----------------------------------------
Private Lynch
----------------------------------------
“Where the hell is he? Blake! Get in here now! Where the hell is he?”
Colonel Boynes stormed down the narrow aisle, ducking as he passed under a protrusion of pipes and cables that hung from the low ceiling. Behind him, as though in the wake of his anger, chaos followed. Soldiers dropped from their bunks, stumbling awkwardly to attention, disoriented by the sudden harsh illumination and the tirade of furious shouts.
Colonel Boynes was a stocky figure with a weather-worn face, heavily lined. His dark eyes gleamed angrily from the shadows of his brow. He came to an abrupt halt as a serviceman fell down from his bunk, blocking his path as he stood hastily to attention. He saluted the colonel with comic nervousness.
Boynes appraised him for a moment, then peered over the man’s shoulder and into the shadows beyond. They were at the last bunk in the long barrack-room; Boynes made out the dark shape of a figure in the gloom.
“Colonel Boynes, you wanted to see me, sir?”
Boynes jumped at the sound of the voice; it was quiet and self-assured, close to his ear. He never seemed to hear the captain approach, he thought uneasily for a second, then dispelled it. He glared angrily at the serviceman who blocked his path, then turned around. All the soldiers in the cramped barracks quickly snapped back to attention.
“What the hell have you done this time, Blake?” hissed Boynes, still shaking with rage. The captain, a tall man with gaunt cheeks and piercing blue eyes pulled himself slowly to attention. He glanced over Boynes’ shoulder with a faint half-smile.
“Could the colonel elaborate, please, sir? I don’t understand the question.”
“You don’t understand the question?” he hissed, staring furiously into Blake’s eyes. “Lieutenant Millar! Stop hovering behind me like an ape and step aside before I throw you off this goddamn ship!” He turned around to see the serviceman still standing to attention, blocking the aisle. The lieutenant shot a brief glance towards Captain Blake, who returned a barely perceptible nod, then saluted Colonel Boynes and stepped back, squeezing into the narrow space between the bunks.
“You! Come out into the light!” snapped Boynes. The shadow detached itself from the darkness, and a towering man, stooping beneath a mass of pipes, stepped out into the aisle. He was dark-haired, with a thick beard and heavy features. His brow seemed moulded into a fearsome scowl; his harshness emphasised by a lumpen nose, broken at some point and badly set. He was dressed in American-issue olive-drab shorts and vest, and Boynes saw that he held a small leather-bound book in his great hand. The man stood awkwardly to attention, still somewhat bowed beneath the low ceiling.
“Just what-in-hell explanation do you have for this?” cursed Boynes. “Who the hell is this?”
“This, sir?” drawled Blake slowly, as though he weighed each word. He still stood to attention, staring straight past the colonel, his eyes fixed upon the big man. “Why, this is Private Lynch, sir.”
Boynes let out a stifled cough of pent-up rage.
“Private Lynch?” he managed at last though gritted teeth.
“Why yes, sir, is there a problem?”
Boynes turned and stepped closer towards Blake. His breathing was strained, and he looked as though his fury was about to overwhelm him.
“And would you care to explain how Private Lynch has gained fifty pounds and grown a foot taller since I last saw him on parade?” Boynes was yelling at the top of his voice now, his face only inches from the captain’s. “Or perhaps the fact that most of his remains are also to be found in the goddamn mortuary!”
Blake didn’t even flinch.
“Perhaps his time in the Heavenfield had more of an effect than we first thought, sir; none of us came out of there unchanged.”
“YOU’LL BE COURT-MARTIALLED FOR THIS!” screamed Boynes, his restraint utterly spent. “Didn’t you realise the seriousness of your actions? These people are at the heart of a goddamn war! We’ve just narrowly avoided an international confrontation, and here you are, harbouring one of them! What the hell were you thinking? Captain Blake, I am relieving you of your command! And I want that man in detention right now!” He pushed his way past the captain, storming back down the narrow aisle.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“This isn’t over, sir.”
Captain Blake’s voice was slow and calm — still exuding its lazy self-assurance. Boynes hesitated, pausing without looking around. He felt the ship shudder slightly as it continued its slow progress across the empty ocean.
“The war has just begun — we’ll be back in the Field in no time at all. You know it, sir. We were lucky to make it out alive — when we go back into that hell, we’re going to need people like Boris here.”
That slow, self-assured drawl. The captain exuded such a singularity of purpose that his presence seemed to manifest almost like a physical force. Once Blake was set upon a path, no amount of arguing could divert him. That was what made him so infuriating at times. And even more maddening was the faith that the colonel had in his man; whatever crazy course of action he had chosen, Blake had yet to be proven wrong. The man seemed to be sainted, Boynes had once remarked; or in league with the devil.
Still, it made Boynes no less angry.
For a moment the colonel stood unmoving, caught between two opposing forces. His mind was a storm of rage, but something was preventing him from leaving. A weight pressed in his stomach, some knot of anxiety. He gazed down the aisle towards the exit. A wave of nausea enveloped him, and the light seemed to dim for a second, the shadows dancing with unsettling forms.
“Sir?” Captain Blake’s voice cut across his thoughts, instantly dispelling the vision. “You know the truth.”
Boynes gazed down the length of the barrack-room, studying the faces of the soldiers as they stood to attention along the aisle. He gave a long sigh and felt the wave of panic recede, as though a moment had turned within him.
“I am relieved that Private Lynch’s death was not as serious as first reported,” he muttered quietly. He felt the tension in the room fade away in an instant. “You will both report to me in one hour, Captain Blake. My cabin.”
Colonel Boynes stalked out of the barrack-room without looking back.
* * *
“What did I just see, Boris?” muttered Blake, his eyes still fixed upon Colonel Boynes as the man stormed off down the aisle. Where time had seemingly slowed, and every sensation hung in the air to be regarded, scrutinised, before being experienced, now the room was suddenly in motion once again. Sound flowed back to fill the void, as the soldiers lining the aisle slumped down to their beds, laughing and joking in relief.
Captain Blake frowned.
“What did you see, Captain?” came a deep voice from behind, melodious and heavy with an East European accent.
But Blake didn’t answer. The dam had burst, and his mania was being washed away, his world returning to the familiar.
“Walk with me, Boris,” he muttered absently, and headed off towards the exit. His movements were slow and deliberate, and he appeared to almost glide along with a natural grace. The towering figure of Boris followed him down the aisle in stark contrast, a shambling mountain in comparison, his broad shoulders brushing the bunks on either side. The soldiers fell silent as he passed, looking up with uncertainty and suspicion.
Blake led Boris through the maze of dimly lit corridors, a warren of pipes and cables. Eventually, he stopped at a bulkhead, tugging at the hatch. It opened with a mournful squeal of metal, and they felt a draft of icy air wash over them. Like a faint whisper, Blake discerned the quiet sounds of the sea above the subterranean throb of the ship’s engines. He ducked through the hatch and Boris followed, securing it behind him. They were out on one of the lower decks, the sparkle of frost in the bright moonlight and the glimmer of the sea beyond; the horizon rolled lazily as the troop ship sailed on through the night.
Blake leaned wearily against the railing, staring out over the dark waters. The muffled throb of the engines and the echo of the waves against the hull of the ship were mesmerising, and he stood a while, lost in thought. Boris remained by the hatchway, a look of mistrust upon his face, pale in the moonlight.
“I saw — unsettling things,” came Blake’s soft voice, distracted and uncertain. He didn’t look around, but continued to stare out across the waves.
“I have told you already,” sighed Boris quietly. “Your suit was breached in the Field. Such sudden exposure is traumatic — perceptions, they are altered.”
“I stuck my neck out for you, Boris,” spat Blake suddenly, turning on the big man. His eyes gleamed in the shadows, a hint of madness in his stare. “I need more than that! What the hell’s happening to me? I feel like I’m losing my mind! You must help —”
He stopped dead, catching himself, calming his racing thoughts. He pushed his fears away with a deep breath expelled, turning back to the railings. “Whatever you can tell me, I would appreciate,” he muttered quietly.
“I know only what I have seen in my companions,” said Boris, his deep voice reassuring, washing over Blake, calming him. “I have been many times in the Field, and that itself brings its own effects. But I have not felt the misfortune of a suit breach. There are still hopes for you and your companions, but I will not lie to you, Captain — it is a curse.”
Blake stiffened, a sudden chill running through him. It was only a little over a week since they had been fighting for their lives in the Heavenfield, and the fear and exhilaration of battle was only just leaving them. Days of debriefing at Maunsworth had kept his mind occupied, but now, stuck on this godforsaken troop ship out in the dark waters of the Atlantic — here his mind was suddenly forced to assess his experiences. He swallowed hard again, quelling the knot of rising panic balled up in his stomach.
“Cursed,” he whispered in a cracked voice; the word barely audible above the sounds of the sea.