by Holly Hart
The cool desert air seeping through the cracks in my poorly constructed plywood bedroom is caressing my exposed legs – all I'm wearing is an oversized T-shirt and an old pair of panties, and I'm acutely aware of how ridiculous I must look, even if there's no one around to see me. I reach around in the semi-darkness, knowing I shrugged off the pants from my scrubs when I collapsed into bed earlier, and when my hand finally brushes up against a soft puddle of cloth, I gratefully pull them on.
Sophie.
That's the only thought in my mind – I trust that Mike can handle himself. She's a heavy sleeper, so I know that there's absolutely no chance the noise from the ‘fireworks’ will have woken her up, especially not after the long and stressful day we've just had, and I know it's up to me to get her.
I keep my head down, slithering on my belly along the rough wooden floor, suddenly wishing that I'd taken the time to put a rug down, instead of leaving it exposed like this. It would probably have done my psyche a world of good over the past few months if I'd been able to come back to a nice, homely looking bedroom after work instead of this spartan, sparsely decorated dormitory.
But I didn't do that, so no use regretting it now.
I reach up for the door handle, straining all the sinews in my body so that I don't have to lift my body up off the floor to do so. I manage it, but my shoulder's burning by the time the door clicks open. I don't know if I'm imagining things, but it feels like the sounds of battle are getting closer. All of a sudden, I can hear the ‘pop, pop, pop’ sound of individual gunshots in the background – not as loud as I'd have imagined they'd be, but still, it was obvious that they were heading in my direction.
I prise the door open, and have to squirm backwards to allow it to swing inwards. Fuck! I don't have time to be messing around with stuff like this.
BANG!
I turn in horror, only to be greeted by the sudden and unexpected sight of moonlight streaming through what had previously been the solid plywood outer wall of my bare bedroom. In its place is a wall speckled by the evidence of gunfire – three fist sized, irregularly shaped holes in the wooden surface.
I can hear shouts in the distance, but whether it's in English or – terrifyingly, not – I can't tell. I press myself even closer to the floor, more conscious than ever now that the walls around me won't provide much protection against hard, fast metal bullets. And it seems obvious that more of those will be on their way sooner rather than later. I start crawling.
Sophie's room is only six yards or so down the dimly lit corridor, but moving at the glacial paced amounted by my newly adopted need to walk, it takes ages. I raise my hand, forming it into a fist ready to bang it against her door, and just as it's careering towards the flimsy wood, I splay my fingers and halt its forward movement.
"Sophie!" I hiss, keeping my voice as low as I can manage, but also loud enough so that it has a chance of waking her up.
Nothing.
"Sophie!" I try again, placing my ear against the wall and desperately listening for any sound that might indicate movement inside. Still nothing. I'm going to have to go in. I cross my fingers and offer up a silent prayer, hoping beyond all hope that she hasn't locked her door. If she has, I'm not sure what I can do – the shouts around the cabins are definitely getting closer, and I don't know if I'm brave enough to start banging against her door, just in case I draw the wrong attention.
Just like I did to get out of my room, I stretch my arm upwards, my tired shoulder screaming its displeasure as I reach for Sophie's doorknob. My hand closes against the cold metal, and I close my eyes, quietly praying once again, and then I twist the metal in a swift, unyielding movement.
Click.
My arm sags back down to the floor in relief, and I rest my forehead on the ground for second, allowing myself to recover, and to build up a little bit of mental fortitude.
Whatever happens in the next few minutes, I've got a feeling I'm going to need it. My breath reflects off the floor, blowing little swirls of dust and hair around like a miniature storm, and my momentary revulsion at the filthy condition of our barracks is enough to jolt me back into action.
Don't stop moving, don't stop moving – it's all I can think, like a mantra drumming into my head – don't stop moving, don't stop moving – because a feeling sweeps through me that if I do, I die – don't stop moving, don't stop moving – the thought is so intense, so immediate that it stuns me, but I follow the advice – don't stop moving – my lips moving soundlessly in time with my new motto, and I start crawling as fast as I can, head down into Sophie's bedroom – don't stop moving – I glance up for a brief second, just to orient myself before another rattle of gunfire outside convinces me to hurl it back to the floor – don't stop moving – I can see her out of the corner of my eye, she's completely out of it, and for a second I'm jealous, because I'm terrified, but I keep crawling – don't stop moving – and I find myself by her bedside, my hand groping at her covers until the fingers come across the silky, smooth tendrils of my friend's hair, and I know I don't have time to be polite – so I yank them, hard.
"Aargh!" she yells, sitting bolt upright. "What the hell was that?"
"Sophie!" I hiss urgently from the floor. "Get your head down, come on, quickly!"
She looks at me, eyes stupid with sleep – heavy lidded and puffy. "What are you doing down there, Katie? It's the middle of the night…"
"Get on the floor!" I half scream, grabbing her shoulder and bodily pulling her down. As she falls, I see her eyes narrow with suspicion, and then fear. She clings onto me, and I'm grateful for the reassuring feeling of her warm skin against mine.
"What the hell's going on?" she asks, whispering this time, apparently realizing the seriousness of our situation. I just can't believe she didn't wake up earlier – it sounds like a war zone out there.
Another two bullet holes appear in the flimsy plywood walls of our barracks, their arrival signaled by a loud cracking, splintering sound and sawdust spraying across the room, filling it with a light dust that tickles the back of my throat. I resist the urge to cough.
"I think we're under attack!" I reply, painfully aware that I'm stating the obvious. "Do you think we should try and make it to the shelter?" I asked, holding onto my friend for dear life. Thankfully, Sophie doesn't seem to have a problem with it, because she's holding just as hard back to me.
"You mean, go outside?" she asks haltingly. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Well… no," I agree somewhat lamely, "I mean – it's what they told us to do in the event of an emergency, isn't it?"
"I guess so…" Sophie agrees, "but I don't think we'll make it to the shelter. It's a least a hundred yards away, isn't it?"
She’s interrupted by the ratatat-tat of gunfire close by. "Shit!" she says, punctuating her panic with a couple more obscenities. "Shit, shit, shit!"
I hug her back tighter. "Calm down, come on. We need to stay quiet. What's wrong, Sophie – speak to me!"
She's practically hyperventilating, breathing in and out so fast that she's losing control of emotions. I don't know why I'm not panicking as badly, because I'm certainly no soldier – and I’m the one with a child inside me – but all the instincts of my training kick in, and I almost feel grateful that there’s something I can do – something I'm trained to do, anyway. Because nothing else that's happening tonight fits within my area of expertise!
"I –"
"I –," she tries again, thwarted by her own breath.
I grab her by the shoulders, squeezing hard so she's got something to focus on. "Look at my eyes, Sophie. Just focus on my eyes, come on – deep breaths. You can do it!" I finish encouragingly.
Her big eyes, colorless in the darkness, stare into mine like I'm a lifeboat that she's trying to board, and even though the only light streaming into the room is from a couple of bullet holes in the walls, I can see the fear in her gaze. But her breath starts to slow, she's getting it back under control.
"That's right, keep
going!" I whisper encouragingly. "You've got this!"
Apparently she agrees, because she starts trying to speak again.
"I can't believe –," she gasps, halting for breath, "I can't believe I –," another pause, "I can't believe I can't remember how far it is to the shelter!"
"That's all you had to say!" I whisper with a smile on my face, trying to find a refuge in humor from my terror. She gives me a weak grin in response.
I don't think going outside's a good id–," I begin, only to be interrupted seconds later by a scraping sound – a sound I know only too well, because I've been bugging the maintenance guys to get it sorted out for months. I shut my mouth before I'm even conscious of what I'm doing, and put my palm on Sophie's mouth so she can't say anything either.
It's the front door, and I know that can only mean one of two things.
Either it's the good guys.
Or it's not.
13
Mike
"Hey buddy."
Jakes ears perk up. Typical – this dog is ruled by his stomach. Well, I suppose most dogs are, so that's no great surprise.
"You know," I begin with a smile on my face, "it'd be nice if you were happy to just see me sometimes…"
He ignores me and pulls himself laboriously to his feet, spurred on by the prospect of getting a piece of my sandwich – but not too quickly.
"Hey, you take too much time – maybe I'll change my mind!" I say, threatening to eat the last corner. We both know it's an idle threat. He quickly dives into a quick stretch, then leaps up with a little hop of his hindquarters, bounding up to me with infectious enthusiasm.
"Oh, now you’re excited, are you?" I ask as he pads towards me, dragged along by his eager stomach. I throw my walking stick down on the top of my regulation green, army issue bed cot and set myself down on it gratefully, my aching leg screaming out for rest and relief. Sitting down feels like removing a hot poker from the depths of my thigh muscles, but even so, it's not exactly comfortable. I'd almost rather be sleeping on the ground than on this cot. Well, not quite – but not far off.
The hard, uncomfortable springs underneath the thin, rollup mattress scream their displeasure each time I have the temerity to so much as shift my position.
"Never thought I'd miss that hospital bed, you know – but I'd kill to go back."
Jake cocks his head, staring at me reproachfully.
"Oh, all right," I say, reaching out to scratch him behind his left ear, digging in to reach the exact spot he likes so much, "I wouldn't kill. You don't have to be so literal, you know – it's just an expression."
He doesn't say anything, not immediately anyway, just butts his head against my bad leg.
"Ouch. What did you do that for?"
He stares deliberately at my hand, not looking away even for a second.
"Oh, the sandwich. You don't have to be so mean about it, though," I say, fixing him with a look of displeasure, "a kind word goes a long way… You know, if you weren't so rude about it, I might be inclined to get you your own helping from the mess. They think I'm a god damn hero down there."
I see his throat bobbing up and down, and know what's coming. He's bored of listening to me. I'm not surprised – the only real shock is that he's lasted this long. He starts whining, scratching the hard concrete floor with his claws.
"Oh, go on then," I sigh, finally giving up and tossing the small crust of leftover bread into the far corner of the room.
Jake flies off, faster than I think he really intended, and I chuckle as I see his legs doing their best to guide him into the corner, but his torso flying off in another direction entirely as his paws scrabble for purchase on the slippery concrete surface.
It doesn't seem to discourage him very much, but because he wolfs down the crust of sandwich in seconds, and runs back to me energetically – and fast.
"WOAH!" I shout, raising a palm out in front of me. It's not a standard command, certainly not one we've worked on the training field, but the message is clear, and thankfully the big lump of a dog registers it and manages to avoid hurtling right back into my injured leg. I can more or less walk on the thing, but it's not exactly fun.
He flattens his ears, finally getting the hint that I'm in pain. For all his good qualities, and there are loads, the kind of dog that makes it in the Army isn't always the kind of dog you'd get if you were living in a central New York condo. Jake can walk for hours with a pack strapped to his back, and then sniff his way through a hundred cars at some remote checkpoint.
Managing to make it through a few days of whatever pitifully short walks I've been able to give him since I got him back from the Pound without going mad, however, isn't one of his strong points.
The Pound.
I shiver just thinking about it. Not a lot of things get me angry, but that place definitely one of them. These dogs risk their lives every day for us, and what happens if they get injured – or if, like me, their handler gets hurt? They just get locked in a metal cage, barely enough food, no exercise, not even any playtime. My fist clenches with anger, and I have to make a conscious effort to calm down, shaking my head to banish my anger.
Jake jumps up on to the cot, and puts one heavy paw on my chest, pushing me back down. The cot, woefully inadequate for both my weight and that of an eighty pound bomb disposal dog, squeals beneath us.
"Alright, alright." I say with a chuckle. I know exactly what he wants, apparently it's bedtime. He's been jittery ever since getting back from the P-, no, that place, and I can't blame him – I would be too.
I don't bother kicking off my boots or combat pants, figuring it's not worth the hassle – or the pain. The only good thing about the rest of my unit still being out in the field is that even though they've turfed me out of the nice, comfy, relatively anyway, hospital beds, at least I've been stuck somewhere quiet, somewhere I won't get in the way.
Suits me. At least this way I don't have some power hungry lieutenant breathing down my neck asking why I've got a dog lying on my chest.
I would've thought it was obvious.
He's trying to sleep…
I feel Jake squirming next to me trying to get comfortable, and then the comforting weight of his head resting on my chest. I drift off to sleep.
I'm not awake by the insistent butting of Jake's head on my chin. It feels like I've only been asleep minutes, and looking at the cheap watch on my wrist, I realize that that's the case.
"Hey, buddy – what are you doing?" I ask, more sharply than I usually do, but it's been a long day of rehab, walking around, and managing the pain hasn't left me in the best of moods, either.
Then again, Jake's not usually like this – he's usually pretty levelheaded and rational.
"You need to be walked? Because it's bedtime, Jake…"
No, that's not it, he was as sleepy as I was. Then what?
"You need to go out?"
And then I hear it, and the sound sends Jake into another frenzied attack on my chin. I grabbed him, squeezing him into a powerful hug and press my head into his soft, tickly fur.
"Hey, boy. It's going to be alright. It can't hurt you," I whisper reassuringly to him.
I hope it can't, anyway. The truth is, I have no idea if that's the case. After all, there sure as hell shouldn't be gunfire and explosions going off in the middle of America's largest army base in Afghanistan. If that was happening, then who knew what the hell was going on. A dread sensation of terror grips my stomach as I realize I can’t just stay here and ride it out like I normally would – I’ve got someone who’s relying on me to take care of her. Two people, in fact.
I curse, swinging my legs over the side of the low cot, spitting out another obscenity as my injured leg hits the floor, jarring against the unforgiving concrete surface.
"That's how it goes, eh Jake?" I say with a forced smile on my face, gritting my teeth through the pain. "Not enough sleep to be useful, but just enough to stiffen up this fucking leg again."
Jake looks at m
e with what I take to be concern in his large brown eyes, and pads over to me, licking my pant leg in a long, caring stroke.
"Thanks, buddy. Come on," I say, grabbing my walking stick from the top of the vomit green cot, where I'd apparently been lying on it without noticing, "let's take a look around."
Maybe it's not the most sensible thing to be doing, especially not when I've already got one bullet wound to be complaining about, but I've never been the kind of guy who's happy just to sit around.
So I decide to head towards the sound of gunfire. And maybe, just maybe, to save my unborn child…
14
Katie
"Quick," I say under my breath to Sophie, motioning to one side, "get under the bed." My tone doesn't brook much argument, and she's in no mood to present one. We crawl under the bed. I look up at Sophie's bedside table, where the same drab regulation issue alarm clock that sits by my bedside usually stands, and realize that the ever present red glow of the clock's display isn't, in fact, present.
"I think the power's down," I whisper. It might be the only thing that keeps us out of sight, because trying to fit two of us under a bed that's built for two isn't going to do the trick. Not well enough, anyway – and I'm wearing blue pants, not exactly prime for camouflage.
I reach out an arm towards Sophie, and realize she's trembling. "It's going to be alright," I whisper, trying to reassure her. It looks like she's going into shock – and that's the last thing we need right now, especially if we need to make a run for it.
A floorboard creaks in the corridor and my head whips round. I look at the door to Sophie's room and kick myself for not closing it once I'd made it into the room. Another stupid little mistake, but one could get me killed. I weigh up the pros and cons of trying to get to the door and lock it, but dismiss the possibility almost as soon as my brain generates it – too risky.