Going Home

Richard could hear the distinct sharp snap as bullets went supersonic, breaking the sound barrier overhead, followed immediately by the dull report of the distant muzzle. He heard the muffled thumps as they struck the dirt-sand of Afghanistan, and was also aware of a savage yet infrequent crack as a rogue bullet hit stone. He even felt the sensation of a sudden thermal updraft of displaced air moving across his skin as the odd missile came too close. He had never felt so alive. Terrified, yet alive.

The shallow ditch was getting claustrophobic, and as more shell fragments chewed up the dirt-sand, splintering it across his fingers, the ditch seemed to be closing in on him. He hated the Taliban and he fucking hated that Afghan dirt-sand. ‘Give me London Clay any day of the fucking week,’ he thought to himself as he returned fire.

Richard’s stomach was in knots, but then the roar of conflict faded, and in a small corner of his mind he realised he was in a kind of peaceful sanctuary. His whole psyche was undisturbed, and everything was fluid graceful motion. He reloaded with breathtaking speed, took aim, discharged his weapon, snapped to a new target, aimed, fired. He felt fearlessly serene.

And it was just then that he became aware of someone else in the trench with him. Someone vaguely familiar in a serene and composed sort of way. The person was looking at him with kindness and ….. joy!

‘Richard,’ he heard, ‘That’s enough. You’re home. You can stop now. Your life has been dramatic, I know. That was always the plan. Born under a bad sign. But you’re home now. Come with me. We’ll go play your guitar, and you can rest ……’

And as the sounds of battle faded, Richard viewed it all from above, comforted that it was over and he was going home.