A breach of the peace

Breach of the peace.

"Come on now, you can do it. Keep going¦.

¦Christ I hated those words; so easily uttered by the gifted and the good.
Never spoken without a spoonful of smugness, whether intentional or not, and
always said just at the point when you actually can't do it. When you've tried as hard as you can and it's all proved just too much. I'd vowed many times never to say those words to anybody no matter what.

The truth was that I was struggling. I was laden down with a heavy backpack, a rifle and a radio. My feet were soaked and painful and constantly getting stuck in the thick, energy sapping, icy cold mud. I dreaded seeing what they would look like when, or if, I ever took my boots off.

As I looked up I was struck by how beautifully clear the sky appeared directly above us and it would have seemed like just another normal day if it hadn't been for the hell being unleashed beneath it and I was in the middle of it all. I looked for the others and saw them all trudging on. Only the troop sergeant, a huge beast of a man called Foster, was paying any attention to me whatsoever.
"For fucks sake son, this isn't playtime, this is the real thing now get a fucking grip and get your arse moving now!
At least he was being more honest now. Not trying to encourage me gently but using brutal language in an attempt to bully me into moving.

It didn't make any difference. How could it? Wincing with pain I pulled my foot from yet another mud filled pothole. I had been yomping the best part of seven miles through this crap. I hadn't been trained for this, I had joined up to become a tradesman and that is what I was ' an office sitting, soldering iron wielding radio technician not a front line foot soldier. Today I had seen many seriously injured and dying soldiers along the way. I had seen two who would not be going home at all. We had had low flying jets strafing us with gunfire and bombing us constantly. The sound of incoming jets would make me freeze in terror. Ahead lay an Army of thousands. The Engineers had cleared the way of mines but had warned that there would be the odd stray one and we had all witnessed one our lads stepping on one and losing half of his left leg. I am ashamed to admit that I was so tired and exhausted I actually envied him because for him it was over, he would be home soon. The most terrifying thing of all though was the sound of their artillery shells as they fell from the air. The long high pitched whistle followed by huge ground shaking explosions. Nothing could prepare you for that, nothing at all.
I didn't need bullying along. I was totally exhausted, mentally and physically and this was as far as I was going.

"I am fucking trying! I shouted back, but immediately regretted it as I felt even more drained, if that were possible. How could anybody be expected to continue like this? I didn't care anymore. I didn't care what happened to me, or to him or to any of the others. He could hit me, scream at me, do whatever he wanted.
I wasn't moving. I wasn't scared of him or the shells or the mines or the jets anymore. I was finished so I just sat down.

I thought of lighting a fag but I didn't have the strength to take one from my pocket. I saw Foster moving toward me, I thought he would be fuming, ready to beat the crap out of me but the look on his face wasn't one of anger, he looked scared. That shook me, what could make him scared?

Then I heard that voice. I knew it couldn't be true, but I heard it just the same. It was my Dad's voice. My Dad who had been dead for over a year was talking to me. I noticed that everything had gone calm too; there was no noise, no explosions, and no cold! Dad was repeating over and over the last thing he had said to me before he died
"Just do your best son; we're all proud of you.
It had bothered me when he had said it; so much expectation on me, the potential guilt and shame of letting others down.

I saw Foster's face close to mine, so close I could smell the stale smoke on his breath and I wanted that fag again.

I was warm now. I was lovely and warm, especially around my head. I couldn't understand it, one minute I was freezing, with temperature below freezing and a strong wind, then next minute I'm all cosy and relaxed. I still wanted that fag though and soon forgot about anything else.

I must, somehow, have fallen asleep because I half woke up and realised I was inside a building but I had no idea where or how I got there. I was totally confused and disoriented but my thoughts still wandered and I soon found myself wanting that smoke. I seemed to be in a different place each time I half awoke. As I drifted off I started to recall..

I had never been a great soldier. I had found the training too hard; I had passed but only marginally and was ridiculed by the senior staff about my lack of fitness. The only positive part of the experience was that I had made many good friends and had enjoyed the social life. I had only just finished technical training when I was told to pack up and head south as I was being sent to war. I went out the night before we sailed and got pissed, ending up in a prison cell overnight and being charged with causing 'a breach of the peace'. I don't think the irony of that even occurred to them.

¦.the pain surged through me and I woke screaming. It felt like somebody had set my face on fire but I couldn't move my hands to put the fire out. There was something odd about my hands and even in the agony I was suffering I thought that my hands felt numb, almost as if they weren't there. I began to panic and tried desperately to get up but couldn't. I screamed for help but knew that I hadn't uttered a sound. Then I did something I never thought I would do. I prayed. I prayed to a God I knew didn't exist. Prayed that I should be saved, I promised to be good. I even promised to go to church if God would save me from the pain. Needless to say nothing changed and if anything the agony increased. If God had answered he had told me to fuck off. Then just as the pain became unbearable everything went blank. The pain stopped and I was aware of nothing else. Perhaps God had intervened after all, I thought, as I drifted.

Suddenly I was awake again and this time it wasn't pain but noise! So loud, as if somebody was drilling inside my head. 'Please stop please, please stop¦'

¦.Waking again I waited for the pain and the noise to return but neither did. I found myself staring straight up at a white ceiling. It did occur to me that I might be dead but then I caught movement and I turned my head a little to see what it was. To my horror I found that I was in Hospital, covered in wires and tubes, with machines next to me making strange noises and showing erratic green lines on the screens. I tried to move but couldn't, I realised that I couldn't feel anything below my waist and my arms felt like lead. I wanted to go back to sleep then, to escape this nightmare and return to the peace of unconsciousness but there was no escape. As I lay there I noticed that somebody had entered the room, I waited for them to come over and speak to me. I was trying to say something to them but I couldn't hear myself so I raised my voice and as loudly as I could I shouted for help. A distraught and haggard face came into view. It was my mum and I could tell that she was talking but I couldn't hear her. She was talking and crying at the same time then a nurse moved her away and she too started to talk to me and I could tell she was asking questions but they would find no answer from me that day. They soon found a way to communicate with me, they began writing to me on a wipe board and I would have to nod if I understood. This made all communication very basic but they did manage to tell me that I had been very lucky. Apparently a shell had exploded only a few feet from me and a piece of shrapnel had lodged itself inside my brain. They told me that I would have died if Sergeant Foster hadn't carried me over a mile to the nearest medical station and that in addition to the brain injury another tiny piece of shrapnel had entered my throat and destroyed my vocal chords. They added that I had been paralysed from the waist down but that I might, with great effort and following several more surgeries, walk again.

I was able to ask questions using a letter chart but I asked very few. I never asked about the war, why would I? I saw on the news that 'Foster' had been awarded the Victoria Cross posthumously for his part in taking out an enemy machine gun position.

It's two years later now and I am looking down at my bizarrely positioned feet. Holding onto the parallel bars, I have just taken my first proper step and my physiotherapist, Jan, is clapping her hands and cheering. She is grinning from ear to ear and I see what she is saying and it makes me smile too¦.

"Come on now; you can do it. Keep going¦.