Declan (2 page)

The patrol so far has been boring and routine. I’m no longer sure why we’re doing this, other than a guy behind a desk in Perth thinks we should. From what I’ve heard it’s not going to be much longer before all the Australian forces are pulled out of here. Right now that day can’t come soon enough.

A small child runs out onto the rough road in front of us, and I signal to Cameron to stop. It looks like he’s innocently chasing a ball that’s gone astray from the soccer game on the rough ground to the left of us, but we’re trained that in this country nothing is innocent. The children are so immune to the sight of armed soldiers that they don’t even flinch when they come into contact with us. This little boy can’t be more than six or seven. He stands there in is his tattered robe and bare feet just watching us. There’s no fear on his face. He shouldn’t have anything to fear from us, but who knows If we have anything to fear from him.

Luke is manning the grenade launcher and on constant alert, as is Ryan who’s on the machine gun. They’re quiet and taking in our surroundings. Max meanwhile has started whinging, an annoying trait of his lately.

“Just get moving Cameron, let’s run the little shit over and get the hell back from this patrol.” He mutters. He’s losing the ability to see the humanity out here. He no longer sees them as people, but targets. I’ve had words with him on a few occasions about it, but if it continues I’m going to have to go to the Captain with my concerns. If he doesn’t snap out of this mentality he’s going to do something stupid, and stupid gets you killed out here.

“Shut up, Max.” Cameron doesn’t take any notice of Max’s glare. He simply remains alert, waiting for the child to pick up the soccer ball and make his way back off the road. As soon as he’s clear Cameron sets off again.

I still can’t get my head around the fact that a six-year-old child can be a threat. That just doesn’t happen where I come from, but out here it’s real. The terrorists use women and children as shields, as walking suicide bombs and as soldiers. At home kids his age are in school learning English and Maths. Out here they’re learning how to work a Kalashnikov and how to shoot to kill.

Max finally stops his muttering once we’re clear of the soccer game. There’s no conversation as we patrol, we’re all too alert to our surroundings, watching for the glint of a sniper rifle or any hint of rebel activity.

We’re on the return leg of the patrol when it all goes to shit. We’ve visited the outlying post, dropped off some medical supplies, swapped Intel and are in sight of the base when it happens.

There’s some obstacle in the road ahead of us, it looks like a dirty bundle of clothes, and Cameron moves over to the side of the road to get past it. I’m about to tell him to stop the Nary when he hits the IED with the front wheel.

The majority of casualties in this war have been caused by IED’s. That’s an improvised explosive device or roadside bomb. They’re hidden on the routes that we commonly travel and are designed to blow us to kingdom come. We’re always on the lookout for them, but even if we’ve swept the route one day they can be there the next as they’re hidden under cover of darkness.

The Nary is heavily armoured against IED’s, but its still no match for this one. The angle and force of the explosion throw the vehicle into the air and it tips over. What you’ve got to remember is that although this feels like it’s playing out in slow motion, it’s happening fast. It’s a split second from the wheel hitting the device to us finding ourselves arse over tit on the road. There’s an acrid smell that could be burning rubber, and my ears are ringing from the force of the blast. Everything’s muffled and I can’t hear Cameron although I can see his mouth is moving. I try and turn my head to see where Luke and Jacko are, but something’s pinning me down. There’s dust everywhere and I can’t see for shit right now. My hearing starts to return at around the same time my head feels like it’s going to explode. I think I can feel my fingers and toes so I’m guessing I’ve just got a concussion.

Just before I pass out I swear I can hear Max screaming about saving his leg.

I wake in the middle of the night, yet another nightmare yanking me from a restless sleep. Throwing the covers from the bed as I can’t stand the feeling of confinement. It takes me back to the day the IED went off. We were so fucking lucky that day. We all walked away with our lives, well most of us did. Max was sent home on a medical evacuation. He almost lost his leg that day. His army career is over. It’s a bitter irony that out of all of us he’s the only one who wanted to be there, and now he’s the only one who can’t go back.

Despite doing a dangerous job every day your own mortality isn’t something you ever really think about. Sure, we have to write our death letters before we embark on a mission, just in case we don’t come home, and we all have our photo taken just in case the press needs an image to go along with an obituary, but you don’t think about it. If you did you’d never get out of bed on a morning. The letter and photo are just part of getting ready to go to work, the same way we make sure our kit is all present and correct, our gun is cleaned and we have plenty of ammunition.

It took over two hours to release Max from the wreckage. The last hour was the scariest as that’s when he stopped screaming. In my whole life I’ve never heard anything worse than that silence. I thought we’d lost him. We all did. The medics kept trying to get the rest of us back to the base hospital, but you don’t leave a man behind. That’s not our code.

I’d been the first out of the crashed vehicle. It was sheer gut instinct that caused me to turn. I looked into the eyes of the terrorist who’d been creeping up on us, knife at the ready to slit our throats. I continued looking into his eyes as I put a bullet between them. The guys keep telling me I’m a hero, that I saved all our lives that day. I’m not a fucking hero, I just reacted the way I’ve been trained to. It was as natural as breathing, and nothing that any of them wouldn’t have done in my place.

Max is due out of the hospital later today, Georgia has been keeping us updated on his progress, but he refused to let us visit. We’re all heading over to his house to welcome him home, although she’s warned us he’s changed. He’s not the guy we remember. I’m sure that once he’s home it will make things better, no one likes being cooped up in a hospital after all. That said, I’m home and things aren’t better. I’m suffering nightmares; that’s when I can sleep. I’m jumping every time I hear a loud noise, constantly on alert and suspicious of everyone around me. The army want me to see a shrink, but I’m fighting it. There’s nothing wrong with me. I just need time.

Everyone is dealing with this in his own way. Normally we’d have been meeting up regularly, laughing and joking over a beer or two or three. Today’s going to be the first time we’ve seen each other since we got home. It’s as though none of us can face each other. I can’t face the guys. I feel as though I let them down. As the Sergeant it was my job to keep everyone safe and I failed. Max almost lost his life, never mind his leg. He’s not out of the woods yet, the surgeons are still muttering about taking it off at the ankle, as it’s not healing properly.

I’ve been hiding out at the apartment I live in above my grandmother’s barn. It’s basic, it’s secluded and it’s peaceful. My gran understands somehow. Aside from hugging the life out of me when I came home, she’s not mentioned it. She just told me that she was here for me when I was ready to talk about it, then walked off to cook dinner.

How the fuck can I talk about what I’ve seen, what I’ve done to my ninety year old Gran? She wouldn’t understand. Shit, I don’t understand it. I joined the army to do good, to do something I could be proud of. I’m not proud of my time in Afghanistan. Fuck. That terrorist I killed that day was barely a teen. I killed a child. No matter how often I try and justify it, tell myself he would have killed us all without a second thought, it doesn’t help. It’s why I can’t be around people right now. Everywhere I turn there are families with kids, kids no older than he was. I can’t escape it. I can’t stop re-living that day.

Sleep is being elusive so I reach for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s at the side of the bed and take a long shot. It’s no good. There’s no welcome burn as it hits my throat. It’s no more effective than a can of soda; I’ve become immune to its effect since I came home. The bottle’s empty so I toss it aside, groaning as I hear the clink of glass as it hit’s the pile of empties already on the floor.

Rising slowly from the bed I catch sight of my reflection in the early dawn light. It’s not flattering. I’ve not shaved since I came home and I’m not sure I can remember the last time I had a shower, it certainly wasn’t this week that’s for sure.

Gran gave up on me sometime last week, tired of taking back plates of congealed and untouched food. She muttered some curse at me as she went. She knows me well enough to leave me be right now.

My clothes stink. They haven’t been changed since my last shower either. They’re crumpled and smell of sweat and booze. I look like a fucking hobo that’s for sure.

I drag myself into the bathroom and switch on the shower. I can’t let my men see me like this; they need me to be the strong one. As I step under the warm stream and feel the dirt and grime burn away from my skin I’m left wondering how the hell I’m supposed to become the man I used to be again.

Turns out that Gran hadn’t given up on me; she was just biding her time. As soon as I stepped out of the shower she was waiting. I’m glad I wrapped a towel round me before I left the bathroom.

My Gran is the sort of old lady who doesn’t have to speak. You can tell exactly what she’s thinking from the way she looks at you. Her current look is telling me that I’ve fucked up.

“Get yourself dressed and come over for coffee.” She instructs. I don’t miss the drawn in breath as she surveys the wreckage of the room on her way out. This could go one of two ways. Either she’ll offer me some advice that I’ll accept or she’ll send me packing. Right now I’m not sure which option I’d prefer.

The sun is bright and hurts my eyes after the gloom of my room. I shield my eyes as I hurry across the yard to the kitchen door. I love the smell of Gran’s kitchen. It’s a homely, comforting smell. Many a morning in Afghanistan I wanted to be sat here at the table with her, sampling her scones and listening to tales of the old days.

My Gran is a strong woman; she’s had to be. She lost my Granddad, the love of her life, when he was only 42. He had a heart attack out on the back field; by the time anyone realized he was missing it was too late. Since then she’s raised my Mum and Uncle and then me on her own. She has farm hands these days, but that’s no excuse for my not helping out since I came home. I should have been more concerned with how she was getting on rather than wallowing in my own misery.

Gran points to the table when I walk in. There’s already a steaming black coffee waiting for me along with one of her scones, freshly baked and oozing with butter. I devour it like a starving man which earns a tut of disapproval.

“Sorry, Gran.” I offer with my mouth still full. “These are good. Any chance of another one?” I grin at her. My cheeky grin softens the sour expression on her face and she pats my shoulder affectionately as she walks past me to the counter.

“What’s happened to you Declan?” She asks. I don’t want to have this conversation with her, not now, not today. If I’m honest I don’t want to have this conversation any time.

“I don’t know, Gran.” I offer weakly. “I just feel out of place, like I’ve failed some test or something. Like I don’t belong anywhere.” It sounds feeble. I can’t put how I’m feeling into words. It was never my strong point to start with, and that’s only got worse since I came back.

“You’ve given up on life.” She states as she sits down opposite me again, passing me another huge scone. “I never thought I’d see that from you, you’re stronger than that.” It’s a statement. She’s not asking me, she’s telling me.

“I’m not as strong as you, Gran.”

“Stuff and bloody nonsense. You’re your Granddads’ flesh and blood and mine. That’s a strong mix, Declan. You just need to get your head out of your ass and get on with living.” I almost spit my coffee out when I hear Gran using the word ass. It’s not in her normal vocabulary. She’s normally so well spoken.

“Your Granddad was making plans for tomorrow the day he died.” She carries on. “None of us knew he wouldn’t get one. Life is too short to be wasted, you’ve got to get up and live it.” She pauses, looking reflectful. I can only guess she’s thinking of my Granddad.

“I’m not wasting my life.” I protest.

“You’ve not left that room in a week, Declan. You’ve quit on yourself. What’s that if it’s not wasting your life?”

I don’t have an answer for her. She’s right.

“What do you want to do with your life now you’re out of the Army?” She questions.

“I thought I’d help you with the farm.” I offer. Gran shakes her head.

“You’re not hiding away here with me young man. I’ve got more than enough help from my farm hands. You’ve got a week to do some serious thinking, then we’re going to sit down again and you’re going to tell me what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.” She stands abruptly, pausing just long enough to place a gentle kiss on my forehead before she leaves the room.

My Gran doesn’t take any crap from anyone. She may look frail, but she’s a pretty formidable lady. If she says I have a week then I’d best get on with it and work out what I’m going to do with my future. She’s right. I can’t continue to hide away on the farm like I have.

The only problem is I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do.