The Death That Wasn't

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The man had money. Serious money. Not millions. Billions. He cruised through that social crowd with ease, nodding to some, shaking hands with others. A relaxed and confident man, comfortable with his place in the room, as moneyed men are. I had never had money, nor had not having it ever worried me, but I did once have confidence, and I did once have pride.

I had become his opposite. An antonym to his casual ease. Uncertainty, caution and hesitation had become my calling cards. I stood with my back to the wall, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Not that anyone would want to look at me. I was too insignificant. A failure. There was not much for me to look forward to any more. Just horrendous guilt, and the demons that came at night, leaving me awash with sweat and fear. How could it be otherwise after that indelible day two years before had robbed me of everything? Dreams, assurance, and even my manhood. All gone. My cup wasn’t half empty. I no longer had a cup.

I didn’t eat or drink at these gatherings. It was not my place to do so. I was there because I was the servant of Bill Baxter, a nice enough man, whose wheelchair I pushed and who I helped into and out of the car that I drove. This was my first work since I had come out of therapy. And it was the therapist who encouraged me to apply, and probably did some hard talking behind the scenes. I thought that I was unemployable and had resigned myself to a lifetime on a disability pension, but this had changed for a while. It felt good to be appreciated, and Baxter told me that I was working well. That it was rare to find a driver without aggression and who drove in such a careful and cautionary manner.

With my eyes downcast, Baxter had difficulty catching my attention. He indicated that it was time to go. I enjoyed pushing and steering his chair, and at his direction, we threaded our way through the gathering, as he said his goodbyes. It took a while as he was well liked, and we made many stops. Even Mr Money Bags bent to Baxter’s level to say a few words and shake his hand. Those two usually talked at these gatherings, and Baxter had mentioned his wealth before.

He had compound breaks in both legs from a skiing accident. As long as he had to keep the weight off, I had a job. When he was back on his feet, I would be out of work, possibly in another five weeks. In the meantime, I drove him into the City, manoeuvred the chair and him to his office on the third floor, and generally waited around. I was good at waiting. I had had three months of practice. He needed me when he attended meetings. Or functions like this one. Or just to run errands. I was grateful as it gave me something to think about, easing the depression.

That night we went straight home. Once there, I helped him out of the car, into the chair and then his care nurse would take over. She provided food, did any other duties and settled him in bed. I had never set foot in the house, which was just fine with me. The less I saw of his life, the better.

I lived in a rented apartment to the south of the city. Nothing fancy, a one bedroom apartment with a cheapish rental. It came furnished. Everything was old and well used by previous tenants, but still functional. It had one large window that allowed in the light that brightened the apartment, and brightened my life a bit, as I enjoyed the view over the city. This was my very modest home, my refuge from the world.

I had a second hand Honda motorcycle, thanks to eBay, that I used getting to and from Baxter’s, and for little else. I watched TV in the evenings, putting off going to bed for as long as possible. It was not a place that I enjoyed. Some nights it was Denning, his torn face and his torn body. I would see him and he would be coming for me, wrathful and hideous. And I would awake, panting and scared. Or it was the hallucinations of flashing colours with illusionary animals dying and coming alive and repeatedly dying and coming alive in the dancing light. Perhaps I should have asked for the pills again. It might have been better if I had died that day. What I was going through now was not life. It was purgatory.

***

It took several weeks before I could be debriefed in hospital. When I fell and collided with the rock, it was more than a knock on the head. It was a smash that caused internal bleeding on the brain and swelling, and I was sedated for several weeks until the swelling eased and the blood clot dispersed. I was lucky. Although the sound and the air blast of the bomb left me with a slight hearing impairment and mild tinnitus, there were no serious after effects. During this time shrapnel pieces were removed from my legs, so when I eventually returned to consciousness, my physical body had healed. But my mind had not. I was badly traumatised, depressed and distressed, a classic case of PTSD - post traumatic stress disorder. But even in that state, I was acutely aware of what had taken place on the hill, and the image of the man I had deserted was haunting.

My return to reality was gradual as the sedatives were slowly withdrawn, and my semi-lucid spells were consumed with the panic of the inevitable court martial. I had abandoned a wounded soldier to his fate, and would pay heavily. There was a time when cowards faced a firing squad. Preferable, I thought, to facing the demons of my tortured memory, and infinitely better than having to face the man whom I had left to die. It would have been better if it was me who had died on the hill, and I welcomed the release that came when I slipped back into a drugged sleep.

As I improved, the questions began. My first non medical visitor was the Captain of the platoon to which I had been assigned. He was a professional soldier, having been in the force most of his life. He had two children, a boy and a girl, and he had often expressed his hope that they should enlist, when old enough. He was an army man, with army children and an army wife. They followed him as his postings took him around the country, and waited anxiously when sent overseas. It must have been tough on them, but he expected no less. Just as he had dedicated his life to the service of the country, so had they dedicated theirs in their own way. He was good with his men, and respected for his firm, yet sound decisions. He always made time to enquire about their comforts, their progress and those who were left at home. I was told that he had checked on me a few times while still under sedation.

When I awoke from an after lunch sleep he was standing next to my bed, chatting to one of the doctors.

“Hey soldier. Welcome back. How are they treating you here?” He always sounded confident and in control.

I tried to sound positive, but inwardly I was terrified and my stomach churned, waiting to hear my fate. “Thank you, Sir. I am making progress, though still a bit woozy from the drugs. They tell me it will take another few days for that to wear off.”

He nodded. “There is quite a lot that I need from you, and I suppose that there is much that you would like to know from my side, so let me start.”

He drew up a chair, sitting alongside the bed, and related the details. “An American Predator UAV was passing overhead. It was an armed reconnaissance drone that had fired its missiles at a Taliban convoy, and was on its way back for rearming and refuelling. As you know, they are usually under a form of remote control from the main Drone Base, where all images and other intelligence sucked up by the drone is continually monitored. But as its mission was over, it had been set on an autonomous flight path and the imagery was not being monitored live. Timing could not have been better. It passed overhead a few minutes after the bomb exploded on the edge of the camera field of vision. The explosion was clearly visible as were the two wounded men, and then the drone moved on. If it had been monitored live, the UAV would have been turned back to record further, but being unmonitored, it continued along its flight path. It was almost 15 minutes later that someone replayed the imagery and noticed what had happened 5,000 metres below. This was sent to our Base which controlled the area, and that is when we dispatched a chopper with a combat crew of eight men, while trying to contact you on radio. We also sent a medivac crew. You were spotted from the air, lying a short distance from the surveillance position. The medivac helicopter had been able to land nearby, and because of your severe state, you were immediately airlifted back to hospital.” No mention of Denning.

I was aware that if the overhead drone had been around for a few minutes longer, it would have recorded me fleeing the scene, and I thanked my lucky stars. My body was damp from perspiration as I related everything as it happened.

I described how we had set up the post, I told about the old man, who was obviously more than he had seemed. How he had disappeared. The smoke. The distant thump. How Denning had caught the main blast and was instantly killed (forgive me). How I was concerned about a follow up bomb, and tried to get as far away as fast as possible. I hoped that I sounded convincing.

“He was definitely dead?” The Captain’s concern was evident.

“Yes, Sir. His face was unrecognisable and his chest and torso had been torn open. He was bleeding extensively. His guts were exposed. It was only a few minutes before I got to him, but he had no pulse. He wasn’t breathing and there was nothing that I could do for him. That is why I left.”

Had he died? Or was he recovering somewhere in the hospital and I was being set-up by the Captain? Leaving a wounded mate was inexcusable!

The Captain watched me carefully. The tinnitus hissed as I tried to focus on his questions. He nodded slightly. “Why didn’t you radio for assistance?”

I had been expecting this, and took a deep breath. “I couldn’t find the radio, Sir. I had just wanted to get away in case of a follow up bomb. If there wasn’t one, I planned to come back and have a better look.”

I think he believed me, though he had more questions about Denning. “Are you certain that he had been killed? Describe his injuries again.”

And so it went on, questions about whether we had seen anything else during the surveillance and whether we could have been spotted. And again back to Denning and his injuries. I was fast becoming exhausted, taking longer to answer and struggling to find words. He saw that I was tiring, and smiled. “You are tired. You handled yourself well. Corporal Denning would have been proud of you.”

I felt drained. Too tired to think clearly. I was asleep within minutes.

I didn’t see the Captain again for two days. This time he was accompanied by an assistant, with a recording device that was placed on the table next to my bed. He explained that every incident of this nature was a serious incident and he might need to cover some of the same ground again as he needed my answers on record. It all sounded a bit official to me, but then, that was the way the army was.

He stated who he was, who I was and the date and time of the interview.

Once again, I described the events leading up to the blast; finding Corporal Denning dead, and my fleeing to safety.

“Let’s talk some more about Corporal Denning.” He leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed upon me. I had difficulty meeting his gaze. “Would you confirm that he was dead and that is why you left the post?”

I wondered if he noticed a slight hesitation before I confirmed this. “Yes Sir, as he was dead, and as I expected a follow up bomb, I left the post. I was moving as fast as I could through the shrub when I tripped and hit my head.”

My demeanour was not very confident as I was beginning to panic. Perhaps the effect of the low dose drugs that I was still taking would explain this to him.

He handed me some photos that he withdrew from a file of documents, together with a black felt-tipped pen.

“These are of the surveillance post. I would like you to draw Corporal Denning’s body in the position where he had fallen.”

My hand shook as I marked an outline on the photo of where I remembered he had fallen.

He examined the photos for a bit. “You checked on Corporal Denning and you have confirmed that he had died as a result of the mortar bomb.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“When you left the post, Corporal Denning’s body was in the position that you have indicated on these photos?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He continued “The rescue chopper arrived at the post less than 30 minutes after the bomb landed, which was approximately when Corporal Denning died. Within minutes after the blast you examined the Corporal and confirmed that he was dead. You then left the post as you feared a possible further mortar attack?”

I was beginning to feel ill. I swallowed. “Yes, Sir.”

The Captain’s voice had become steely and threatening. “So can you explain that when our team arrived Corporal Denning’s body was not there?”

My stomach heaved. My ears buzzed. I felt the blood drain from my face, and I had difficulty refraining from retching. So he still lived!

“Not there?” I stammered, “where was he?” My bowels turned to water as I waited for the answer. And he made me wait. I felt my hands starting to shake. I just had to know. “Sir, is he alive?”

“How could he be alive?” The Captain fired back at me. “You have told me that he was dead!”

“Where is he, Sir?” My voice had become squeaky. I didn’t want to hear the answer.

The Captain’s voice softened a bit. “We don’t know. We have been unable to find him, or his body.”

My breathing had become shallow and fast. “Could the Taliban have taken him?” A stupid question to ask.

He shot back at me. “He would have been no use to them if he was dead.” And then “He was dead, wasn’t he?”

I managed to get out an unconvincing “Yes, Sir, he was.”

He went on, though at this stage I was hardly listening.

“You were found first, and our immediate thought was that Corporal Denning had also feared a follow-up bomb and had left the surveillance post. Remember, you were unconscious, so we had to make our own assessment. We had expected that you both would have left together, but then why had Denning have deserted you after you fell? He would never do that. No soldier would ever leave his companion. We found the radio. It was unusable, as was one of the rifles. The other appeared little damaged and still fired. Why was it left behind? The other possibility was that he had been captured by the Taliban, though they prefer to shoot captives, rather than take them prisoner. Remember, at this stage we had assumed that like you, he was alive. And if the Taliban had been around, why would they have left a very usable weapon at the surveillance post. Why did you leave it? Why did Denning? It was also unlikely that in the short window before the chopper arrived, the Taliban would have been able, or even bothered, to approach the post. Because of the terrain a vehicle would have been useless. And there were no tracks. As far as we know, Corporal Denning is MIA, Missing in action. Presumed dead.”

He continued. “We combed the area and called in additional men. Every house in the village was checked. The only thing that we found was the impression in the ground where the mortar had been fired. We called in another drone, but our search had to be called off when a sandstorm blew in. After that had passed, the search became more difficult, as any tracks that Denning might have left would have been obliterated. Now we know that he was in fact dead, and his disappearance becomes even more mystifying. We are questioning local tribesmen and will continue searching until he is found. The army does not give up.”

I laid my head back against the pillows and closed my eyes. Where was Denning? That night he found me. Dragging his intestines he walked towards me. And again, I fled from him.

My recovery hit a wall, and heavy depression descended. I was moved to an annexe to the hospital, a pleasant area where wounded soldiers recuperated. Some were being taught to use prosthetic limbs, to walk again, and like me, some were there for PTSD treatment. I was urged to talk about the incident, to discuss my fears and receive intensive counselling. I am not sure that any of this did much good. But then, I never could talk about what really happened.

A few months later everything came to a head again at an official hearing in a military court. There was still no news about Denning, and this time, worryingly, I had been provided with legal representation. The format was similar to the previous questioning that I had endured, with considerable emphasis placed upon Denning’s disappearance. I could sense the suspicion surrounding that aspect of my story. And then, to make matters worse, the Signals division further implicated me by reporting that my call to advise our position coordinates had been on an open channel. The radio had a number of channels, all secure bar one, that is used to listen for enemy chatter on an uncoded frequency. Somehow, during our night march to the surveillance post the switch must have flipped from secure to open, and not noticed by me. When I notified Base of our coordinates, I was also notifying anyone else who was listening on that frequency. So not only had I fled the scene, leaving Denning to an uncertain fate, but I was responsible for everything that happened as well. After consideration, it was decided that I should be given the option to resign from the force. I took it.

The Captain’s version of events confirmed that Corporal Denning had not died on the hill that day. My version of events confirmed that he did.

In killing him off, I had created a monster!