staring at me with eyes as
hard and lethal as rifle-barrels, and him saying to me, ‘Are you well, Winter?’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Quite all right, Commandant.’ I was standing at attention in front of him and suddenly this scenario, and his exaggerated concern, seemed ridiculous. I had to stifle an urge to
giggle.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘This place is for men, not girls. You’re not a girl, Winter.’
‘No, Commandant.’ The giggle was almost at the level of my mouth now; I pressed my lips together to hold it in.
Suddenly he seemed to fix me in his mind. ‘You’re the one who can’t play rugby,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, Commandant. I mean, no, Commandant.’ But this damning truth was very sad to me, and killed the laughter instantly. Now I wanted to cry.
He stared at me for a long time in silence. I became lucidly aware of small details and sounds, everything around me heightened to the point of being painful. Then he seemed to resolve something
in his mind and took a step closer to me. Almost whispering, he said, ‘You’re all right, you say.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
‘Good, good. Because they need some help at the choppers over there. Loading up some bodies. And I think you’re just the man to do it.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can do that.’
But I knew already that I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t the man for the job. Amongst the heavy body bags, stacked up like so many groceries next to the helicopters, was the body of
Lappies, my friend. It didn’t help that I didn’t know, couldn’t see, which one was him; in some way they had all become him. So I stood in the sun, my hands slipping on the
plastic, heaving the weight up and in, over and over, knowing that I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do this, even while I was busy doing it. Some vital part of myself was used up in the
effort required simply to perform the mechanical actions and by the time I walked away afterwards, past the watching commandant, I had reached empty inside.
‘Good, Winter, good.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
I stood in the shade of a thorn tree and watched the helicopters start up. The heavy rotors, which seemed so immobile, bent over as if heavily weighted, started churning and lashing, till they
were blurring around in dust and screaming wind, and then the improbable metal bodies underneath them lifted up and floated. They disappeared over the fence, over the trees, their noise and fury
becoming a tiny point of sound, which then blipped out into silence. Gone.
I kept going for a while after that. How many days exactly, what happened in those days, I don’t know. There was the same intermittent, patchy feel to my memory, in which certain random
moments are clear. I remember walking at least one patrol, feeling absurdly calm. The whispering bush, seething with air, was only part of my mind. I had that same crazy desire to laugh when I saw
the tension of the other men around me, fingers clenched tightly on the triggers of their rifles.
By contrast, everyday things could fill me with terror. I could lie on my bed, reading a book, and feel the world disassemble into separate and threatening parts. In an instant everything was
odd: the blankets, the pillows, the pages. I couldn’t fit these things together, I couldn’t make them work. It was a universe and world to which I did not belong: I wanted to run from
it, bawling into the bush; but I stayed, hunched over, the palms of my hands jammed into my eyes.
Somebody called the commandant again. He was in front of me, standing next to my bed, looking down at me. When I saw him I tried to stand up, but he held up a hand. ‘Don’t move,
Winter. Let me look at you.’
I didn’t stir or speak. He seemed inordinately huge, and his shadow behind him, cast upwards against the canvas, seemed huger again. After a long time he said:
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘No, Commandant.’
‘Don’t fuck with
hard and lethal as rifle-barrels, and him saying to me, ‘Are you well, Winter?’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Quite all right, Commandant.’ I was standing at attention in front of him and suddenly this scenario, and his exaggerated concern, seemed ridiculous. I had to stifle an urge to
giggle.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘This place is for men, not girls. You’re not a girl, Winter.’
‘No, Commandant.’ The giggle was almost at the level of my mouth now; I pressed my lips together to hold it in.
Suddenly he seemed to fix me in his mind. ‘You’re the one who can’t play rugby,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, Commandant. I mean, no, Commandant.’ But this damning truth was very sad to me, and killed the laughter instantly. Now I wanted to cry.
He stared at me for a long time in silence. I became lucidly aware of small details and sounds, everything around me heightened to the point of being painful. Then he seemed to resolve something
in his mind and took a step closer to me. Almost whispering, he said, ‘You’re all right, you say.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
‘Good, good. Because they need some help at the choppers over there. Loading up some bodies. And I think you’re just the man to do it.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can do that.’
But I knew already that I couldn’t do it, I wasn’t the man for the job. Amongst the heavy body bags, stacked up like so many groceries next to the helicopters, was the body of
Lappies, my friend. It didn’t help that I didn’t know, couldn’t see, which one was him; in some way they had all become him. So I stood in the sun, my hands slipping on the
plastic, heaving the weight up and in, over and over, knowing that I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do this, even while I was busy doing it. Some vital part of myself was used up in the
effort required simply to perform the mechanical actions and by the time I walked away afterwards, past the watching commandant, I had reached empty inside.
‘Good, Winter, good.’
‘Yes, Commandant.’
I stood in the shade of a thorn tree and watched the helicopters start up. The heavy rotors, which seemed so immobile, bent over as if heavily weighted, started churning and lashing, till they
were blurring around in dust and screaming wind, and then the improbable metal bodies underneath them lifted up and floated. They disappeared over the fence, over the trees, their noise and fury
becoming a tiny point of sound, which then blipped out into silence. Gone.
I kept going for a while after that. How many days exactly, what happened in those days, I don’t know. There was the same intermittent, patchy feel to my memory, in which certain random
moments are clear. I remember walking at least one patrol, feeling absurdly calm. The whispering bush, seething with air, was only part of my mind. I had that same crazy desire to laugh when I saw
the tension of the other men around me, fingers clenched tightly on the triggers of their rifles.
By contrast, everyday things could fill me with terror. I could lie on my bed, reading a book, and feel the world disassemble into separate and threatening parts. In an instant everything was
odd: the blankets, the pillows, the pages. I couldn’t fit these things together, I couldn’t make them work. It was a universe and world to which I did not belong: I wanted to run from
it, bawling into the bush; but I stayed, hunched over, the palms of my hands jammed into my eyes.
Somebody called the commandant again. He was in front of me, standing next to my bed, looking down at me. When I saw him I tried to stand up, but he held up a hand. ‘Don’t move,
Winter. Let me look at you.’
I didn’t stir or speak. He seemed inordinately huge, and his shadow behind him, cast upwards against the canvas, seemed huger again. After a long time he said:
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘No, Commandant.’
‘Don’t fuck with
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