BRINGING IT HOME.
The soldier
swears. The dry, soul-less land is nothing like he remembers from textbook
images.
How long had it
been now?
Eight months.
It felt like eight
years.
Private Jonas
Smith Junior had traveled a lifetime since he’d made the decision.
God! It hadn’t
even been his decision.
It had been made
for him by his father, Jonas Smith Senior, a military man who, desk bound
through inclination and arrangement, had made a successful career of making
life threatening decisions on behalf of youngsters who saw only the celluloid
side of life in the military; the sanitized tele-images of death and glory.
The younger Jonas
Smith had nodded at his father’s suggestion and by conversation’s end had owned
the decision without quite understanding how or why.
‘You’ve made the
right decision son! University can wait. I mean we can’t have our hard won
democracy flushed down the toilet by bastards who’d sooner wipe their arses on
our values than take them on board!’
His mother had
smiled as a million military wives had smiled before her, while deep down,
where no smile can reach, her mother-soul had wept.
So here the
soldier stands, in the prickly sweat- induced discomfort of his battle
fatigues.
His body, not
quite fully grown, is hidden and weighed down by the armadillo-like shell from
which hang a soldier’s accessories.
Under his helmet
his scalp itches; further down the heat nibbles at his crotch beneath synthetic
underwear designed for lengthy wearing in desert war zones.
Sweat beads in a
palm that nine months ago had held nothing more threatening than a football.
Jonas Smith junior
took two steps forward and disturbed the flies. His mind registered the smell
immediately; it took his guts a little longer to respond.
The village, a
wasteland now, had been a bristling life-hub two days ago. Now it was a
festering fly-blown carcass. Two children were watching the soldier. Their
matted hair and blood-brown clothes offering temporary platforms upon which
armies of flies landed before bouncing off and swarming to other, more fixed
platforms, which offered less resistance.
Two days ago Latifah
and Tawfiq had played the games that children played.
Two days ago they
had been safe.
All that was gone
now.
There was no
safety anymore.
The missiles had
seen to that…
Their father and
mother had known; known that at any time their lives might change through no choice
or decision of theirs.
So, two nights
ago, when the change came, they’d woken Latifah and her brother and sent them
to check on the old goats, which were tethered some distance from the village.
And afterwards,
when the children returned to the village, the walls of their childhoods, like
the walls of their village, were irrevocably breached by the images that
confronted them.
* *
* *
One simple
command, flick of a switch or push of a button and a world empties itself of
sanity, disgorging order and reason and leaving only chaos in its wake.
Jonas Smith
junior’s father had told him once that it is difficult - almost impossible in
fact - to impose a new order out of chaos.
“That’s why we have
to lead the way son. That’s why we have to take control.”
Right now Jonas
was wondering just who the fuck was in control.
One thing was for
sure. It wasn’t him.
And where was the
fucking back up? It should have been here hours ago. Just what was he supposed
to do? He was only a private for God’s sake!
*
* * *
The children
watch as the soldier raises a hand to his mouth and sinks to his knees.
A rib cage
shatters beneath his rifle butt - one more indignity in a multitude of
indignities.
The soldier’s
bile spills out as he pushes himself away from charred remains.
Tawfiq cries out
and starts to run towards the soldier. Tears stream down his cheeks. Putting a
finger to her lips Latifah pulls him back.
Her hair is
matted; her dress torn and dirty. Her eyes are puffy from crying and she is
afraid. She pulls her brother close, as if the closeness might protect them both
– shield them from the presence of all this death and destruction.
She takes
something from a pocket of her dress, and hands it to her brother.
The soldier looks
up, aware of someone watching him, and grabs his rifle. He stands. His eyes
lock on to the two small figures a short distance away. He wipes his mouth with
his sleeve.
Still eye-locked on
the children the soldier walks towards them.
The children step
back.
The soldier stops.
The index finger
of a sweat-drenched hand taps staccatically against the trigger.
A voice whispers
from somewhere under his helmet. Easy Jonas. Easy …
The children
watch the soldier wipe sweat from his brow. Their eyes follow his hands as he
lowers his gun.
One hand clasps
it body-tight; the other reaches out. The weapon is a barrier between soldier
and children, yet a link which connects all three of them to this place and
what has happened here.
A smile cracks
the soldier’s face but it is so uncertain that it doesn’t reach the children.
Instead it hangs in space, unclaimed.
Tawfiq’s eyes are
on the soldier’s rifle. His sister notices and places a hand on her brother’s
arm. She squeezes gently.
Tawfiq glances up
at Latifah questioningly and he clings tightly to his sister’s arm.
Jonas calls out.
‘Hi, I’m Jonas.’
The children take
another step backwards.
‘Don’t be afraid.
I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m American see.’
Jonas points to
the flag on his jacket sleeve.
Latifah scrunches
her face and spits on the ground.
Her brother
copies her.
‘Hey whad’ya do
that for? I’m here to help you guys dammit!’
‘Americans do not
help us. Americans kill us,’ Latifah stammers.
The fear in her eyes
is slowly being edged out by something else.
The children
ignore his proffered hand so Jonas lets it drop.
‘Hey you speak pretty
good English,’ he says trying to quell his feeling of discomfort.
‘This your brother?’
Latifah nods.
‘I’ve got a big
sister back home; she’s always looking out for me too.’
Tawfiq is still looking
at the gun. Jonas notices and holds it up.
‘You like it huh?
State of the art this is. Fifty rounds in ten seconds. Pretty effective killing
mach…’
Realisation hits.
‘Oh shit. Look I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’
Jonas shoves the
gun behind his back.
‘There see. No
gun. Just me.’
He squats down.
He is at the children’s level now. He sits back on his heels, places the gun on
the ground and reaches out.
Both hands this
time.
Latifah stands
behind her brother.
Slowly they walk
towards the soldier.
Latifah wipes her
face on her sleeve and gently squeezes her brother’s shoulders. Tawfiq reaches
out and places an object into one of Jonas’ hands.
Jonas looks at the
object in disbelief.
Fear sparks in
his brain.
His body numbs.
This was not what
he had expected. Not what he’d expected at all.
Four weeks later
and Christmas dinner is well under way in the Smith household.
Jonas Smith
senior clangs his fork against his wine glass almost breaking it in the
process. Jonas Smith Senior is a tad tipsy. But this is Christmas so nobody
really minds.
‘Jush gotta say
s’good to have you back home where you belong son. It is jush soo good to…’
‘Dad, sit down
please.’
‘You showed ‘em din
ya son? By god you showed the bastards.’
‘Yeah Dad I
showed ‘em.’
‘Yeah, we can all
sh-leep safer now ‘cos you showed em right?’
‘Right Dad.’
Yeah he’d shown
them. Or had he?
The voices around
the table fade as a particular image fills his mind yet again, just as it had
every night since he’d returned home.
The image is
always the same.
Two frightened kids
walk up to him. They stand looking at him. He can’t read their eyes. He wants
to say something to them – but he can’t. He sees the girl’s hands, scratched
and encrusted with dried blood, resting on her brother’s shoulders.
Then the boy, his
lips curled in a strange disconnected smile, reaches out and places the grenade
into the palm of his right hand…
And the question that
follows is always the same.
Was it ignorance
or intention that had saved his life that day?
THE END.
