Angus So much for the kit. Now let’s get to the stuff that really matters. (To John.) Strip down, John.
John hesitates.
Roger You heard him. Down to your blast pants.
As John removes his uniform.
Angus Kit changes. Always has, always will. But human anatomy doesn’t change. And that’s why you’d better listen up good because this could make the difference between your mate going home on a stretcher or in a body bag.
He takes out a red marker pen. As he talks he draws on John’s body.
Angus Let’s start with the basics shall we?
He takes a bottle of water from one of the soldiers.
This is a litre of water. John’s got five litres of blood in his body. He can lose a litre of that, no problem. Two litres, getting tricky. More than that, he should start to worry. His heart, about the size of a fist, is here. When he starts oozing, this is pumping out the juice through his arteries. Going south through his thoracic aorta, out here, along his arms, and down here, along his thighs. And up here, supplying his tiny mind, his carotid artery. Right, so things have gone wrong for John and he’s stepped on an IED.
What injuries is he likely to sustain? Probably lose a leg, if he’s lucky amputated here, or unlucky, here. So that’s gone, off in someone else’s compound. What else? He’ll be fragged here on his face, and here along the side of his neck. It’s a conical blast wave, remember, so here under his arms too. Some big chunks out of his legs from the stones and crap on the ground. Probably a chunk out of the arm, here. Fragged along side of the chest.
Where’s his weapon gone? That’s right, straight up into his grid. Broken jaw, fractured zygoma, bit of blast ear. Pressure injury to the lungs. Probably lose a few fingers too. What else are we forgetting? What’s here, biggest bone in the body? That’s right, his femur. Where’s that going? Smash, into his pelvis. Serious injury? You bet! Dislocated shoulder.
If he isn’t wearing his shades, sand, dirt and stones in his eyes.
He points to John’s genitals.
What’s going to happen to this bad boy? If he’s wearing his blast pants, hopefully nothing. If he’s not? The eyelets from his boots are going to fly up, penetrate his nut sack, sever his penis. It’s one of the first questions they’ll ask you. ‘Have I got my cock and balls?’ If he’s not wearing blast pants, you can tell him yes, but he’ll be pissing in six different directions for the rest of his life. Probably lost both arse cheeks too. So, respect those gone before you, the men whose injuries we’ve learnt from, and wear those fucking pants! Your missus and your future kids will thank you for it, believe me.
Right, that’s enough of you, John.
John takes a white towel and walks downstage, cleaning the marker pen from his body, turning the towel red.
Roger Bullet wounds next! You’re out on patrol and the tree line’s opened up on you, like it does. Your mate’s gone down, small entry wound on the front, big exit wound in the back. You’ve got to pack that exit wound while still laying down rounds in the opposite direction. So what you going to do?
Roger’s voice fades away as John is isolated in a spot.
John He’s right, you know. Some things don’t change. Weapons change. Battlefields change. Wars change. But there’s one thing that’s never changed.
He pats his own chest.
This. Fight with stones. Fight with swords. Fight with missiles. This is where the fight happens. This is where the speeches end. The resolutions. The column inches. This is where victory or defeat happens. The ultimatums. The politics. This is where war happens. Here. On the bodies of men. Boys. We try and take theirs apart. They try and take ours apart. It’s as simple as that.
He turns and walks upstage. The lights come up to reveal a FOB — temporary showers and toilets, sandbags, Hesco blocks. The heads of Ali and Roger can be seen above a screen in front of the toilets. As John passes them he turns to the audience again.
John That’s something else that never changes. Bring the British squaddie to Afghanistan, nineteenth century, twenty-first century, and soon enough he’ll get the D an’ Vs. Always has. Always will.
John exits.
SCENE EIGHT — COMMS
Loud sounds of shitting. Ali ducks below the screen. The sound of him vomiting. He reappears.
Ali Fuck me, this D an’ V’s better than any F-plan. I’m telling you, Atkins ain’t got shit on Afghan.
Roger I know. My missus is going to be chuffed to fuck with the weight I’m dropping.
Darren enters with a sack of mail.
Darren Mail’s here, lads.
Ali Ah, at last! About fucking time too!
Other Soldiers begin to gather around Darren as he hands out the mail. Charlie wears his prosthetic so appears to have both legs intact.
Darren Anderson … Briggs …
Ali Get mine for me will you, mate?
Darren Taylor … Ma’am … Baker … Booth …
As each soldier receives their bluey or package they drift to a more private place.
Darren Booth … Booth … Booth.
Richard is given a pile of packages.
Marc Ah, not again!
Dave You’re crated, Booth. So crated.
Marc You’re mother’s unbelievable. Like a fucking one-woman Red Cross.
Darren Sir … Smith … Fowler …
As the Soldiers open their bluies, the Letter Writers appear.
Lauren Charlie, I miss you so much –
Michelle Hey babe! I hope you get this soon … never soon enough though, is it?
Tracy Dear Rich, a few more parcels for you. No chocolate this time, like you asked. But lots of Haribo and shower gel!
The Soldiers continue to read their bluies as the female Letter Writers sing:
Letter Writers (sung)
Hope you get this, hope you’re safe, hope everything’s all right. Miss you.
Everyone here is thinking of you, we’ve heard nothing on the news. Miss you.
Look after yourself, my love, and come home soon.
Dave When you’re in the FOBs most of the time bluies is all you get. Only once, maybe twice every two months. There’s one I’ll always remember. My daughter drew me a birthday cake. And my son, he’s got special needs see, but he managed to write his name. It might not sound like much, but I was crying. It chokes you up, it does.
Richard You have to take yourself away, somewhere quiet. It’s amazing to get them, but then after you’ve read them, well, it’s bad too. It’s like a come-down. It makes you miss home, miss everyone there. You realise how long it’ll be before you see them again.
Simi For three months I didn’t get any bluies. It took so long from Trinidad to England to Iraq. Every time the mail came, I’d just be waiting, feeling alone. The boys on camp even started writing to me, just so I’d have some mail! But then one day I saw a Trinidad and Tobago stamp. I couldn’t believe it. I almost screamed down the whole of the RHQ. Seeing their names, Mummy’s handwriting. I rub it all over my face, so it would stay with me. I even slept with it! Every time I turned over, I’d reach under my pillow to check it was there. Because it was a lifeline, that bluey. It really was. A lifeline home.