Semper Mine (Sons of War #1)(2)

Whenever I leave the battlefield, I notice things I never did before. Right now, I’m mentally measuring how symmetrical the different hued flowers are and am fascinated by how something as delicate as a petal can survive in a world like ours. Things are so green here, it almost doesn’t seem real. Like a dream. One I would give anything to wake up from and feel whole again.

Behind the fa?ade that earned me the nickname Ice Commander, Iceman, Captain Icee and others from my men, I’m raw, like a severe rope burn has cut straight through my soul. My first mission as a newly minted commander, and I lose four men.

The opposite of the twins, I’m not one to talk much. Even if I knew how to express my thoughts, the emotions run too deep for me to name. So I breathe in the scent of roses and let myself stay in that one, peaceful moment in the garden, knowing it’ll be gone soon enough.

“Captain Mathis.” It’s the voice of Ms. Khavalov, the sister of the Khav brothers. There’s an edge to it, one I recognize too well from other funerals.

I’d rather deal with insurgents than grieving families. It’s a cold thought stemming from trying to keep myself numb this week. I’m here for the family members as well as my fallen men, but I never thought it’d be so hard.

I turn to face her.

The stinging slap she lands across one cheek is a definite first. It’s enough to jar me but not enough to knock me out of my stance at attention. I can take a blow pretty well after a lifetime filled with them.

“You were supposed to bring them both back alive!” she says in a choked voice.

“I am sorry for your loss, ma’am,” I say calmly.

She pushes up her veil, and I stare.

The twins look like their father, and I can only assume their sister resembles their mother. She’s stunning, from the light hazel eyes to her chiseled features and the delicate, quivering chin. In her twenties, she’s got the determined set of her jaw that I know from the twins and a gleam in her eyes that tells me she’s just as smart.

“That’s it?” she whispers. “You’re sorry?”

“He died bravely, ma’am,” I add.

Her eyes widen. “One of my brothers is gone and the other may never wake up!”

Trust me. I know. I don’t say anything. Part of the grieving process is anger, and I’ve been the target of it for a great many family members. If it helps them sleep at night, then I don’t mind.

God knows I don’t sleep anymore. Someone should.

“Forgive Katya. She does not know what we do about war, Captain Mathis,” her father says, approaching. His Russian accent is heavy, his words slow. His bushy eyebrows twitch. “It is not those who were lost but those who were saved that should be counted.”

“Don’t patronize me, baba!” Katya snaps. With a furious look at me, she marches away, breaking into a run after a few steps. I can hear her sobs.

I hate seeing women cry. It makes me edgy. Turning my attention to her father, I hold the flag out to him.

His eyes mist over. “Thank you. You are a good man, Captain Mathis.” He takes it and kisses it. “Come.” He takes my elbow and guides me towards the gate she fled through. “Tell me how he died defending his country and his men.” He gazes at me with sorrow and compassion mixed with hope.

“He did, sir,” I reply. “He saved many lives, including mine and Petr’s. We wouldn’t have made it out without his sacrifice.”

“I knew it.” His eyes sparkle with tears, but he’s proud. “A soldier wants a good death, eh?”

I don’t answer, not expecting him to be quite so understanding. I know the Russians we worked with occasionally in Iraq view life a bit differently, in a more grounded if not cynical way, and I’m kind of grateful for it right now. The past week has been brutal. First the firefight that cost me half the super specialized, well-trained men fighting under me, and then four funerals and families I personally visited to convey my condolences.

The damn counselor I was assigned after the suicide mission says part of what I feel is survivor’s guilt. I’d characterize it more as commander’s guilt, if such a thing officially exists.

Mr. Khavalov opens the gate of the private cemetery, and I glance towards the massive stone mansion that resembles a castle a short distance from us.

“My Katya, she is a good girl. You are fortunate all she did was slap you. Her mother could throw a shoe halfway down a football field and hit you anywhere she aimed.” He grins, affection crossing his features. His eyes are on his daughter, who is racing across the field separating the graveyard from the stately mansion. “She will understand one day.”

I’ve never quite met someone like this, who doesn’t seem to blame me, who seems to comprehend what war and death are like. Who almost seems to be trying to comfort me, when he’s the one who lost a son.

“You will come to the wake?” he asks.

“Thank you, sir, but no,” I reply, thinking of Katya. “This is your time to be together. I needed to say farewell but won’t interfere.”

“He told me a lot about you. They both did,” the older man says.

I hear the sadness in his voice. I know his thoughts are as much on Petr as they are on Mikael.

“It was my pleasure to serve with them,” I reply. “It was my first command, and they taught me how to be a better leader.” I stop walking and face him, intending to go to the driveway rather than the house. “Sir, I want you to know …” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. Today has been hard. “… excuse me. I just want you to know that I will be checking in on Petr. When he pulls through, I’ll be here to help him. If there’s anything you need, sir, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” I give him my card with my email address.