Help Our Heroes: A Military Charity Anthology

by T. L. Wainwright

  “Did you forget to pay the electric again?” She asks, stumbling out into the hallway.

  “I pay the water and the gas, you pay the electric!”

  “I do?” I can practically hear her head tilt and the puppy dog eyes burning into me, even in the pitch black.

  “Ohhhh Bea...I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I’ll sort something.”

  Groaning I dump my bag into the hallway, today had been a very, very long day. My current patient was making a promising recovery but he was also starting to push hard and was at risk of tearing a ligament. I just needed the man to walk but he was determined to fly. I had seen the pain he was in after our session, his wife had told me the agony he’d endured the next day as if it was my fault, but I’m only there to guide him. What does she want me to do, chain him down?

  I hear gentle footsteps moving towards me, my flatmate shuffling around the kitchen trying to find a torch. I hear a triumphant “yay!”, followed by “shit” as she realises we never replaced the batteries after the last time. I love Poppy, she was the happiest, brightest soul but she was also absent minded and very, very scatty. It had only gotten worse since she’d lost her job at the dentist surgery last month. I could cover her half of the rent, barely, but we’d manage and then she’d forget to actually pay the bills. Taking a deep breath I reach out and try to find her in the blackness, my hand clasps around something soft and I’m touching her hair, she’s crouched on the floor by our sink.

  Wrapping my arms around her I whisper “It’s going to be okay, I’ll fix this.”

  I feel her tremble beneath me as she gives a silent sob, this month has been hard on both of us but I was always the stronger one, it was my job to make sure she was okay. I stumble back out by the door, dig my phone out of the bottom of my bag and use it to light the way, Poppy following close behind.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” she says with a small chuckle as she wipes away a tear, pulling her phone out of her cardigan pocket, “Oh. It’s dead.”

  “Because you never remember to charge it,” I say laughing.

  When we’re in my room I dig out a lighter from the drawer, load Poppy up with all the candles I have and send her around the flat to make sure we have some sort of light for the night while I call the electric company who promise to have everything up and running by the morning. With that done and dusted I jump in the shower, thanking god that we had a boiler to power it and not an electric one like Poppy’s dad wanted installed.

  ***

  Getting into work early, I’m desperate to charge my phone and use a kettle. A cup of tea always helps everything. My phone finally plugged in, it buzzes to life and within seconds it begins ringing. I frown when I see who it is but reluctantly I answer.

  “Edith, why are you calling?” I ask with a sigh. I’d worked for Edith when I was training on placement. She was a tough nut, but ultimately one of the best in our field. She always called me foolish for taking a job in the public sector; the NHS didn’t deserve me apparently.

  “I have a job for you,” she states, bold as brass.

  “I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”

  “Don’t be awkward Bea, I’m calling because I have a case that isn’t improving and I think I need some of your magic tough-love and charm act.”

  “I can’t, I’m swamped helping patients at St Jude’s.”

  “Private sector pays more sweetie, you know that. And I know you need the money.”

  “Edith…I can’t just drop everything.”

  “Look, use your holidays. I know you need to take them by April and I bet you haven’t even used one. Come and work with Corporal Rees.”

  I hesitate, the money would be nice - especially with Poppy losing her job at the dental clinic.

  Edith keeps pushing, “The pay is phenomenal.”

  “Yeah, for a reason. So spit it out.”

  “He’s a refuser.”

  “Is that all?” I’d worked with stubborn soldiers refusing to take physio seriously but before the day was out I had them exercising and moving those damaged limbs. There had to be more to it than that because Edith was one hell of a stubborn woman, refusers crumbled beneath her critical gaze and big baby blue eyes.

  “He’s a refuser with extensive injuries to his right side. IED went off underneath his transport.”

  “Mental health?”

  “He’s very assertive…”

  “You mean he’s hostile don’t you?”

  “Not as such. Just very...determined.”

  James

  Fuck them. The whole lot of them. Bloody-bastarding-cunts. Why can’t they just leave me alone? I’ve done my duty, I served my Queen and now all I want is to soak in my pain like the miserable twat I am. Why does everyone want to poke and prod the cripple?

  Four physiotherapists have been by today, thanks to my doctor, my mother and my ex-fiancée who still won’t believe me when I say we’re over. Tiffany means well, I get that. But I am not the same person I was, when will she understand that? The parade of specialists isn’t helping. I know my body, I know that it will never be the same and I don’t need some dick in soft, non-slip shoes and a gentle voice to tell me how to fucking stretch. I need rest and to be alone in the dark, hidden. I don’t need their pity when they see my scarring. I don’t need the false optimism. I need them to face the harsh reality that my body is broken beyond repair.

  “Corporal Rees? Your mother sent me through…”

  “Get out. I don’t need to see anyone else today. I’m not a fucking sideshow.”

  “Damn Edith,” she hisses under her breath, is she talking to herself? Have they run out of sane physiotherapists that we’re now on to the nut jobs? Scraping the bottom of the barrel aren’t we there mother.

  “Corporal Rees...James. I’ve just come to talk,” she says gently as she pushes open the door and creeps into my darkened room.

  “You want to see my injuries. You only want to look at the freak in his natural habitat.”

  I wait for her to placate me, like the others did. Try to reassure me that I’m not a freak but instead she gives a short laugh.

  “Well, that is quite enough of that. Pity party for one, anyone?”

  I growl, fuck where did that come from? I’m turning into more of a monster every day.

  I flick a switch and the lights come on, revealing my broken limbs, scarred and disfigured. I expect her to gasp―the last one did. Instead she squats down beside my wheelchair and examines my leg and arm up close. After a moment she runs her hand carefully down my leg and I can almost imagine the weight of her fingertips as they move over the thick ridges of skin, but I feel nothing. I watch her carefully, she’s younger than the last one―pretty even, with her strawberry blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail and big green almond shaped eyes squinting as she takes in the damage.

  “Are you done now? Realised I’m a hopeless case yet?” I say, manoeuvring my chair away from her and into the shadows.

  She sighs, before putting her hands on her hips, “Corporal Rees, the only thing I’m able to diagnose from this is that you’re a grumpy arse who’s hindering his own recovery.”

  I blink, shocked at her attitude. She’s mouthy, normally I like that but I don’t need a physio. I don’t fucking want one.

  “Get out.” I say my voice low and steady. I am not a mental case; I’m not an injured man unsure of what he’s doing. This isn’t PTSD. I want solitude. I want to be left alone. I look over at her and see the corners of her mouth quirk and for the briefest moment I feel something almost twinge in my groin. But I can’t want her. I don’t.

  “What?” I hiss. Is she taking the piss out of me? Laughing at me in my wheelchair?

  “I didn’t think you’d give up so easily. For a stubborn guy, a guy who served in the army, you sure are a coward.”

  “I am not afraid. Do not mistake what this is for cowardice.”

  “Then explain it to me, what is it? Why are you stopping yourself from healing?”<
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  “You think I’ll ever heal from this?” I wave a scarred hand feebly over an even more scarred leg, “Fucking crazy―I knew it.” I turn away from her now. I am tired, this conversation has worn me out and I’m done. I think she can sense my defeat as she moves away quietly.

  “Chicken,” I hear her mutter under her breath as she leaves, the door closing softly.

  ***

  The heat is unbearable, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s like I’ve been eating the sand I’m surrounded by, my tongue thick and dry in my mouth. Sweat forms on my forehead and it isn’t long before fat beads of moisture are rolling down my face. Fuck, the desert is a ballache. The dirt roads don’t help as we’re thrown about in the shitty tin can they call a Land Rover Wolf. Every bounce, every pothole, every pissing rock is being felt through my whole body as we drive back to camp.

  Camp. The hellhole I’ve called home for the last five months is just a speck in the distance. A mirage in this oven called Afghan. But I’m good at my job, a good little soldier and that’s why I’m here again. It’s my third deployment and I doubt it’ll be my last. A young soldier named Jones gives a groan as the next bump causes his helmet to bounce against the roof of the Wolf.

  A voice crackles over the radio, it’s the convoy vehicle in front. Our pace slows as we enter a village. Everyone is on alert, us, the driver, the men, the women, the children playing in the streets. Even the man with the goats up on the hill is staring. Tension so thick you could scoop it up and apply it like a fucking mud mask. This is what I hate, it’s like everyone is waiting until they can breathe again, the air heavy as we all try to hold our oxygen selfishly. The silence that surrounds us like a shroud is a testament to our stubbornness. No sudden moves. The car in front rolls forward a bit faster now, picking up speed as it scouts out our path. We follow slower, cautiously. Something is wrong, I can taste it.

  “Contact. Wait out.” is the last thing I hear.

  ***

  “James, love, it’s time to get up.” My mother’s soft voice fills the room and it feels like I’m a child all over again as she pulls up the blinds and sunlight warms my face. I don’t want to open my eyes, because I know what will confront me when I do. I try to roll over, the stiffness sending pain through my limbs. A reminder that I am not a child. I dreamed of Camp Bastion last night, I always do. Always bits of my memory from the camp, my attack wrapped up with nightmares of being on fire. Oh wait, I was on fire. That’s why I know what it feels like, but at least in my dreams I can still feel. Is it sick that some nights I relish that? Am I fucked up that I want to go back to a moment, any moment, where my body is still my own, even if it’s the one seconds before I lost it forever?

  “Tiffany will be here at 10 and then the new physio Beatrice will be here at 11. We have quite a busy day ahead,” she chatters on oblivious to the fact that her crippled son is not even looking at her, let alone responding.

  Beatrice? She didn’t look like a Beatrice. That was an old woman’s name and she couldn’t have been more than 28. Didn’t I tell her to go away? Was she coming back to taunt me some more because if she was I had a few choice words that would make her sweat like a nun in a whorehouse. Making people uncomfortable was an art I’d been perfecting since my attack. You could get away with almost anything when people pitied you, hell I’ve said things that would’ve earned me a slap before but now people just turn red and look away as if they’re the asshole. Confined to my chair I have to entertain myself somehow and being a dick seems to come naturally these days. They say it’s the pain, I say that’s bullshit.

  “Your father will be along in a moment to help you shower. Is there anything else I can do?” She says gently as she sits on the edge of my bed and pushes strands of overgrown hair out of my eyes. My hair hasn’t been a priority in months. I want to scream at her to get the fuck away from me but I can’t bring myself to do it. I look at her dark eyes, bags making her look like she hasn't slept since God knows when, and I want to cry. My mother is a strong woman but I’m the reason she’s struggling to hold it all together. I’m the cause of the lines around her eyes, the way her hands tremble when she touches me, the reason she sits outside my door and sobs on the nights when it’s really bad. I’m not just destroying myself but all those around me, this is why Tiffany needs to leave. Why they all do.

  Beatrice

  I’m greeted by sombre faces when I get to Corporal Rees’ home the next morning. His mother’s eyes are red ringed, she’s obviously been crying and as for his fiancée she looks pissed off rather than sad but I’m not surprised. When you join the army it’s all about the glory, the camaraderie and they don’t tell you about the aftermath. His family are struggling to adjust, he is clearly struggling―refuser my arse―he’s shut down completely, but it’s to be expected when something like this flips your world upside down. There is no normal now, no right way to handle this because every case is different. If I’m going to make any headway I need to do a full assessment and I need some sort of cooperation from him, something I have a feeling I’m going to have to fight for.

  Looking around I give a small smile, James Rees is a lucky man. He’s alive, his family clearly want to support him because they’ve transformed the garage into living quarters for him and his wife-to-be has stuck by him even though he’s quite clearly being a dick right now. There’s only so much shit a family can put up with and I can tell by the look of exhaustion on their faces, James is toeing a thin line. He can’t keep pushing and expect them not to break. Well I guess that’s why I’m here, to make him see that he can heal with a little―okay―a lot of work. When I left yesterday his mother seemed amazed that I hadn’t been made to cry or that I hadn’t declared him a lost cause and invited me back straight away. Tiffany, the fiancée was a little more hesitant but she agreed that something needed to change and so here I was. I had four weeks to make some headway before I returned to St Jude’s and the niggling suspicion in back of my head was that it wasn’t going to be enough.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” his mother, Grace, kindly asks.

  I shake my head and smile, “No, thank you. How long has he been like this?”

  Tiffany snorts, “What disabled? Or an asshole?”

  “His mental state seems very erratic but that’s to be expected.” I say watching her carefully. She doesn’t comfort his mother at all and seems to be distancing herself as she deliberately looks away when Grace begins to sniffle. She sits in silence, her face black for a moment before she eventually stands.

  “I need to go to work, I’ll call by after Grace. Nice meeting you Beatrice, good luck with him.” she scoops up her handbag and is gone before either Grace or myself can reply.

  “She doesn’t really think he’s an asshole, she’s just finding it hard at the moment. They were meant to be getting married next month.”

  I nod, this is part of my job. I’m here to listen, to help ease the burden so that my patients can work on building themselves back up and sometimes that means caring for their family too.

  “I think after the incident she thought he would get better...I think…”

  “She thought the wedding would still happen?”

  Grace just nods, tears falling freely down her cheeks now.

  “She wouldn’t let me cancel anything, it’s all still booked….I think it’s finally dawning on her...he could be like this forever....”

  I sit and rub her back gently, “This is why I’m here. First we need to assess him and then we can get a management plan in place.”

  Wiping away her tears she tries to be positive, taking a deep breath and putting on a fake smile as a small part of my heart breaks.

  “We have to start somewhere.” she says firmly as her husband comes from James’ room to let me know he’s ready to start. I’m already in too deep with this family, my heart strings clutched tightly in their desperate hands like a bouquet of helium balloons but I’m about to walk into a hurricane and I don’t even know it.


  ***

  “If you want me to bend down and pander to you then you chose the wrong physio,” I say almost forcefully as I stretch out James’ right leg. I’m sat in front of his chair assessing how much movement he has. His paperwork said I was dealing with peripheral neuropathy, damage to his nerves, but I still needed to see to what extent he could feel and move his own limbs. At the moment the impairment looked severe, but he was making zero effort so getting a good read was almost impossible.

  “I didn't choose you and I didn’t ask you to pander. I asked you to fuck off and leave me alone,” he growls, “Oww that hurts!”

  “Well it would hurt less if you actually tried,” I sigh, frustrated at the grown man moaning in front of me as his leg is lowered gently back down.

  “I am,” he hisses.

  “Stop lying.” I sit back with my hands on my hips and glare at him for a moment. His hair has obviously seen better days, but the rugged look is working for him. Dark strands fall down in front of his face, partially hiding his sharp nose, strong jaw line and sharp eyes. Those dark eyes have been watching me like a hawk ever since I entered the room, and even though it looks like he isn’t watching now, I know he is. James Rees is too much the soldier to relax around me and right now I need to play on that, I need him to be a fighter, to prove me wrong. It’d been six months since his attack, he spent almost a month in a coma and yet the man still manage to look like a bloody Davidoff advert. Well, until you noticed the scarring that covered the right side of his body. His arm and leg clearly bore the brunt of it, angry raised flesh bloomed there and up his neck but his face seemed have healed remarkably well. Blinking slowly I realise he’s openly examining me now as I had been him. It’s not unusual, new patients always try to get a read on me so they can see if I’m a pushover, but there’s something in the intensity of his gaze that unnerves me. It’s like he’s trying to burn my flesh with just a look and it almost works, the hair on the back of my neck raising. His lips twist into a slow smile as if he knows the effect he’s having on me.