Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  The two Warriors had been separated from the group for twenty-four hours and rested. The weather was showing signs of improvement, the clouds were lifting and light was beginning to break into the sky, blue was visible. It was then it happened. They had feared this from the outset but there was nothing they could do. Two American A10 tank buster aircraft had dropped from the gloom, decided the Warriors were enemy and lined up for the kill. The Maverick missiles launched and accurately found the cold targets. Roy's Warrior was hit first. The explosion was immense. Roy standing in the turret was blown clear of the main body of the vehicle but the men inside were less fortunate, all died instantly. The second missile was less forgiving; it completely destroyed machine and men. Of fourteen, Roy was the only survivor. However, he was injured. His left hand had been crushed.

  The two aircraft had disappeared into the cloud before they had seen the hits but they soon returned to view their kills. Roy in pain cursed their inability to see their Arabic 8, their reverse ‘V’, before the pain of his injured hand caused him to pass out.

  ***

  The shrill ringing of the phone brought Roy back to his senses. It was Joan. "Missing you. Seems strange not having you near after two weeks together."

  "Thought you were teaching."

  "Some non-contact, wanted to let you know how much I love you."

  "I love you too. Strange to be back. Just can't seem to get motivated, I feel so bloody low ... post-holiday blues I guess."

  "Must go, Roy. Will you be home early?"

  "The sooner the better today. See you tonight,"

  The morning passed with most of the work only being completed with great determination and grit, he was having a bad day and it was out of his control, they were definitely worse now than before. He'd had all the tests, corresponded with others from the Gulf who had similar symptoms but it seemed that there was little tolerance or understanding for the syndrome. He was, he felt, lucky. Some peoples' lives had been totally devastated by what they believed were the side effects of injected substances each and every serving soldier had endured in order to remain safe from Saddam's noxious gasses that could bring death, horrible death, in seconds. The daily NAPS, washed down with tea three times a day were also untested other than in the Gulf. By March 1991 it was rumoured that troops had been exposed to mustard gas and Sarin, fallout from damaged storage dumps; all denied emphatically.

  It had become clear to Roy that his condition was neither hereditary nor something contracted recently, but that had its incubation in the desert at the hands of his own government, the same government who now refused to accept any responsibility for turning men into the sick and dying. Even their offspring were, if not born with serious defects, showing early signs of genetic disorders. It was even rumoured that thousands of health records, along with Roy’s, showed glaring irregularities and had been accidentally wiped from the MOD computer before any investigation could take place. He had known three fusiliers who had died since their return; they too had suffered similar symptoms. One had grown so depressed he had taken his own life after murdering his wife and child. These were a few of the many. There was something wrong, something needed investigating.

  It was this frustration, this battling with the subterfuge of immorality that welded with the need for his personal battle, a battle that if successful might pave the way for a realistic settlement for those he knew. He was going out but he was going to go out fighting, in the only way he knew. To hit where there would be pain, pain like they had never felt before. They would not be in a position to ignore, pass the buck, they would be totally exposed. Even if demands were secret, the public would bring pressure to bear. Their fear and confusion would force an outcome, an outcome that would be swift and just. This was his only chance to bridge the gap in his life and its uncertain future that had been created, in his opinion, by the Gulf War.

  The telephone again broke his train of thought. It angered him. It clearly sounded in his voice. "Yes?"

  "You all right, Roy?" questioned Drew, obviously taken aback by the forthright reception.

  "Shit, sorry. Not feeling too bright. How about an earlier lunch than planned, I need to talk to you."

  "Thought you'd locked yourself away, it’s 12.30 now."

  Roy grabbed his jacket from the chair and crossed the room glancing back at the photograph.

  "Jesus, why me!" He flung the door open to meet Drew who was just leaving his office. Their eyes met and Drew realised Roy was worse than he had thought, it was more than just a bad day. He too had noticed that the man was changing.

  Drew's early recollections of Roy were as a schoolboy, when he had first moved into the premises in West Street. He had memories of telling off the youth for playing football and loitering in the doorway on wet nights; in those impoverished days the flat above the shop was Drew's home, a far cry from today. He had been kept informed of the young man's progress when Mrs Hanna worked for him. The initial disappointment she showed in his career choice soon grew into pride. On her desk was a photograph of a handsome soldier, her son. There had been concerns too during his time in Belfast and Operation Desert Storm. Drew felt he knew Roy but he also was aware of a metamorphosis. He had seen changes, not purely the physical but the psychological. He had never quizzed him about the Gulf conflict, he had only been his support.

  "We'll take my car as you need a drink. I'll run you home afterwards. The car's safe enough here."

  Roy smiled, a smile of genuine gratitude. He lifted his hand and touched Drew's shoulder. "I owe you."

  “Go to the car and I'll be with you in a tick."

  Roy left the reception area. Drew made it clear to Emma that Roy would be out for the rest of the day. "Don't call me unless it's urgent. See the lads in the warehouse or put it off until I get back. I'll bring you back some prawn crackers." He winked and left. Roy was already in the car.

  The journey seemed long, neither spoke. Instead of the usual pub Drew pulled into the car park of an upmarket Chinese restaurant. "Have you eaten here before?"

  “Yes, must be two years ago. Special birthday treat for ... Christ can't even remember her name."

  "There's been so many? You are having a bad day."

  The restaurant was quiet, as Drew had hoped. It was obvious that he was a regular by the greeting he received. They were soon shown to a table pointed out by Drew during the handshake and welcome. A pint of lager and a Perrier arrived soon after they were seated.

  "How hungry do you feel?" challenged Drew as he passed the menu. "The duck's bloody good."

  "Cheers. Thanks for the time." Roy drank deeply before placing the frosted glass in front of him. He ran his finger round the cold rim. "Do you know, Drew, the depressions are coming thick and fast. The doctor says there's nothing wrong, I'm in fine form apart from the obvious." Roy lifted his left hand. "Do you believe there's something in this Gulf War Syndrome?"

  "Well apart from the Government denying any knowledge of the problem, it seems to me, if you want the opinion of a salesman, that someone is sitting on fucking info that's explosive. There’s so much being covered up that if it blows, litigation is going to fall on the heads of the powers that be like confetti at a spring bride's wedding. There's absolutely no chance of the truth coming to the surface. The files will no doubt be lost, people will deny any knowledge of error, mistake, malpractice or incompetence. In fact, the only way, in my opinion, that the truth will ever come out is if America spills the beans. What are your real beliefs and fears, Roy?"

  During the course of the meal, Roy spelled it out clearly as he saw the situation. He tried to give a clear, honest picture of what troops on the ground faced during their time in the war. The seemingly endless injections, the removal and destruction of arms dumps; huge arsenals stockpiled with God only knew what! The destruction of identified chemical weapon factories and the fumes from burning oil wells that turned day into night, Kuwait into Golgotha. Roy had clearly made an impact. Drew had barely touched his meal.


  "Is the food not good today, Mr McKenna?" enquired the waiter, genuinely concerned that his guests were insulted by the food.

  "Er … no, no sorry. The food was delicious. It was my appetite that was at fault. I've never had a bad meal here yet and you haven’t let us down today. Thank you." The waiter's interruption had broken the spell and brought them back from 1991, away from the cold wet desert. "I never realised it was like that, even though I watched the reports on television and read the coverage in the press. I just never thought about the sinister implications. Can I help in any way?"

  "You're helping just by being here. There’ll come a time in the not too distant future when I may feel like this every day, feel as though I can't get out of bed, can't work. Some days I feel so desperately tired I haven't the energy to wash and shave. You really just can't imagine the feeling, the frustration and the humiliation. I'm still a young man for fuck's sake!"

  Roy's eyes filled, more in frustration than hurt or self-pity. He couldn't remember a time he had felt such anguish, such a feeling of impotence.

  Drew felt for the young man, a sympathy that was real and deep. He truly had no idea of the depths of Roy's inner confusion but sitting opposite as tears filled his friend's eyes he saw it, only faintly at first but it was there, he saw it grow and swell within the tears that hung in each eye: a resentment so deep it caused him to sit back. His expression brought uncertainty and he could clearly see a stranger opposite, a stranger who was capable of unthinkable deeds.

  "I'm sorry, Drew. You really don't need to hear all this. I'm sorry. I think you might need to start thinking about finding someone to replace me. Sooner rather than later I'll be no good to myself let alone you. I'll be knackered, not worth a toss. Maybe I was the unlucky one from the Warrior." His anger was palpable.

  "You'll be there, you'll be there my friend. Another beer?" Drew immediately realised Roy had hardly touched the one he had. "Come on, I'll take you home. You certainly need some rest."

  The journey was again a silent, thoughtful passage but both men were aware of the need for silence; it marked a respect. The car swung to the kerb outside the terraced house.

  "Thanks, Drew. Coffee?"

  "No thanks. You get yourself a brandy and get some rest. I'll give Joan a ring tonight. Keep your chin up mate."

  Roy smiled, closed the door and stood back. Drew waved and pulled away.

  Chapter Six

  Once inside the house, Roy moved upstairs. He closed the bedroom curtains and lay on the bed and wept, wept like he'd never wept before. He was a well of frustration oozing out of control. No matter to whom he turned there was a sympathetic ear, a pat on the back but nothing concrete, no decision or admission. He could see that he would become a statistic of Government manipulation. His anger welled up, drowning the frustration and he moved to the other bedroom, his study. There on the desk next to a piece of the Warrior that had been destroyed so long ago in the desert was his palmtop computer, identical in every way to the ones he'd used to power and time the explosives on all fifty-seven bridges; expensive, accurate and very, very reliable.

  He sat and looked briefly out of the window before lifting the lid, almost like opening an oyster shell, to reveal the keypad and screen. He pressed the ‘on’ command and a request for the password appeared on screen. He typed in ‘Arthur’ and immediately the agenda file appeared. Using the menu he typed in the word ‘Bridge’ and the date came up on screen. ‘Gathurst, M6. Sept 7th 17.59 hours’. He had chosen the time to cause limited personal injury, the warning should ensure that, but maximum disruption and inconvenience; the M6 at this time was chaotic and with north and south lanes closed it would become a policeman's worst nightmare! The leniency was only temporary.

  If the Government failed to follow his instructions then the warning times would grow dangerously short and lives would certainly be at risk. He hoped that they would meet all his demands without a single life being lost but he was prepared to risk all: he was prepared to see all fifty-seven bridges destroyed, and people with them, if that was what it would take.

  He checked his watch, 4th September. Just three days. He had planned to send a warning for the first three bridges using the code word, ‘Gulf’. He hoped that it might throw them off track for a short time, possibly consider fundamentalists until they received forensic evidence. If he were to be really lucky this charade might continue beyond the first tranche.

  The coded message would be sent to the Automobile Association using their vehicle breakdown free phone number. If they failed to pass the message on, believing it to be the work of a crank, then someone would be aware of the error and the police would eventually be involved, but he was sure in these times that procedures would be in place to deal with this type of call. He also believed that the calls were recorded or a number stored. He had chosen the call box with care, away from prying eyes. He had checked the boxes thoroughly whilst planning the bridges. There was obviously an element of risk with this as it had never ceased to amaze him what a small world it was and that one could bump into acquaintances at the most inopportune times, but hopefully not in the country well away from home. It was a calculated risk he feared but one he was equally prepared to accept.

  Roy heard the key in the lock and Joan entered and began to climb the stairs. She would not be expecting him home with the car not being parked in the street. He called her name but she was still shaken.

  "What are you doing home? I didn't see the car."

  "Had an absolutely shit morning and Drew took me for lunch. Good pair of ears has Drew and I kind of moaned on. He was terrific Joan."

  "How are you feeling now? Can I get you anything?"

  "A kiss would be a tonic."

  Joan moved towards him and kissed him lovingly, breaking away to whisper, "I love you," before resuming.

  "I had a rest this afternoon so right now I'm not feeling too bad. Probably an early night will do me good."

  "Thought you were ill," she goaded mischievously.

  "Sorry, not tonight my flower,” sighed Roy with a true sense of loss. "I could make you a coffee though, fancy?"

  "Lovely, I'm going to take a shower and I'll be down in a few minutes."

  Roy pressed the off key and closed the list on the palmtop before turning along the landing. Joan came out of the bedroom naked. She was fit and trim. She had been a member of a local gym for years and the hard work and dedication was reflected in an athletic figure. Her breasts were small and firm and her stomach flat. They kissed but Roy, against his manly instincts, pulled himself away. He moved downstairs and into the kitchen.

  As the coffee was poured Joan came into the kitchen wearing her robe.

  "Smells good."

  They chatted about their work before settling on the sofa. For the first time in the day he felt in control.

  ***

  Drew phoned at 8am the next day. Roy answered. "Listen, I don't expect you to be in the office today but I do expect you to see a friend of mine. His name is Bill O'Brien, he's a psychiatrist. I've known him a long time, in fact without him whilst I was going through my divorce, I think I might have topped myself. If you can ring him on this number and sort out an appointment; he's expecting you to call but would appreciate it before 9.30 this morning. I'm sending your car round with one of the warehouse lads under threat of death that he does no more than 30mph. I'll talk with you later." He hung up before Roy could protest or be abusive.

  Roy knew his friend was acting in his best interest but still felt there was nothing to be gained. He gave it half an hour and then rang the number.

  Bill O'Brien was driving into work when his mobile rang. "O'Brien," was always his curt answer.

  "Hello, my name's Roy Hanna, Drew McKenna suggested I should ring you this morning."

  "Hello, yes good to hear you've taken his advice. He's very concerned by the threat of losing his best man. Do you feel you can meet me today? I can make two o’clock or if that doesn't suit maybe tomorrow."
>
  "Two o’clock is fine. Where can we meet?"

  Bill gave the address of his clinic over the phone, wished him goodbye and hung up.

  The meeting was more fruitful than Roy had hoped yet he was disappointed as they relaxed on two soft easy chairs.

  "No couch?" posed Roy to ease his nerves.

  "There is if you would prefer but I'm sure you are more comfortable here."

  It was obvious that Bill was not only up to date with the psychological symptoms of those who had fought in the war but also he was involved in the latest diagnoses from his colleagues in the States. It was apparent that there was a clear acknowledgement of the problem and that this acceptance was half way to solving it. Bill had requested information from the Internet with some success. However, a colleague with whom he'd worked was practising in a hospital in Florida and was involved in the counselling of a number of critical Gulf War troops.

  The discussion lasted just over the hour and although relaxed was certainly intense. Roy found himself telling his life story to a complete stranger. It was, however, good to talk. It seemed to release a pressure that grew and grew with the anxieties of everyday life until it was all-consuming, until his head seemed full of clashing thoughts, ideas that not only conflicted but grew almost tumour-like, eating away any positive ideals that might have been there. It was in this mental cauldron of contempt that the maelstrom of his plans was conceived and strangely, no matter how deeply Bill would delve, these would remain hidden. These secrets were Roy's only lifeline of hope and he was going to cling on to them no matter how cotton thin they were.

  They agreed to meet again in a week using the same venue. They shook hands and Roy left. Passing through reception he smiled at the young secretary. She returned his smile out of politeness. "See you again we hope."