It was the warmth that brought him back to his senses...as he regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was his leg...or whatever remained of it.
The entire length of his left leg was peppered by shrapnel, some of the pieces still glowering. The faded khaki was now a deep red, mixing with the exposed flesh. He didn't feel much pain, the damage to his nerve endings was far too much to allow him to feel any. Years on the field had taught him that much. Too many years...far too many....
He surveyed his surroundings and witnessed a scene that would have turned any one's mind. What used to be the bus station was now a burning crater, the flames fueled by the corpses of the vehicles and their passengers. The air burnt, smelling of fuel and flesh...the unmistakable stench of "plastique" hung in the air. Shaking off a wave of nausea, he groped around...searching for his sidearm, his hand being greeted by chunks of burnt metal and concrete. He looked around and assessed the need for a weapon, his senses answering in the negative.
He could see some of his squad through the flames. He could shout at them, just one word and they would be beside him, at their commander's side. But he knew that they had better, more important tasks to perform. There were civilians to tend to...and he wasn't worth rescuing...not in the shape he was in.
"Rescuing"...he laughed to himself. That was the last thing he had expected he would ever need.
It had always been him doing all the rescuing, he had always been the hero.
But today...today he had failed..miserably. He grimaced as he tried to measure the loss of life his actions or rather, the lack of them had caused today. Collateral. That was the word they used. That was one of the side effects of battle, of war.
That was the word they had used five years back, when they had debriefed him in the ambulance.
He remembered that day on the school yard, remembered the bell ringing, muffled suddenly by a staccato of automatic fire.
He remembered his reflexes, his training taking over.
He remembered spotting the gunman, remembered opening fire just as another hail of hot lead spattered the ground before him.
He remembered seeing the group of children caught in the line of fire.
He remembered seeing his son amongst them.
He remembered the ambulance. He remembered calling up his wife, hearing her screams resounding through the hospital corridors.
He remembered his son.
It was the warmth again that jarred him to his senses the second time. He realised he was crying. He wiped away the tears with his grimy hand.
His son. Five years had passed since then. His son would have been twelve last month.
He had often wondered what his son would have looked like grown up. And today he had seen him. Among the busy crowd, the masses thronging the bus station he had seen him. The resemblance was uncanny. The auburn eyes, the sharp nose... "Uncanny" was an understatement.
He had stepped out of the jeep and had walked towards the boy. Two of his squad members had followed him, unsure of what was happening.
The boy had looked lost, as if in a daze. He remembered calling out his name, his son's name. He remembered spotting the flashing light through the boy's cape. He remembered his reflexes take over...too late.
He remembered the blast...the heat...the roar of metal twisting and melting, the sound of skin burning...
He remembered his son dying in the Intensive Care Unit...the alarms being drowned out by his wife's screams.
This time he did not let the warmth wake him up...
The entire length of his left leg was peppered by shrapnel, some of the pieces still glowering. The faded khaki was now a deep red, mixing with the exposed flesh. He didn't feel much pain, the damage to his nerve endings was far too much to allow him to feel any. Years on the field had taught him that much. Too many years...far too many....
He surveyed his surroundings and witnessed a scene that would have turned any one's mind. What used to be the bus station was now a burning crater, the flames fueled by the corpses of the vehicles and their passengers. The air burnt, smelling of fuel and flesh...the unmistakable stench of "plastique" hung in the air. Shaking off a wave of nausea, he groped around...searching for his sidearm, his hand being greeted by chunks of burnt metal and concrete. He looked around and assessed the need for a weapon, his senses answering in the negative.
He could see some of his squad through the flames. He could shout at them, just one word and they would be beside him, at their commander's side. But he knew that they had better, more important tasks to perform. There were civilians to tend to...and he wasn't worth rescuing...not in the shape he was in.
"Rescuing"...he laughed to himself. That was the last thing he had expected he would ever need.
It had always been him doing all the rescuing, he had always been the hero.
But today...today he had failed..miserably. He grimaced as he tried to measure the loss of life his actions or rather, the lack of them had caused today. Collateral. That was the word they used. That was one of the side effects of battle, of war.
That was the word they had used five years back, when they had debriefed him in the ambulance.
He remembered that day on the school yard, remembered the bell ringing, muffled suddenly by a staccato of automatic fire.
He remembered his reflexes, his training taking over.
He remembered spotting the gunman, remembered opening fire just as another hail of hot lead spattered the ground before him.
He remembered seeing the group of children caught in the line of fire.
He remembered seeing his son amongst them.
He remembered the ambulance. He remembered calling up his wife, hearing her screams resounding through the hospital corridors.
He remembered his son.
It was the warmth again that jarred him to his senses the second time. He realised he was crying. He wiped away the tears with his grimy hand.
His son. Five years had passed since then. His son would have been twelve last month.
He had often wondered what his son would have looked like grown up. And today he had seen him. Among the busy crowd, the masses thronging the bus station he had seen him. The resemblance was uncanny. The auburn eyes, the sharp nose... "Uncanny" was an understatement.
He had stepped out of the jeep and had walked towards the boy. Two of his squad members had followed him, unsure of what was happening.
The boy had looked lost, as if in a daze. He remembered calling out his name, his son's name. He remembered spotting the flashing light through the boy's cape. He remembered his reflexes take over...too late.
He remembered the blast...the heat...the roar of metal twisting and melting, the sound of skin burning...
He remembered his son dying in the Intensive Care Unit...the alarms being drowned out by his wife's screams.
This time he did not let the warmth wake him up...
5 comments:
if i say "well written"it would not do justice to the writer.. but i am not sure i have just the right words at the moment to express what i want to...but the piece should not go untitled... the writer can actually play around the word collateral to give it a name...or perhaps something to do with remembrance... these are of course mere suggestions...
remembrance it is dear greyscale...
strong central character, hazy sidekicks, strong acrid settings, the wife being relegated to the background... you do know how to spin a yarn dont u?
very well written!
Love, laughter n keep the Faith!
S
i second evolutions views... especially the bit about the wife being relegated to the background...:):)
hmm...impressive I must admit. u are a good story teller!
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