Shadows

My grandson almost bursts with excitement as I drive into the campground. The weather is perfect for a holiday, not a cloud in the sky, the sun destroying all the shadows. Then my hands slip on the steering wheel. I stare out at the tents. All those tents. Rows and rows of khaki tents. I try to shake myself out of it. It’s crazy to think of stuff like that now, but it sticks with you. You fight the war. And then you fight against the war. Come on, I’m on holiday here. The sun’s shining. The kids are laughing. My grandson pulls on my arm. C’mon grandpa! I suppose I must seem like such a slow old man to a youngster like him.

I hear one of the kids squealing in delight. Just from the sheer pleasure of being on holiday. Oh god, the screams. They never leave you. I lie there at night and it can be deadly silent, but nothing blocks out the screams. The screams of my best friend when he took a bullet in the chest with me standing right beside him. The screams of my best friend as they removed the bullet there in the field with a blunt knife and no anaesthetic with me still right there beside him, utterly helpless. The screams of his wife when she opened the door on the army officials.

My grandson pulls on my hand again, trying to bring me back to the real world. I smile down at him and ask him if he wants an icecream. Then the cold creeps back up my spine. They tell you about the enemy, about the landmines, but no one warns you about the cold. The way it blows through your body on a windy night. The way it soaks into your blood as you lie in the damp trenches. The cold that never leaves you when you know that you will never see some of your best friends again.

The feeling of a sticky hand in mine gives me blessed relief from those memories. I laugh at my grandson, his mouth ringed with the brown of the chocolate and the white of the icecream. He gives me a hug, and I hold him tight. I only realise how tight when he berates for squeezing him, and wriggles out of my arms. He runs off into the shadows. He’s not worried, but the shadows were the enemy out there. They told you to be afraid of the shadows. Shadows could hide anything. Snipers, landmines, traps. The soldiers are gone now, but the shadows remain. So many shadows, everywhere. Shadows of people I’ll never see again, shadows of a place I never want to see again. You can’t escape the shadows, they’re always there, even in the brightest sunlight.

My grandson grasps at my arm in a futile attempt to bring me back to reality, but it’s too late. I shake him off and watch him fall to the ground, fear forming in his eyes as fast as tears, but there is no remorse. It’s as if I’m watching through a stranger’s eyes, incapable to act, unwilling to act. I stagger to the car and place my hands back on the still-slippery steering wheel. I drive fast, but the shadows keep pace. They can keep up with anything. I need to escape from this shadow world, need to run away, run like a coward. My grandson’s call echoes through the car. Doubt creeps into my mind. As soon as I escape from the shadows they will invade his world, his life. That is something I cannot do.