by Harry Parker
BA5799 stared down at the old man and he didn’t know what to say. They’d last met across a rug and sipped tea in his house with its garden oasis. Now he looked like any other labourer from the fields. He was covered in dust and his hands were flaked with dried blood. He smelt of stale sweat. And seeing him now, BA5799 realised he wasn’t that old. Hidden behind the beard and sun-damaged skin was a middle-aged father.
The interpreter explained that he had brought his dead son to the camp. BA5799 hoped it wasn’t the young man he’d met on the bike and told the interpreter to offer the man water, then sat down in a plastic chair opposite him.
‘He does not want your water,’ the translator said.
BA5799 looked up at him and then back at the man.
‘Tell him we are pleased that he has come to our base.’ As his words were translated, BA5799 knew they were ridiculous. The man stared at him and there was confusion and bitterness in his eyes.
‘He says that your bomb last night killed his son,’ the interpreter said and fidgeted. ‘He says he has tried to support you and now you have killed his son. He asks why you have done this?’
There was a leaflet that BA5799 had read tucked in the notebook next to me. It described how to deal with this. What to say, what not to say. But the man’s eyes were full of mistrust. BA5799 thought of the leaflet; in front of this man, it meant nothing.
‘Tell him that if this is true, I am sorry,’ he said. He felt uncomfortable; the clear, glassy eyes wanted an explanation but he had none and the man started to speak again in the undulating language that was so alien.
‘Why?’ the interpreter said. ‘That’s what he wants to know.’
‘Tell him we were attacked by insurgents yesterday and we used aircraft to stop the threat. If his son was caught up in that then I am sorry, but we were defending ourselves. The compounds around the base are generally empty.’
‘He says his son has never held a weapon. He does not let him. He was innocent and working to make the land better.’
The man shook his head, stood up and walked towards the door.
‘Tell him to wait,’ BA5799 said.
‘He says he is going to his son. He does not like leaving him out there on the road.’
‘Tell him I can help him.’
When the translator started to speak the man stopped and turned to look at BA5799. He shook his head and the bulge of tears grew in his eyes as he spoke.
‘He says that he does not see how you can help now,’ the interpreter translated.
‘We can help him claim compensation for his loss.’
The man listened, said a few words, then turned and pushed through the hessian.
‘What did he say?’ BA5799 said.
‘Well, he swore at you. It was not very nice, and then he told you to follow him.’
BA5799 put on his helmet, grabbed me and went after the man. He felt very young as he followed the old man under the hessian screen. He was dealing with death in an alien culture and he had no idea how to relate to this man or the death of his son. It was too foreign. It felt like some odd training exercise and he was getting it wrong.
One of the soldiers followed him. ‘Boss, don’t go out there, it might be a trap. Remember what happened up north.’ He put his hand on BA5799’s shoulder. ‘We haven’t searched the wheelbarrow.’
‘It’s all right, Corporal Carr. I know him. It’ll be fine.’
‘Sir, I’m not sure you should go out there.’ He walked with him up to the concertina wire.
‘Stay here, Corporal Carr,’ he said to the soldier and stepped around the wire.
‘Here, you’re unarmed, sir. Take this,’ he said and offered a pistol.
But BA5799 turned to follow the man down the road next to the wall of the camp. He held me and the notebook under his arm. He looked at the wheelbarrow and the dread that this might be a trap pulled through him, constricting his throat. If we can’t trust then we have nothing, he thought and walked on.
BA5799 felt naked without his weapon but glanced up at the slit of the watchtower and knew they would be covering him. I was his weapon now and his palm was clammy against me. He could hear the interpreter behind, jogging to catch up. The man was by the wheelbarrow. A bent leg flopped over its lip and BA5799 could see the top of a head as he approached.
And then he was standing next to the man looking down at the twisted body. Through the swelling and frozen violence, which was somehow worse for not having ripped the body apart, it took him a moment to recognise the boy who had helped him. He tried to see if there was anything suspicious hidden beneath or inside the body and hated himself for thinking only of his own safety. He checked again and all he saw was the glint of the eyeballs through the nearly closed lids and trickles of dried blood from the nose and ears. BA5799 wanted to feel compassion for the man and his dead son but only felt discomfort and the man’s eyes challenging him. And all he cared about was getting back into the base and the loss of a potential asset in securing the area.
‘Tell him I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I know this is his son and I know they are good people.’
The interpreter turned to the man and then delivered his response. ‘He says he is not sure he will continue to be good any more. He thinks – how do you say it? – he thinks he can no longer command trust so he will not believe you again.’
‘Tell him I understand. It isn’t what any of us wanted to happen, but we still need help from good people like him. This will never be undone, I know, but if we let the insurgents win there will be even greater loss.’ BA5799 felt the absurdity of what he said – he’d never experienced any loss. Suddenly he was thinking of a wedding he’d been to in a country church and the flowers and laughter, the falling pink confetti – he had no idea why and now felt like a child who couldn’t take it seriously.
The man listened and then said he didn’t think the soldiers understood anything – there is always loss, he said. But their lives had been much harder since the foreigners had come. He went to the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted it.
‘Ask him to wait,’ BA5799 said and stepped towards the man. ‘I can help.’
He pulled me out with four others. He rested his notebook awkwardly on his knee and scribbled on a piece of paper, then he held me out to the man along with the receipt.
‘Here, please take this. I can only offer you one hundred dollars. It is all I’m allowed to give to one person, but if you take this receipt and go to the district centre you can claim more money. These dollars will more than pay for your journey.’
The interpreter translated and the man lowered the wheelbarrow back down.
‘He asks how much he will get. How much is his son worth?’ the interpreter said.
‘I’m not sure,’ BA5799 said. ‘Probably two thousand dollars. It will be a life-changing amount.’
The man’s face was rigid as he stepped forward and took me. He looked down at the foreign words and symbols printed on me, the face of the long-dead politician, then peered at the slip of paper. If he could have read it, he would have known that the foreigners did not accept liability for the death of his son but said he could be compensated.
The man spoke quietly while looking down at me.
‘He says this is a sad thing. He says taking money from you in payment for the death of his son is the very worst thing he has ever done. You talk of life-changing money; his life is already changed. He wishes he could be strong and reject your offer but he says you are correct, he cannot resist this much money. He wishes he could, because he wants no debt and no link to you.’
The man looked up from me at BA5799 and spoke a final sentence.
The interpreter didn’t translate.
BA5799 glanced from the old man to the interpreter.
‘What did he say?’ he asked.
‘He wishes you no peace,’ the translator said. ‘Or words like that.’
Then the man picked up the wheelbarrow again, crushing me between his palm and the w
ooden handle, and started to wheel it down the road. BA5799 and the interpreter watched us go and then returned to the camp.
As he walked the old man became angry and tried to swipe the flies away from his son’s face but they landed again and he couldn’t keep stopping, so he watched them gather on the body as he pushed it back to the village. He knew he must bury his son today and the thought made it final.
When we got back to his home and his garden, which was suddenly a deceit and arrogance and brought him no pleasure, he thrust me in his pocket and held his wife close.
*
When he next took me out he was standing in a long queue in the district centre. Men used to queue up to see him and he was ashamed. He finally got to the front but the man said it was too late, they were closing and he should come back again tomorrow. He tried to use me and the others he’d been given by BA5799 to bribe the man behind the counter but he was ignored. He waved the receipt for his son through the glass. The man at the desk looked up at it and said they no longer accepted that form and he would have to return to the issuing officer for the new paperwork.
He walked out into the busy street. He used me to buy his journey home and I entered circulation.
37
‘It’s good to see you, boss,’ said the man who held the box I was in. He lifted me out and handed me to BA5799. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Not too bad, thanks, Sergeant Collins,’ BA5799 said as he took hold of me. ‘I’m just back from an admission at the rehab centre.’
‘Well, it’s good to see you on the mend, sir,’ he said and moved to the next person and gave them one of me.
We were on the edge of a parade ground that had a white carpark grid painted on it. At the other side, on the grass, green tents were lined up and people gathered around rows of chairs. BA5799 looked down at me in his hand.
I glinted at him. I am an operational service medal, a thirty-six-millimetre-wide silver disk with a crowned effigy on my front. I have a clasp with the name of a country embossed on it and a three-coloured ribbon folded into a square that rested in his palm. He turned me over and studied the four-pointed star on my reverse and then my edge, which had his rank, name and service number engraved on it: Captain T Barnes 565799.
‘I suppose this is it, then,’ a man next to us said. He was in a wheelchair and flipped his one of me over in his hand. ‘This is the silverware.’
‘Looks like it, Carl,’ BA5799 said, ‘although we’ll always have the metalwork strapped to our legs if we need reminding.’
The man glanced up from his chair. He had no legs and his combat trousers were tucked under his thighs. ‘Wish I could’ve worn mine today,’ he said.
‘You’ll get there, mate. Still early days for you.’
They were a group of five: two in wheelchairs, two on crutches, and BA5799 leaning back awkwardly on a bollard. They looked up at the man who’d handed me out.
‘Right, has everyone got a medal?’ he said.
They nodded. They all wore dark-green berets, with cap badges in the shape of a bugle above the left eye.
‘Good. The lads will march on from over there and form up in front of the tents. Usual sketch. B Company, then C, then Support. The band will play them on. Once they’re all settled I’ll give you a nod.’ He turned to BA5799. ‘Sir, are you happy to lead out?’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks. Line up at the end of B Company. It’ll be a bit of a wait and then the general will come out. There’ll be a salute, the usual rigmarole. And then he’ll present the medals – you fellas are up first. All you do is hand him your medal and then he says how wonderful you’ve done and gives it back.’
‘God, doesn’t he even pin it on our chests?’ one of them said and smiled.
‘Too difficult for the tailors, I’m afraid, Rifleman Dean,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait for everyone else to get their medals, just go to the side of the tents. There’s some chairs laid out for you. You can watch the rest of the parade from there.’
‘I’ve already got a chair,’ said the man in a wheelchair.
‘Well there’s a space there for you too, Rifleman Spiers. Any questions?’
‘What do we say to the general?’
‘Say whatever you like, but try not to give him your life story. These things can drag on and it’s too bloody cold today.’
He walked away and we waited. I was still in BA5799’s hand and its warmth heated me. The others talked about when they were due back at the centre and complained about the wait and how freezing it was.
Finally the band marched on. The cheery tune filled the square and the crowd clapped. Then the rows of soldiers appeared and snaked forward, three close columns that rose and fell with every step, their arms rippling together and the sound of their boots dull on the tarmac as they swayed up onto the parade ground and pivoted before extending out in front of the tents.
BA5799 watched them come. He knew them all. He’d been part of them, one of their best; he didn’t mind the arrogance of thinking that – it didn’t matter now. He’d made a mistake that confined him to the small group that looked on. Even if he’d wanted to march with them he couldn’t.
His hand tightened around me and I pushed a red mark into the folded creases of his palm. He was embarrassed that he was the one who’d made a mistake. He was supposed to be good at his job – some of them had even looked up to him, depended on him to make decisions – and it was never going to happen to him, he was meant to be lucky. But he wasn’t, and it had, and he’d failed.
Suddenly he hated the thought of them seeing him like this, broken and maimed. He didn’t want to walk out there in front of the watching crowd. He wanted to go back to the centre and its different rules and measures of achievement that none of them would understand. Where he could be the best.
Men shouted and the ranks shuffled straight. And then the nod came. BA5799 switched me into his other hand and took his stick. ‘Make it look good, lads,’ he said and walked out across the open ground to the lines of men. The wheelchairs followed and those on crutches swung behind. And the crowd started clapping. BA5799 wondered what they were clapping for. You shouldn’t clap failure, he thought and he was ashamed and wished they’d stop.
He held me in his hand and I brushed beside his combat trousers. His legs looked odd and their sharp edges pointed through the camouflaged material with each step. He tried to march like the men had, but the jerking gait and stick made it ridiculous and the effort hurt. So he walked as normally as possible and the applause sounded full of pity and he hated it.
He lined up with the front row of men and waited, positioning the walking stick in front of him to support his weight. His stumps hurt and shook and he wanted it to be over. He looked at the crowd, wrapped against the cold, sitting in rows and he spotted his family but he kept his expression firm. He rocked back and forward as the pain built and he concentrated on staying upright.
His legs started to quiver beside me with the effort and he wished the parade would start. Then they walked over. One wore gold braid on his uniform and a peaked cap and another introduced him to each of the waiting men. He worked down the line of injured, bending over the wheelchairs to shake their hands and saying a few words before moving on.
He stood smiling in front of us and BA5799 handed me to him. He was older with grey hair and he held me there between them. He asked how BA5799 was, about rehabilitation and his family and told him how well everyone thought he was doing and what a great example he was.
In reply BA5799 only said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He said it three times and then they shook hands and I was handed back to him. He had seen the man’s lips moving but couldn’t register what he’d said: the pain in his legs and the concentration required to stand was too much. Then the man continued down the line.
BA5799 had stood for so long his stumps were numb, and he wanted to move to the seats. He started to walk but his legs felt so stiff and heavy that he nearly fell. He thought of all the peopl
e watching and the man beside him stepped out to help but BA5799 managed to stop the stumble and steadied himself. He was embarrassed again with the crowd watching as he slowly limped to the chairs.
He sat down and rested me in his lap. His stumps were throbbing and he wanted to take his legs off but they were stuck in the trousers. The band played a tune from history and it was glory and country. He looked over at the lines of men and the general moving down the front rank and shaking hands and presenting more of me.
One of his friends stood alone in front of a platoon. That’s where he should have been, if he’d survived. He caught his eye and the man winked and half smiled while standing to attention. He looked down at me and swept his thumb across my surface and felt the ridges and mounds of the head moulded on me. He was a maimed relic that everyone wanted to forget. None of the men in those ranks wanted to be reminded of the truth – of what might happen. I am that truth, he thought.
After each soldier had been given one of me and the band started playing again, the men on parade turned to their left in one movement and marched quickly away, the columns rocking from side to side as they stepped in unison. He watched them go and knew he would never feel part of them again. They were heading away to their R and R, convinced they were invincible and knowing it would never happen to them, while he was going back to the centre to adapt to what had happened to him. My fight goes on, he thought and slipped me into his pocket.
*
When he took me out again he was in a kitchen and he placed me on a lime-green tablecloth next to his wallet. He was sad and he dropped his trousers down so the carbon and silicone of his legs was revealed, then he pulled them off with a sigh of relief so the two legs stood absurdly against the table still in the trousers. His mother was there. She gave him a nice cup of tea.
He peeled away the socks from his stumps and saw the cost of being upright for so long and not showing weakness to those around him, for not accepting a chair when one was offered. And he was relieved to be back at home, where he was safe and she would do anything for him, where there was no one to impress and he could allow himself to be weak.