“Black memories, black day”

“Mother… Where are you? Help me!”

Now that I look back on that moment, I do feel slightly embarrassed, feeling so foolish that I should have despaired so desperately. But then, I wasn’t the only one. I was not the only one crying in the night-time, struggling beneath my blankets like I was drowning in them, flailing my limbs in panic. I wasn’t the only one. We all did it. It was just one of the things that happened, one that was recorded over and over again in history. The haunting, hollow call of a young wounded soldier previously dragged from the battlefield, as he calls for his protector in the night. Screaming for the shelter against the reassuring breast and tight embrace. The horrific wailing that would continue until a young woman, some frightened nurse who felt such a shudder of fear run through her, gently came and shook him awake, wiping the tears from his eyes. And her own. It was a nightly ritual. Each young man, almost on clockwork would drift into slumber, escaping the thunderous noise of wartime only to awake screaming for help. The nurse would sit by our bedsides and weep until we had calmed down, or until the morphine had dulled our pain.

I remember fighting the sleep, even though it meant that I would have to endure the pain longer, and listen to the shells falling and my brother’s screaming. How could such strong men be reduced to this? It felt criminal. I didn’t want to be like them, I didn’t want to be subjected to such a torture. But every time I felt calm, I was soon painfully aware of a young woman leaning over me, soothingly uttering;

“It’s ok now, you’ll be alright.” I had been screaming again. I wondered if she could tell I was blushing, that my cheeks were burning red with shame. She lowered herself onto the edge of the cot bed that I was lying on, one hand gently resting on my arm, the other brushing away my tears with a soft touch. “I heard about what you did for them.” She whispered to me. I heard the strain of sadness in her voice, the muffled sniff she tried to hide as she drew in a breath behind her hand. She turned over her shoulder to my right, nodding her head towards a row of beds, each containing a painfully awake, or sleeping, screaming young man. What had I done for them? I couldn’t remember. My eyes began to smart with tears again, and her tender hand was there at once to wipe them away. Damn those tears.

But, I couldn’t remember anything, I couldn’t think of where I was or how I had gotten here. I tried to lift my arm, but the gentle pressure of her hand stilled my movement. “Here.” She lifted a glass of water from by bedside and pressed it to my dry and cracking lips. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I was thankful for it still. “They’re real lucky that they had you.” She whispered again. Who was I? What had I done and in what situation? I looked up at her, searching her face for the answers to my questions. She was crying openly now, despite the forced smile. Her lower lip was clenched between her teeth. “You’re so brave.” She shook her head and turned away in a vain attempt to compose herself. Why? My memory was blank; all I could remember was the darkness, the vast open emptiness that went on as far as I could see. I turned my head to ease my ache in neck, jumping as another loud whistle of a falling shell awoke my senses.

A shell.

I could feel the chain of my dog tags in the crease of my neck. I was a soldier. And I was in pain.

A whimper passed my lips before I could stop it, a sharp intake of air hissing through my teeth. It was back, back again to plague me. To remind me. My memories flooded back like a blaze of white light through all that dark. “Major?” Her voice sounded so far away in my ears. The pain in my chest was increasing, the tightness rapidly growing. I craned my head back in a desperate bid to open my airways. I arched my back, curved my spine to push my chest upwards, try to force the air in. Help me. No, the words weren’t coming out. I had no air. I could not breath. Help me.

Please.

Was this my death? My life flashing before my eyes? That flare of white opened, expanding into a portrait of the past events. I had been stepping through the jungle, wondering through the underbrush, swerving between the wild growing trees. I could feel the damp on my pant leg, as a cold palm frond, wet with dew, brushed by my upper thigh. It was quiet, deathly quiet. But I was not alone. There were fifteen odd men behind me, all watching me, waiting for me. There were fifteen odd men behind me, and God knows how many in front. Raising one hand from my rifle, I motioned them forward. We were to set off again, resume the path we had chosen. If I had of known what was out there, I would not have chosen to walk that route. I would not have sent them to their deaths. Two men, three men passed in front of me before I started the pace again. If only I had known, if only I had eyes like God, to see through the brush and around those trees. We marched right into hell.

The only bullets you can see fly with naked eyes are the tracers, streaking out red in front of us, around us, the burning phosphorus-tipped rounds letting our enemy know the general direction in which they were aiming. We had walked right into an ambush, a perfectly laid trap. Dozen’s of the enemy just waiting for us to cross their path, to dare to march through their jungle. The three men in front of me were shot down before they could even think for themselves to take cover.

“Get down you bastards get down!” I dropped to the underbrush as fast as gravity would take me. Hidden by the mass of jungle undergrowth, I could hear the burning thunder of gunfire, smell the smoke. Someone was firing back of their own accord. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” We can’t afford to make a stand now. We couldn’t see them. Silence rang out through the trees. Let them think we are dead, please let them think we are all dead. Make them leave us alone, then when the sons of bitches show themselves, then we can get them back for killing Jim. For killing Noel and Ross. Silence, the still silence. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees overhead, clearing the fog left by fired rifles. Slowly, I dared to lift my head from under the cover of my hands. I couldn’t hear anything, no one dared to make a sound. Slowly, one by one we rose, rifles ready and waiting. Silence, perfect silence. Something was wrong. It was never this quiet. A soft song of a bird drew my attention upwards. I had forgotten birds lived in jungles, so used to sounds of war. Someone to my right turned to me, and I just shrugged, answering his unvoiced question. I didn’t know what was going on, or who was out there. Raising my hand, I signalled my men to turn back. There was no way that we were going to walk into another ambush. We turned around, Allen taking point, leading the group onwards, rifle raised, trigger finger itching. Three men struggled under the weight of their fallen comrades, yet they made no sound, honourably remembering our creed. ‘Leave no man behind.’

Something cracked behind me, some small twig snapping sharply underfoot. I turned to see our enemy, now brave in the open, watching our retreating backs. Guerillas, ordinary citizens who believed they could receive our aid by day, slaughter us by ngiht. I raised my rifle, aiming at the first one I saw. Something dropped by my foot from another direction. Grenade.

“Take cover!” All I remember was running away from that little round implement of destructive force, hauling my men through the jungle. Just move, I had to make them all move. I could still hear the bang in my eyes, louder than any gunshot and the force of the explosion pushing me to the ground, forcing the air out of my lungs. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t breath. Air, I need air! Help me someone…

A sudden weight lifted from my chest, and I could feel the cold sting of the first breath rush through my nostrils and down my throat. My ears opened to the noise around me, men screaming, frantic steps, repeated lullabies of :

“It’s ok now.” These men, those poor bastards lying there were my men.

“My men.” I turned to see her sitting there, like she had been before. A doctor stood beside her.

“He’s breathing now doctor. I’ll watch over him.” The overwhelmed physician gratefully nodded and left, and I was once more alone with her.

“I tried to save them, I tried to get them out.”

She was nodding her head, tenderly touching my arm. I could only recognise five of my men in those beds, another two were distorted by blood. They may have been mine. I had carried them, one by one. Those that could not stand or walk, I slung them over my shoulder and ran them out of that fray, out of danger. I taught them how to stem the bloodflow of their wounds, before running back in to save the next poor fool. I dragged out eleven half dead souls. Where were the rest of my men? “And they are going to live?” She smiled at me and nodded. She began to weep again. Yes, they would live. But I would not.

I was back in that jungle, some limp young boy, too young to be a man, too young to fight, slung over my shoulder. This latest trip was taking a toll on my already weary muscles, my body aching as I stumbled over that last fallen tree, ran through the burnt and ravaged jungle to the safe drop point where I had laid the other men. We were almost there, almost out of this god forsaken place. The sharp crack was a late warning, the searing pain registering first. I stumbled, dropping to one knee as that boy slid from my grasp, falling onto his side. Another crack. Searing fire through my torso. I pressed my hand to my heart, seeing the red liquid pour from between my fingers, staining my uniform, marring the ground on which I had once stood. Bile and blood rose up through my throat from my pierced gut, sparying in a sporadic arch around me as I coughed and spluttered, desperately clearing my airways. My other knee gave way. The damp soil of the jungle greeted me harshly, dead and decaying leaves prickling at the tender flesh around my eyes. So much pain. I dug one hand into that black soil, trying to move myself. My legs refused to respond to my commands. I was on my knees, drawing myself up, finally feeling my weight upon my legs as it should be. Starting through the jungle, feeling the chase. I was leaving crimson trails along the green leaves, tell tale signs of their wounded prey. Run. I couldn’t move fast enough. Each breath burning my lungs like fire. Must get back to that clearing. Crack. The darkness sets in around my eyes, my memories falling into a white blaze in a vast patch of darkness, the light of my security fading to nothing. Crack. Moisture in my mouth. Copper tasting. Salt from my eyes. Crack. I can’t breath. I can feel myself fall through that black memory space, feel myself dissolving into nothingness. I can’t hear, I can’t see. I can’t breath. My body fails me as I fall to the ground, my eyes open but unseeing, my hands outstretched by not reaching. I am reeling in the dark reality of this black day. I can’t live from this, no matter how the nurses back at base may fight to save me. If I get back that is. I can’t breath. Someone help me! Crack.

“Goodnight Major.” She wept, closing my dead eyes for me.