Short one-shot on the importance of decompression, just because I was thinking about it the other day.
Somewhere around the seventh or eighth bottle of Corona it occurred to Corporal Kinders that he was going to have something of a headache tomorrow. Fair enough, they were only small bottles and yes, he'd had a big meal courtesy of the hotel they were holed up in, but the tray of Jagerbombs that was making its way unsteadily toward him in the hands of Dangleberries spelled hangover with a capital 'h'.
The sun was starting to dip down into the horizon, setting fire to the sea in a blaze of burnt hues. On the beach, the Under Fives were drunk and hyper. Roaring, the men chased Mansfield around the volleyball nets with a bottle of Nivea Factor 50 suncream, flinging handfuls of grainy sand at the red-haired private in order to turn him in to some kind of beach monster.
Kinders leant his muscled forearms on his knees, taking a long sip of beer. An outsider looking at his platoon at this moment in time would think them unprofessional- loutish, even. And they were right, in a way.
However, Joe Public hadn't spent the last three months living every single day at the edge of their physical and mental limits. The end could come in so many ways out there in the mountains: a cleverly placed IED, an AA soldier with a grudge, a lucky Taliban kid with a gun... there were a thousand ways to die and only one way to live- and even that was dictated to them by the British Army.
The chaos that was thundering around the volleyball nets was the reason decompression was so important. Every time they left Afghan there was a sense of relief, and you couldn't unleash that relief on the friends and family waiting at home because they wouldn't understand. Relief to civvies was hugs and quiet nights in and never mentioning the fact that some people didn't come home- it wasn't fifteen jagerbombs, a fight and drawing male genitalia on some passed out squaddie's forehead with a Sharpie.
'Corp,' a slurry, cheerful voice said behind him. A jagerbomb was thrust over his left shoulder, held in a tanned, large hand. Dangleberries grinned at his superior officer and plonked himself unsteadily in the sand beside Kinders.
Kinders took the drink wordlessly and knocked it back, the sugary tang and swift burn of alcohol hitting the back of his throat keenly. 'Cheers,' he croaked, placing the empty glass back on the tray.
Dangleberries nudged his shoulder with friendly familiarity. 'You alright?' the Bury lad asked.
Kinders nodded, and then motioned with one hand out to the rest of the platoon who had pinned down the hapless Mansfield and were in the process of covering his entire head with sun screen. 'What're they like?' he asked. He sounded drunk even to himself, and he made an effort to draw himself up to iron out his inebriation.
Dangleberries shrugged. 'Okay?' he mumbled. 'Missin' the Boss.'
'And Smurf?' Kinders added, surprised.
'And Smurf,' Dangleberries said quickly. 'Just... well it was a bit jack what he did, weren't it?' The younger soldier looked almost imploringly at the Corporal, looking for reassurance that his confusion and anger at what had taken place on the checkpoint bridge was not misplaced.
Kinders said nothing. He couldn't disagree, but he would rather let an uncomfortable silence stretch than damn one of his own. 'I think,' he said after a time, 'The boys are thirsty.'
Dangleberries pushed himself up unsteadily. Kinders handed him the tray of drinks, taking another Jagerbomb as he did so.
'Officer privilege' he said with a wink. Dangleberries pulled a face, but smiled.
'And if the boys ask,' Kinders called after the Northerner, 'It wasn't anyone's fault, yeah?'
Dangleberries tried to salute and the tray of drinks wobbled alarmingly. Kinders watched him stagger down the beach, greeted enthusiastically by his brothers in arms who emptied the proffered drinks in seconds. They weren't a bad lot, but this tour had been rough- even by his standards.
Kinders drained his second Jagerbomb of the night and looked back toward the hotel. He could see Private Dawes' room, lights still on and illuminated against the darkness of the coming night. Briefly, he wondered if he'd been south of the mark when he'd said that Molly was upset about the Smurfoid. Her face- normally like an open book, had become smooth and unreadable- almost guarded. Surely not the Boss man? It was Kinders' third tour with Captain Charles James and what he didn't know about the man would fit on the back of a matchbox. Even so, the events on the bridge had rattled every man in the platoon- Smurf's meltdown, Badrai appearing, the firefight that followed... All of it was out of the blue and none of it made sense.
Kinders pushed the uncomfortable idea that he wasn't as well informed as he thought he was to the back of his mind and lifted the beer to his mouth. Empty.
Hauling himself to his feet, Corporal Kinders lifted his face to the cool night air, inhaled deeply and walked- unsteadily, to the bar.
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