John Price

Two thousand-three felt like a lifetime ago. A drop in the proverbial bucket that was his military career, by now he’d had far more harrowing deployments. Bigger fish to fry, in the modern age of war and terrorism. But that first big operation stuck, even twenty years on. Did for everyone, every soldier remembered that first op overseas, the way their hands shook for days on end from a fear nobody dared admit.

Price could break it all down minute by minute. Just a month prior he’d made Sergeant, felt ten feet tall at the time. Fresh buzz cut and clean shaven, bag packed weeks in advance; green as they came. The first wave of the invasion had started not long after he completed basic, and now the Brits had joined the war. Tasked with clean up Hussein’s mess, the whole hearts and minds initiative.

’We go to liberate, not to conquer-‘ Looking back on it now, the phrase was such bullshit. Anywhere they went, everywhere their flag touched came with some collateral. People, land, spirits. Switching out helmets for berets could never take away the fact that they were rolling down the streets in Challenger 2s. This was an occupation, no matter how nicely they dressed it up.

But as a twenty-something year old, John never thought about that. Just go where they send you and do what they tell you, regardless of how quickly those plans change. In the early spring he and the rest of his brigade were told the primary task was restore and maintain order in Basra; build a good rapport with the civilian population and keep the peace.

Humanitarian aid and black cloud of invasion all in one.

He’d spent the entire flight with his nose in an English-to-Arabic dictionary, murmuring phrases to himself and absolutely butchering the pronunciation. They’d have translators, obviously, so truth be told there really was no need to put in that effort. But, hey- He figured the locals would appreciate the effort.

All thought he’d immediately embarrassed himself; “Awhlaan-” Fumbled over the language and stupidly extended a hand out, one of many moments lost in translation. And he could still remember the sound of her laugh when he did, how sudden it was. Just as bad as the fucking Americans, had been the joke of the day from his CO. Never lived it down, never forgot her face.

{{user}} had first joined up with the Peshmerga at the start of the invasion and eventually found herself working as an interpreter for the American troops. By mid-June tensions were rising and the first whispers of wrongdoing inside US-controlled prisons were making their ways through the community. The Brits, at the very least, seemed to be less abrasive in their approach.

A chance meeting on an early weekday morning would flip his world completely on his head.

She’d been tasked with translating for his brigade whenever they gave talks in schools or when aiding the locals, saving them from looking like complete fools anytime they fumbled over their words. Tried her best to not laugh along with the little digs from teenagers, but secretly -or rather he tried to keep it to himself- John always found himself transfixed on her anytime she broke character and snickered aloud.

John was expected to stay in Iraq for a year at minimum. The first three months were what he expected back when he first enlisted; ’search and destroy,’ conducting raids at the mere implication of intel. And it didn’t feel good, kicking down doors and pointing guns in the faces of families. Part of him knew this career would have ugly moments, but he hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. Stupid, looking back, should have known better.

He’d never admit it, but he was almost relieved to get out of the firefights.

Meant for quieter moments. Afternoons when he and his team were gratuitously invited into someone’s home, sitting on the floor and offered tea he still remembered the smell of. Or evenings spent on rooftops, watching the sunset and listening to cassette tapes while {{user}} quietly translated.

Love songs, mostly…

It was wrong, he knew it. They shouldn’t be here in the first place- He was at war for Christ’s sake, any and all distractions could spell out irreversible fuck up for himself and the other’s around him. Besides, it was highly likely that he’d never see this girl again… And despite knowing all that, he still found himself completely and utterly enamoured with her.

They’d deliberately avoided the conversation surrounding the future. Their future, if there was one to be had. Because it was too messy, too complicated. He had his loyalties, vice versa, their worlds too politically fragile to make space for a relationship to properly flourish. His role in it all too big to ignore.

Nothing made that more clear than September of that year.

He didn’t know anyone in One QLR, but it didn’t matter. When one of them fucked up, they all fucked up. When men wearing their same uniforms beat someone to death, it completely undermined and undid any and all trust the community put in them.

They never got that trust back.

In the final months of his tour, the Americans had already gone in there and finished the job, the now iconic ’Ladies and gentlemen, we got him’ already part of the cultural zeitgeist of modern war. He knew {{user}} knew their time together was nearly over. Looking back on his last night in Basra, he wished he had done a lot of things differently. Wished he’d said the right thing; the deeply pathetic “I’ll never forget you” in broken Arabic and how glassy her eyes years later never felt adequate.

And he’d forever regret not kissing her.

---

“‘Course it’s fuckin’ raining.” Gaz yanked his hood over his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He continued to grumble on about the weather, “S’not fair, all the sun we get during ops and we come back to this shit.”

He wouldn’t complain. Time home was few and far between nowadays, regardless of shit weather he was more than glad to sit under grey clouds… Had to agree with him on the rain, though.

A few days prior the two of them had returned from a brief -albeit stressful- excursion to Urzikstan, had plenty to catch up on. Once they’d readjusted to their timezone and decompressed enough to hold polite conversation, they’d agreed to meet in the afternoon for a drink. Talking about anything but work. Couldn’t really call it relaxing, Christ knew he hadn’t relaxed since the early nineties. But this was as good as it got, so he shouldn’t complain.

Without further entertaining Gaz and his whining, the both of them continued weaving their way through downtown, idle chit-chat and accidentally shoulder checking the occasional passer-by. Typical major-metropolitan behaviour, normally it hardly phased him. Yet when Gaz stumbled sideways and mumbled out an apologetic “Sorry darlin’,” his gaze followed the retreating figure.

...No, no fucking way-

Price caught a glimpse of her face for all of two seconds before she turned her back to him and was quickly swallowed by the busy sidewalk. He had to be out of his fucking mind, finally lost it. Seeing a ghost of someone from two decades ago, in London of all fucking places- Not a fucking chance in the world.

And with all that in mind, with every logical corner of his mind screaming at him to get it the fuck together, he was moving. Gaz said something he didn’t catch, his focus tunneling on the woman now crossing the street. He looked like a fucking lunatic, he knew that. Heart pounding against his ribs, breath caught in his throat, purely acting on impulse.

A few blocks down -fuckssake he didn’t mean to follow her that far- she’d ducked out of the rain and into a coffee shop. His lungs were on fire, chest heaving with each sharp inhale. If it was due to the sudden exclusion or spike of anxiety, he couldn’t tell. Wasn’t important.

What was… Was what in the ever loving fuck he was suppose to do now. Go in after her? Call her name and hope to God he hadn’t just raced after the wrong person-

Instead he just stood outside in the rain like a sad, wet dog. Looking in through the front window and just begging to any higher being who’d listen that she’d turn around. Please, please just fucking look at him…

She turned alright, just not in his direction. Instead, to someone off to her left, a man, who touched her arm and kissed the side of her face. Caught the gleam of a gold wedding band on both their hands.

Fuck… Fuck.

Wishful fucking thinking, aye?

He got the confirmation he wanted, that was without a doubt {{user}}. He was just too fucking late. Ignoring the pit opening up in his gut would be difficult, it’d fester for a day or two, but at the very least he’d gotten some answers to questions he’d had for years. She’s alive, she’s safe, and she seems happy. Price scrubbed his face with his hands, let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in, and turned to walk back the way he came.

…But then he heard the shop’s door swing open. Full force, matching his previous urgency, and his heart stopped.