Lance

July 2019

Boom! The shells explode overhead. 

Crouching behind the wrecked car, I shoot my hands to my ears. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been on tour; the barbaric nature of the enemy astounds me. They blow up or take down civilians indiscriminately. The experience has been harrowing over the years—I will never fully come to terms with the memories.

Waking abruptly. Again.

Sweat pours from my brow. Again. 

It was just a dream. Again.

Lying back on my bunk, I stare up at the cracked ceiling. The lines weave around the broken plaster, creating holes where sections have broken off and fallen onto my unsuspecting comrades fast asleep. The mattress is like concrete, the springs non-existent, and the sheets scratch my skin as I try to get comfortable. 

Sleep is limited when you’re sharing a dorm with so many others. Someone always coughs or farts disturbing your peace at all hours. Rows of metal bunk beds squeak and creak as people move around, trying to be silent but failing miserably. Now that the clock is ticking, I can’t wait to get home. 

Get home to my girls.

Baghdad in July is scorching. Today the mercury hit thirty-five degrees. We’re sitting around camp playing cards and talking complete nonsense. My comrades are always good company, but I’m relieved this tour is ending. 

I’m ready to go home. 

It has been tough, a lot tougher than the two tours before. Watching people get blown to bits was not something I expected when joining the British Army. Carrying women and children to safety after a suicide bomber had detonated his evil creation was a traumatic experience. The ones we got out were the lucky ones, and they weren’t all in one piece. As crazy as it sounds, signing up seemed the right thing to do. It’s what my father would have wanted. I never thought of the consequences. 

Dog is playing poker with some American troops. He’s winning, his stance relaxed. Sitting back on his deck chair, legs spread wide with a towel barely covering his crotch. Fucking exhibitionist. 

He holds the cards on his knee face down with a confident smile on his lips. It makes me want to punch him, and I’m his best friend. 

 “I’ve always wanted to be an American soldier,” he teases his competition. “At least I will be able to play dress-up at home. Now I’ve won the shirts off your backs.” 

A huge grin spreads across his face and he laughs loudly. The other three players at the table all lift their eyebrows in unison at the joke, but there’s no humour in them. He’s pissing them off. 

In a fight, Dog would never be able to take any of them, and no doubt my muscle would be needed. It wouldn’t be the first time, either.

The last time, in a bar in Derby, a few of us were having a drinking session before heading home from the barracks to our families in the morning. The place was jumping, people crammed in from wall to wall. Rows of different coloured bottles lined the shelves, and the menu was home to thousands of concoctions. Huge leather sofas were strewn around the warehouse-style room. At 8 p.m. the DJ started mixing the tunes, and the atmosphere rose with the music, strobe lights flying across our heads giving the whole place a mystic feel.

Dog had headed to the bathroom. He returned with a huge tattooed man in tow no less than six feet tall and the same width. He had Dog by the scruff of the neck as he deposited him at the table. 

“Tell your asshole mate to keep his hands off my woman,” the giant spat out, “prick tried to run his hand up her skirt. Next time I’ll fucking amputate it for him.” 

A smirk appeared across my friend's face. I knew the consequences of whatever he said would not be good. Stay quiet, you fucking idiot. My glare tried to tell him silently to keep his mouth shut.

“Aye buddy, but she was fucking gagging for it,” Dog jibed.

My stomach dropped as Dog’s small body was hurled across the room at warp speed, bouncing off the wooden floor. How he didn’t snap in half I will never know. Taking my cue, I tapped the giant on the shoulder and dealt him one square punch to the jaw. He might be big, but I was bigger. Fully six foot four and built like a tank, not many guys will take me on. The giant crumpled in a heap with blood streaming from his mouth. Beaten, he scurried off back to where he came from. 

All eight of us had then been escorted from the premises and told not to come back.

The Americans grumble angrily under their breaths after losing another hand. Dog’s chest puffs out another few inches. Clearly he’s enjoying the game. 

The bald man, I think his name is Jake, shouts to me, “How can you be friends with this asshole? You’re one of us, bro! He’s literally stealing the shirts off our back.” 

 “Raised in the U.S but born in Scotland. Sorry bro, I’m British,” I tell him.

Rolling his eyes, he turns back to my friend. “So, asshole! What’s with the name? Dog?” he taunts. “Your missus lead you around by the balls?” 

A wicked smile appears on Dog’s face. He loves telling stories about his name.

“No, no. There isn’t a Mrs Dog. Haven’t chosen the lucky bitch yet,” he says, “I’m just man’s best friend, that’s all.”

Shaking my head at his explanation, I return to my spot across from the game and wait for the battle to commence.