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Collateral Damage by Damien Raymond Patton

Colonel Welles stood at the crumbling window frame, arms folded neatly behind his back, with his beret squirming from the clasp of one of his paw-like hands. It was an extremely hot day. The town, half a mile away, smouldered in the distance; the sandy greys of the bombarded houses and walls baked on the sizzling desert pan. The Sun was high in the shimmering blue sky; so high, in fact, that the tall, if slightly plump, figure of Colonel Welles was forced to bow to see it, and feel it hit his deeply wrinkled and sprinkled old brow. He peeped at it with a frown of his bushy eyebrows, blaming it for the heat of battles past and imminent. He turned swiftly on his heels to inspect the state of Lieutenant Conrad, smoking joylessly and sitting with crossed legs at the filthy, ragged and blood-stained table. He was a stone sculpture of the unhappy, intelligent army officer. The sudden, powerful shine of the sun's rays on the Colonel's battalion of medals disrupted Conrad's introspective stare out the door (the air conditioner). His youth seemed to boil under the heat; natural impetuosity led him to unreservedly put up his hand to block the reflected rays and, consequently, the Colonel's face, powered by the harnessed force of a peevish grumble. "No need to salute, Lieutenant, I have not left the room since you last performed the action." Colonel Welles advised with polite impersonality. His most amiable face accompanied the good-hearted reprimand, but was still blurred by an insatiable halo to young Conrad. "Right, sir", agreed Conrad in a dispassionate voice, humouring the old man, and stubbed out his cigarette with his unemployed left hand. A short time passed. "How can you smoke at all, Conrad? It's as hot as Hell here," the Colonel grumbled with an air of naïve perplexity, which demeaned his stature. He strode immaculately to the door, uninterested in a reply. Conrad had no intention of replying. "Collateral Damage." This statement came from the older Lieutenant in the occupied kitchen. Lt. John Dick sat upright in the corner, facing a protruding segment of the dusty wall and the back of Conrad's handsome head. It cast him in shadow, or, at least, less light, which would have been considered a most brooding position in the desert. His palms lay flat on his knees; his uniform was in near perfect condition; his eyes did not move; dared not disturb the blank expression covering his face. Conrad and Welles looked at him. "Of course; you're right John. War is Hell", Welles said, with earth-shattering clarity, nodding to himself, as if in front of the world's population (A thought incessantly pleasant to him). Conrad lit another cigarette. As he tilted back his neck to blow out smoke, silence remained, aside from the buzzing of flies and wasps over the dispersed food on the table and the toppled bins. Conrad watched the silent explosion erupt into the silent, dead air. "How are the troops, Conrad?" Welles asked, returning with comfort to his grave command voice. He moved back to the window, keeping his face slightly to the side in anticipation of a curt reply. "Edgy, sir",answered Conrad, resting his clean-shaven chin against the fog-filled plain of his upper wrist. He continued to look at nothing, through everything. "Collateral Damage", stated Dick, in the same toneless voice. Welles looked at him once more. "Of course, John, you're absolutely correct - of course the men would be edgy after all the misfires, and such." he admitted solemnly, fiddling with his hat again, "But we have to take this b**** town, you know." He turned again to the two men, neither of whom looked back at him. "Collateral Damage." "Yes, John, I know. Forever the moralist, you, eh." he laughed with sad eyes and a mirthless smile out the window, where it must have died instantly on the poisonous orange ground. "I tell you, John, if I could take this b**** town with the loss of maybe nine or ten men, I would, by G** I would", Welles' layered neck convulsed over his tight collar, observed from Conrad's position, but the latter took no notice. "Collateral Damage." "No, John, casualties - but you're right again, you philosopher you! It's all the same, isn't it?" The whole room seemed to shudder as the two officers started violently. Conrad leaped out of his chair to get his gun, carelessly thrown down next to the kitchen sink, like car keys; Welles merely looked aghast at the middle-aged Iraqi man peering in through the opposite window, before finally puffing up his jaded cheeks and composing himself with his cane. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. I have a proposition to make to you; if you'll be as kind as to-", the Iraqi officer motioned with his hand to come outside. A smile itched on the corners of his mouth, tickling the ends of his moustache. He even dared to show some of his pearly-white teeth as Conrad clumsily took up his slippery gun, muttering profanities as he did so. Dick hadn't stirred. Feeling, correctly, that the disruption and shake-up caused by his sudden interruption had drowned out his perfectly articulated proposal, he briefly restated it by another hand gesture motioning to come outside, followed by a peaceable smile to the shaking Conrad, who stood beside the proud and confused Welles, pointing his gun unsteadily at the Iraqi officer. Welles and Conrad walked out the door as the man left the window. Dick stated, as a farewell, "Collateral Damage." "Take your pick: nine men, my forces will surrender, and you can take the town," the Iraqi officer instructed, standing beside the bewildered Welles and Conrad, and in front of the lined men of the Coalition ninth brigade. His smile had been thoroughly scratched and had now disappeared. Welles let out a deep sigh, mainly through his misshapen nose. "Alright men, any volunteers? I know this is-" "Me, sir," one infantryman stepped forward, in tandem with about twenty other men, all declaring the same thing, and in the same dutiful voice. No one infantryman looked to his side. Welles beamed with pride, after having lifted his head in pleasant surprise, and placed his beret back on his combed, thinning hair. "Alphabetical order", he announced to the men, though looking with satisfaction at the dumbstruck Iraqi officer. Conrad lit a cigarette, squinting as a gust of wind swept sand up from the makeshift parade ground, and watched the frantic march for position. Dick stayed absolutely silent within the house.

© 2004 Damien Raymond Patton

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