Book Club: We Weren't Soldiers, Part II

Posted on Sat Feb 28th, 2026 @ 4:25pm by Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Major Clay McEntyre III & Lieutenant Commander Ryan Keel & Captain Remy Johansen & Lieutenant Commander Eirly Andersen & Lieutenant Commander Xalanth & Lieutenant JG Leilani
Edited on on Wed Mar 18th, 2026 @ 2:08am

2,142 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: The Menagerie II
Location: Espresso Royale, Deck 15
Timeline: [After / Well Into Next Mission]

As the barista walked away, Remy turned to new lieutenant - the organizer of the book club. "Lieutenant Dorsainvil, do you go by Jean-Baptiste? Mind if I call you that while we're here?" Remy asked.

"Mostly everyone just calls be JB," he replied, the syllables coming out easy, like he'd said them a thousand times before--and he had.

His mouth twitched into a small, self-effacing smile, the kind that hovered in that mysterious space between a shrug and a handshake. He glanced around the table as if making sure no one else minded either, then met Remy's gaze again.

"Of course, Captain--you can call me whatever you like."

"Alright, JB. This book club was a great idea. If you're okay with me joining your group, then all is fair - you should call me Remy while we're here on your turf. I just want to be treated like everyone else." Remy spoke casually as she found a seat with her back to the nearby window.

Jean-Baptiste settled back into his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the ceramic edge of his mug. He gave a small nod to Remy, then let his gaze drift across each face at the table as if he were cataloging them for some future reference--not as ranks or titles, but as readers. God knows, he'd spent over two years sitting in conference rooms with flag officers, defectors, spies, and government officials--he was completely at ease in a book club.

"Alright," he began, voice low and relaxed. "I figured we'd start simple. No pop quizzes, no formal critiques. Just... impressions."

He lifted a data PADD containing We Weren't Soldiers off the table, turning it once in his hand as though it might offer up its own answers if he held it aloft just long enough.

"When I first read this," he continued, "I kept coming back to this question: what does it really mean to belong to something--an army, a crew, a family--and what does it cost to walk away?" He set the PADD down gently. "So maybe that's where we start. Did anyone else feel like the author was trying to push us to see that line... between duty and self-preservation? Or am I just seeing ghosts where there aren't any?"

His mouth quirked at the corner, a quiet invitation more than a challenge.

'No, I think you're right there,' Keel replied gently as he finished a bite of cake. Thinking back to his own service during the War, he paused then said, 'maybe push is too strong a word though. The author, I think was trying to show us any of them could have stopped or given up at any point, and not be blamed for it.'

"No, he was telling the truth. I know the feeling myself, though the Yor didn't exactly give any of my people the chance to leave." Added the red lizard.

Clay nodded, mostly in agreement though the book had hit him hard. Reminding him of his own war time service in the Dominion Wars and some of what his brother told him of his first years in Starfleet during the last years of the Cardassian Wars. Brutal in both. He reached into his uniform and pulled out the set of Dog-Tags he wore and showed them to the group.

"I carried these for luck. They belonged to Eli McEntyre who was one of the first casualties of the Romulan War. Much like the things that the characters carry, this was my connection to those I loved, and those who fought before me."

JB's eyes settled on the tags in Clay's hand. "Carrying someone forward like that... that's a kind of service on its own," he said, looking up at Clay. "Would you say this is a way of keeping the line unbroken?"

"I think it's more...carrying the legacy with you. A Talisman of sorts, that those who came before you are watching over you." Clay suppositioned.

Remy spoke up next. "I thought it was interesting that the characters... the people seemed deny the sentiment behind some of the things they kept with them. The author introduced the idea with the Vulcan officer, but then we see it again with a Bajoran and a Human as well. Why wouldn't they acknowledge the meaning behind what they held so dear?"

'I suppose it shows vulnerability,' Keel piped up, his accent stronger than usual. 'We all know when we're going through a time of great struggle that the first crack in your emotional armour can open up too quickly and ... well. All that emotion comes flooding out. Maybe it was a coping mechanism is all I'm saying.'

" I never get why some races deny the sentiment in trinkets they keep. The legion told us to hold onto good memories for they would keep you sane in the dark. " Xalanth added.

"I guess I can see how in War, or any time of vulnerability really denying that openly, or maybe even to yourself could be a way of helping a person hold it together," Remy suggested, a hint of melancholy in her voice. "Steeling yourself for the worst all the time, constantly having to do things that you aren't comfortable with, forces you to put away parts of yourself to get the job done. Sentiment, well it's a vulnerability. It can be."

'Absolutely, sentiment can distract at the worst moment - and you can't have the man in the foxhole next to you distracted,' Keel added quietly.

Jean-Baptiste turned his mug in his hands. He let the silence remain in the air for a little longer, giving it some room.

"This is," he said finally, voice low, "that kind of denial--it's not always dishonest. Sometimes it's just... survival. You tell yourself it doesn't matter so you don't have to feel what it would cost if it did."

He tapped his thumb against the rim, then looked over to Xalanth. "What your legion said--holding onto good memories to stay sane--that makes sense to me. But I think it's also a matter of when you let yourself feel those memories. Some folks wait until their planetside again. Others never let it catch up to them at all."

His eyes meandered over toward the dog-tags still resting in Clay's palm. "There's a passage in the book--page eighty-seven, if anyone bookmarked it--where the narrator says, 'We carried the memory of who we were like contraband: hidden, necessary, and dangerous to reveal." I highlighted that one in my copy."

JB leaned forward a little, elbows on the table. His voice was steady but sharpened with something quieter. "I've been on both sides of that. Hiding who you were to protect who you've become. Or the other way around."

He took a slow and steady breath, leaning back. Then softened it with a faint smile--more in the eyes than the mouth.

"Anyone else mark something? A line that hit you funny? Or felt like it was meant for you and only you?"

Remy nodded. "I don't have the page marked, but I'll never forget the line, "We stopped carrying phasers and started carrying reasons," she offered. "It stood out to me even in high school when we had to read it, even though I suppose I hadn't ever had a reason to really understand what it meant. But, even in the Dominion War, we knew we were fighting for our lives and freedom as the attacks kept coming. But, if you thought too hard about how the War even started... You could wonder. Then you start to justify."

'That's the long night of the foxhole, as I call it,' Keel said gently as he balanced his mug on his knee. His slow accent unspooled as he spoke softly. 'When it was the middle of the night, and it was your watch, and the people around you were asleep. When all you could see was the line of the moon's horizon far too close to you, and your only company was the voice in your head.' The ex-Marine shrugged. 'It goes round and round and winds you up.'

Keel smiled, 'doesn't ever really quieten again, either.'

"Amen to that brother," Xalanth added, having been through that many times. " It was worse when you were in the legions cold weather gear and you just new a snow storm was going to blow in."

JB smiled faintly. Turning the mug in his hands again, he let out a muffled chuckle.

"You know," he said, "there's this moment--toward the end of chapter five--when the squad's been walking for days through that burned-out settlement, and the Andorian officer finds a golchevan--the Cardassian piano--that somehow survived. Just sitting there in those ruins with half of the keys melted. And he starts playing it. Badly."

A small laugh left him. "The author describes it like, 'a sound caught between courage and murder.' I must've read that line ten times. The others yelling at him to stop, that it's dangerous, that the enemy might hear. But he just keeps hitting those dead notes, insisting that if they were all going to die anyway, someone should at least die making noise." The smile left his face for some reason at that moment. He added, "Gallows humour, I guess?"

"I suppose it depends on where one is in life, and when, whether that strikes them as humor as all," Remy said chiming in. "I'm definitely known to have a dark sense of humor in certain circles, but I don't know that that line struck me as funny, or that I even thought the speaker was trying to be funny," she opined. "I read it as tragic really."

"Xalanth, you probably come from a culture that is most removed from any that is represented in this book, and most in Starfleet any," Remy added turning to the Security chief. "Is humor like this common during dark times in Dragonian times?"

"It is. My own people's homeworld is hardly a paradise, especially out in the deep desert. My father was part of my people's special forces during the war, and his sense of humour is remarkably similar. Some of the stories he told me i can't blame him," Xalanth replied.

The table fell into a companionable quiet after that, a silence that didn't necessitate any words to rush in and fill it. No one here reached for rank and no one asserted any authority. Instead, they were all reaching for memory.

Jean-Baptiste glanced around him, seeing each of their expressions while they sat digesting the words that had been spoken. Copies of the book lay between them on the table. It had done its work. It had reminded them that carrying something--whether they be dog-tags, a song, or a reason--wasn't weakness. It was a counterweight.

He gathered his PADD at last, not with finality but more with care. Around the table, shoulders seemed a little lighter thanks in large part to the subject that had been shared and dissected. War, the book suggested, was never just about what was fired or destroyed. It was about what was kept hidden inside of pockets, in and under armour. It was about what was denied and what was silently cherished.

When they rose to leave, they did so without any ceremony. They were still on the ship, still among the stars. And somewhere between duty and self-preservation, between grief and humour, each crewmembers who had taken the time to be part of the book club had found something small and important to carry forward.

---

Captain Remira Johansen
Commanding Officer
USS Astrea


Lt. Commander Eirly Andersen
Second Officer
USS Astrea


Lt. Commander Xalanth
Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea


Lt. Commander Ryan Keel
Chief of Diplomatic Intelligence
USS Astrea


Major Clay McEntyre III
Marine Commanding Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Assistant Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant JG Leilani
Counselor
USS Astrea
(NPC of Xalanth)

 

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