A Soldier's Future
John Forth
The fireworks started shortly before dusk.
At first Nick thought the irregular pops and cracks were coming from the firing range on the far side of the camp. Along with the mechanical grunt and grind of tanks and laden trailers, the rhythmic rap of military boots on the parade ground, and the constant bark of voices raised in authority, the sound of gunfire - Nick had learned - was a perennial across the sprawling barracks and hangers. Only when the sky darkened, and the streetlights standing sentinel over the main road leading into the camp sparked alive, did he see the flashes in the sky. Frowning, he lifted his rifle from where it was propped in the corner of the small, cluttered guardhouse and stepped outside.
The November sky was a deep, angry grey. Behind the concrete slab of the cloud cover, detonations of muted colour patterned the sky in a patchwork of reds and green and blues. Each explosion was followed by a rude fizz, and traces of coloured fire fell from the clouds, blazing out before they reached the ground.
Nick walked around the guardhouse, past the checkpoint blocking the broad entrance to the camp. He looked back along the road, where the industry of military life continued as it had since he'd arrived in Dortmund six months ago. On the narrow pavement stood a young squaddie, as transfixed by the fireworks as Nick had been.
"Hey, Private," Nick called. "Any idea what's going on? Some Jerry holiday that we don't know about?"
The other soldier looked at him, annoyed at being addressed by rank by another Private. "Don't you know, new blood? Nah, you obviously don't. They're taking down the wall, man. It's all over the news. Taking it down piece by piece with their fuckin' hands."
"The wall?" Nick said.
"In Berlin." The soldier huffed. "You know: the wall. Jesus Christ..." He shook his head and ambled closer. "Anyway, scram. Go see for yourself."
It took Nick a second to realise that he was being relieved. It was easy to lose track of time when you were on guard duty. Shouldering his rifle, and grabbing the magazine he had been reading, he gave up the guardhouse to the other Private. On his way out, Nick paused. "What do you think this means for us?" he asked. "You think they'll send us back home?"
The Private shrugged. "They'll send us somewhere, that's for sure," he said, tone dismissive enough to dissuade Nick from any further questions.
Setting his cap on his closely-cropped scalp, Nick began to walk in the direction of the barracks. Not for the first time, he felt uncomfortable in his uniform, aware of how it sagged around the armpits and crotch. His first instructor had laughed at him when he first tried it on. "You look like a wee boy wearing his auld man's gear," he'd said. "But you'll grow into it." Nick had believed that was true; but now at eighteen years of age, he was starting to wonder if he'd ever fill out.
On the way past, he looked in on the mess hall. The tables and chairs were scattered, a large cluster of uniformed figures stood beneath the small television mounted high in one corner. The BFBS broadcast showed young men and women atop the graffitied edifice which had divided Berlin for almost thirty years. Some had hammers, some cut away at the stone of the wall with penknives and other blades, and - yes - others were scraping at it with their bare hands. All around the wall a crowd had gathered, dancing.
Nick watched a while, but there was only so much of the same footage he could take in before he grew bored, regardless of how historic the events being shown were. By the time he stepped outside, it was full dark, but the sky remained intermittently lit by coloured bruises. The echoed shouts of a late evening drill sounded from the parade ground, but other than that the camp was oddly quiet. Only the percussive rattle from above shook the cold still of the night.
Near the barracks stood a low wall which divided the living quarters from the school playing field. It wasn't so long ago that Nick had attended that school along with teenagers from various Armed Forces estates all around Germany. His brother Adam was still a pupil there, although Nick saw him rarely. He sighed, not for the first time feeling utterly disconnected from his family. To distract himself, he lit a cigarette. He told himself to be strong. After all, he'd spent his childhood moving from town to town, country to country, following his old man's postings. He knew what he was getting into when he signed up.
Did he, though? As he smoked his cigarette and watched the fireworks, Nick couldn't help but feel that the status quo was undergoing some profound change tonight, and that the future was uncertain. The world was changing while he sat there smoking. Strange; he'd joined the army to make a difference, but right at that moment he felt utterly small and ineffectual.
So lost in his thoughts was Nick that he almost didn't notice the figure walking across the playing field.
The man was dressed in the unfamiliar sand-shade and brown of desert camouflage, that was the first thing that caught Nick's attention. The second was the way the man moved, stiff and lumbering, as if stumbling in shock from some disaster or other. As Nick watched, the figure passed beneath the rugby goal at the near side of the field and then disappeared behind the NAAFI building which adjoined the school.
Just another squaddie making his way home from a bit of unauthorised R&R. Nothing uncommon there. But if that were true, why did Nick feel so troubled by the man? It couldn't just be the his unusual choice of uniform, or the fact that there were no entrances or exits to the camp in the direction he had come from. Nick watched to see if the man re-emerged from behind the starkly lit supermarket, but saw nothing. Finishing his cigarette, he tossed the butt, ground it out with the heel of his boot, and stood.
From above there came a fresh volley of explosions, sounding more like gunfire than before. As he started his walk towards the barracks, Nick noticed that the paved area leading up to the school gates was criss-crossed with dark footprints which glistened under the stark sodium light emitting from the NAAFI entrance. Nick had seen similar prints outside the motor pool after some grease monkey or other had trailed his boots through a puddle of oil. But why so many of them? The pavement looked as if dozens of men - maybe hundreds - had tramped across it while Nick had been sitting on the wall, smoking and gazing slack-jawed at the fireworks.
Frowning, Nick crouched down and touched the nearest of the footprints. The liquid was thick and almost adhesively sticky. As he withdrew his fingers, the liquid ran thickly down them and pooled in his palm. When he rubbed his thumb and index finger together he could feel something else in the oil; something rough, like gravel, or...
... sand?
Still crouching, Nick looked up. The figure he had seen before stood by the barrack building at the far end of the paved area, some thirty feet away. The light barely touched the skin of the man's face, but the pale camouflage pattern of his desert uniform stood out sharply against the darkness. A flash of red light cast sharp shadows across the camp but the figure was already retreating behind the barracks; and Nick was glad of that - he didn't think he would have been able to bear seeing the man's face.
Instead he turned his attention back to the pool of liquid in his hand. It had seeped into his lifelines, running like a slow river across the desert expanse of his palm. Nick remained there for a moment while the fireworks continued to go off above. Then he stood, wiped his hand on the leg of his uniform, and stepped out of the cold and into the barracks. He had no idea what the things he had seen portended, but he was certain of one thing: today was an ending, but the future to come would be a hard one, and fearful. And Nick couldn't say for sure whether he was ready for it or not.
The fireworks started shortly before dusk.
At first Nick thought the irregular pops and cracks were coming from the firing range on the far side of the camp. Along with the mechanical grunt and grind of tanks and laden trailers, the rhythmic rap of military boots on the parade ground, and the constant bark of voices raised in authority, the sound of gunfire - Nick had learned - was a perennial across the sprawling barracks and hangers. Only when the sky darkened, and the streetlights standing sentinel over the main road leading into the camp sparked alive, did he see the flashes in the sky. Frowning, he lifted his rifle from where it was propped in the corner of the small, cluttered guardhouse and stepped outside.
The November sky was a deep, angry grey. Behind the concrete slab of the cloud cover, detonations of muted colour patterned the sky in a patchwork of reds and green and blues. Each explosion was followed by a rude fizz, and traces of coloured fire fell from the clouds, blazing out before they reached the ground.
Nick walked around the guardhouse, past the checkpoint blocking the broad entrance to the camp. He looked back along the road, where the industry of military life continued as it had since he'd arrived in Dortmund six months ago. On the narrow pavement stood a young squaddie, as transfixed by the fireworks as Nick had been.
"Hey, Private," Nick called. "Any idea what's going on? Some Jerry holiday that we don't know about?"
The other soldier looked at him, annoyed at being addressed by rank by another Private. "Don't you know, new blood? Nah, you obviously don't. They're taking down the wall, man. It's all over the news. Taking it down piece by piece with their fuckin' hands."
"The wall?" Nick said.
"In Berlin." The soldier huffed. "You know: the wall. Jesus Christ..." He shook his head and ambled closer. "Anyway, scram. Go see for yourself."
It took Nick a second to realise that he was being relieved. It was easy to lose track of time when you were on guard duty. Shouldering his rifle, and grabbing the magazine he had been reading, he gave up the guardhouse to the other Private. On his way out, Nick paused. "What do you think this means for us?" he asked. "You think they'll send us back home?"
The Private shrugged. "They'll send us somewhere, that's for sure," he said, tone dismissive enough to dissuade Nick from any further questions.
Setting his cap on his closely-cropped scalp, Nick began to walk in the direction of the barracks. Not for the first time, he felt uncomfortable in his uniform, aware of how it sagged around the armpits and crotch. His first instructor had laughed at him when he first tried it on. "You look like a wee boy wearing his auld man's gear," he'd said. "But you'll grow into it." Nick had believed that was true; but now at eighteen years of age, he was starting to wonder if he'd ever fill out.
On the way past, he looked in on the mess hall. The tables and chairs were scattered, a large cluster of uniformed figures stood beneath the small television mounted high in one corner. The BFBS broadcast showed young men and women atop the graffitied edifice which had divided Berlin for almost thirty years. Some had hammers, some cut away at the stone of the wall with penknives and other blades, and - yes - others were scraping at it with their bare hands. All around the wall a crowd had gathered, dancing.
Nick watched a while, but there was only so much of the same footage he could take in before he grew bored, regardless of how historic the events being shown were. By the time he stepped outside, it was full dark, but the sky remained intermittently lit by coloured bruises. The echoed shouts of a late evening drill sounded from the parade ground, but other than that the camp was oddly quiet. Only the percussive rattle from above shook the cold still of the night.
Near the barracks stood a low wall which divided the living quarters from the school playing field. It wasn't so long ago that Nick had attended that school along with teenagers from various Armed Forces estates all around Germany. His brother Adam was still a pupil there, although Nick saw him rarely. He sighed, not for the first time feeling utterly disconnected from his family. To distract himself, he lit a cigarette. He told himself to be strong. After all, he'd spent his childhood moving from town to town, country to country, following his old man's postings. He knew what he was getting into when he signed up.
Did he, though? As he smoked his cigarette and watched the fireworks, Nick couldn't help but feel that the status quo was undergoing some profound change tonight, and that the future was uncertain. The world was changing while he sat there smoking. Strange; he'd joined the army to make a difference, but right at that moment he felt utterly small and ineffectual.
So lost in his thoughts was Nick that he almost didn't notice the figure walking across the playing field.
The man was dressed in the unfamiliar sand-shade and brown of desert camouflage, that was the first thing that caught Nick's attention. The second was the way the man moved, stiff and lumbering, as if stumbling in shock from some disaster or other. As Nick watched, the figure passed beneath the rugby goal at the near side of the field and then disappeared behind the NAAFI building which adjoined the school.
Just another squaddie making his way home from a bit of unauthorised R&R. Nothing uncommon there. But if that were true, why did Nick feel so troubled by the man? It couldn't just be the his unusual choice of uniform, or the fact that there were no entrances or exits to the camp in the direction he had come from. Nick watched to see if the man re-emerged from behind the starkly lit supermarket, but saw nothing. Finishing his cigarette, he tossed the butt, ground it out with the heel of his boot, and stood.
From above there came a fresh volley of explosions, sounding more like gunfire than before. As he started his walk towards the barracks, Nick noticed that the paved area leading up to the school gates was criss-crossed with dark footprints which glistened under the stark sodium light emitting from the NAAFI entrance. Nick had seen similar prints outside the motor pool after some grease monkey or other had trailed his boots through a puddle of oil. But why so many of them? The pavement looked as if dozens of men - maybe hundreds - had tramped across it while Nick had been sitting on the wall, smoking and gazing slack-jawed at the fireworks.
Frowning, Nick crouched down and touched the nearest of the footprints. The liquid was thick and almost adhesively sticky. As he withdrew his fingers, the liquid ran thickly down them and pooled in his palm. When he rubbed his thumb and index finger together he could feel something else in the oil; something rough, like gravel, or...
... sand?
Still crouching, Nick looked up. The figure he had seen before stood by the barrack building at the far end of the paved area, some thirty feet away. The light barely touched the skin of the man's face, but the pale camouflage pattern of his desert uniform stood out sharply against the darkness. A flash of red light cast sharp shadows across the camp but the figure was already retreating behind the barracks; and Nick was glad of that - he didn't think he would have been able to bear seeing the man's face.
Instead he turned his attention back to the pool of liquid in his hand. It had seeped into his lifelines, running like a slow river across the desert expanse of his palm. Nick remained there for a moment while the fireworks continued to go off above. Then he stood, wiped his hand on the leg of his uniform, and stepped out of the cold and into the barracks. He had no idea what the things he had seen portended, but he was certain of one thing: today was an ending, but the future to come would be a hard one, and fearful. And Nick couldn't say for sure whether he was ready for it or not.