9 Room 13

I knocked, waited a few seconds and walked in. I almost marched, as I had on the days when "Dave" Dee had acted up as Regimental Sergeant Major, if the RSM was on leave.
Things didn't look good for my fellow veteran. A wheelchair was folded and leaning against a wall. An oxygen bottle on a cart stood beside the bed. The hose was long enough for the mask to be on the bed beside Dave for when he needed it. At least he was sitting up with his back straight, thanks to the hospital bed. His face was grey and his skin seemed lined and stretched at the same time. He lifted the hand not on the mask in a feeble wave.

'Fuck me, Dave. What does the other bloke look like?' I said.
His laugh became a cough, but he got it under control quite quickly. Like he'd had a lot of practice. 'Don't make me laugh, Bob.'
Bob. Nobody gets called by their real name in the services, not by their peers, anyway. My last name is Wailer. They used to call me "Bob Marley And The" at first, but it was too long. So they shortened it to Bob Marley and then Bob.

'Have you got long?' "Dave" asked.
'Have you?'
'Don't make me laugh, I said.'  
He looked like he might cough again, but he got the mask up. "Mask in 9 and you'll be fine", I thought. As an RAF blue job, I'd practiced Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Drills once a year at most. Funny what we remember.
'What happened? Smoking? Drinking?'
'Fucking asbestos.'
'At least you won't burn to death.'
He gave a wry wink. Then he was quiet for a while, mask clamped to his face. I waited, I had plenty of time, or at least more than "Dave" Dee. After ten minutes he removed the mask, he was smiling. Some of the old spark was there, even though it was faint.
'Right, you need MY help with something? I hope it's not bailing you out with some night-club bouncers this time.'
I did the laughing for both of us.
'The SAS guys, when you were at Stirling Lines, did they ever mention having to have some old lunatic in a caravan out on the Beacons arrested. You'd have been there, I checked the dates.'
'You know them, Bob. Didn't speak to anyone outside the Regiment, not even in the Sgts' Mess.'
'What about the NAAFI canteen? The woman who cleaned your room. Anybody? Anything?'
'Wait, there was something. Exchange drinks in the O's Mess. The usual thing at Christmas. One of the officers was telling a tale, You know how they only did a tour with The Regiment. Captain Somebody. Had an unusual name.'
'Yossarian. I definitely thought he'd made that up.' I said.
'Maybe he did. Officers are weird.' That wasn't what – or who –  I'd meant, but I let it pass.
'Can you pass me the water?' he pointed to a pint glass on the bedside table. I could smell the liquid as I passed it to him. Surprisingly, the neat gin didn't set him off coughing.
'Gin? Are you trying to kill yourself?'
'I should fucking hope so. Anyway, this Captain Tosser, or whoever he was, was talking about some old guy in a caravan out on the TA. When he arrived the caravan had been blown to smithereens. The police wanted to make something of the explosion. The three SAS guys said it was probably a gas-bottle, although even he could see the caravan had been hooked up to an external genny and probably hadn't even had a gas-bottle fitted. The police took him away anyway.'
'Did Yossarian say what the name of the old guy was?'
'I definitely thought he'd made that one up, Bob. Allegedly, the old loon was called Prospero Vint.'
Well it wasn't proof, of course, it was only hearsay. But, still, it was something.
'Thanks.' I said. 'If there's anything I can do for you… '
He looked me in the eye and said, 'You wouldn't do it, and – anyway – I can't ask you… or anybody to do it.'
But I did. I put the bed down flat and I saw him on his way. He didn't look peaceful when I replaced the pillow under his head, afterwards, but he didn't look like he'd changed his mind either.