorrow's going to be worse."
I watch him walk away.
Sleep doesn't come, but I close my eyes anyway.
The fragments are louder tonight:
A sword in my hand, heavy and familiar.
Men screaming in a language I don't speak.
Someone's face—I can't quite see it clearly—saying something important I can't quite hear.
The smell of blood and mud and burning.
And underneath it all, a certainty:
I've done this before.
Fought and killed and survived while others died.
Different wars, different weapons, same fundamental truth.
War knows me.
And I know it.
---
September 20th dawns grey.
The Germans attack at 0630.
I'm ready.
My rifle is clean, my ammunition is stacked within reach, and my hands don't shake anymore.
The fear is still there, but it's distant now, manageable, like background noise I've learned to tune out.
The first tank appears through the smoke.
I sight on the infantry behind it, squeeze the trigger, watch a soldier drop.
Chamber another round.
Find the next target.
The battle begins again.
And somewhere in the fragments of my memory, in lives I can't quite reach, I know this is just the beginning.
Warsaw is falling.
Poland is dying.
And I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I was made to do.
Even if I don't understand why.
The rifle kicks.
Another target drops.
I keep firing.
---
By midday, Davies finds me again.
"You're being reassigned."
"Sir?"
"Polish unit needs support. You and Thompson are heading into the city. Link up with resistance fighters, help with the defense."
"When?"
"Twenty minutes. Grab your gear."
I look at the position I've held for two days.
At the bodies still lying in the street because there's been no time to move them.
At the blood soaked into the rubble.
"Understood, sir."
Davies hesitates.
"Castellanos. You've got something. I don't know what. But you've got it. So use it. Stay alive. Maybe when this is over, someone will want to know how you did what you did."
"What did I do?"
"Survived your first battle and acted like a veteran."
He turns away.
"Don't waste it."
---
Twenty-three minutes later, I'm in the back of a truck with Thompson and four other soldiers.
Heading deeper into Warsaw.
Into the burning heart of a dying city.
The truck hits a crater and bounces hard enough to rattle my bones.
Thompson catches my eye.
"You ready for this?"
I check my rifle.
Forty-seven rounds.
Two grenades.
A knife I don't remember receiving but somehow know how to use.
"Yeah," I say.
And I am.
Whatever's waiting in Warsaw—death, revelation, purpose—I'm ready for it.
I've died before.
This time, maybe I'll understand why.
The truck rolls on.
The city burns.
And I go to meet whatever's waiting.