The transport convoy rolls out at dawn.
Trucks packed with soldiers, equipment, ammunition.
The countryside blurs past—green fields, stone villages, people who watch us pass with expressions that might be hope or pity.
I sit near the back, rifle between my knees, and watch the road disappear behind us.
A Brit sitting next to me—can't be more than twenty—says, "First time?"
"Yeah."
"Me too. Joined up last month. Figured I'd see France, maybe Germany. Didn't think I'd be heading to Poland."
"Plans change."
"Yeah." He fidgets with his rifle strap. "You scared?"
I think about that.
"No."
"Really?"
"Not scared. Just... ready."
He laughs nervously.
"Wish I felt that way."
I don't tell him that ready isn't the same as confident.
That I have no idea what I'm walking into, only that walking into it feels inevitable.
---
We ride for hours.
Cross the Channel on a ferry that rocks in grey water. Board trains on the other side.
The landscape changes—fields give way to forests, prosperity to poverty, order to signs of war.
Smoke on the horizon.
The sound of distant artillery, like thunder that doesn't stop.
September 18th, and we're in Poland.
September 19th, and I'm standing on the outskirts of Warsaw, watching the city burn.
---
The sergeant from Dover—Davies is his name—gathers us near a bombed-out farmhouse.
"This is it. German forces are three kilometers that way."
He points east.
"Our job is to hold this sector and support Polish units in the area. Intel says they're preparing another push. Could be today, could be tomorrow. Either way, you dig in and you don't break. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Castellanos, you're with Second Squad. Thompson will show you your position."
A corporal—Thompson—waves me over.
He's older, maybe thirty, with the look of someone who's seen combat before.
"You're the American volunteer?"
"Yeah."
"Ever been under fire?"
"No."
"You will be soon."
He leads me toward a partially collapsed building.
"This is your position. Good sight lines down that street. Germans come through here, you light them up. Don't freeze, don't run. Just shoot."
I take my position.
Set my rifle on the rubble. Check the sight line like Thompson said.
But I'm also checking fields of fire, calculating fallback routes, noting which buildings are structurally sound enough for cover.
My hands move without conscious thought, making small adjustments to my position that I don't remember learning.
Thompson notices.
"You sure you haven't done this before?"
"Positive."
He grunts.
"Natural then. Good. We need naturals."
He moves on to the next position, leaving me alone with my rifle and the view of Warsaw burning in the distance.
Somewhere out there, something is waiting for me.
I can feel it.
---
Night falls.
The artillery doesn't stop.
Orange flashes light the horizon, and the ground trembles with each impact. Men try to sleep in shifts, but nobody sleeps well.
I sit with my back against cold stone, rifle across my lap, and close my eyes.
Fragments surface:
The weight of armor I've never worn.
The sound of horses screaming.
The taste of blood I don't remember spilling.
A woman's voice saying something in a language I don't speak but somehow understand: "You always come back."
I open my eyes.
The burning city is still there.
Tomorrow, the war finds me.
Or I find it.
Same thing, probably.
---
I've died before.
But tonight, I'm alive.
And that's enough.