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Written for the birthday of Aliana, who wished for drabbles about discovery.
Rain clattered on the dugout roof and ran in muddy rivulets down the walls. The smell of coffee and woolen socks rose from the small stove.
“The lieutenant? He’s not a bad sort, as officers go. But when I first saw those books of his, I thought they were written in German — that gave me a turn, it did! The lieutenant says it’s some old kind of English.
“Then he’s always drawing maps, so finally I get up the nerve to ask. ‘Sir,’ says I, 'is that the eastern front?' He just gives me the oddest smile and says, ‘Yes.’”
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