Yuletide War Journal Day 1
Left base of operations at 1300 hours, rough action plan scrawled on notepaper, coded and disguised to be inscrutable to the enemy.
Warm. Middle of winter, but warm. My heavy coat became hotter and thicker - stench like animal carcass. Remote reconnaissance produced no results; had to get into fray.
Arrived at the borders around 1315 hours. Jesus, it's changed.
Debris piled like shameful ruins - insulting and frightening panicky conquistadors. No order, no staff, everything devalued, Dresden fire sale.
Flicked through objects, taking none of it in - heavy coat breathing, a creeping shroud, laughing symbiote, children everywhere screaming, laughing, crying, wide-eyed parents scrabbling, loading armfuls of loot, contents unimportant, 30% off.
Didn't stop. Down into the bowels of the building, plastic dull blinding shine, nothing of worth, nothing of substance.
Ran into comrade, initially blocking his voice with the music siphoned into ears from happier past.
Made small talk - harrowed looks, mutual pity, mutual suspicion. Arranged a meeting that would never come. As far as I know, he's already dead.
Made it out with a couple of trinkets. 30% off. I was the only thing cheapened by the experience.
Staggered through streets past the mourning and the jubilant dead.
Dragged unbidden towards looming warehouse, confused civilians pawing at laminated inventory books. Numbers, words, cryptic codes, Enigma oblivion, machines in the place of men, everyone united in their degradation. Another shipment.
Off to usual place. Used to be comfort, now mocking. No funds left, labels presenting figures beyond my comprehension.
Finally, deal is done. I leave. My head held just high enough to breath the hanging fumes of cumulative tradition and decomposing flesh.
And the bells... the bells.
Last transport out of town, jostled, sweat trickling over shoulders, shrill arguments behind me, blocked out by the sweet music, hypodermic salvation piercing eardrums.
The jacket, the bags, the sweat, the bells, the memories, the golden promise of forgetfulness.
But no. A missing artefact. Checked pockets three times over. Nowhere. Nowhere.
Where did I see it last?
The rotting gutters? The shanty town at the borders? The mechanical ghost-house?
No. The usual place. Failure grasped from the jaws of victory.
A communication confirms the missing man. He's waiting for me. Must give identification. Can't be giving him up to any Tom or Harry.
I must return tomorrow. My coat lies on the floor, charcoal, syrup, piled rotting vegetation, laughing. I will wear it again, stagger into swarms, weep into glittering open arms, low ceilings festooned with oozing joy.
The battlefield again.
And the bells.
Warm. Middle of winter, but warm. My heavy coat became hotter and thicker - stench like animal carcass. Remote reconnaissance produced no results; had to get into fray.
Arrived at the borders around 1315 hours. Jesus, it's changed.
Debris piled like shameful ruins - insulting and frightening panicky conquistadors. No order, no staff, everything devalued, Dresden fire sale.
Flicked through objects, taking none of it in - heavy coat breathing, a creeping shroud, laughing symbiote, children everywhere screaming, laughing, crying, wide-eyed parents scrabbling, loading armfuls of loot, contents unimportant, 30% off.
Didn't stop. Down into the bowels of the building, plastic dull blinding shine, nothing of worth, nothing of substance.
Ran into comrade, initially blocking his voice with the music siphoned into ears from happier past.
Made small talk - harrowed looks, mutual pity, mutual suspicion. Arranged a meeting that would never come. As far as I know, he's already dead.
Made it out with a couple of trinkets. 30% off. I was the only thing cheapened by the experience.
Staggered through streets past the mourning and the jubilant dead.
Dragged unbidden towards looming warehouse, confused civilians pawing at laminated inventory books. Numbers, words, cryptic codes, Enigma oblivion, machines in the place of men, everyone united in their degradation. Another shipment.
Off to usual place. Used to be comfort, now mocking. No funds left, labels presenting figures beyond my comprehension.
Finally, deal is done. I leave. My head held just high enough to breath the hanging fumes of cumulative tradition and decomposing flesh.
And the bells... the bells.
Last transport out of town, jostled, sweat trickling over shoulders, shrill arguments behind me, blocked out by the sweet music, hypodermic salvation piercing eardrums.
The jacket, the bags, the sweat, the bells, the memories, the golden promise of forgetfulness.
But no. A missing artefact. Checked pockets three times over. Nowhere. Nowhere.
Where did I see it last?
The rotting gutters? The shanty town at the borders? The mechanical ghost-house?
No. The usual place. Failure grasped from the jaws of victory.
A communication confirms the missing man. He's waiting for me. Must give identification. Can't be giving him up to any Tom or Harry.
I must return tomorrow. My coat lies on the floor, charcoal, syrup, piled rotting vegetation, laughing. I will wear it again, stagger into swarms, weep into glittering open arms, low ceilings festooned with oozing joy.
The battlefield again.
And the bells.
This is why I'm using Amazon this year, it's like having a nice desk job and avoiding the front line. I'm the Captain Darling to your BlackAdder or something.
ReplyDeleteThat's right. Except my dangerous position could easily have been avoided if I'd have thought ahead.
ReplyDeleteI wish I'd gone with the online plan. It's better to carpet bomb the Middle East, rather than sending footsoldiers into no-man's land.
Hmm. I think this analogy has gone wrong somehow.