The United States' entry into the war ignited enthusiasm across all sectors of society, and people eagerly enlisted.
Some people joined to avenge their loved ones at Pearl Harbor, while others did so because the military pay was a reliable guarantee.
Of course, there were also those who fought purely out of belief, like Steve's father, who resigned from a leisurely job at Su Ming's shipyard to help people on the other side of the Earth resist the brutal oppression of Fascism. He joined the army and was dispatched to the European Battlefield.
Baki's father, of course, joined as well. Together, they enlisted in the 107th Division of the Army, currently stationed in the United Kingdom, and it is said that they suffer daily from German Army bombings.
Many workers left Su Ming's factory to go to the battlefield; most of the remaining workers were women, and it seemed peculiar for adult men to stay home.
War has this strange allure; people with different ideals head to the same battlefield.
Even though the prospects were bloody, many people crossed the ocean without hesitation, braving gales, waves, and the risk of submarine attacks, to reach unfamiliar lands.
In just about three months, Baki and Steve received their fathers' obituaries. Baki's mother died from overwhelming grief, and Steve's mother also passed away after contracting tuberculosis from a patient.
They both became orphans, feeling the tangible pain brought by the war.
.............
"A U-boat sank the Virginia."
"Nazi retook Jitomir."
"The US Army lost 32,000 men."
....There was no good news in the newspaper, and Steve didn't want to see such news, but he needed it to cover his frame.
He was now in a small town called Paramos in New Jersey, participating in recruitment for the fourth time.
Since the United States entered the war, recruitment points were set up in all cities and even villages; World War II was fought with population and production capacity.
Logically, the United States needed soldiers.
In the poster on the wall, 'Uncle Sam,' wearing a red and white hat and a blue tailcoat, pointed at everyone passing by, telling them, 'I want you!'
But Steve was rejected in the first three recruitment processes because his health was too poor.
Sometimes he felt cursed, with so many illnesses that doctors got tired of writing his medical records. Although none were serious, they left him incredibly weak.
The recruitment point was a hospital. He sat half-naked with a group of hulking men in the hall, waiting to be called. Compared to him, normal people were taller and stronger; he barely reached their chests when standing.
He was too frail; even his thighs were not as thick as others' wrists.
As usual, a variety of physical examinations were completed, and he was just waiting for the result.
"O'Connell."
"Henry."
"Kaminsky."
The doctor at the counter called the names of each examinee, stamping the recruitment files with a qualified seal. Those who passed would receive a notice to go to boot camp for training.
During wartime, this training often lasted only four weeks or even less; whether what they learned could save their lives on the battlefield was another matter.
"Rogers?" The bald doctor, while sorting the paperwork, loudly called his name: "Steve?"
The robust guy sitting next to Steve was friendly enough but nudged him playfully with an elbow, indicating the article on the newspaper in Steve's hand when he didn't respond.
"A lot of people really died there; has it shaken your resolve to go to the battlefield?"
Steve took a deep breath, put down the newspaper, and walked to the counter. Surrounded by muscular men in the dim room, he felt suffocated.
"No, I won't waver."
Though he said this, he still nervously stood at the counter, watching the doctor scrutinize his examination report, feeling anxious inside.
Technically, his first medical examination was legitimate, while thereafter, he repeatedly falsified his identity to participate, risking imprisonment if discovered.
"Rogers..."
The doctor flipped through the report, raising an eyebrow as he looked up at the man, about 1.5 meters tall, with a peculiar tone.
This height was shorter than some women, not to mention just by looking, it was obvious he was too feeble; even carrying a gun seemed daunting.
Lifting the name list, the doctor bowed his head again. After all, visual assessment was not rigorous; perhaps this small person was from a circus, the kind of frail strongman?
However, the second page detailing his family's situation stated both parents were deceased, prompting suspicion of familial hereditary disease.
"How did your father die?"
Steve could guess the reason for the doctor's question because he wasn't the first to inquire this way.
"Mustard Gas poisoning." Regardless of how many times he recalled it, the answer always caused him distress. He swallowed hard, answered with difficulty: "He was serving in the 107th Division of the Army... I really wish I had been drafted back then."
The doctor lowered his head without any comment.
"And your mother?"
"She was a nurse in a tuberculosis ward before she passed, got infected by a patient, and no medicine could save her."
Steve replied sadly, feeling the war had brought too much misfortune to people. He wanted to join, hoping it could end in his hands.
The doctor did not raise his head, having heard too many tragic stories since the war began.
A father goes to war and dies on the frontline, his son enlists for revenge and also perishes, then another son or a grandson continues.
The war's devouring of lives is unreasonable; on the battlefield, all one can do is pray for luck.
He sighed in his heart and continued checking the examination results, but the long list of medical conditions immediately caught his attention.
Asthma, scarlet fever, rheumatism, rhinitis, chronic colds, hypertension, heart disease, anxiety disorder...
Someone like this should go to a sanatorium, not the front lines; in a place ravaged by war, an infected wound could easily end his life.
"Sorry, kid."
The doctor lifted his head, offering an official response. Sending someone like this to the battlefield would be irresponsible for Life.
He prepared to stamp against his enlistment.
"Wait, I just want a chance." Steve was somewhat anxious; would he fail again this time?
The doctor understood his reasons for wanting to go to the battlefield; avenging a father was an unassailable reason but helplessly told him the truth: "Just having asthma disqualifies you from enlistment."
Steve leaned forward, lowering his voice: "Well, maybe you can 'help' me?"
As long as the doctor lifted a finger, he could pass. America enlisted tens of thousands daily; who would notice someone like him, a small figure?
He stared into the doctor's eyes, hoping his earnest gaze would convey his determination to enlist.
However, the doctor only saw someone blinded by hate, ready to gamble with his Life; with this health condition, forget the battlefield, he might die on the boat to the UK.
"I'm helping you," the doctor said, shaking his head and lifting the unqualified '4F' stamp, marking it on the examination report: "Helping you keep your Life."
Darkness filled Steve's heart.