Rukhsana
How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, overwhelming odds, somehow beaten at the loss of one or two, good men. The silver screen could not convey the disease, shit, fear and boredom of warfare.He had watched the ruins of buildings rebuilt, almost in unseemly haste, as if to purge the lingering scars of destruction from sight, from memory. Mental scars could not be expunged from the mind so easily. Time is the only healer, and that, not very successful.Every year, the ever dwindling numbers of ex-service men, filed along the Mall, a proud march, to lay wreaths of poppies at the. Nonetheless the voice persisted.“No Jack, your kitbag really is on fire. Look.”My white canvas kitbag was stowed behind my bed on the heating pipes that ran around the room. I sat up and turned to look behind me. Sure enough there was a reddish tinge at one end of the white, cylindrical kitbag, making it appear like a glowing cigarette.I blame my subsequent action on being half asleep, and fully stupid.I jumped out of bed, grabbed the kitbag and rushed down the centre deck towards the doors which opened onto the landing. Bad move.The extra oxygen, forced into the kitbag by my precipitous gallop, caused the dull red glow to become a flame, and then an inferno.One onlooker later described the scene as if I was running along carrying a ‘ginormous’ Olympic torch.Out on the landing I quickly grabbed a soda-acid fire extinguisher from the selection of fire-fighting equipment available. I banged hard on the operating knob but nothing happened. Fortunately Steve, who occupied the bed space.
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