On the Bus. A Short Story.

It was by all accounts, a glorious day . Though someone mentioned the possibility of rain. “Is that our bus Mummy?” “Yes, uh no, it’s going in the wrong direction." The little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Don’t worry it’ll be here soon.” The stranger who was wearing Tommy Hilfinger beige trousers, a jacket you see the sheep farmers wear, a grey woolen hat, and walking boots, was waiting too. A rambler maybe. Maybe not. The double-decker arrived, the driver rehearsed in these matters put a hand up, “Let the passengers off first please.“ There was a streak of trees on the hill that were naked of green, whilst others on either side were in leaf. What was behind that he wondered, careful not to get flashbacks or untoward thoughts? There was while he waited another passenger, a man with hood up, he had a scowl on his face until someone shouted across the road from a small terrace property. “Going fishing.” He was going fishing, took his rod out to prove it. He was in his thirties with a short Mohican haircut, cigarette behind the ear. Why do people do that? Put things behind their ears. He watched as the man cocked his head to light a cigarette. These simple things, you had to get used to them. Don’t ask too many questions. The clouds were trying to rub out the hills. Once he got his change out of his cavernous pocket, he stationed himself behind a young man with a donkey jacket who was giving a running commentary to the driver, who was bored out of his skull. As soon as the bus picked up speed he heard a whooshing sound which reminded him of being in the plane. They were landing and there was flak. Welcome to the war you cunts, said one of the veterans on another tour of duty. Once they got to the camp, he quickly caught on what was expected of him. He was detailed to work with the Americans. It was for training purposes. He met guys from small towns in Idaho and in Missouri. Two of them had this thing about the old television series “Lost in Space” they would goof it up when entering buildings in the AOR. They used the robot’s warnings to communicate presence of the Haji. It was against the usual practice where you used hand gestures to denote what was there. It was fucking crazy. It ended in tears when one of the friends was hit by an RPG -- it blew everything of what was of him clean out of his tanker boots which stayed put. You get used to stupidity and death. But not really, the scenes replay in your bloodstream. You get the sweats and the shakes. There was some sub-disorder discovered by those working in the field of PTS which was called associative trauma that triggered flashbacks. While on the bus this was happening to him. It was like being in a vehicle in the desert. You moved at your peril. Any vehicle was a target, even from friendly fire. There was an incident where one of greenhorns shot dead a fellow soldier while on patrol because the moon caught the cat’s eyes on the back of the kevlar helmet to suggest, in his words a cougar. Everyone you met was a potential killer. Children were trained to kill. So you had to get everyone with hands up in the air. You tended to have reactions that were trigger happy. In the homes he had seen how the us and them thing worked. You shoved the elderly. You kicked the children. As for any man younger than sixty: you had him on the deck with the interpreter shouting at him. They frequently soiled themselves. You smashed down doors. You went upstairs where a family was watching television, burst in, with your M4 or whatever pointed at them. There were guys who went a bit native, they wore scarves from the country, and they swapped their standard rifle for an AK47 which was more reliable. They spoke Arabic slang. These were the ones who would either save your life, or fuck everything up. They were the equivalent of Hogan or Hawkeye. They had privileges in Chuville. There was always something to give them a buzz. The stranger was with them. “Learn from them” . He would have to later give a course on what improvements could be made in their own ops. There was a lot of darkness there. You only have to hear a song on the radio or in a fast-food restaurant and then a person appears in full combat gear. You know everything there is to know about him, from his grandmother to the colour of his pubic hair. You would know his hobbies. Whether he likes this or that. And you would know how he met his maker. You did not watch the news anymore. He looked out at the fields where the lambs of black sheep gamboled. He saw goats. There were goats. They stank to high heaven. If they were unlucky to get in range of a bored sniper. They would be obliterated. It happened. Everything happened. But not with those sheep. The girl was looking out of the window at the sheep. He had seen many children looking with stony expressions at him as he walked through the streets. They hated him. “Just chew gum.” That was what he did. Chew gum. He was doing it now. Maybe he’ll have to take a tablet. He was told that the boys when they finished the TDYs and finished they had two things at home: pharmacy of meds and either a pistol or hunting rifle. It was an either or situation. Either they shot themselves or they shot others. That was not everyone. Not everyone was fucked up. But the ones fucked up who joined to get away from fucked up dysfunctional lives, returned, in a worse state. It was the sex that was difficult. You had problems with performance. You come back from a tour, and totally revved up. Then as soon as they came into the living room wearing some sexy outfit which showed their assets, you lost it. It wilted. She slams the door and tells you to go fuck the pornstar on your phone. You disappear out. Walking. You come back and there is the conversation. “You’ve changed.” As if shooting people dead does not change you. She says she is taking your daughter with her. You are back to yourself and sitting in front of the television watching quiz shows. One of your pals comes by. You get wasted and start a fight. Your pal never comes round. “You’re mental mate.” They give you money for your condition. They prescribe a long list of tranquilizers for you. They turn you into a zombie. You prefer the flashbacks. You think of comparisons. In the supermarket you buy quick to do microwave meals. The meat is so processed. People are removed from the death of what they eat. This remoteness is what you adopted over there. The enemy was no longer human, processed by jargon into letters and numbers. An old man in his seventies with his snooker cue in a bag enters the bus in one of the villages. He looks for his friend then turns to see him. “There you are you old bugger.” He sits down next to him, and the two say absolutely nothing to each other. They are good friends though. It goes like that. Conversations between people have a mileage. Once you have told the same stories over thirty years, the vehicle stops in silence. You know all the jokes and the punch lines. Nevertheless, they have secrets which they never share. Taboos. Not out there. You opened all those cans of worms. They were just as terrifying as the shit happening outside. The court had appreciated his situation and that he had valiantly served his country, but in the light of his flare-ups and those fights, they felt naturally the custody should go to the mother, and there would a restraining order. He had knocked down her door. When pissed. He went to the gym. Exercise would exorcise things said his therapist. He ran up and down the hill. As the bus went through the villages, he noticed that every house or cottage wanted to differentiate itself from the other. There was no conformity. He had been trained to be part of a team, yet everyone of them was thinking deep down of himself, even when saving another person. When people did things beyond the call of duty, it was for themselves, then the others. There was no altruism. At least that was his opinion and that of many over there. His best friend was Lee. A sniper. He could shoot the feather off a turkey from a mile away. So he claimed. Whether it was true or not was disputable. However at the game of pool he was the shark. That was his nickname. Sharky. He had his own nickname, one that he never wanted to disclose. It was one given to him by Lee. To think of it. Would conjure up Lee. His voice was electric speed quick. The words came out in a torrent. As if he was impatient with life. But as soon as he was on the range, you’ve never seen such a calm guy. It was Zen quiet. Now Lee was a hero of sorts. He would say he was just doing his job. When a forward patrol was under fire, he snuck up to a nearby hill and started to take them out one by one. This gave them the time to head for cover and get reinforcements. However Lee was still there. More came from another direction. He was circled by them. There was nothing they could do. When they got to his body. They had taken their revenge, like the boys do on occasions. It’s called war, it’s not a garden tea party. From all the noise of shells and guns. To arrive back in a quiet area of the UK, where the noisiest place is the pub during a rugby match day or the juke box, there is the shock of the quiet. You keep wanting the noise. Screams shouts, missiles. Bullets. Planes. There is also the desert. The heat. Here you felt the chill in the air even in summer. You put the fire on. It is called acclimatization. Lee was a wiry man. He rolled a joint with the same dexterity as he assembled his rifle, the M24 the love of his life. It was the Western in him. The cowhand. He could fix anything too. He was the one who refitted the armour on the carrier. Saved lives again. “What I like is a pussy which is shaped like this.” Then he would laugh at his own dirtiness. It was what they talked about. That and home. They brought home with them. In all of those pockets in their DCUs, there were photographs and lucky charms. He had Lee’s charm. It was the foot of a rabbit he had shot. “Plain old rabbit foot.” He took it out as the bus was stopping for an elderly couple to get off. “Take your time.” There was kindness. Out there the orders were belted out. They made some of the men cry. The hazing was common. One shot himself in the desert. It was not even friendly fire. Lee said a prayer for him. His mother was religious. His father did not give a shit. He would go there sometime. They had a small ranch. The mother had invited him. Lee had told her all about him during a phone call from Chuville. Then the bus got to town. It was quite crowded with visitors. He avoided them and headed to the pier. There he sat down and watched the sea. The sea. Something you never saw in the desert. He was watching the gulls. Thinking of his daughter. When was it he was to see her again? He had carried several photos with him. Lee took one, “She’s a little cutie. I will say a prayer for her.”  He did, he was like that saying prayers for others. Maybe he was altruistic.