April 9th, 1942

 Ash was thick in the air, and the constant boom of shells shook the ground. Their lungs burned, and dust settled in their throats.
  When the captain called for a break, no one complained. The soldiers fell to the ground, with plenty of groans and not a few unsavoury words.
  They were settled in a grassy knoll. No one missed the mud of the last battlefield, or the cold dampness of the rainy nights. Here was sunshine. Here was life, for once.
  As they rested, one man hung back, then moved to settle among the high grass. He sat erect and alert, pulling a small notepad from his pocket.
  “Scribbling again, are you string-bean?”
  He didn’t acknowledge the words aimed at him.
Jebediah had always been strange. He was tall and wiry, with hair like fire and a wandering gaze that never settled on any one person. Here he stood out even more.
  His fist was bloodied, wrapped in gauze, and a scar traced the hollowness of his cheek. War had aged him. But try as it might, it had not yet extinguished the light in his eyes.
  He watched the trees closely, as if searching for an enemy.
  There it was. A flicker of movement. A swoop. His breath caught, he dared not move. A dark eye peered at him, then the bird let out a little song.
  He grinned, his lip pulling up higher on the scarred side. Broken pencil gripped tightly in his hands, he jotted a note.
  August 2nd, 1941. Common Finch, female.
  As suddenly as it had come, it vanished. The captain called them to attention and the bird fled at his voice.
  The pages were filled with names and dates. Grosbeaks, robins, hawks, bitterns, swifts. Doves, his favourite. Never vultures. If he saw one, he averted his eyes, lips terse. Where they went, death followed.
  September 24th, 1941. Montague’s harrier, male.
  Snow fell, and the men sat huddled in groups. Still he sat with face raised to the sky. When the shelling stopped, the birds returned. His shaking hand recorded what his blue lips could barely say.
  November 30th, 1941. Great Grey Shrike, male.
  That night, a bomb dropped only metres from his position. Somehow, he survived, spitting grit from his mouth. The birds’ songs grew a little fainter.
  Reassigned.
  December 25th, 1941. Cockatoo, unknown.
  The jungle was hot. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, darkening it to the shade of rust. His feet were numb from days of marching. Where was his pencil? He reached in his pocket. The seam had unravelled. He could have wept, but it was selfish to think of this when there were such greater losses.
  What use was a pencil when the shake in his hands had grown so? With each recoil from the rifle his grip grew weaker.
  At night, he whispered their names. Grosbeaks, robins, hawks, bitterns, swifts, doves. Again and again. Eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed against his ears. A call echoed and he sat up. It was only the strangled cry of a boy. Someone lent him a pencil stub and he scribbled a note.
  April 5th, 1942. No birds.
  When the end came, it didn’t hurt. It was the lack of feeling that was alarming. He lay on the ground, not daring to lift his head. Someone ran past, shouting something he couldn’t understand. Why was the world so muffled?
  The sky above him was so blue. He wanted to close his eyes. It was coming, he knew it was coming. The flutter of wings. That ugly curving beak. The golden eyes set in the fleshy head. It would be silent. It would bring death.
  Bataan has fallen.
  A radio crackled, but he couldn't hear the words. They had left him behind, and his strength was waning. There was a burning in his chest. Even if he could have moved to look, he would not have wanted to see why he was weakening.
  Something passed above. A shadow. It was round and small. It landed in a branch above him. Watching. Mourning.
  April 9th, 1942.
  He mouthed the words. No air escaped his lips. It was a dove. Deep, dark red bloomed from her snowy chest. Was it a mirage? She flapped her wings.
  His vision blurred. Had he read about it? The encyclopaedia. The morning of his twelfth birthday, his mother had surprised him with it. He tried to focus, but his mind was slipping.
  April 8th
  That was wrong.
  April 9th, 1942.
  Bleeding heart, dov