They sit on metal benches. The waves striking the craft sway bodies and rifles. The spray of saltwater occasionally stings an unguarded eye or skinned knuckle. One man gazes intently at what can only be a palm-sized portrait of a lover: the red filter fastened over his flashlight’s lens makes his anguish safe and private. Other men write letters to persons unknown; when finished the papers are folded and placed into packets secreted within an interior jacket pocket. A few play cards-the game seems to be understood by the gamblers, but is utterly incomprehensible to an observer- aided again by reddened light; they pass a flask around the circle of their merry band, their cheeks warm although spring is new in the world.
A man longs for the woodlots of his boyhood- soft whistling emerges, imitating the sparrow, the robin, the thrush: in fact, nearly all the humble birds of his native land. Somewhere a fish of interminable size jumps; the splash is scarcely heard. A seabird flies above and makes its call and suddenly on this night of a crescent moon a sound pierces through the air. A man begins whetting his bayonet. The hone and steel are louder than can be believed. SCREECH, SCREECH, SCREECH: he continues to sharpen the pyramidal edges, honoring the last living wonder of the ancient world.
Quickly the other men cease their activities: the woman evaporates into a waterproof case, letters are signed, the cards are packed away, the only bird nearby is a gull. Even the man muttering repetitive prayers to his God tracked with rosary beads is shaken by this sudden silence. What remains? The sharpness of a bayonet. The anticipation of the surf. The dawn.
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