Swoosh

Seconds: Snapshots

Postiwyd gan Bearshead o Bro Morgannwg - Cyhoeddwyd ar 03/01/2012 am 15:36
3 sylwadau » - Tagiwyd fel Ysgrifennu Creadigol, Diwylliant, Pobl, Chwaraeon a Hamdden, Materion Cyfoes

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Looking around the crisp hospital suite in which I was currently situated, I noted the manner in which dust motes swept themselves upwards as the nurse rearranged his pillows.She smiled at me sadly and her eyes dropped in respect, and she made towards the door. Footsteps. Gone.

I arranged myself on the wooden chair in the corner, straight backed and sombre. His heavy olive jacket had been hung behind the door, the buttons glinting in the window light. Medals swayed like pendulums as she closed the mahogany door, clinking gently to and fro. Quiet.Respectful.

Silence once more, but for the rasping breath of the frail man on the mattress, child-like despite the creases and deep furrows on his sleeping face. Ginger moustache aquiver under the hooked nose that I had seen turned up at so many rude officers.

I mutely wandered around the room, my well-trained eye catching a faintly gilded metallic object, lying dormant next to its master.

I picked up the pocket watch; examined its proud, embellished circumference. As I held the beating, blinking medallion, I flipped it open in a smooth clicking of separating metal. I recalled voices that had fled to the back of my mind years prior to my present recollections. A sharp voice penetrated my memory. Military. Brisk. And yet, comforting.

“It’s all right, Jones, we’ve got Jerries running at us left right and centre, but we can still make it back in time for tea and scones. Look here, the ticker says it’s half past three. They’re most likely boiling the kettle as we speak. Chin up and chop chop.” Mud invaded my nostrils, that sharp stench of foreign soil. My ears tuned into the bleak afternoon. Shooting. Footsteps. Planes. I’d opened my eyes, and squinted at the same two faces which I gazed at now. One white, untarnished; the other ruddy and dirty.

The snoring golden mechanism in my hand clasped shut, the face hidden in its slumbering case. I placed it respectfully on the chest of drawers where it kissed the wood with a gentle clatter. The sunlight caught the soft curve of the watch and my mind’s irises focused on another vivid memory, one where the same sunlight had permeated my gaze.

I was absorbed in the scene, the sunset reflecting off the shells as they loomed towards us. I stood, mesmerised, as they fell gracefully like shooting stars all around me. War was sometimes enchanting. Beautiful. “Jones! Down, now, you idiot! This is not the time for idle thoughts. Get down!”

The sergeant’s brusque manner caught me up in its stride, and I ran with him back down the trench, wondering how he managed to yell at me so forcefully with that impressive heavy red moustache weighing down his upper lip. His lips were parted slightly now, and I watched as strawberry bristles shivered beneath his nostrils.

I recalled a night in Belgium, a busy tavern alive with soldiers and locals, laughter and warmth. He had drunk deeply from a foaming Belgian tankard, and the head of the beer had clung to the orange hair like a baby to its mother. A slim girl smiled prettily at him from beneath heavy eyelashes. He downed a pint of beer in one steady go and made his way over to the young woman. From behind him, the other Privates and I egged him on. A few seconds later, we saw the backs of his ears begin to smoulder a deep scarlet, at which point he promptly aborted his plan and returned to his stool, brushing his moustache furiously. The young woman was bent over double with laughter, evidently amused by his frothy moustache.

I smiled slightly, remembering his easy embarrassment and sarcastic wit. In the six years we’d served together, never once had he let me down. He was my Sergeant and my most loyal friend. To see him frail, broken by war, was heart-wrenching. The gash in his chest was deep, and the bandages attempted in vain to absorb the wound.

“Almost there, Jones. A hundred yards, and we’ll have you all cleaned up again in no time.”

I perfectly recalled my embarrassment at being wounded some three years into my service, causing me to bend over in pain. It hadn’t been a serious injury, merely sprained and bruised, but the intensity of my surroundings had caused me to believe that somebody had amputated my left hand and inserted a thousand sharp needles into my wrist. Sergeant Thomas himself half-carried me to the field hospital, and had a Private carrying my field sack and rifle.

“You’re a good soldier, ones, so you’ll get back on your feet again. You have a week here, and then I want you back shooting Jerries. Understood?” I turned to the bed helplessly, and repeated the words aloud: “You’re a good soldier, Thomas, so you’ll get back on your feet again.”