Bodybag

Bodybag

Joe sees the dusty faces emerging from the cave but it's too late. His
pupils contract at the muzzle flash and he hears the AK47s barking in
the crisp mountain air - perversely after the rounds puncture his body.
One final irony.

He stumbles under the weight of his pack, collapsing backwards so he's
staring up into the clear blue sky. He wonders who will have to carry
his pack back down the mountain. He remembers a story his father once
told him. About how, in Vietnam, they used to bayonet the tins of food
they didn't use and couldn't carry, just so the VC wouldn't get any use
out of it.

There's no harp music, no epiphany, no expurgated version of his life
flashing before his eyes - yet Joe knows he's dying. He sees vultures
floating before his eyes, skating past the sun, and realises he's
hallucinating. Thinking of broad, brown plains of home. Thinking about
the day he watched the vultures circling the dying calf, its mother
standing guard, trying to delay the inevitable. Trying to stop time. He
remembers crying into his father's lap. It's just God's way, son.

The memory stirs something in Joe's heart, and he feels the first stab
of pain. Around him the battle rages, but it's as though someone has
stuffed cotton wool in his ears. He blinks a long blink, and when he
opens his eyes again he's vaguely aware of someone calling his name,
yelling to be heard above the crack of automatic weapons. A face
encroaches on his patch of blue. A skull working away under a thin
layer of muscle and skin. Mort, the medic.

Joe feels the dull thud of an exploding mortar round pulsing through
his body - Mort looks up and is gone. Someone is screaming and Joe
thinks of the mosque the air force hit in Kandahar - peppered with
holes as big as a fist, as small as a grain of sand. How many angels
can dance on the head of a pin?

Our father...

Joe's looking at a cluster bomb being wheeled up into the back of a
B-52. He knows he was never there but his mind is confused, it's
interpreting a story. Through the dusky gloom he can read the message
scrawled on the side by one of the munitions boys: For those who stole
our dreams, here's some nightmares. This one's gonna shine like a
diamond in a goat's ass.

...who art in heaven...

Joe's walking across the airstrip at Bagram Airport, smiling at the
sun. Some of the men found some goat skulls out by the perimeter fence.
Now they've got them up on sticks, and are using them for target
practice. Joe wins four packs of cigarettes.

...hallowed be thy name...

Joe is sweating through the once-clean sheets in a hotel in Istanbul,
staring through the shutters with wide, tearful eyes. He's six years
old, disoriented by the long bus ride the day before, and the long
plane ride the day before that. He's frightened by the wailing voice
drifting in with the breeze through the shutters. His mother comes in
and holds him, telling him its okay. It's just the preacher, she says,
calling the faithful to prayer. It's nothing to be afraid of.

...thy kingdom come...

Joe opens his eyes. The world is silent. The sun is a dull orange orb
floating in a deep purple sky.

Joe closes his eyes. He is gone.

The end

(c) Gary Kemble 2002