The Blue Bottle: Part Three

Mark heard the soldiers yelling, screaming out, and then another smatter of fierce machine gunfire. He froze to the ground; please God, don’t let this be happening. The other soldiers lay at the roadside, not moving, so whatever motivated Mark to move from under the truck is something only God has any control over. He scrambles and crawls, taking cover in shell-shattered sand-built homes; their occupants were long gone. Mark hollers…

“Mathew, Simon… answer me, lift an arm if you can hear me.”

There is no movement. The men are dead. It isn’t enough. Mark has to know, he has to know for sure and he makes a dash to the next building, sparking another splash of fire that whistles all around him… until impact. He fell into a space, a bullet in his chest clouding and filling his lungs, tears in his eyes, and anger in his heart. Mark will never make it to them. But he’ll die trying and pulls himself forward, the dust matting his blond hair, tears filling his blue ocean eyes, his young life ebbing. All he knows is that if he is going to die, he too will die with his mates. Just yesterday, the three of them were having a beer together, talking about home. In a week, they were going home. Mark wipes blood from his mouth, feeling like it might choke him.

Without warning, a medic drops down beside him. “Hold this to your chest,” the guy yells. Mark grabs whatever it is and pushes it against the bullet’s entry point.

“What’s your name soldier?” The medic asks, keeping his AK47 toward the direction of fire.

“Mark, sir. Mark Reynolds.”

“Okay, Mark. They call me Frank. Those poor guys must be your mates, right?”

“Yes sir, if you can help me get to them I’ll be the most grateful bastard in the world.” The medic rests his hand on Mark’s head, sweat running like a river from the lad’s brow.

“They’re in a good place, Mark.”

“No… no… they get to go home, sir. I promised. I promised them, we’re going home lads. We’re going to Paris, Rome; we’re going to be free men.”

Mark turns painfully onto his belly, gritting his teeth, clawing at the dust, pulling, aching, hurting, dying there in the sands of a land he’d never heard of three years before.

“Mark… listen to me, I’m the only one you can be free with now. You can’t stay here anymore, don’t listen to anything but your heart.” Then the medic collects Mark up into his arms and over his shoulder and runs with him.

“Leave me; leave me with my friends, sir. I beg you!” But darkness is approaching, and life is rolling out like a calm wind.

When he opens his eyes, he is in a medical facility, a nurse cooling him with a sponge and water.

“There you are! You’ve been unconscious for two days, Mark. Try not to move too much,” she says, dabbing his brow.

But Mark is seeing it happen in his mind, his friends falling under fire, ripped open under a hail of machine gunfire. He heard their last breath, last sighs, shot to pieces quite literally. He swore, once this war was over, he’d never kill another person, no matter what the circumstances, seeing those boys, and wished he’d died instead. There is no law, no preparation, no telling what takes over when fear for one’s life is put on the line. They were dead, killed by men with boys’ faces, and his stomach felt the punch of the age-old question: why?

“Your friends were lucky,” the nurse says, lifting her eyes in the direction of beds close by. “Simon and Mathew have been telling me all about you. How you lifted them off the streets as though they were nothing more than feathered birds.”

Mark looks over in the direction of two young men, both bandaged, both smiling.

“Mathew… Simon… what the hell… I thought you… I thought…” And emotion overtakes him, and for a moment, he feels like he is sleepwalking, dreaming, needing to touch them.

“Hell, we ain’t missing out on our trip back home, Mark. You’re our fucking fairy god mother!”

“But… the medic… the guy who helped me…” His eyes return quizzically to the nurse.

“Easy, Mark, don’t stress. You need to rest. Here, keep this. It saved your life.” She folds a silver coin into his palm.

Rosie dries, dresses, and enters the kitchen. She will call on a girlfriend, make some light talk, hope to free her mind of what endlessly occupies it. Saturday is shopping day, and since the break-up of her marriage, this tradition has slipped. First, a pedicure. It is almost 9. A.M. But before that, there is another important matter, writing her weekly email to Mark, her twin brother. She will start by scolding him for not replying to her last email. It broke her heart when he told her that he had signed up to serve. He is just twenty years old, a boy, the same boy who pulled on her pigtails and put his arm around her at the end of the day. Though God knows why, she knew it was Mark’s calling. Even so, she felt he had no real idea about what he was getting into. He was due home on leave in a few days and couldn’t wait to see him, hug him, fuss over him, cook for him, and eat together. She pours the boiling water into the teapot and carries the tray to her desk, the bone china cup shivering in its saucer, and pulls up a chair up to the computer.

Dear Mark:

You have not responded to my last letter. I don’t know exactly why, but I can imagine. Your emails have been late before, just a day or two, but almost a week and no word? I daren’t let myself think anything other than you have been unable to find a way to communicate. The funny thing is I think I would know, I mean… well, you know what I mean. So I’m not going to worry, but if you don’t answer this email very smartly, I’ll start in on you, okay? Please write.

I’m a lot stronger now; I think moving into an apartment helped a lot; there are no memories here. It was a good suggestion, thank you. Been over a year now. I’ve also taken up art; you always said I was good at it, so why not. Even so, I feel I have a hopelessly mechanical approach to my subjects; perhaps it’s just a lack of confidence. It is good therapy. There were questions in your last email that were hard to answer. I understand you have built up great friendships; heaven knows I’m glad. When you said: I would take a bullet for any of them, it frightened me, Mark. Please be careful. Please. Dear God, with mum and Dad gone, you’re all I’ve got left. I understand you love your pals; of course, I do, but I love you, Mark. I need you to come home. Do you hear me, Mark? I need you. Okay, I’ll stop whining.

Work is different, I haven’t got used to my new bosses, but I think it will work out. It’s easy enough to get to; the train goes almost to the door. It’s perfect. Oh, by the way… hmm… how will I say this? I met someone! Really! He’s decent, Mark. He’s different, too. Not anything like someone you’d expect me to fancy. I can’t wait to tell you about him, but I also don’t know when I’ll see him again.

Anyway, you respond to this immediately, okay. Make my weekend complete.

Love you

Rosie

She hit the send key and pours a cup of tea, then phones a couple of friends and arranges lunch.