The Odd Angry Shot by William Nagle

desk at the entrance to the hospital ward.
    â€˜Bed twenty-eight, left-hand side.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜You’re welcome.’
    Harry, Bung and I walk down the aisle that separates the rows of beds, our rubber-soled boots squeaking on the polished floor.
    â€˜Twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ counts Bung as we pass by the beds.
    A bandaged figure lies on the bed before us. The only visible part of the face is one very alert eye, blinking.
    Rogers slips his hand down to the note pad that lies beside his leg on the red-crossed sheet. We lean over the bed as he slowly begins to print the word BALLS.
    â€˜What’s he mean?’ asks Bung.
    Rogers taps the pen point into the pad face, then points the pen in the direction of his genital region. The plastic tubes lodged in his arms look for all the world like tree branches.
    â€˜He wants to know if he’s still got his balls,’ says Harry.
    â€˜Well, tell him,’ says Bung.
    Harry bends and lifts the sheet at the side of the bed and glances underneath.
    â€˜Yep, still there,’ he says, standing again.
    Harry nods at Rogers.
    â€˜You’ll have to go now, thanks,’ says the American nurse standing beside Harry.
    â€˜How is he?’ asks Bung.
    â€˜Pretty good, considering,’ she answers. ‘They’re going to make him as good as new again.’
    We walk down the white, brick-like path at the front of the hospital ward, past a sign that reads SURGICAL WARD—96 EVAC HOSP.
    â€˜Good as new, eh?’ says Harry adjusting his trousers.
    â€˜What’s a foot or two between friends?’
    â€˜Twenty-four inches,’ grins Bung shrugging his shoulders, ‘or something like that.’
    BUNG is seated on an ammunition case, his hands submerged in the muddy water that laps and splashes over the side of the fire bucket that serves as our wash trough. A pile of faded wet clothing consisting of camouflage suits, sweat rags and green handkerchiefs lies crumpled together on the small piece of plastic sheeting that serves as our laundry bag.
    â€˜Don’t know why I even bother,’ says Bung, his eyes fixed on the piece of wet green wool that hangs dead, fish-like, in his hands.
    â€˜Bother to do what?’ asks Harry, momentarily distracted from the ten-times-read letter he is holding.
    â€˜Wash these bloody things.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Well for a start,’ answers Bung, ‘the only reason we wash the bloody things is to get rid of the stink, and ten minutes after you put them on again, they smell just as fucking bad.’
    â€˜Sure it’s not you?’ asks Harry, folding the once-white sheets of paper and carefully putting them in his shirt pocket.
    â€˜If it’s me, then you’ve caught whatever it is too.’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Yeah, you smell like a shithouse in a heatwave.’
    â€˜Well there’s not much you can do about it, mate,’ says Harry, unscrewing the top of the bourbon bottle that stands beside him on the rotting sandbags.
    â€˜I wonder if we’ll stink when we get out of this place?’ says Bung, now standing and dusting the seat of his trousers.
    â€˜I’ve got no idea,’ answers Harry, taking the bottle from his lips and giving vent to a loud belch.
    â€˜I used to live in the country when I was young,’ continues Bung. ‘We had a nightman who’d been carting shit for twenty years and you could smell him twenty yards away even if the wind was blowing in the opposite direction.’
    â€˜How’s that?’ says Harry, the bottle now held between his legs.
    â€˜My father said it was because the stink had gone right into his body,’ replies Bung.
    â€˜I’ll be buggered. You mean a man could smell like we do for years to come, even when he’s out of this arsehole country?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ says Bung, still standing sentinel-like over the wet pile of washing.
    â€˜Shit! I