Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Bill had heard from his receptionist that the next client was rather tetchy to the point of rudeness and so had allowed him to linger a while. He had hoped to annoy him more, possibly break the barriers further without giving him the desire to storm out and leave. However, he failed to realise that his choice of art was having the opposite effect and by the time he walked into the waiting room to greet him, Roy was feeling much calmer.

  "Roy, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’ve been reading some details from my colleague in America; they were faxed this morning and I've managed to glean some interesting information on which to build our programme."

  "I love your choice of pictures, Bill. Particularly the blue one there." He walked a little closer to it and Bill followed instinctively. “I don't remember seeing them on my previous visit, but then I didn't wait in here."

  "I'm flattered you like them as I'm embarrassed to say they are my simple efforts. I've always had a desire to be an artist, it's such a good way to release the stresses and strains of the job. This one I painted after a holiday in Luxor. The light is so pure there, and the sand and sun. I was absolutely mesmerised by the sunsets and can certainly appreciate Turner's fascination for them as a subject. You must take this one, I have many and it is unusual to have people make positive comments. A woman the other day was overheard to say that the pictures would be fine once they were finished. It hurt, strangely enough, so I'd be grateful if you'd accept this from me."

  Roy looked at the picture and at Bill and put out his hand. "Thank you, you've made what was a bad day good. I know just where it will go."

  Bill led his client through into his office. "Coffee?"

  "I think I will now, thank you. Please apologise to your receptionist for me, I was rather rude earlier."

  They sat down with the coffee and after general discussion on physical well-being Bill produced the faxed information.

  "It appears that our American cousins are beginning to accept more and more that there may be something in the complaints servicemen are presenting regarding their health after their Gulf War service. The Pentagon is still bleating that there is no conclusive evidence on the one hand yet on the other they are down on record as saying not that it isn't there, only that they haven't found it yet. I would suppose that is about as much as we’re going to get at this stage. To be fair, it's closer than this Government is prepared to say. Now, it's interesting that most of the scientific tests on nerve gasses prove that exposure in the field of battle is usually sporadic and episodic. From this type of contamination, the overwhelming evidence suggests there to be no extended effects; even with long-term dosage there is little evidence to support the problems you and the nineteen thousand other troops face. Did you use DEET whilst in the Gulf?"

  “Yes, it was in most of the insect repellents issued. I suffered quite badly if bitten and so I would often wear DEET soaked wrist and ankle bands. Why? You can buy DEET based products in any high street chemist."

  "I’d like to know what was in the tablets issued to you that you were instructed to take with your tea every day. If it were Pyridostigmine Bromide, the drug to counteract and protect against nerve gas, then there is a hypothesis that it would react with the DEET and in certain individuals cause ill health. I presume some of the symptoms to be lethargy and memory loss. There is again doubt, however, as clinical trials are yet to be conclusive."

  "Strangely enough, they would fumigate tents regularly; spraying with almost gay abandon irrespective of what was going on. Sometimes you would be eating and in would come the insecticide guns blowing smoke everywhere. It would happen every morning, as a large tanker would spray everything to keep down mosquitoes. We were often covered in the stuff. We also used it in the Warrior; mosquitoes loved the cosy, confined spaces and so we smoked them out. Nobody wore a mask, nor washed their hands after touching the sprayed equipment as water was at a premium. It was also rumoured that the pesticides were bought locally, so quite honestly they could have contained just about anything."

  All the while Bill made notes, looking up occasionally and shaking his head in disbelief.

  "God only knows what we took. Sometimes the dosage was changed depending on the situation, the colour of tablets changed too so I've no way of knowing. If you recall, my military medical records of that period in the desert and beyond have gone AWOL. Some crappy computer error they'd like us to believe, so I’ve no idea what was injected or given during that time. It's my guess too that they don't know either. Some of the lads used to say, apocryphal it may be, that we were the guinea pigs for the chemical companies."

  "There may be more truth there than you think, Roy. The report also mentions two vaccines, botulinum toxoid and anthrax. It has been postulated that their combination might be suspect. Mix all of these with the fires of six hundred and five burning oil wells, the fumes of which were supposed to rise away – I believe that the inclement weather brought rain that resembled tar – and then for good measure microwaves; I'm sure you're aware of the number of microwave systems in the area, some no doubt damaged. I often wonder if that might not be the hidden ingredient, the one responsible for many of the problems. Quite a heady cocktail and really one that cannot be brushed under the carpet as easily as they’ve done."

  "The burning wells were just amazing. The sky was the colour of night; one commander spoke of it like the beginning of a nuclear winter. The weather was terrible and the rain brought down the clouds and a glutinous rain like I'd never seen before. It was amazing, special sometimes too as the amalgam of smoke and cloud swirled almost like evil over the desert."

  "Tell me about the missile hit, Roy."

  "We'd been despatched to sort out an ammunition dump and although separated from the group, we were within the line. Our exact position noted from the GPS was transmitted coded to HQ. There was so much going on, Desert Sabre had only just begun in earnest, enthusiasm was high and fingers were twitchy. We’d no idea at this stage that it would last about one hundred hours for us, however, we never saw that! All to end in a home goal. We’d settled in and before we knew where we were both Warriors had suffered a direct hit by Maverick missiles. Strange thing was, we were flying huge flags from every aerial. The fucking machine was covered with large inverted 'V's on luminous panels, but still the blind bastards couldn't tell we were friendly. Gung Ho! They'd shoot anything that looked slightly hostile. The missiles go right in, they bore a neat little hole and they destroy what's inside, like putting a ferret in a sealed burrow; nothing comes out but blood, guts and the scent of death. I remembered a strange smell, it lingered as I passed in and out of consciousness. Couldn't get rid of it for days. It was only later, whilst in hospital, that I realised what the smell was ..." He paused as if recalling the exact moment of dawning. "It was singed hair and flesh!"

  Bill sensed the depth of Roy's anguish, his face was down and his good hand was propping up his head. He was in tears. Bill stood and walked to his desk and lifted the phone. He ordered more coffee.

  "Sorry, Bill. Sometimes I become frustrated, it gnaws at me when I remember, the tears are not for me, you understand, they're for the lads. Some were still in their sleeping bags when the missiles struck; they never knew what hit them. I feel a kind of guilt as I should have been one of the fatalities. Looking back, it might have been better, the way I feel now."

  There was a small tap on the door and Bill went to get the coffee. He put the tray down on the table between them and poured Roy a cup. Lifting it into his hand, Roy sipped it.

  "Thanks."

  "What happened after you were blown clear?"

  "It appeared, although I didn't really know what was going on, that some troops who came to help were also injured by the blasts. We were all helicoptered out and treated. It was only when I realised the significance of the smell in my nostrils that I requested a mirror. My hair was badly singed and my face burned. I was just pleased to be able to answer the nagging question, to know my memory of the event was not totally
lost."

  "And the hand?"

  "As you can see, pretty useless. The surgeon believed it couldn't be saved but they gave it a try. It needed a number of operations and some tendon grafts but the movement never really returned. There was a great deal of scar tissue inside the sheaths that prevented the free movement of the tendons, and most of the nerves are totally shot at. I can feel sensations rather than feel if that makes any sense, but it's something you learn to live with."

  Roy was very much aware of where Bill was trying to lead him and to bring out any anger that might be bottled up but to Roy the hand was not his concern. He had been a paid soldier and he went to the Gulf to fight, if that meant injury then that was part of the risk; home goals too were part of the risk he took. It was a war; although initially there was a frustration that too had faded with time. What he really could not get to grips with was the illness he now believed was conceived by the coming together of God only knew what and the fact that nobody was prepared to help. Strangely enough he felt he owed a responsibility to friends who were out there, with some who were now suffering more greatly than he.

  "Listen Bill, a friend of mine who was in the Gulf never suffered a scratch, went through the whole thing, even managed to get into Kuwait. Unluckily he was one of the few who went through the headquarters of the Estikhbarat, Iraq's Military Intelligence Service and the Amn State Internal Security. He witnessed the immediate scenes of the aftermath of torture and death: the bloodstains, the tools of evil, there was even a swimming pool, covered green with algae, which contained the bodies of those who were raped, tortured and killed for what were supposedly crimes against Saddam. Ask me what he's doing now?"

  There was a long pause, Bill made no reply to Roy's rhetorical question.

  "He came home, celebrated and married the girl he loved. Two disabled children followed later and a brain tumour for himself as his reward. His whole world is in the same state as Kuwait was ... totally fucked and now you can ask me why? Because he suffered from the same as me. He may have had a different combination of drugs in him but the end result is the same, we are changed. We are mutants. We didn't join up for this, no fighting man deserves to die this way, slowly like some freak, and it's because of these men, men I fully trusted, men I laughed with, men I trembled with, men I commanded – it is for these men that I must fight."

  "Who must you fight, Roy?" Bill sat back as if to relax, moved the pencil to his mouth and studied Roy's body language.

  Immediately Roy realised the potential implications of what he had said and backed off, he knew too that Bill would be analysing his words, his expressions and his posture. He looked Bill squarely in the eye. "Myself, Bill, that's who, myself. I can't just give in. I've got to find the answers no matter what it takes."

  He was careful not to overstate his point and it was his turn to watch how Bill responded, he felt that this meeting could, if not controlled get to be a cat and mouse game. "It may be of interest to you that Joan has clearly seen an improvement in my overall attitude, but funnily enough this seems to be causing tensions of its own. I now need to control the amount of change so that I fluctuate less fully from one extreme to the other, but I wanted you to know that I'm getting there, at least I think I am."

  "Good. How is your relationship with Joan?" Bill studied Roy carefully, half looking at his notes. "Please tell me about her."

  "Joan's a teacher, and as you know we're not married but I think our relationship is strong. She’s been a tremendous help to me; she's a good listener and fun to be with."

  "What about children? You mentioned the anxieties that friends had about having a family when suffering from the Syndrome. When the time comes for you to have a family will that cause you concern? Is it something you've discussed? What are your feelings?" From the expression on Roy's face he knew he had struck a nerve, he had rippled Roy once today but here he had found the quick. Just how far could he make Roy hurt?

  "I know Joan would love a family when the time's right, but I am not too sure. What future do I really have? Funnily when I was in the forces I had this Utopian dream of a wife and family, a family who would travel and experience all the good things but now ... If this problem is solved then who knows? All I can say is that if I were to have a family, Joan is the person with whom I'd like to share the experience and the challenge." He knew he had just answered Bill's sensitive question if not honestly, certainly convincingly. Right now, kids were totally out of the equation and to some degree Joan was having to be placed further away in the scheme of things. "All I know is that I love her and I believe that she loves me."

  "What about sex, how would you compare your sex life before and after the Gulf?"

  "Is this relevant?"

  "I wanted to know if there had been any psychological changes, any impotence or lack of drive? I don't want to pry into every facet."

  "Before the Gulf, regular sex depended on the type of relationship; whether there was one or not. I was never one for looking for a different partner every night. I enjoyed sex within intimacy. Don't get me wrong, I have had my moments, but I think we're talking preferences here. After the Gulf there was the trauma with my hand. I felt very self-conscious and convinced that a cold, almost useless hand would be rather a turn off. Strangely I was wrong, I've had a couple of strong relationships since and my sex life has been fine; no complaints as they say!"

  "Where's your future then, Roy? You’re obviously concerned that Drew should find somebody else to take your place, otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here right now and I know Drew doesn't want to lose you. So, let's say five years to the day you called in to see me, what would you be doing?"

  Roy stared at Bill, amazed by the naivety of the scenario. He did not rush his answer. His eyes never faltered from Bill's and he waited. His mind flashed up pictures of bombs, money and blackness. "I'll be dead in five years. If I grow much worse there will be nothing to live for. I'm not going to be a burden to anybody and I'm not going the way of some of the lads, that's for sure. I've had enough of the questions and answers, Bill."

  "I know it's hard on you but I need to develop a picture out of this jigsaw and these questions are my only way forward, I'm sorry if they cause you distress. Would you be prepared to allow me to hypnotise you? It certainly wouldn't be as traumatic and you would relax more, there wouldn't be the concern about answering something incorrectly."

  "You really know how to shock a man," answered Roy, almost breaking into a laugh whilst at the same time cringing, "I'll really have to think about this one. I just can't cope with surprises at this time of the day." Roy stood up and reached out to thank Bill with a handshake. He looked at his watch. It was 18.20. "My, how the time flies when you're having fun! Could I ring Joan, she wasn't expecting me to be so late?"

  He called Joan using the telephone on Bill's desk. Bill moved away to the other side of the room and placed the notes he had made into a plastic folder. They would be typed and filed on the computer system.

  "I was worried about you," Joan's voice trembled. "I'm sorry about this morning. Did everything go well? Where are you now?"

  "I'm just about to leave the clinic so I shouldn't be long. Don't cook, we'll eat out.” He hung up. When he looked at Bill he was standing with the painting he had so admired.

  "Make sure it's well looked after. Enjoy it, I'm sure you will."

  "Are you sure? It's lovely. I appreciate this." He took the picture and moved to leave.

  "Another appointment soon, Roy. Don't forget."

  Roy moved out of the clinic and negotiated the picture through the busy streets. Hope it fits in the car, he thought. Fortunately, with a little manoeuvring, he managed.

  ***

  "Wow it's fabulous!" Joan could enthuse about art like no other. She bounced in front of it cocking her head backwards and forwards. "Give us a clue?" Her eyes glittered as her face creased into a broad grin. It was contagious. She turned around, bent and studied from the gap between her parted legs. "That'
s it … you're holding it the wrong way up!"

  "Philistine! Come on, let's go and eat. I think it's got real depth. You need educating, my girl."

  There was a comfort felt by both that evening. Roy was aware of his ordeal with Bill, the need to appear 'normal', not giving any clue as to his present practice and yet seeking help and guidance. Joan too felt bad, it was unlike her to walk away and break down. She knew Roy could be difficult and she knew she had stoked the fires. However, there was warmth. They walked back from the small restaurant arm in arm. Soon they would show their true feelings between the sheets. Joan's lovemaking was adventurous and this night she did not disappoint. "I'm sorry for my attitude this morning Roy. I should have been stronger."

  He just kissed her mouth softly. She knew he was all right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday was certainly cold and autumnal. It would not be long before the bright days grew into their usual winter grey, a darkness that brought with it a depression and gloom. It was strange how Roy had quickly adapted to the warmth of the Cyprus winters, winters which still included the sun. The dark, sunless English season did not inspire him. It was time to reflect before moving on to the next step of the ladder. He lifted the lid of his palmtop. Joan had met a friend in Leeds, he was to expect her in the late afternoon. He needed this time. The thought of the next message dominated his mind. He was certain that investigations leading to him as a suspect could be well in hand. He heard that officers had been asking questions of Gulf Veteran Associations, nothing too deep but enough to cause ripples of concern. He was neither a member nor did he become involved in their activities directly, he often just worked with friends. However, they knew he was out there.