Bruar's Rest

families, lifted their arms in the air and in unison shouted, ‘Hip, hip, bloody hip, hooray then, SM.’
    Everyone, that is, except Bruar. He felt an air of foreboding, one he could not shake off, and the further up the Dardanelles Straits the boat steered, the more it took hold.
    Sandy had been watching dolphins racing between the ships as they sailed along the narrow stretch of water separating Asia from Europe, and asked, ‘What ails you, man?’
    Bruar pulled a torn wallet from his tunic and handed him a photo, saying, ‘I’m not going to make it. Tell her I fought well and I release her from the promise.’
    Sandy slipped the picture into his wallet, muttering about how tinkers are stupid and full of superstition. As Bruar turned his face skywards, an albatross glided on powerful wings to soar high above the ship, and in that same moment a thundering thud vibrated through the hull. They’d struck a minefield. Flashes of blinding light followed, and yet another boom from below. The vessel filled with dense smoke, flames shot in every direction, screaming men darted through them like headless chickens. Sandy frantically called out Bruar’s name, but at the spot where his friend had stood, a gaping hole spewed torrents of water. From then it was every man for himself.
    Exposed to the heat, Sandy covered his head with his tunic and ran up the ship, searching desperately for his mate, but in such a commotion it was useless.
    Lifeboats fell like stones from the deck moorings and splashed into the agitated water. Sandy caught a glimpse of SM Taylor. ‘He’s taken it, sarge—he was portside when the bomb hit, he’s gone!’
    ‘Look, man, you’ve seen enough to know the score now. Get to bloody hell off this sinking coffin, or you’ll be with him.’
    ‘Every man must live,’ Sandy thought, landing in the froth. Sizzling foam and debris slammed into his face. Pushing his way through the chaos, feeling like a wee fish in a giant net, with the screams of drowning men around him, he offered hasty prayers that his life should not be tragically cut short, like Bruar’s.
    As he dragged himself onto a driftwood log that had caught against a rotted fishing boat, he felt sand under his feet and silently gave thanks; he’d live another day!
    ‘No time to sit,’ he thought, surveying a tidal line of carnage. So many needed help, and maybe, just maybe, his friend was among them. And to add violence to the enemy fire that lit up the sky, Mother Nature threw in her own show; a thunderstorm, so ferocious it turned injured men, who lay in grotesque shapes along the shore, into figures of mud.
    The sky forked jagged blue, earth-shattering thunder joined the chorus of enemy bombardment that rained onto allied ships, sending them in every direction; it was the Devil’s Guy Fawkes bonfire of destruction.
    Shell-holes crammed with broken men crying for help cut to his heart and began to grate on his nerves; he curled under the upturned fishing boat, closed his eyes, covered his ears and slept.
    Time elapsed, he’d no idea how long, but gradually, slowly, the enemy fire subsided as the allied battleships built up into a massive force in the narrow strait of water. The storm had rolled southwards; an eerie silence prevailed as a smir of rain fell.
    Up and down the shoreline medics scurried, shouting ‘He needs assistance’ or ‘He’s finished.’
    Sandy crawled from his shelter among the din and was wondering what SM Taylor might say about it all, when suddenly there was a voice nearby. ‘To think bloody Greek gods lived and fought in these parts—Helen of bloody Troy swam in this damn sea. We should be bloody honoured to stand upright on this famed shore. Have I any bloody troops left, by the way?’
    ‘Over here Sarge, I thought you’d bought it. Good to hear you in your usual fine fettle.’ He scrambled onto rubbery legs and weakly saluted.
    ‘Stand at ease, you daft bugger, I’ve seen sturdier legs on a jelly fish. Stewart took it didn’t he?’
    ‘I can’t say. One minute he was handing me a wedding picture, the next he was gone...’ The photo flashed to mind; quickly he retrieved it from his sodden tunic. The swim had obliterated Bruar’s smiling face, but Megan’s features were still clear. Carefully he flicked the sand off it and put it back. ‘I wonder how she’ll take the news. All he ever spoke about, apart from this blasted war, was his Megan.’
    ‘We all have our families. Never mind