Gender Genre Competition

The Top Ten Stories

Stiff Upper Lip

I stand straight-backed as if still on active service, as if being inspected by an officer. Good posture keeps the body from trembling, protects against shock. The telephone number on the card is printed too damned small and I have to squint to read. ‘Family liaison officer’ and then a string of digits. He’s far away this liaison officer, across county borders only nowadays they’ve done away with counties. As I push my finger into the dial, I imagine his phone. It’s black and sits on a wide, oak desk and is ringing, over and over. Now he’s reaching his arm to answer my call, he’s about to tell me if my lad is …
          ‘This is Captain Hardy speaking. I’m out of the office this morning…’
          Cursing the man, I slam down the handset. Where the hell is he? What’s the point of having a family officer but to be there when he’s needed? And I need him now.
          The shaking in my legs returns and I sit heavily on the small chair which the wife bought. I wish she was here now and then I don’t. I wouldn’t put anyone else through this, certainly not the woman I loved. 
          In the lounge the telly is on and I can hear yet another announcement. They’ve been coming on the hour since eight this morning. 
          Until today, I’ve been glued to the damned thing, watching all day every day since that morning they went over the border. The tele was my lifeline to my lad. I enjoyed watching the action, God help me, thought it was bloody marvellous how the TV people did it. Why didn’t the camera men get shot? Why were those ruddy red explosions always on the far side of the desert and not right at their feet?
          Not any longer. Since I watched the morning news I hate that machine. I hate all machines. Fighting for patience, desperate to stay calm, I go back to the living room. I used to tell myself no news was good news. Up to today it’s been a cliché. Now I know it’s God’s truth.
          At least they haven’t got one of those smiley women with the red lips and flashy clothes. The announcer is wearing a sober suit and a navy-blue tie. 
          ‘There is still no further news of the friendly fire incident north of Baghdad. It is understood there are British casualties.’
          ‘Friendly fire’. ‘It is understood’. What namby-pamby language. Why can’t they just tell us straight how bad it is? ‘Casualties’ could mean a twisted ankle or a burnt body. And which idiot exactly attacked his own side? Feeling impotent, I resort to every British man’s answer to pain. I put the kettle on.
          It’s in the family – being in the army. My lad was only six years old when I showed him his grandfather’s medal. The Victoria Cross for valour. As he grew up, I’d let him take the medal out of the box as a reward for good marks in his school work. When he passed his GCSEs I said, ‘You’ll get a place in the army, son. You’ll be following in brave footsteps.’ When the regiment accepted him, we played a little game, pinning the medal on his chest and pretending he’d won it for ‘services beyond the call of duty.’
          Never once did I imagine he’d be hurt. You don’t, do you? If we thought our boys would be hurt we wouldn’t let them go. As for being hit by their own men…
          Another announcement sees me scuttling back to the TV.
          ‘We can now confirm that the unit north of Baghdad was hit by an American bomber plane. A British helicopter has picked up two injured men.’
          I watch library pictures showing a helicopter flying across a city of squat buildings with flat roofs. In the distance fires burn the sand red. The sound track is the pop-popping of guns with an occasional explosion. I’ve watched this clip before, sure of it, but now this ‘copter is carrying my lad, my boy. Sure of it.
          My tea is cold. I’m frightened and my upper lip is trembling.
          The day I saw him off to war, I told him, ‘Stiff upper lip, son. That’s what it’s all about. Don’t flinch from duty. When it gets bad, you’ll get through.’
          ‘Be seeing you, Dad.’ He kissed me ‘goodbye’, actually kissed me with his lips on my cheek.
          As I drove away from his barracks, I could see him in the rear-view mirror, standing on the step, straight-backed and determined. How could I let him to go away to fight? Why wasn’t I stopping him? Had the world gone mad? Just suppose he didn’t come back?
          I couldn’t just drive through the barrack gates, not just like that. It was too easy and too impossible. I stopped the car, got out and ran back to him. Holding his shoulders with both hands, I kissed him back – on both cheeks. I had a lump the size of a football in my throat but I didn’t cry. ‘You’ll make it lad,’ I said. Then I left him.
          And I believed myself. Until this morning. I know his unit. I know from the papers where they were. He was among those bombed and I want to know the damage. I want to know the worst.
          At the other end of the long telephone number the ansa-phone is still on.
          I have time to make a fresh brew before the man in the dark suit is back on the screen. The tie is black.
          ‘It has been confirmed that there has been one fatality as a result of the so-called friendly fire attack on a British unit north of Baghdad. The family has not yet been informed.’
          The tea in my stomach churns with the bile. It can’t be my lad. He’ll get through it. He will. He must. No-one has rung me. He must be alive.
          Then I remember. They don’t ring if it’s a death. They come round. A policeman and a specially trained ex-service man. It could be hours before I know. 
          The telly is showing pictures of the type of plane thought to have done the damage: a bloody Yankee bomber. One of those fancy boys in blue has wiped out one of our tanks, put two men in hospital and killed my son. The thought is out before I can stop it and I can feel my heart thumping and my blood flooding with adrenalin. My mouth is slack, my fingers cold and I can’t be brave any more. 
          It’s the same message on the machine but this time I can’t swear into space and let it go. I do what I promised myself I’d never do. I dial the other number on that small card: the liaison officer’s mobile.
          I know he’s a busy man. I know there are other more important people than me. I know, if I wait long enough, I’ll have my answer. But I can’t wait. I have to know. I have to know about my boy.
          The clear trill of the mobile competes with the thumping in my chest. There’s a pain in my heart and my throat is blocked with sobs but I blurt out my request. ‘Just tell me if it’s my boy.’
          The officer’s voice, as he answers me, is steady, at first too efficient for compassion but then he says, ‘Be strong. Your son would want you to be strong.’ 
          My tears come hot and much too wet. I manage a ‘Thank you’ before I hang up.
          I sit on the small chair again and wish now I wasn’t alone. I long for my wife to put her arms round me and love me. Because as I try to be glad I rang that mobile, I can’t be. As I try to give thanks, I fail. As hard as I try to stem my tears they still pour out.
          For even as I was hearing my son is alive, I knew another father was learning his child is dead. I pray he has the bravery to cope. The bravery – that stiff upper lip – which has deserted me.

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