War and the forces

"SHALL WE GO HOME?"

He didn't think it was quite fair, really. Not after all he'd been through.

The leg was OK, the morphine-soaked issue bandage had done its job for the moment and he was calm. The terrain was bleak though, dry and hot, but then he was used to that. A few far-away shots from his patrol comforted him; those kalasnies had that dry crack which was so distinct from the wet thump of the Fellegas' weapons.

Let's have a look then. Start at the knee, god, what a mess. The bleeding had stopped with the tourniquet, but his foot hurt. Check foot. Now that is funny he thought. A glance to his right, nothing. Got to move a bit, can't just lie here.

It must have been about three minutes that he was out and he had rolled over to his left side. He'd seen Gwen, like he had every day with her photo, but this time he had really seen her. She smelt clean. Her pert face had been really close to his. He thought they'd had a kiss. Oh there it is.

His left foot was looking at him, still in its soft leather boot, going a bit black at the edges, flies already there, feasting.

"It's alright darling, I'm here."

God, there was her voice in his ear. He jerked round, too quickly and had a real twinge in his groin. Water bottle. Two swallows only. He suddenly wanted a pee. Rolling back to his right he fumbled for his zip. The pineapple grenade hadn't stopped at his thigh and his hand was bloodsoaked before he realised the sand was soaking him up.

"Hello my love, now just lie back and let me look after you."

A vulture was hovering about 40 yards away, its mate making that ghastty clacking noise.

"Darling, look at me."

His eyes hit the sun, and he nearly screamed.

Funny, he thought. 21 years in the desert. Coming up for a large pension.

Nice four years in Mascara though and three years in Oran.

Drifting.

What was her name? Michelle, Michelle Regis. Her father had the best job in the world. Water Minister for Algeria. There is no bloody water in Algeria, only this sodding sand. I've walked miles in this shit.

"Where are you now Gwen?"

"John. I have a son and a daughter, but my husband is dead."

"Gwen, is your daughter called Mercedes?" Christ that hurts.

He tried to turn.

A cool hand touched him.

"Lie still darling."

"No, my daughter is called Amanda. Do you remember we went to Hickstead? Lie still."

"Amanda?"

It was Schockemola, or some such name, that did a clear round after the Irish Bank.

"You said you would call her Mercedes."

"We were just talking, darling. I got a Mini."

I've just got colder.

"Will you come and look after me, Gwen?"

You came, once, with me. It was in a funny room, where we spent a weekend. Harvey Smith did the V- sign to Mr Bunn. I love you, Tot.

He moved a bit more.

"If you lie still darling, your friends will come for you."

She kissed him again, this time fully.

His non-existent penis hurt.

Christ, it's cold.

Let's get out the tinfoil. Funny stuff this. Crackly, fragile, don't tear it, or you're dead. Might have some water in the morning.

"Shall I make some Yorkshire pud darling?"

"Have we got dumplings as well, my love?"

His Omega said 19.17. It will get cold soon. Can't pee.

It is really lovely in Oxfordshire at this time of year. The magnolia will have almost shed itself and the bluebells and daffs will be thrusting hemselves through everything. Must tell Henry to go round the ones growing in the lawn and not chop their heads off.

"Will you please tell me why I am here?"

"You are a fool, John."

"Well, that's not really an answer is it?"

I hurt.

That second time we met, you made me walk two miles for a kiss, It was cold and English and the tree creaked in the wind as we stood under it in your garden. Wasn't it 10 o'dock you had to be in? I remember I had borrowed Mike's coat to look a bit posher for you. Didn't fit properly did it?

On Sundays I was allowed in. Your mum frightened me to death nearly; that's ironic isn't it? God, I'm lying here shot to bits, and thinking of your mother. Will you marry me Gwen?

"Get aw..a.ay!" Funny, I never knew scorpions ate blood.

You kissed me when you were 15. Did you nearly die, like I did? When did your hair get longer?

Move a bit. What are my chances?

You were seventeen when I first felt you. I breathed the breath from your nostrils and licked the saliva from your lips. The smell of you is here, now.

Let's see. I am conscious. I am dry. I am dying. I think I am 43 years old. I think you missed me. Did you miss me Gwen?

I loved that beach. We ran up and down it and splashed and romped and stole kisses and cuddles. Why were we so good? Why didn't we do what they do now?

Why did we wait until it was nearly too late? I loved you Gwen, but I love you more now, now I can't ever have you again.

"Let's see about that leg then, its not so bad."

Go away, I am happy.

"Darling, it's me. I am here. Look, here's your foot, and here is nice tissue for you."

Was it when I joined up? It was wasn't it? We were too young you know had to go away and you went for another man. Was he nice? If I move my buttocks back about a foot. Ha! Ha! I shall be more comfortable.

I wrote to you. We fell into bed. I went to heaven and never came back to earth. Now I am in Algeria and want to come home. Is England still green and does it still rain?

"This is from the water butt, my love, drink if slowly. It's probably a bit bitter."

A pint of bitter at the Blue Train in Pigalle with my mates, probably never again. Remember when Dusty Miller walked through the bar with the toilet held above his head? Remember Freddie's on the N20? What do you know about Chez Allouette?

Nothing my darling.

Chicken, I love you, will you kiss me? He couldn't hold it any more and shrieked aloud.

Her soft voice was next to his ear, calming him.

"I love you John."

23.20. Must have been out for a while.

A half-track.

"Here he is, get him in, quick."

"Jesus, bit of a mess isn't he?"

"Get him in you shit, gently."

"Gently," he says, "Who is he anyway?"

A man, my son, a man who five hours ago saved your life."

"Is this his wallet?"

The surgeon looked hard at the tattered sergeant.

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you know he's English?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you know the extent of his injuries?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Can't you say anything else?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, what?"

"He wants to go home, Sir."

"Go home eh? Has he got one. Most of you people don't have homes, do you?"

The German Sergeant looked very hard at the foppish French surgeon. "Sir, this Legionnaire has an old photograph with a telephone number on the back. Perhaps you would phone - we will pay for the call."

Gwen was quite surprised to receive the telephone call from l'attache militaire, ie Colonel Guillaume, de L'Ambassade Francaise a Kensington. Her motor neurone condition had left her fairly disabled but she was very happy to meet the military transport from Marseilles which had been granted priority clearance through British air space.

In the Brabazon Suite a senior member of Special Branch briefed her quietly on the extent of John's injuries. He also handed her a small box. "Open it," he said.

She looked quietly and softly at the distinctive gold and porcelain cross hich represented the medal of Chevalier de Ia Legion d'Honneur. The little rosette peeped at her, 'nice buttonhole' she thought. She looked up and smiled.

"Well now,", she said, "I'II show it to him next year."

She was taken to the bottom of the plane's steps and her half-man hopped unaided to her chair.

"Hello darling," he said.

"Hi," she replied.

"Shall we go home?"

Postscript

Gwenda lived for a further seven years. Together they re-planted the garden and trimmed the fruit trees. The rabbits ate the wallflowers the first year, so they were replaced by pansies. The older dog died and was cremated.

The neighbours were helpful and the control-adjusted car took them to their childhood haunts. He kissed her continually and held her close, her words always in his ear. His false leg wasn't that much good so he abandoned it after awhile.

They loved each other in every way with their eyes, their hands, their voices, their small gestures, their hearts. On March 17th, 1977 John fell from the garage roof. It was a pigeons nest that killed him.

Gwen spoke to him; she didn't need to, he knew.

It was quite nice looking down on the thatch, at the greater spotted woodpeckers and the great tits that lived in the garden, and his old leg in the shed, and his wife.

He did wish that he had repaired those rungs a few weeks ago.

by John Day

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