Jack

"Jack you there?" asked the doctor. "Yes, I'm here," he replied. Then he dozed off again into his thoughts. The doctor spoke a good while and he just nodded pretending he did hear everything. "Jack!"the doctor said again. "Yes" he replied in an even louder tone. "You have nothing" the doctor said to him. "I know that" he replied. "I thought you were one good man left in this town."

"No, Jack," the doctor said again. "You have no problems with your health." No PTSD, none of that nonsense," he asked. "No, you have nothing," the doctor emphasised. "What about the shaking in the middle of the night?" asked Jack. "That should be gone in a while," the doctor replied and gave him a few tablets to take it at night, before sleep. "Thank you!" said Jack and put the tablets in his pocket and walked away. He was a sharp man in his forties. Suited in his cream shirt and pants with a nice tie on. Shaved look and unruly hair. A charming fellow whose mind was shook by war, but not his face. He reached for his pistol as the wind whispered a bit too hard against the bell of the local watering hole. He was a bit tempted to drop in for a drink, but he decided against it. One drink never ended with one. Did it ever? he wondered as he walked past the windows of shops. Stopping at a few and seeing his reflection against the glass panels. He had time to kill and was walking a long way back to his van. Where he stayed, after his wife had taken the house after the divorce. He did not seem to care, but he had a dog that his wife had taken away from him too. And that bothered him. Ah! he said to himself reminded of his dog as he turned back and entered the empty watering hole. There was no one except the bar tender. He too was asleep with his head on the counter. Hello, he said yanking the hand of the large man. Hello! said the bartender wiping the drool off of his chin. Care for a drink mister? asked the bartender. One whiskey please, he said and adjusted his coat, Jack. He sat down and looked around in great detail as he often did. "I wanted to be an engineer" said Jack to the bartender who was out of earshot. What? He asked. I wanted to be an engineer when I was young, said Jack. Why didn't you? asked the large man as he placed the drink on the table rather too harshly. A few drops fell on to the table. Sorry about that, he murmured and walked away. Jack drank his whiskey and spoke to no one, I suppose. His words were lost like whispers in the wind.

No one had listened to him since he stopped giving orders during the war. He stepped inside the van all alone. He closed his eyes and tried to spring up memories of the war. Bullets, blood and dying enemies. The sound of bullets gave him company most nights. Every night he dreamt of his women when he was at war. But now all he dreamt was the war. He woke up in the middle of the night trying to reach for his scotch. His fingers only slipped through the metal of guns and pits of slushes. He saw the faces of dead men with wide open eyes. The silence between the gasps of a man's breath as his life left his mortal body. Jack got up from his nightmare. He opened a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He walked out of his van with his crumpled shirt now untucked with his vest. He puffed the smokes out in the open as he felt his chest for bullet wounds. He did not gasp in relief. He knew there was no wound. He did not care if there was a bullet in his chest. His life was left in the trenches. The last breath of free air he took was left behind in the battle between gunfire and commands, drenched in the rain. He chewed the last bit of the bud and spat it out. He looked inside the rather modest van. As he stepped inside the van, his adrenaline pumped.

Jack! Jack! said a voice. The bullet hit your helmet. You are not dead, you are alive, said Phil. Jack took his hand and got up. He adjusted his helmet and hid behind the trenches. He lit his cigarette and reached for his pockets. He took a long hard look at his wife and smiled. He whispered something that was lost in the gunfire. Let us go! said Phil as the enemy was shooting heavily at them. Jack hurriedly put his phot back and ran alongside Phil holding his gun with a frightening grip, as though his life depended on it. He did not look elsewhere but straight, as he often did. Phil was the one looking everywhere and navigating through the death traps. They finally found a spot to hide themselves in and shoot at the enemy. The both men took aim and shot at the enemy. That night was particularly rainy and they could not see very clearly. Their bullets harrowed through the battle zone. Most of the bullets missed the enemy. A few however hit its mark, as it often played out that way. The war is never going to end! said Phil as he shook his head. My luck is going to run out sooner or later, said Jack. I have yet to get mine, he said and shot at the head of the enemy. They both reloaded their guns.