Contact

The two men looked at each other.

 

The sun was hot. Even the air burned.

 

Moments before, they had startled each other. Neither man had been sure what to do next. In a
shared instant, they had locked onto each other’s eyes. Nick remembered the shoulder flash. The unfamiliar buff shades of the dirty tunic and the man’s dark skin. He’d been on the point of
shouting a warning to his mates when the blast came.

 

Now there was just silence and heat.

 

Nothing moved.

 

He was becoming aware of pain. The doorway from which he’d seen the other man emerge was
gone. The facade blown out and filling the narrow street. Dust was everywhere and a fire burned
furiously close by, oily black smoke billowing. Sooty particles fell from it.

 

“American?” the other man asked.

 

Nick only knew the voice was Middle Eastern – Arabic, maybe. That could be anywhere from
Turkey to Morocco or to Yemen in the south. Or maybe Iran or Afghanistan in the east. He couldn’t
distinguish.

 

“No.” He answered. “I’m British.”

 

He tried to gather himself. Breathing was an effort. Painful. His breath came in shudders. He
couldn’t get enough air. His skin was wet. He wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or blood. He
managed to turn himself slightly so that the sun wasn’t shining into his face. His mouth was dry.

 

He looked at the man again, seeing that one leg was at an odd angle from his torn trousers. The other trouser leg ended in bloodied shreds. His black hair was matted and shiny. Nick decided it must be blood. Blood was spreading down the front of the tunic. He wondered if he looked the same.

 

The man let out a cry.

 

Nick felt his own pain overwhelming him. He tried to move his legs. He couldn’t feel them. But
there was pain. He realised that the heat wasn’t only from the sun. His uniform had been ripped
and burned from him. His helmet and radio were gone.

 

The man called again.

 

“Allah!”

 

“I can’t help you.” Nick called out to him. “Do you speak English?”

 

The man was sobbing gently.

 

“Yes.” He replied. “I lived with an uncle in London for three years. I was studying. I’m an
engineer.”

 

There was another blast nearby. Then more shelling. A wave of explosions. It was a walking
barrage. The explosions were moving away from their immediate area. The next wave fell maybe half a kilometre away.

 

Nick felt the heat again. He ran his tongue around his mouth. His throat was so dry.

 

He heard the voice again. For a moment, he couldn’t place it.

 

“Hey!”

 

He tried to move his body around, but he didn’t have the strength.

 

“What?” He finally answered the voice.

 

“Ah. You’re not dead yet. I thought you’d left me to die here by myself.”

 

Nick remembered the scene moments before. An image came back of moving forward on foot
among the wrecked buildings.

 

“Ed?” he called.

 

“Ed!”

 

“Will?”

 

“Rob?”

 

“Rob! I’m down!”

 

“Your friends?” the man asked.

 

“I think they are all gone. In the explosion. They were behind you, near the truck.”

 

Tears stung Nick's eyes. He felt himself weeping, then sobbing. He couldn’t stop it.

 

“I’m sorry.” the man said.

 

“I am alone, too. I became separated. I was trying to find my way back. Now it looks like we’ll
die together.”

 

Nick ran one hand over his body. He couldn’t feel the other arm. His good hand reached as far as his right knee. He could feel a wound in his side. It was open and dirty with masonry dust. He
could feel that he was lying in blood.

 

“Help me. I’m wounded.” he called to the man.

 

“Me, too, my friend.” came the answer.

 

“I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself. We will have to hope that someone comes.”

 

A fresh volley of shells landed a few streets away.

 

Nick heard mortars, but they were distant, as was the small-arms fire. There was no one close by. Their patrol had been a reconnaissance one. It sounded like the unit itself had now come under heavy fire and was probably backing out of the suburb.

 

“What is your name?” the man asked.

 

Nick turned his head to look at him again. He saw that he’d managed to drag himself against a wall and was looking at Nick with watery eyes.

 

“What is your name?” he asked again.

 

“Nick.”

 

“Nicolas?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I am Rashid.”

 

“Please, Rashid, do you have any water?”

 

The man threw a canister. Nick felt it hit his side. The pain welled inside him. He groaned.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would reach it. There’s only a small amount. Finish it.”

 

Nick found the canister and eventually twisted the lid open. Some of the water spilled. He brought it to his lips. His hand was shaking violently, but he managed to swallow some of the water. The rest spilled down his chin. He laid the empty canister beside him.

 

He gathered himself to speak. Each breath was agonising. Sweat was pouring and his head spun.

 

“Thank you, Rashid.”

 

“It’s the least I could do, but that is the last. Where are you from, Nicolas?”

 

“The UK.” Nick responded with some effort.

 

“I know. You told me. Where in the UK?”

 

“Salford. Near Manchester.”

 

“I don’t know it. Is it in the north?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why are you here? Why did you come here to die, Nicolas?”

 

Nick thought of Ed and Will and Rob. He called them again. There was only the sound of mortar
and gunfire from somewhere that sounded very distant. He called again, but his voice barely
carried.

 

“Why did you come to this place?”

 

Nick’s head was pounding. He turned and looked at the man propped against the wall. His head
was sagging. He was looking at the ground and the twisted remains of his own leg.

 

“It’s my job. I don’t decide where I’m going.”

 

Rashid lifted his head.

 

“You came here for money?”

 

Nick felt it wasn’t worth the effort to reply. His breathing was shallow and laboured.

 

“So you are a mercenary?”

 

“No, Rashid. I’m serving my country.”

 

They listened as gunfire intensified in the distance.

 

“I am serving my people. And Allah. Against the great evil.”

 

Rashid looked at his legs and raised his arms in a hopeless gesture.

 

“Or I was. I have done all I can. I hope my family will forgive me for not coming home.”

 

Nick listened for the sound of a vehicle or shouts of familiar voices. He willed them to emerge into the street.

 

“Nicolas?”

 

Nick fought the powerful urge to sleep.

 

“What?”

 

“Ah. You are still here. Good.”

 

Both men fell silent again. Nick may have lost consciousness. He was momentarily confused, but pain brought him back into the reality of the shattered suburb.

 

“Are you from here, Rashid?”

 

“No. I am from Tehran. I am a soldier, too. This is not my home, but these are our friends. I am
fighting with people like me.”

 

“We have friends here, too.”

 

“My enemy’s enemy.”

 

Nick felt a wave of nausea and fatigue.

 

“I’m doing my duty, Rashid. I’m a serving soldier. I took the oath and that’s why I’m here.”

 

He rested his head back on the rubble beneath him.

 

The sound of jet engines cut across the ruined skyline. Two aircraft. Two large explosions
followed: two, maybe three kilometres distant. The shelling stopped.

 

“American or Israeli.” Rashid observed. “Maybe your friends will come to look for you now.”

 

Nick felt sleep overtake him again.

 

The other man looked up from the pool of blood that had extended into the dirt around him.

 

“Nicolas?”

 

“Nicolas!”

 

“Are you still alive?”

 

“Don’t leave me to die on my own.”