Darkness and muffled mechanical noise in equal measures; a brief view of the passenger bay bathed in red light, then back to darkness. No white lights allowed in the war zone at night, not if you want to live. The noise never changes though, whether you are in a transport or short-range scout, the drone from the rotor that keeps us in the air is deafening without ear defenders, and not much better with them. In recent months, I’d grown accustomed to it in a way that makes it almost comforting in its predictability, so much so that I was struggling to stay conscious; images of my house, my wife and, my children began to numb the aches from so much marching and heavy loads. A few more hours and I would have been home, soaking in the tub whilst my entire family simultaneously accounted the happenings of the fours months that I had been away from them.
Four months? So I had missed exactly half of little Ethan’s life!
If only they could see me now, I thought, soaked through, darkened by oil, sweat and dirt, such that the only indication of life in the corner of the bay were the whites of my eyes that stared out at the trees and undergrowth passing some fifty feet below us.
After the previous three hours of monotonous mechanical chatter, I was brought to my senses by a distinct shift in tone and volume. Almost as if someone was dragging a key down the paintwork of my pristine mark one Volkswagen Golf, a high pitched squeak was audible for what seemed like days, before I was jolted in to the air by a sudden change in the transport’s altitude. Forward in the cockpit, the dash was lit like a Christmas tree, and the pilot grabbed desperately at the stick, trying to stop the descent. Another glance outside told me that we were soon going to hit the trees, and fast. I could hear the thumps as the blades cut ever-slower paths through the damp night air.
It is a strange feeling, expecting to die, with no control over your destiny, and nowhere to seek shelter but within the confines of my own mind. So suddenly I was back in the tub, glancing around at the bathroom I had fitted on leave over the summer. My wife had taken nearly a year to find tiles that she was happy with, she had poured over catalogues and magazines, looking for that one tile that she could see in her mind’s eye. Her eventual choice, aptly named “Zen” was a creamy marbled effect, with a carved border that reminded me of Roman baths, and that room became my sanctuary that shut out the bad things I had seen but could never tell my family. Lazing in that bath with my family so pleased to see me, all simultaneously competing for my attention as I eased my aching muscles, all of the marching, the fighting, the memories, somehow seemed worthwhile.
As the transport crashed in to the trees and scorched the earth, at least one of us in that transport had gotten home.
