Ghost of War
by Quintin Snell
part 1
Lance Corporal Shaun McCarthy woke up, needing to take a piss. He glanced at the clock on the barracks wall as he stumbled past the rows of sleeping men, rubbing his eyes: 02:30. Why do I always wake up at this time?
His buddies were all asleep in their steel beds. Some snored, some mumbled, some thrashed in the throes of some unspeakable nightmare. He walked quietly, not wanting to wake them. His insomnia was his problem, not theirs.
The urinal was in the washroom at the other end of the room. He passed the dorm’s double door and paused to look at the South African Armoured Corps logo; a Mark V tank surrounded by a wreath, on a background of orange, white and blue.
He did his business, then pulled the chain. The mechanism gave a ‘clunk’ and water cascaded. The acrid stink of cheap deo-blocks burned his nose. He wondered if it wasn’t actually worse than the smell of urine. The mechanism gave another ‘clunk’. The water stopped flowing and gurgled down the drain.
His head was still fuzzy so he splashed cold water on his face. He vaguely remembered a party last night. Perhaps that was why he felt so disjointed. Those beers hit me hard! I’m out of practice. No worries, I demob soon; so, as a civvie, I can drink as much as I like. From experience, he knew it was pointless to try go back to sleep. He looked back into the dorm, where everyone was still fast asleep. Not tired anyway. I may as well take a walk.
He pushed down the bar on the door to open it and stepped outside. The door swung shut behind him. A thin mist, frigid and clammy, swirled around his feet. He looked to the east, where he could already see the first hint of the early false dawn. When the sun rose, that mist would vanish, leaving the air crisp and clean.
With no destination in mind, he turned left along the path leading past the dorms and the mess hall, ending at the parade ground. He heard a clanging noise, someone banging on a vark pan: the compartmented stainless steel tray they ate off, literally translated as “Pig pan.” Moments later, a pair of yapping Jack Russell terriers hurtled around a corner. When they reached him, they skidded to a halt and stared at him for a moment, then they resumed their sprint to the galley and their breakfast.
He ambled past the parade ground, which was lined on one side by weeping willow trees and, on the other, by old tanks and armoured cars. He grinned, remembering the uncountable hours he had spent on that square of gravel, doing P.T. and learning to drill. All that was in the past; a few more days and he would be on his way home, yellow discharge certificate in hand.
He let his feet take him where they wanted and soon found himself outside the unit’s museum. He looked at the tanks parked on the grass, like sentinels guarding the entrance. On the left was a WWI Renault FT, so small it was kind of cute. To the right was an old Comet, which pre-dated the Olifant that the South African Defence Force (SADF) now used, which was the tank he had trained in and operated in Angola. The Comet was his favourite, for some reason he felt drawn to it. He stared at it for a few minutes then turned around and headed back to the barracks.
* * *
02:30 every day, like bloody clockwork. He went to the toilet, splashed his face and stepped outside, knowing that his sleep was over. With nothing better to do, he ambled around the base, a light mist shrouding the ground. He heard the clattering of a kitchen utensil on steel. He grinned and counted three seconds. Right on schedule, the excited yapping started and the dogs burst around the corner. When they reached him, he scratched them behind their ears. “Jeez, you guys grow like weeds. It seemed like yesterday you were just puppies.”
Like every morning, he ended up at the vintage tank. I wonder what condition the inside is in?
He took a look around him, to make sure nobody on watch was nearby to see him. At this hour, it was unlikely. More likely the roving sentry for this area was in the guard room, making a cup of coffee. The museum was shut, until eight a.m., but climbing on displays wasn’t exactly encouraged at any hour. He clambered up and sat on the turret. He looked at the closed hatch, longing to open it and climb inside but lost his nerve and jumped back down, disturbing the frigid mist which rippled over his bare feet like icy water. Heading back to the dorm, hugging himself, he looked down at his shorts and tee shirt, wondering why he hadn’t grabbed a jacket and shoes.
Since he had come back from the border, he was never busy; the brass most likely had nothing for them to do during their last days as national servicemen. Later that day, once the museum was open, he visited it. Before deployment, he had often gone to see the exhibits. He paused to look at the Comet, then walked through the open door. He wondered if the Colonel would be back today. He had been away for ages, months, it seemed. Before deployment to the border, he had forged a sort of friendship with the retired soldier. The old curator had been with the unit since WWII and loved to share old war stories. Shaun loved to listen.
He walked past the displays; photos, books, newspaper clippings. One wall showed the evolution of the Olifant, from the Centurion to the mark 1A with its 105mm gun, and the brand new mark 1B, with its state of the art ablative armour, which he had only actually seen once.
He walked to the curator’s office. The door was closed, and one detail had changed since his last visit. The brass plaque now read, “Curator: Miss Marelize Smit.”
He heard someone humming a sweet melody. He followed the sound into the next room. The humming was coming from a young woman, Miss Smit, he assumed. He thought she was was lovely. The light bathing her, streaming in from the window, seemed to make her glow. Her hair, brown and cut in a bob, caught the light perfectly, the highlights looking like honey. She had a cute slightly upturned nose, smattered with light freckles.
She smiled at some thought as she worked, dressing a manikin in the green tanker’s coverall. It wore the helmet liner with its earphones and microphone but held the actual helmet by its strap, as he had often done himself. It was her eyes though, that captivated him, glittering like tiger-eye gemstones.
He gave a gentle cough. “Hello.”
She gave a little jump. “Oh, hi. You startled me. I was so busy, I didn’t see you there,” she answered in Afrikaans.
It had taken him a while to get used to having a conversation in two languages. He had grown up in an English-speaking community. He had learned Afrikaans in school, of course, all kids did, but he had never actually had to use it until he got drafted. Then he had learned the difference between textbook and spoken language.
When he had reported at the train station, straight out of school, it had been complete chaos. Hundreds of young men, boys, really, being herded by armed soldiers onto the troop train that would take them to the training base. The first time a broom-moustached Sergeant Major with a yardstick under his arm had screamed at him, he had no idea how to respond.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She laughed and flicked her fringe out of her face. “Oh, I’m a civvie. You don’t have to call me Ma’am. It’s just Marelize. To him, her voice sounded like music, smooth and velvety.
Now he was at a loss for something to say. He settled for, “What happened to the Colonel?”
“Oh, he passed away some time ago. Did you know him?”
“We weren’t close, but ja, I knew him. He was nice, used to tell me all kinds of stories.”
“You’re lucky. I never met him. So much history. The things he must have seen. At least you got to hear some of it.”
He followed that thread. “You like history?”
“Oh, ja. I love it. Not the really old stuff, you know, but the more recent history. Mostly, I like the personal stories. Kind of the stories behind the stories. Like the Colonel, for example. He lived a long time, he saw the First World War and served in the Second. But when did he join, where did he serve? Did he choose armour, or just go where he was sent? Was he married, have children? Grandchildren? I mean, he was only one man among thousands, each with their own story. I’m actually hoping to make a display featuring him.”
“Can’t you get that info from the archives?”
“I can, and have, but that is all cold, factual, not a personal account. Boring, really.”
“Wow. I never thought of it like that.” In a flash of inspiration, he said, “Hey, I can tell you his stories, if you like.”
Her smile was wide and radiant. “Oh, would you? Really? I would so appreciate that. Let me finish this display, and we can go fetch my notebook.
She squeezed some camouflage paint from a green tube and smeared it on the manikin’s face.
“We don’t use ‘black is beautiful’ in the armoured corps.”
“No? I thought all you troepies used camo.”
“There’s no point to it, in a tank. But if you smudge it all over his face and hands, that will work. After an op, we are almost black from all the dust, diesel and cordite smoke.”
“See. You’ve helped me already.” Smiling, she lead him to her office. He wondered if there was ever a time that she didn’t look happy.
They sat on a couch and chatted, her adding anecdotes and personal details to the bland official records on the previous curator as Shaun spoke. He didn’t even notice the time passing until she offered him a sandwich.
“Thanks, but I’m not actually hungry.”
“Do you mind if I eat?”
“No, of course not.”
They kept talking, the conversation flowing easily, and by the time it started getting late, they had discussed much more than stories about the Colonel.
She looked at a clock on her desk. “Oh! How the time has flown. It’s been lovely talking with you, Shaun, but I was supposed to close up half an hour ago.”
He promised to come see her every day, if he could, so they could carry on with their project. It didn’t take long before he really looked forward to seeing her on those daily visits. Pretty soon, they were sitting close enough that their legs were touching, their hands accidentally brushing, lingering longer than an accidental touch should last.
One day, they gave up the pretence, held hands and kissed. He felt on top of the world, her lips were pure luxury, soft and warm. As he held her, he could feel the heat radiating off her supple body.
She, however, shivered. “Shaun, you’re like a block of ice. Wear a jersey or something. You’re going to catch your death of a cold!” She gave him a scarf, which she wrapped around his neck. That evening, he fairly floated back to the dorm, heart soaring at this new, unexpected romance.
* * *
The ubiquitous mist swirled. He patted the dog slowly waddling past him, on its way to breakfast. “Hi, boy. Where’s your friend?” He scratched his head. “You got old real fast, buddy. You obviously weren’t as young as I thought.”
He stood, looking at the Comet. Today. He climbed onto the turret as he had done before. He heaved at the protesting hatch wheel, and eventually felt the latches disengage inside. He pulled at the hatch until the tendons stood out on his neck. It wouldn’t budge. Damn. Welded shut. Oh well, that settles that, doesn’t it?
* * *
He mooched around until Marelize arrived and opened the museum. She had already picked his brain over the past few weeks, and they were pinning photos and info posters onto a board. Finally, the Colonel’s life was on display, the regiment’s last surviving WWII veteran, a legend in his time. Very soon, the display became a favourite, even being featured in the local newspaper. Considering the success, Marelize decided to do something similar. A background feature on some of the currently serving members, starting with her own boyfriend, Lance Corporal Shaun McCarthy.
Since she had taken over as museum curator, she had convinced the unit’s finance department to invest in the new ADSL Internet line, so much faster than dial-up. As unit historian, she had limited admin privileges and used her office computer to look him up on unrestricted personnel files.
She clicked on ‘active personnel’ and typed in his name. She got the message ‘no match’. She sighed. I expected as much. The system is new, maybe it hasn’t been updated properly. She broadened her net, asking for a general search. After a few more attempts, she found the match. The file for Lance Corporal McCarthy. As she read, she saw a glaring error.
According to the file, twenty-year old Corporal McCarthy had served in the eighties. He had sent to fight in Angola and returned when the war ended. He had disappeared only days before his discharge date. He had been declared AWOL then missing, discharged in absentia. At that point, his case had become a civil missing person matter. His parents and the authorities had searched for him, eventually declaring him missing, presumed deceased. The case had been closed.
“That’s some coincidence. But there’s no way that could be my Shaun. He isn’t missing, and he absolutely isn’t in his forties.”
She dug further, going into the paper archives. She couldn’t find anything. “I am definitely going to speak to someone about this. Patchy archives, sure. But to lose the file for a serving member is inexcusable.”
She decided to research the other Shaun McCarthy. She shuffled through the old eighties folders, sneezing at the dust. Finally, she found a course photo. F squadron, 1986. Sixty smiling young men, in their green coveralls and black berets, shiny new School of Armour badge on their black berets. And sure as day, there was her Shaun, sitting in the front row.
“How is this possible?” Suddenly the museum seemed colder than usual.
She carried on sifting through yellowed documents and old photos. She discovered an old signal, the military name for a memo, authorising an uitklaar (discharge) party for F squadron. Also in the box were some photos of joyous, inebriated young men. Shaun was in some of them, exactly as she knew him: black shorts, brown tee shirt and bare feet.
She emptied the box and sat cross-legged, shuffling papers around. Eventually a story emerged. After their tour of duty, they had returned home, and celebrated their homecoming and imminent release from service. The next morning, Shaun was gone. His bed was made, his locker pristine. As was his rifle, stripped and cleaned, laid out on his bed, ready for morning inspection. None of his belongings were missing.
She also learned that early that same morning, the military police had been alerted to possible gunfire. A single shot, at approximately 02:30. They had conducted an investigation. All weapons and ammunition had been accounted for, all soldiers’ firearms inspected and found to be clean, free of residue. For a while, they suspected foul play in the disappearance of corporal McCarthy, but questioning had turned up nothing. There was no body, no blood, no sign of anything amiss. With no evidence that the bang had been nothing more than a backfiring car, the case was closed.
Marelize liked to think she had an open mind, but what her evidence was telling her was impossible. She had knowledge that the MP’s didn’t have while carrying out their investigation. A soldier with the same face and name, always wearing shorts and tee shirt visited her every day. All day. No soldier had that amount of free time. How had she not even thought of that? He never ate, and he was always so very cold. “Oh, my poor Shaun! Did you die that night?” Then the realisation hit her. “My boyfriend is a ghost!” She wondered if she should feel afraid or disgusted. But all she felt was sorrow and pity.
Copyright © 2023 by Quintin Snell
