(Photo by Yura Forrat)

Crisp autumn air bit at any exposed skin, but not so deeply to be too uncomfortable. Still, a pair of mittens, scarf, and ear muffs, in addition to a good coat, kept the cold at bay. The man stood there, outside in the field, his eyes sweeping from one side to the other as though appraising it. He wasn’t old but his prime years were certainly past. Gray hair was filling in along the sides of his head and into his beard. He stamped his feet from time to time to keep them warm. Frost clung to the withered grass and narrow skiffs of snow hid in whatever small stretches of shaded ground there was in the field. Trees surrounded most of the field, making it look and feel like a fairly secluded place even though the highway was only a short walk away.

To the untrained eye, the field looked very much like any other one. The ground was slightly uneven, some depressions and low hills, bits of a long abandoned fence line poked up here and there, and there were even a few vehicles that had been reduced to rusted out shells after being abandoned many years in the past. Most people would have a hard time recognizing what those vehicles had once been, but the man knew what they were. What they had been. Why they were here.

As though acting on some unknown cue, he began to walk. His steps were slow but purposeful as he made his way, turning slightly to one side or the other every time he came up to one of the shallow depressions. It was hard to spot but he walked with a slight limp, favoring his right side. The longer he walked the more pronounced the limp became. The man didn’t notice his limp any more. It was second nature to him now.

He reached the first of many rotting fence posts and stood beside it for a few moments. There were still a few strands of barbed wire stapled to it, their rusting ends sinking down below the grass and getting lost in the ground. Sometimes he thought about coming out here and pulling it all up. A winch or a tractor would make short work of it but then what? He had no intention of ever working this land, and, as far as he knew, no one besides himself ever really came out here. So, he left it alone and moved on, resuming his walk.

As he reached the middle of the field, he paused yet again and looked towards the western edge. Just above the treeline he could make out the gray, flat roofs and the dark, empty windows that looked out over the field. Everything was quiet now but the first time he’d been here, the noise issuing from that direction had been deafening. The windows hadn’t been dark back then either. He remembered the flashing light and the heavy staccato of noise that had raked the field as the gunners fired down upon the field.

The trees still bore the signs of that day, although it was getting harder and harder each year to spot it. Uneven branches, splintered trunks, partially broken limbs hanging at odd angles, all gave hints towards what had happened there that day. There had been other concrete bunkers but now the only signs for where they had been were the shorter, more damaged trees. The work of explosives, delivered by laser guided missiles.

He would have had the remaining structures torn down but bats had taken up residence inside of them a few years back. In the evenings he liked to watch as they darted about, scooping insects out of the air. Wild turkeys and deer had also made this place their home. They didn’t even bother trying to hide from him these days. They knew they were safe here. On more than one occasion people had asked about hunting on his land. He had quite a few parcels in this area but he’d always turned them down whenever they asked about this field. Not even he hunted here. There had already been enough gunfire and blood on this land.

A breeze began to pick up, a rarity in the field since the trees usually did a pretty good job of sheltering the field. The few leaves that hadn’t yet become too sodden or frozen to the ground were tossed about and swirled by the wind. Some mice jumped and bolted for their hole as the leaves covering them were blown about. Before too much longer, small flakes of snow began to drift down and be added to the mix.

Still walking, he stepped into one of the depression by accident, misjudging the distance and causing him to lurch and place more weight onto his left leg than intended. A quiet grunt escaped his lips but he gave no other sign of discomfort as he halted and shifted his weight over to his right side.

Was this the one? He wondered. Unlikely. There were countless depressions in the field, some of them natural, others were remnants of the mortar shelling and even he couldn’t tell the one from the other. His hand reached down to his left thigh and began to rub a spot. Beneath the jeans and through his gloves he could still feel the change in texture from normal skin to scar tissue.

Someone always has to be first, he thought. In war, those who lead the charge are often only remembered by the plaques that later bore their names. It’s the second, third or even later waves of soldiers who get to be remembered by their children and grandchildren. He’d been among the first to press into this field. The monument beside the highway was etched with the names of everyone else he had known to be sent here. Sometimes he felt lucky not to have his name etched beside his fellow soldiers. Sometimes he felt guilt.

The tissue beneath his scar began to ache so he stopped rubbing it and began walking once again, being more careful not to get distracted and misstep over the uneven ground. Geese flew overhead, probably the last he’d see before spring. It was a surprise to see even these ones so late in the year. As he watched them fly he remembered another time he’d stood in this field and seen not geese but fighter jets. Instead of honking he heard the shriek of engines.

The snow flurry, such as it was, didn’t last and soon the breeze faded away. He stamped his feet on the ground again and watched the waving treetops slow until they were still. The sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds but it felt like it was nearing midday.

On the other side of the field, a few deer poked their heads out of the trees. He met their gaze and held it for a few moments before looking away. They stepped cautiously into the field and began making their way across. The snow must be heavier in the higher elevations pushing the deer down further to stay out of the worst of it. They passed within a stones throw of him, a few keeping an eye on him but most of them knew they could ignore him. He watched them go, appreciating the beauty of the flecks of snow that powdered their coats and the graceful manner in which they walked. Even with how close they were to him, they made no sound.

The ache in his left leg continued to increase. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the weather or if his stumble earlier had aggravated it. It didn’t really matter much either way. He turned and began retracing his steps. Better to start heading back now while his leg didn’t hurt to badly than to wait and have a much harder time getting back. He hardly ever had to take the time these days to gauge how long he could walk before needing to rest his leg. He knew he could have made it all the way across the field and back again, but the pain would linger into the next day. It simply wasn’t worth it. Going back now would mean that his leg would be a bit stiff for the rest of the day but wouldn’t likely give him any trouble tomorrow.

By the time he reached his car he could see the white haze of snowfall beginning to move down from the mountains. Pretty soon it would be here and he was glad he’d not finished his walk through the field since he certainly would have been caught out in the snowstorm.

He took a moment to relish the peace, the quiet of the world before snowfall. No matter how terrible things had been, it was over now. It had been over for years. The field was no longer the same place it had been when he was a young man, lying wounded on the ground. This was not a place of war any more.