Collateral Damage

He caught her eye across the corridor. He sat awkwardly in a suit. He hated it. He moved his hand and she saw the movement. He flicked his wrist up and down, it was meant to be fancy a brew but was a gesture that could be badly misinterpreted, then spread his fingers: 'Five minutes?' He saw a flicker of a frown and an only-just shake of the head. Then her eyes left him and returned to the speaker of her impromptu meeting. He turned to his own briefing, but ignored the man holding court. But it couldn't hold his attention. He hated the way they carried on, like fugitives escaping the relationship police. He wanted to open the roof of the cage and let the bird fly free. And in a week he'd be five thousand miles away, and it would just get worse. Minutes later he saw her meeting disolve. He saw her flash him a glance beneath her eyebrows then she walked away with her colleagues. Watching her walk away broke his heart. He even forgot to admire the sway of her bum.

  "It's not a twitch."
  "Huh?"
  "It's not a twitch. Who is he with?" The man flicked a page on the clipboard he held loosely at his side.
  "Signals Corps."
  "It's a code. Morse maybe. Yeah, morse code. It's not a twitch, he's telling us something. It's morse code, look at the rhythm." The doctor watched the man's eyelids. Sure enough, there was a pattern. He felt a glimmer of excitement. Maybe there was hope. He had never known a triple amputee with collateral damage to have survived so long. What a will this man must have. "Get someone who speaks morse code. Get them now."

The soldier was uncomfortable. He didn't like hospitals. There were enough references to dying in his day job without having it thrust in his face. He took off his beret and crushed it in his hand, stuffing it into a pocket of his combat trousers. They waited. Machines hummed, interpreting life. Drips dripped, giving it. 
  "He's on," said the nurse. The machines said nothing, but the tension in the room built. Nothing could measure that. The soldier looked down at the man in the bed, eyes shut above the oxygen mask, driplines caging him in. His eye lid flickered, more a movement of the eyebrow and the socket than the lid itself. This wasn't communicating, this was a freak show.
  "What's he saying?"
  'How the fuck should I know?' he thought, but then he saw something he recognised. His brain didn't pick it up, his soul did.
  "G, G for Golf," the soldier whispered. Something had got hold of him now, something gripped him. Awe?
  "Golf Echo Tango Mike Echo." 
The doctor and nurse looked at each other. They were trying to decipher the code inside the crypt inside the code inside their heads. At what point did it become English? 
  "getme?" said the doctor having distilled the phonetics. "What does that mean?"
  "No, there's a space," said the soldier. "Get me. 'Get me' something."
  "He's stopped," said the nurse. "The poor dear must be exhausted."

  "Mike Alpha Yankee." The soldier started again. "Zulu Tango."
  "Mayzt? Is that English?"
  "Does he speak any other languages?" asked the nurse.
  "Is his wife still in the building? Get his wife."
  "She went home," said the nurse. "To look after the kids."
  "Fuck."
  "His brother might still be here."
  "Get him," the doctor ordered. "We need someone who knows him." The nurse turned to the phone on the bedside table, moving an untouched jug of water.
  "No, no!" said the soldier slightly too loud. "It's not a Zulu. Dash Dash Dot - Space - Dot. Golf Echo."
  "M-A-Y G-E-T," spelled the doctor now completely confused. He looked at the Soldier who shrugged.
  "Get - me - may." said the nurse quietly. She looked at the Doctor who was none-the-wiser. "I think it's a name," she said. "Get me May."
  "Who the fuck's May?" Everyone shrugged. The soldier continued to watch his eyes. His soldier's instinct told him to hold his fire. Not to translate.

Dark brooding clouds came in beneath the radar and opened their bomb-bay doors over the leafy part of town. Beneath, some with brollies raised in defence, the mourners killed time. A few smiled at the rain, knowing it was in tune with his sense of humour. Many had stood around waiting for a pub to open, but for a crematorium it was a first. There were a few nods from the old soldiers who recognised faces but struggled with the names. A few either didn't know or chose to ignore the request not to wear black. When the doors opened they filed in, grateful to be out of the rain, but trying not to show it. Last in, the only man in uniform, was the young soldier. No longer required to translate the code. With him walking in slow time was the nurse. People found seats awkwardly, shuttling along the narrow pews to make extra room. In a separate area sat the family, even in death we can't avoid ranks. The coffin sat in a semi circle of a curtain rail, the curtains open, revealing the coffin draped with a union flag and the dress hat of the dead man. A bottle of whiskey stood guard at the foot of the coffin. Out side the brief storm whipped up the orange leaves, brought to life by the wind, flipped around the trees and the gravestones. A man in tails and a top hat closed the doors and entered a room off to the side. A bugle burst out and echoed around the high timbers of the crematorium, the sound slightly tinny through the speakers. It was the last post. A lady dressed in a suit started to speak. Few people noticed the door open, although the soldier and nurse felt the wind intrude.

  A woman entered, her hair pasted to her face by the rain, her face red as if from exertion. She wore a brightly coloured coat and highly polished boots, but she stood flustered and uncertain. The soldier looked at her. His eyebrows arched. 
  "You must be May?" he said to the woman.
  She gave a start, looking more frightened and confused. The nurse looked at her hand. Their was a feint mark of white, a band around the darker skin of her finger. The ring finger of her left hand. Bereft a ring.
  "You must be May," the nurse repeated. 
  "He loved you very much," said the soldier, locking his eyes with the woman. He could see the tears building up behind the will. "Before he died," he continued, "he told me so."
  The nurse looked at the woman, tears joining the rain on her face. "And no body knew."