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Flesh and Blood Some of them were going to be dead by the morning. I could sense their calmness when they spoke to me, humbled by their first violent engagement. The Company had been here for a day and their time was short. Some had already made their peace; kneeling with the padre ready to find some closure before the battle. I swear that if I could, I’d hide them all to keep them safe, but I knew that wouldn’t help the situation much.
I’d been in Port Stanley when the Argentinans came. Their big black trucks thundered up the main road, soldiers were pulling all the key people out of buildings and questioning them. I thought they were going to shoot everyone at first. It didn’t help when we found out that one of their top brass was originally British anyway. I mean the cheek of it. How could you do it, to your own country folk? It’s just not right. They tried issuing us with pesos to spend as the new currency, this went down like a lead balloon. Rumour had it Maggie was sending help. We decided to sit tight and wait out the storm.
James my only son had wanted to join the Defence Force for as long as I can remember. His dad would have been proud of him had he been around. At first James simply said, "Mum. It’s time I left to fight the Argies." What could I say? That was just so typical of a boy to say such things. I didn’t say anything I just burst into tears. I told him not to be so stupid. A ten year old boy couldn’t fight, not at his age. He was fascinated by the Army and had often gone into town with me on weekends to see the soldiers based there. We only went there on odd weekends: the roads were bad and the Land Rover had problems.
It had only been a few days ago when I got that knock at four in the morning. I had a funny feeling it would be our boys, they’d taken Goose Green and the helicopters were flying everywhere. When the Company came in they looked haggard. You could see in their eyes that something wasn’t right. They were troubled with that nagging, tormenting demon replaying the nightmare.
My kitchen had been turned into a hostel where these shambling men would fill their metal tins with soup. I let one of the guys kill several sheep the first day to make a mutton soup with potatoes, a kind of Irish Stew. The guys loved it, they’d been on chocolate bars and tinned army food. The men had foot complaints from the long march – they’d marched about 80 kilometres across marshy bog land. My back yard had been big enough for a couple of sections to pitch their ponchos. The attic had become the HQ.
They brought this guy in who’d lost his foot to a mine. The medics flopped him onto the dining room table, where we have our breakfast. He looked like the next dish; all bloodied and black. I found his foot in a plastic bag in the sink. That was the first and last casualty they brought to our dining table. I said they could use the living room by all means as a medic station, but leave me my kitchen. I don’t think I ate much that day.
One poor soul always had a smile for me. I think his name was Derek. He always had a joke and poked fun at James.
"You got a man then?" He asked while I brought an axe down on some wood.
"I might. Why d’you ask? Interested?" I thought that a bit silly of me, but I think he knew I was teasing.
"Nah. Saw your young ‘un. Nice kid. Wants to join the Army don’t he?"
"He’ll be a sheep shearer like his father," I forced a grin.
"He’ll make a fine soldier. Do you proud he will!"
"Whatever he’ll be, he’ll make me proud anyway." He pulled out a photograph and rubbed at it with his thumb. I frowned at it, that couldn’t be him! He pointed to himself. I pretended not to notice.
"Sharon, me and Jennifer. Jennifer’s gonna be a star one day." Derek’s face changed ever so slightly. It was Derek the Decorator, or Derek the Bank Clerk but not Derek the Para.
Some would show me photos of their loved ones and name them, there were too many to remember. They were always laughing. That must have been their way of dealing with it – the killing I mean.
I barred the men from using the toilets. The smell was unbearable. Captain Kelly made them dig toilets out in the back yard to my relief. I think I felt guilty at doing that. I mean they were here to liberate us from the bloody Argies weren’t they? But, enough’s enough. When there’s a queue of them waiting and it’s past the front door with that winter chill coming in, it’s not good for James. The smell was goddamn awful and you got a whiff of it in the kitchen.
When I found out they were to take the mountain I felt like crying then and there. The mountain was occupied and I knew some would be killed. I can see them now smoking away and chatting trying to forget the inevitable, trying to enjoy the moment without those feelings they must have.
"Miss." It was Derek. He looked uncomfortable, like he was going to ask me out. He paused, put his hand in a smock pocket and pulled out an envelope. Surely it’s not I thought. "I’ll come and get this back off you in the morning."
I took the envelope. It was addressed to his wife and daughter in England and I can remember not saying a word. He looked at me, "If I don’t come back, post it for me will you?"
Sixteen more soldiers gave me envelopes. I wondered why they never gave them to the Padre. They were queuing up, a line of sniffling beggars waiting for their soup. I used to work in a kitchen in London before I met my late husband, that’s how I remember the homeless. I suppose these were homeless and though they looked distraught at times I could sense anticipation when they were together.
They weren’t livestock, they were family men, fathers, husbands and sons: and soon to be forgotten about when this is over. Each man here touched the hearts of at least a handful of people back home. When they go, the pain must be excruciating. There’d be remembrance parades and ‘we shall remember’, but in the end some will be forgotten, either in their graves or on the streets as most of them will end up. A lot of people in the soup kitchens were ex-services, who couldn’t adjust to normal life.
I turned and held onto the sink, tears dripping onto unwashed dishes. James had brought a bucket of water and I held him, the rattle of battle in the background. I squeezed him and thanked God he was only ten.
"The RAP’s on a forward slope.." I looked up to see the padre, identifiable by the crosses on both collars of his battle smock, "RAP...Regimental Aid Post. We’ll be slightly exposed to the Argies. You best hang onto the letters for me now. I’ll be back down to collect them in the morning – hopefully I’ll be giving them all back. You can get the kettle on when we get back, eh?"
His blurred image faded from my kitchen and I wiped my eyes. He did come back, but didn’t give all the envelopes back to their original owners.
The sounds of battle drummed into the night: artillery, aircraft and machine gun fire. Orange light flashed through the windows, shadows danced on the wall and I held onto James until he slept. I don’t think I slept, James drifted off during a lull of noise and I was thankful for whatever had caused it.
In the morning my usual routine was to make coffee and porridge for James. I had carried on as normal as if the Paras hadn’t come at all. James came in wide eyed, though I could see surprise there was a mild sadness in his voice. "Mum. Come and see." He dashed off out into the back yard hopping over the bungee cord of an abandoned poncho. I could hear it rattling away, but I couldn’t help but stare into the backyard.
A couple of soldiers were carrying long bags into the garden some folding in the middle, they then lay the stretcher down and rolled the bags onto the garden next to the others.
How naïve can you get? I mean I thought they were carrying soil into the garden. I just wasn’t thinking straight. Why would stretcher bearers be carrying bags of dirt? Then the smell had me gagging; burnt flesh and the coppery scent of blood.
"Miss ahm sorry. We’re gonna have to leave them here until the choppers arrive to pick them up." A Corporal said to me outside. He wouldn’t look at me, he just stared at my little boy. He smiled at James, eyes glistening and turned away hobbling to a wall. He took off his helmet, then sat, lit a cigarette and cried.
I noticed Derek, he had come loose from the bag and was resting on the arm of an Argentinean like a long lost friend, or maybe lovers. An obscene group of bodies, unashamed and equal in their flesh were unceremoniously dumped. Couldn’t they have segregated the dead men? Other bags had ripped from the journey down the mountain. I could see a Bandsman heaving, stooped over by the corner of the house, his mate patting his back. I look back now and realise that in the end they were the same, Argentinean and British alike. All flesh and blood.
Derek was one of many and I still get letters from his wife. I wrote to her after the war, I thought it right I told her about his last two days. How he made James laugh. How, in his death he made me understand what we were.
© C Douglas 2009
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