Bratan
Bratan (Бpaтaн)
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A unicorn stallion sat on the low rock wall in Ponyville park by the millpond. He was wearing his old Strichtarn camouflage uniform with the green-striped telnyashka showing through the top of his chest, which was left unbuttoned. His AK-74 was slung over his shoulder on a two point sling. On his left was a packet of cigarettes and on his right was a bottle of gourmet griffiyan vodka. His cream coat stood out from the green background of the uniform, as well as its brown, vertically-aligned streaks. His short, charcoal mane blended in with the night lit by a waning gibbous moon reflected in his red eyes, though was mostly hidden beneath his SSh40 helmet. He sat there patiently, singing a little song under his breath.
“Soldatushki, bravye rebyatushki, gde zhe vasha slava? Vasha slava, gde zhe vasha slava? Gde zhe ona, rebyatushki? Soldatushki, bravye rebyatushki, gde zhe vashi sem’i? Vashi sem’I, gde zhe vashi sem’i? Vy odinokye, rebyatushki?” He threw in more verses and variants, but never changed the base rhythms or patterns.
At long last, a yellow earth pony stallion approached him from behind with a G3 strapped to his chest by a three point sling. He had on a woodland flecktarn uniform and wore no hat, instead preferring to allow his teal mane to fall naturally about his head and shoulders like a shaggy mop. The sitting one heard the footsteps approaching in the night, crunching on the grass and leaves. He reached for the forend of his Kalashnikov, but stopped himself. He turned around to face the newcomer.
He challenged, “Still remember the old days, comrade?”
“Sure do, Sunny Breeze” replied the other.
“Nu cho bratan, davaj zakurim,” invited Sunny, moving the cigarettes to his right and beckoning his friend to join him on the low stone wall.
His friend hopped up and eyed the vices. “You got good vodka, Sunny, but you got the crap cigs, man.”
Sunny smiled. “Of course, Haye Bailer, you know me.” They each took a cigarette from the carton and held the ends together while Sunny levitated a lighter from his pocket and lit them. They brought the cigarettes to their lips and inhaled deeply, sucking in the smoke in a single, long drag. Neither of them being veteran smokers, their cheeks turn red as they suppressed the coughs, their bodies’ efforts to expel the harsh fumes. Relaxation came to their features as the nicotine came in through their lungs. Sated somewhat, each they released a single great puff of smoke. “Auch, das ist gut…”
“Ja, wirklich,” replied Haye, stretching out. “Well, let’s not delay any longer.”
“Agreed, let’s. I got the booze.” With that, Sunny opened the bottle of vodka while he magically fished out his crystal shot glass. On it was etched one word, ‘Toвapищ’. Haye pulled out his own glass shot glass. Like Sunny’s, there was only one word etched onto it, ‘Veteran’. Sunny became very solemn as he poured out the first round, taking special care to not spill even a drop. They held their glasses aloft and looked each other in the eye. The red eyes were damp but firm. “To us.” They drank, taking it all down in one shot.
Haye held out his glass to be refilled. Soon, they braced for the next toast. His eyes were dry, but the first tears were beginning to swim in his friend’s red eyes. “To fate,” toasted Haye. They tossed back the vodka again in one burning gulp.
Sunny choked back his tears. He looked around. “Tretij tost – third toast.” Haye nodded. “Za pamyat’.” To memory.
“Za pamyat,’ they repeated together, hurling the liquor down and clinking their glasses on the stone.
They filled their glasses one last time. Haye said the final toast. “To veterans.”
“To veterans.” They gulped down the last shot.
“Opa! Otlichno, moj drug.” Sunny exhaled, rubbing his stomach. “Another year, another day of respect to the veterans – we, the living…” He looked downwards.
“How many years has it been, now?”
Sunny scoffed, “Heh, not really counting right now. Anyway, we’ve been doing this ever since our first year in Ponyville.”
“Who do you mean by that, Sunny? I was in Ponyville first; you came from Baltimare because I put in a good word to help get you a job after you came home.”
“Anyway, Haye, we’ve been doing this for at least a few years by now.”
“Weird, it doesn’t feel that long.”
Sunny put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know. The longer you wait between things, the more time seems to stand still, and the closer you swear things are. Funny, no?
Haye chuckled, “Ha, I guess. Strange how last week’s grocery shopping trip can feel like it happened in ancient times, but everything that happened while you served sticks with you and feels like it was just yesterday.” He took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
“No kidding. I can hardly remember any of what I had for dinner last week, but I could tell the of my time with the Grollen company just from memory.” He smiled and took a swig of vodka from the bottle. “Hell, I remember that I was in Grazny in oh-six, but I can’t recall when I started living in Ponyville without having to think about it first. I’ll admit, though, that I’ve never really found it easy to wrap my head around the idea of being a veteran.”
Haye’s eyebrows arched. He replied, “It’s more than just an idea, Sunny; it’s a fact.” Haye finished his cigarette and started on a new one.
Sunny shook his head and gazed across the millpond, contemplatively stroking his chin. “I don’t get it myself, either. All the parades. All the respect. All the honor… I was brought up to revere military veterans. However, now that I am a Veteran myself, I don’t get it. I don’t feel like I’m someone special or heroic. I’m just a regular guy, who, at one point in his life, found himself friends with one group of guys who routinely ended up shooting at some other guys, who were doing their best to hurt us just as much as we hurt them.”
"Yeah, we were pretty much just doing what we had to do."
"And trying to survive." Sunny straightened, stretching, saying, "Honestly, I don't know why we get called heroes. Most of the time, we were just following orders, or even moreso, just trying to stay alive. I was frightened. I never did anything special, heroic, or extraordinary; I just followed orders and accomplished my objectives.
Haye snickered, "And you're the one here who got decorated for valor."
"But I wasn't trying to be a hero or anything like that; I was just doing my job. Anyway, it's funny how folks seem to respect your service more than mine, medals and stuff notwithstanding."
“Maybe that’s because both of us were Grollen company mercenaries, but I also served in the official military."
“Still, Haye, we ended up doing a lot of same things in support of sovereign rule to restore law, order, and peace, just under the flag of a company rather than a state.” Haye received a flat look. “You spent some time in the Afghneighnistan Foreign Volunteer Regiment, so maybe that colors your opinion somewhat”
“True,” replied Haye Bailer proudly. “I still don’t feel like just that fact makes me special. I think it’s what you do that makes something like this meaningful.” Sunny Breeze nodded. The yellow stallion continued, “I did a lot of good during my time. I look back on what I’ve done, and I don’t feel like a hero, but I understand why others would that I’m one.”
Sunny Breeze stopped. His tears were gone, but he took another swig of vodka from the bottle, anyway. He was beginning to slur slightly. “I suppose that’s a good explanation. After all, even though I never served any sort of official organization, I was still paid to fight for sovereign governments. We did a lot of good… the defense of Klopdagar, protecting aid workers, Gerat, Hill Twenty… I need booze.” Tears welled up again, causing Sunny to chug another mouthful of vodka. "And bringing and end to the civil war in Zebricy, and then peacekeeping in Chechneya." He wiped his tears and sniffled. "Most of my friend's didn't return..." He drank again.
Haye’s expression softened. He clasped his friend’s shoulder, whispering, “Sunny… I – It’s okay.”
His friend gave the most unconvincing smile. “Sure it is. I guess I know that I’m a veteran in one way; I remember the war too damn well to be a civvy.” He clenched his fists and lamented, “I don’t want to remember!” Droplets of water fell from his eyes. He swayed and sang, “Gerat, Gerat -- dushmanskaya stolitsa. Afghneighnistan – ne slava mne, ne styd. Gerat, Gerat mne snova noch'yu snitsya: Afghneighnistan v dushe moej bolit....”
“I thought you were getting over it.”
“Getting over it? Hah! All I can do is manage and endure it. PTSD isn’t like Malaria, Haye; you can’t take two tablets of Quinine a day for a week and be cured. It sucks, and it’s with you for life. There are good days and there are bad days. Thankfully, I’ve learned how to cope better that I used to, so the bad days aren’t as awful, and the good days are more frequent.”
“How are you feeling now?” Haye asked with concern.
Sunny paused for a few seconds to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He opened them again. “Drunk. Don’t really know, so okay, I guess. I... We've seen and been through some pretty bad stuff. It's the kind of thing that sticks with you. Those who haven't been there just can't fully comprehend it. Try explaining what it's like to watch someone die, or to ever be in a kill or be killed situation. Everyone goes through a lot, not much of it pretty. Some of us take it harder than others... I'm not going to lie, I probably would be in much better mental health, and without my alcoholism, if I hadn't served.”
Haye nodded in assent. "You're not the only one who got messed up; a lot of guys did. It's not easy coming back from that. This might sound sappy, but it changes you forever, but it can't pervert who you truly are at heart, and there's nothing wrong with you for being affected." They were quiet for a long time, apart from brief exchanges about things beside the point, like work, family, politics, hobbies, and such. The two friends met often enough to not need to resort to such topics. Besides, these annual nighttime meetings weren’t about those things, or anything else in their daily lives, for that matter. These meetings were about remembering the past, deeds, events, experiences, trials, and triumphs they had lived and suffered through. It was about that indescribable bond they shared as soldiers, warriors, and comrades, which was not well understood, but stronger than any bonds they forged elsewhere. After all, their lives and personalities had been shaped by war. Naturally, it was something that their purely civilians friends and companions just couldn’t understand properly.
“What do you think about the guys, Haye?” Sunny inquired.
Haye blinked, surprised that Sunny had been the one to end the silence. “What about them?”
Sunny looked him in the eye. “Do you think that maybe one of the biggest things is that we met a lot of guys and made a lot of friends along the way?”
Haye shook his head. “I dunno, man. I know one thing: I won’t be forgetting them, that’s for sure.”
“Mmhm. I’d say that we have a kind of kinship with them. After all, battlefield bonding is nothing at all like civilian bonding. You must trust the guy next to you with your life, and he must trust you with his.”
“Absolutely,” Haye replied. He and Sunny each took another hit of their chosen vice. “All those guys, I love em’ like brothers, even the guys who were total dicks.” Sunny nodded.
“Truest friends I ever made… If it weren’t for you, Haye, helping me out after I came home, I probably would have eaten my gun by now. But what do I know? I’m drunk and rambling -- wasting life away…”
“Sunny, don’t forget about all the times you’ve saved my ass and given me hands.”
“Hey, no problem. I’m just the kind of guy who helps his friends out on principle.”
Silence returned. The true friends watched moon over the millpond and reminisced about guys they knew and places they had been. Happily, they swapped stories. They were not new stories, but that was beside the point. Tonight was about them, the living. The fallen had been honored and would be remembered at another time. Now was the time to celebrate life – not mourn death. They spent long hours of the night chattering away, until they saw that the early morning weather detail was starting to come out. They were happy but exhausted, and somewhat wasted. At last, they were out of subjects, just as happened every year. There were two more things to talk about. They were last, but the most important ones of all.
Sunny asked the penultimate question. “Haye, what does being a veteran mean to you?”
The yellow stallion had to scratch his teal mane for a short while. His brow furrowed, but he soon had an answer. “To me, being a veteran means that I’ve seen and done amazing, meaningful things. I’ve touched the lives of others. I’ve taken my stand in the world. I devoted myself wholly to a cause at a price up to and including my life. That is what being a veteran means to me.”
“And would you do it again?”
“Wouldn’t change a thing.” They smiled. Haye flipped the questions around onto Sunny. “Sunny, what does being a veteran mean to you?”
Sunny Breeze took a small sip of vodka before allowing himself to answer plainly, looking into his comrade’s eyes. “To me, being a veteran means that I’ve done something meaningful with my life. I’ve made choices. I’ve been places. I’ve done things. I’ve stood for something, for what I believe to be right. I found the courage to face any obstacle and the strength to overcome it. I made a real difference, and I’ve done some good in the world. It means that I must live on in the world I battled to create, and also for everyone with whom I served, whether they lived to see the peace, or not. I chose the hard way, so that others wouldn’t have to.”
“And would you do it again?”
“Definitely.”
The friends embraced. Time for one last bit of fun before they headed for their homes to try getting a bit of sleep. They each unslung and readied their rifles. “For the living,” said Haye with his G3.
“For the fallen,” said Sunny with his AK-74. Then, pointing them at the Ever Free forest, they set the weapons into fully automatic and emptied the magazines. Gunfire erupted through the night, with muzzle flashes, and green and red tracers lit up the darkness. Then, their demonstration complete, each saluted. Sunny saluted in the Griffiyan style, and Haye in the Equestrian style. The two slung up their rifles again. They then turned to each other, smiled, saluted, and then hugged each other as a sign of their martial cameradeship and personal friendship. Now, with everything complete, they returned to their homes, their respects paid.
The next time they met like this, it would be for the fallen.
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