I can’t really remember the fire, I was old enough, sure but I just don’t remember. I remember the smell, the taste, mouthwatering but in a bad way. I know our cabin was destroyed, because I stood among the ashes watching them stain my ivory fingers pitch black. our livestock depleted, Papa, Mama, Cathrine, and Missy gone. I still wonder how such a thing could happen. The fire that was. We were a God fearing bunch at least my mother was, but nevertheless Irish Catholic on both sides. We genuflected to the alter every Sunday, ate His body drank His blood. Tithed. Still it all burned. Now there was no money in the bank. Papa didn’t trust the government with his money, he only ever paid the taxman and that was that. He kept our money in a hole in the mattress in his and mama’s room, I only knew because when Cieran died in Afgahnistan I became the eldest. I had the clothes on my back smelling of smoke and everything papa taught me. Men in our family always severed. It seemed like the right thing - the only thing to do. It wasn’t much different from home. Reveille at half past four, PT at five, then get clean… The only thing that was different was the food, I missed mama’s good eats, but I couldn’t complain, it was better than going hungry. I never made many friends and never did get used to flames and the smell of burning flesh, but I became accustomed to gunfire and the smell of metal, heavy artillery.