Chameleon's Shadow

*

When the psychiatrist finally arrived, he said much the same thing. ‘You look brighter than I was expecting.’ He introduced himself as Dr Robert Willis and drew up a chair beside Acland’s recovery-room trolley. He was mid- fifties, thin and bespectacled, with a habit of staring into his patients’ eyes when he wasn’t consulting a computer printout of their notes, which he placed on his knees. He confirmed Acland’s name and rank, then asked him what his last memory was.

‘Khetting o’ kh’ khlane.’

‘In England?’

Acland stuck a thumb in the air.

Willis smiled. ‘Right. I think it might be better if I do the talking. We don’t want to make this painful for you ...orfor me. Give me a thumbs-up for yes and a thumbs-down for no. Let’s start with a simple question. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He watched the lieutenant’s thumb shoot up.

‘Good. Do you know what happened to you?’

Acland jabbed repeatedly towards the floor.

The man nodded. ‘Then we’ll take this slowly. Do you remember arriving in Iraq? No. Do you remember anything about Iraq?’ Repeated downward jabs of the thumb. ‘Nothing at all? Your base? Your command? Your squad?’

Acland shook his head.

‘Right. Well, I can only go by the medical and regimental reports that came with you, and the newspaper coverage that I’ve just taken off the net, but I’ll tell you as much as I know. If there’s anything you want repeated, raise your hand.’

Acland learned that he’d spent eight weeks attached to one of the UK military bases near Basra. He had taken command of a four-Scimitar, twelve-man reconnaissance troop whose task was to search out insurgent crossing points along the Iraq/Iran border. He and his troopers made two recce patrols, each of three weeks’ duration, which were described by his CO as ‘extremely successful’. Following a few days R&R, his troop was then deployed to recce ahead of a convoy on the Baghdad to Basra highway. As commander, Acland was in the lead Scimitar with his two most experienced troopers, Lance Corporals Barry Williams and Doug Hughes. The vehicle had been attacked by an improvised explosive device buried in a roadside culvert. The two lance corporals had died in the explosion, but Acland had been thrown clear. All three men had been recommended for decoration.

Willis turned a piece of paper towards the young lieutenant.

It was a printout of a newspaper article with a banner headline saying: Our Heroes. To the side, under a photograph of him at his passing-out parade, were two portraits of smiling men, posing with their wives and children, over the caption: devastated families mourn brave dads. His own caption read: seriously injured but alive. ‘Do you recognize them, Charles? This –’ he touched a face– ‘is Barry Williams and this is Doug Hughes.’

Acland stared at the pictures, trying to find something he remembered – a feature, a smile – but he might have been looking at strangers for all the recognition he had of them. He suppressed a surge of panic because he’d shared a Scimitar with these men on two extended recce trips and knew how close he must have grown to them. Or should have done. It didn’t make sense that he could forget his men so easily. ‘No.’

Perhaps Willis noticed his concern, because he told him not to worry about it. ‘You took a hell of a knock to the head. It’s not surprising you have holes in your memory. It’s usually just a question of time before things start to return.’

‘Khow khong?’

‘How long? It depends how bad your concussion is. A few days, perhaps. You won’t remember everything all at once . . . We tend to retrieve memory bit by bit, but—’ He broke off as Acland shook his head.

‘Khow khong –’ he pointed to himself – ‘khere?’

‘How long have you been here?’

Acland nodded.

‘About thirty hours. You’re in a hospital on the outskirts of Birmingham. It’s Tuesday, 28 November. The attack happened on Friday and you arrived here early yesterday. You had a CAT scan during the afternoon and an operation this morning to plate the bones in your left cheek and above your left eye.’ Willis smiled. ‘You’re in pretty good shape, all things considered.’

Acland raised his thumb in acknowledgement, but the conversation had done little to allay his fears or his sense of resentment.

How could he forget eight weeks of his life? How could thirty hours have turned into an eternity? Why had the nurse said his wires were crossed?

What was wrong with him?

*

The days that followed were difficult ones. Acland lost count of the number of times he was told he was lucky. Lucky he’d been thrown clear before the vehicle turned over. Lucky the insurgents were too few in number, or too poorly armed, to follow up the attack by shooting him. Lucky the shrapnel hadn’t entered his brain. Lucky he still had the sight of one eye. Lucky the blast hadn’t destroyed his hearing completely. Lucky he was still alive... For whatever reason, he’d been put in a side room away from other patients. Acland suspected it was his mother’s doing – she had a habit of getting her own way – but he didn’t complain. If the choice was between being stared at by his parents or being stared at by every Tom, Dick and Harry who entered the ward, he was better able to tolerate his parents. But he found their constant presence draining. His father was the worst culprit on the ‘lucky’ front. Unable to understand what his son was saying, or too impatient to work it out, he would take up a stance by the window and keep repeating phrases like ‘The gods were smiling on you that day’, ‘Your mother can’t believe how close we came to losing you’, ‘They told us it was touch and go at the beginning’, ‘Damnedest thing I’ve ever come across.’ For the most part Acland pretended to be asleep, because he was bored with playing the ‘thumbs-up’