The Bugle Calls
Charles Fenton felt the tension building, heard the chopper in the distance, the faint echo of the bugle. It happened at the same time every year since ‘Nam. Each time he took himself off to his doctor for a supply of pills that would sedate him, allowing him to hold on to his self control until the worst had past.
This time his doctor was away and the locum was full of new jargon and new ideas.
“Forget pills,” she said. “They don’t allow you to confront your fears. Ride It out, face them and they’ll be gone forever.”
Her earnest young face and soothing words won him and he walked out of the room with nothing more than soft thoughts and good intentions in his mind. That lasted all of two days, until the chest screws tightened, the gut cramped and his head was ready to explode. The thud of chopper rotors blended with the bugle till they almost merged. There was no way he could beat the bastard by himself.
He rang the surgery but she was busy so he left a message asking for the ‘script for pills. Demanding.
“Tell the bitch I bloody need them!” he shouted.
She rang back and spoke softly, her voice caressing his mind, lulling the pain, quieting the noise. The chopper and attendant bugle faded. “Stick it out Charlie, I know you can do it.”
“I need the pills,” he’d begged, knowing what would happen when she’d gone.
“You don’t need them Charlie,” and he’d believed her once again.
One day was all it lasted, one day when he thought he might beat the bastard.
Then it was too late. The tiger was with him and there was no way he wanted to escape. It had him by the groin and he was going to let it roar. He wanted it, he needed it, the tension, the thrill, the guts and gore, the whole bloody lot. It was what he should have had all these years. Bugger the docs with their pills and sweet words.
Headaches blended one into the other so it was hard to tell when one finished and the other began. Noise pulsed, urging him to action. For days he hovered on the edge, knowing this wasn’t the time, not yet.
“Wait” the voice in his head kept telling him. “The bugle needs to call. Wait until the time is ripe.” Ripe like the bloated corpses in the jungle mud. Ripe like the stinking rotten Viet Cong. Ripe like the dead bodies of his mates as they lay putrid in the dripping tropical heat.
Wait. You’ll know when it’s time.
He locked himself in his house with a stash of Bourbon. He drank and slept for days without washing and ate a few bits of bread when the gut could take it.
The voice pulsed, a vacuum pump, sucking in and out, tightening with each pulsation, “Wait ... wait ... wait.”
Through the haze of alcohol and headache he sensed the chopper shift. Not leaving, just moving over, making way for the bugle now loud and clear. No more waiting. Time to go. Today was the day.
He pulled himself from his bed and staggered to the bathroom. The odour of stale urine and faeces hit him, but he ignored it. standing in front of the pan directing a stream of urine to join the unflushed mess. He fumbled for the cistern button and watched the force of water whirl the mess around the pan. There was still some left when the whirlpool subsided, but he shrugged and flipped down the lid.
Ignoring the fetid mess on the floor he sat on the closed pan and slowly unbuttoned his shirt and flung it on the floor. He half stood, pushed the unzipped jeans to the floor and pulled his feet out of them. He watched with uncaring interest as faeces forced their way between his toes like thick jungle mud.
“Crap, all crap,” he muttered and dragged himself into the shower. Thick jets of water blasted over him, steam frosted the sides of the shower recess. He stood in the world of water like he’d lain in a downpour in ‘Nam. His head pounded and the pain in his gut gripped like it had back then. He felt the bayonets of the Viet Cong as they poked and prodded to see if he was alive. He’d hurt so much from the sniper shots that had put him there that he was able to ignore their jabs. But when it was over and they’d gone and he’d managed to crawl into a hole and wait for help he knew the thing would live for him forever, the whole bloody awful thing called war.
The killing, the dying and the dead.
Twenty years he’d waited and now it was time.
He turned off the water and stepped from the cubicle shaking his head like a dog. Sidestepping the faeces this time he went into his bedroom. It stank too. Like the whore houses in Nui Dam. Stank of bodies and semen and booze and disease and death. The smell coccooned him in its harshness, reminded him, helped him focus on the need to drag a clean shirt and trousers from the cupboard and put them on. To choose a tie and put that on too. To comb his hair Into a semblance of neatness. To choose socks and shoes that complemented the clothes and to look in the mirror and see the man that faced him.
Traditional, normal man on the outside, the man people would see. A man ready on the inside, ready to take up where he’d left off. A man who knew it was time to wrest retribution from the world which had condemned him all those years ago. it was time to take revenge on the bastards who’d sent him there, the ones responsible for his dreams, his nightmares, his realities and his living dead.
His head was telling him now. “Get that smart dressed up bastard out there and do it. Do it well and do it thoroughly.”
He jerked a jacket from behind the door, put his hand in the right pocket and felt the reassuring cold steel of his gun. He slipped his other hand in his left pocket and fondled the two miniature grenades that nestled there. Small in size, large in ability. He smiled grimly at the thought that he had his army training to thank for his knowledge of weapons, and his skill at making the small arsenal in his pockets. There’d been no trouble sourcing the components.
“Move it!” the demon in his head commanded. “We’re wasting time. There’s work to be done.”
“It’s time.” he muttered in agreement, and pushed open his front door and stepped into the pre dawn dark. His head pounded in time with his footsteps. His gut ached with the rhythm. He turned right and stepped with military precision down the dimly lit street.
They were all there. Raydon, Cameron, Echope and more. Every year they came. He slipped into the crowd, blending well. Just another poor bastard dressed up for the day to remember the bad times and pretend they were good. Grey hair, lined faces, empty eyes. Shuffling feet. Muted greetings. Eyes meeting fleetingly, then falling away.
Even nodding to the bastards sent the chopper whirling. He kept his hands in his pockets. Fingers feeling. Cold hard steel. These were his friends.
The shouts, the orders. He clicked heels with the rest of them. But not much longer. It was all worked out.
They moved forward. Past trees with piss neat plaques telling the world about the poor bastards that didn’t come back. Not that time, nor the time before or the time before that. Go out there, kill and be killed or slink home a snivelling wreck. Can’t have kids because the orange got you, can’t have a marriage because the memories scream and won’t stay memories. Can’t keep a job because there are days when the world is red with blood and black with guts and flies.
If he’d lost a leg like that sod in front of him, he’d never have come back. Bastard next to him looked all of eighty instead of the forty he knew he was. Misery on legs or stumps, the lot of them. They’ve all got their problems whether they admit it or not. They’re all hiding something behind the blank expressions.
He’d sort the bastards that caused it all. He’d fix all that. He’d fix it for these guys and the ones that didn’t come back.
They moved forward. His fingers smoothed, felt for the safety catch, tensed and retreated.
“Not yet,” the voice said. Not yet.
They slowed. The old sods up front got older. Shakier. Frail. Put them out of their misery. Put them in the firing line. Stop their talk, their bragging of what they did.
Nearly there. Nearly time. Wait. He waited three days in a paddy field: twenty years for this. He was good at it, waiting.
They stopped up front. Shouts, calls, feet shuffling. Keep in the middle.
Now the speeches. The waffle. The crap.
His left hand brought out a grenade. He rolled it into his right hand. It felt good. It felt right. His thumb caressed the edges, sharp, like his senses, all systems wired to go.
He fingered the other grenade, edged it out of his pocket. It didn’t matter which one he threw first, he was good with both hands. Had to be out there. Didn’t have time to waste fumbling for a second one, needed them both ready.
There was a bugle. The real one this time. Then the silence.
He flexed his wrist, felt for the pin, lifted his hands to his face, ripped first one pin. then the other, and tossed, high and straight. Heard them land in the dawn quiet. Saw the blast before he heard it. Saw the pieces flying high. Blood, guts and bloody flowers.
Around him they ducked for cover. You don’t forget how to save your skin. He stood alone and proud, gun in hand.
That’d fix the bastards. Twenty years he’d put up with their puking words. Twenty years he’d wanted to slit the bastards’ throats. Better this way. More of them gone. He cocked the safety catch and pulled, rejoicing at the bullet driving right through the pain. Felt a numbness creeping over him.
They pounced on him as he fell.
“Bastard’s dead!” He heard the shout through a growing mist.
“Not till the bugle calls,” he thought.
Page(s) 173-175
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