The Soldier's Coat

She cowered where she had fallen. Her hands, once flung from her head by the blast, again tightly clasped over her ears as she huddled in the primordial foetal shape to protect the vulnerable parts of her body. The air she tried to breathe was thick with dust and the acrid smoke from the shell that had exploded somewhere close to her. She choked on it. Just for a moment she let go of her head to grab at her dress hoping to use the cloth as a mask, only to find it gone. She opened her eyes and almost stupidly stared at the carnage and destruction around her.

Close to her was the body of the man she was talking to shortly before the shell exploded. Half of his body was lying next to him, grotesquely oozing the remains of what used to be the contents of his bowels. She saw other bodies lying about and whimpered. Fear ground at her mind. She cried. She knew not why. It simply happened to discharge the shock of what had happened. As the numbing shock dissipated she started to sob, and like a hedgehog she pulled herself tighter into the foetal shape she found a minute amount of comfort in.

Outside guns still spat their staccato song of death. Above the racket of battle she heard running feet close by and lifted her head to see a soldier running into the building. He saw her move and turned in her direction, sidestepping the rubble on the floor and the bodies strewn about, his gun at the ready. She closed her eyes tightly, stupidly hoping he would not see her but to her horrified dismay she heard him stop and felt him touch her. His hand closed over her shoulder and gently shook. Raw fear made her whimper. She had heard of, and once saw, the broken body and soul of a woman raped by soldiers. She opened her eyes and they pleaded with him. Tears flowed and her vision became blurred. She took note of his brilliant green eyes but never saw it plead with her to understand.

After that she felt him move against her and then she felt something thrown over her. She faintly heard him moving about in the room and then he shook her by the shoulder again. He spoke to her in the strange language of the soldiers she could understand nothing of but from his actions she got the idea that he wanted her to move. He gently wiped the tears of fear from her eyes and she saw him point in a direction. She tried to get up but immediately she heard him say something sharp and she felt him push her down to the floor.

In panic she looked around to where he was and saw him on all fours, waving his hand to a corner of the room. Shaking with fear she crawled to a heap of curtaining and other materials he seemed to have collected there. Once she got there he made her lay down and she curled up again, protecting what she could while fearing the worst. She felt something heavy fall over her and the smell of him became strong as it covered her face. A combination of dust, sweat, oil, gunsmoke and something different. The smell of him. It was a smell she would never forget.

He grunted and she heard him move something that sounded like furniture towards her. After that she felt the soft bumps as he piled things against her, his breath laboured. Something was shoved into her hand and she apprehensively clutched at it. It was heavy. She shook it and it sloshed. A water canteen, she realised. After a few more bumps she could hear that the sound of fighting outside had become muffled and carefully opened her eyes again. In confusion she cautiously looked around her. Above her she could dimly see the underside of a table. Around her were all kinds of material and cushions ripped from chairs that acted as a soundproofing but it also created a haven. A haven in which she felt warm but more importantly, safe.

With the warmth the shock started to wear off and in its place came pain. She could not really tell where it came from. It seemed to be all over her body. Carefully she felt over herself and found wetness. Sticky wetness which she anxiously thought may be blood. In the semi-darkness she turned her hand to herself. The wetness was dark.... In fairly safe solitude she wept again, feeling herself shiver as she listened to the battle raging outside. She wondered about the soldier. She called out, fearing he was still nearby yet strangely hoping he was but she heard only gunfire answer her soft but plaintive call.

In time it became dark and slowly the fighting outside died down. She wanted to call out for help but not knowing who may answer her call made her keep quiet. She fell asleep and was awakened much later by voices. Her own language. Yet something in what she heard made her keep quiet. With horrified dismay she listened to the men and a woman going through the pockets of those killed in the blast, taking whatever they found of value. Somewhere the discovery of an expensive watch was reason for much merriment and she bit on her fist to remain quiet.

At some stage a torch cast a dim glow into her hideaway and she nearly screamed. She heard footsteps approach and then the floor heaved as a shell exploded somewhere in the building. It was followed by a few more as automatic rifle fire suddenly erupted. She heard men shout and scream. She also heard those close to her run from the building.

Once again she clutched her head to protect her ears and not much later a shell exploded on a floor somewhere above her. The deafening clap drove the air from her lungs and then her hideaway was hit by falling debris. This time she did scream but there was no one there to hear her.

The building took a few more hits and then the fighting quieted down again. For the rest of the night, single searching shots could be heard. Sometimes they were answered by a short flurry of shots but the heavy fighting only started again once the sun had risen high in the sky.

Thirst made her tongue stick to the top of her mouth and she groped around for the bottle. It was difficult to open the tightly screwed down cap but she eventually got it done and thankfully drank. Tears stung her eyes. She had no way of knowing what to do. One of the enemy had found her. He had made her safe. Some of her own had been close during the night. She found them loathsome and had reason to believe they may even have killed her to hide their identities.

War taught her one thing. Life had no value.

Late in the day she heard frenzied voices and calls of dismay. She listened to conversations between those present and at last she felt convinced that they were there to find survivors and also move the bodies of those killed by the fighting.

She called out and wept with relief as she heard her call answered. Soon she heard men grunt as they lifted heavy objects from the table above her. She heard it fall on the floor and felt the vibrations. At last, with a cloud of dust, part of her little hideaway was opened and she looked into the startled eyes of a man. One of her own....

With great care they opened up a big enough opening for her to crawl through and she felt the cold bite into her almost naked body. She saw a man lift the soldier's coat from inside and grabbed at it. He swung it away and she fought him for it. With a very confused look he held it out to her and then helped her into it. Once inside the coat, still warm from her own body inside her safe place, she quickly told them what had happened. The canvas covered water bottle was retrieved and she clutched it to her as they led her outside into the late afternoon sun.

Her grandmother wept with joy when they led her into the house. It too was pockmarked with bullet holes and the windows were smashed by the explosions but inside there was warmth and love. Running water had ceased to exist many weeks ago when the water purification plant was bombed but drinking water in small quantities was available and with careful use, even the odd bath was possible.

Wood from collapsed buildings served to heat food. A small fire under a cooking pot gave enough hot water for her to be carefully washed down to clean her of dust, soot, her own blood that had leaked from a multitude of small wounds and pieces of flesh and other matter that clung to her body. Flesh that once formed part of a man she did not know but saved her life when he happened to be between her and the blast from an exploding shell fired by a heavy gun.

Her skin was burnt. Not badly, thanks to the man who took the brunt of the explosion, but still she had painful lesions that later became infected and turned to festering sores. They left their marks on her skin, just as the war left its mark on her soul.

She never washed the soldier's coat. Every night she would spread it on her bed and sleep while touching it. It always brought comfort. In time the smell faded but her memory of a man she should have feared but who had saved her, never did. She always carried the water canteen with her. There were times she got angry stares and reactions from her people who pointed out that it was from an enemy. These confrontations honed her ability to hold her own against some very aggressive onslaughts and in time she became known as a fire breather to be left alone.

The war ended. People took stock of life and began rebuilding. The politicians who had started the war went to live in luxury in other countries. The generals of the losing country were tried for war crimes while those of the victors were hailed as heroes, the atrocities committed by their orders changed to sound like brilliant tactics.

She became a teacher after the war. With the conviction born from survival she taught with a passion to make children fully understand what she taught and always pushed at them to excel. Every Friday after school, she would walk all the way from the school to the old part of the city where some buildings still stood as mute reminders of the greed of megalomaniac politicians. Buildings that were considered dangerous had been demolished, its rubble used as filling for the new ones going up. Those still standing sometimes had placards put on walls with the names of those who had died in it during the war.

With her first salary she had a photo taken of the soldier's coat and canteen and had it framed and mounted in a metal box made by a friend of hers. A thick piece of glass, salvaged from a destroyed armoured car, protected it from vandals and she mounted it against the wall, in the corner of the room where the soldier hid her away and where she had come so close to death.

Sometimes she went there to look at the picture, softly talking to the man who had saved her, telling him about her life. Sometimes she shared her deep personal secrets with him. Sometimes she poured out her heart when she was sad for some reason. Always her spirit lifted. It became her shrine.

On this Friday she came to the building with a small bouquet of flowers she found blooming next to the road. A piece of string fluttering in the wind caught her attention and she retrieved it. As she walked, she fashioned a loop to tie the flowers together and smilingly hung it around the neck of the water canteen that had become so much a part of her that she felt naked without it.

A man was standing in front of the building, looking up at the skeleton of concrete. She noticed his upright bearing and the way his clothes fitted. He was rather tall and wide in the shoulder. His hair was the golden colour of ripe wheat, shining in the sun. She guessed it would normally be combed in a neat creaseless mop on his head but today it was unruly because of the wind. As she got closer she noticed his facial features. A stranger from another country. Unlike the men of her own people.

She stepped down the small embankment and entered the building. Years ago they scolded her for going in because of the possible danger but these days nobody minded her anymore. The building still stood, years after the war. Years in which she grew from a war damaged teenager to a proud and respected young woman.

The room in which she survived that terrible day was clean. She kept it so to honour those who had died around her that terrible day. She picked up a few pieces of paper that had been blown in and quickly swept the floor with a broom she kept hidden in a small space under the remains of a stairway. As she worked she saw the man come inside as well. He lifted his hand in greeting and she smiled at him, watching him walk around the room. Still sweeping she kept an eye on him. It seemed as if he was searching for something, measuring, calculating.

His behaviour piqued her curiosity and she stopped sweeping to watch him. She saw him walk outside again and then he came inside through an opening where years ago, a door had been. He looked around and he seemed to find his bearings. She saw him start towards her corner, his eyes riveted to the picture she had screwed onto the wall. Leaning on the broom she watched him look around and then he reached up to touch the photo. The finger he ran over the thick glass was almost gentle. A caress even. She also saw just a shadow of a smile pull at his mouth.

He turned fully to her, his forehead deeply furrowed with a question and spoke in the strange language of the soldiers, gesturing at the picture. Like a spring flower, a feint memory that had been tugging at her mind suddenly opened and she sighed out her breath almost in a wail. The broom fell from her hands and as it clattered onto the floor she groped at the water canteen, bringing it to the side of her body. She saw his eyes go to it. She saw the shock of surprise and the bewildered smile that followed it.

With practised ease she unclasped the canteen and handed it to him. She watched him as he turned it in his hand and then his finger traced over the name printed on the canvas cover of the canteen, now dimmed by time. He laughed softly and looked at her with his green eyes glittering as he bent over to her, tracing the name again, right in front of her eyes and then he pointed to himself.

"Marcus," he said, holding his finger under the 'M' on the bottle, just ahead of his surname.

She nodded and smilingly pointed to herself. "Sofia."

Then both spoke at the same time. He told her he had come looking to see if he could find her. She told him how she had survived the attack on the town. She took his hand and led him to the corner, showed him where he had hidden her. She pointed to the photo of his coat and explained that she had put it there. She showed him the scars on her skin where sores had left their mark. She told him she slept with his coat. She told him she was a teacher living with friends since her grandmother's passing but that soon she may be able to find a place of her own, once the new housing buildings were finished.

Still holding on to his hand she led him from the building. With a sweep of her arm she took in the skyline of broken buildings, excitedly telling him about the rebuilding of the town, away from the old. At one point she started to laugh and came to a stop, looking at him from her dark eyes while furiously gesturing and signing. He understood that she found it funny with him listening to her without understanding a single word she said.

He shrugged, nodded, shook his head, pulled a face, pointed at her mouth and used his fingers to show it opening and closing, then touched himself on his chest. She gathered that he loved listening to her but there were a myriad other meanings she could garner from it.

She pointed to him and dropped her head to her hand, wanting to know where he was sleeping.

He made a few turns in the road and then laughingly showed her that he had no idea. She grabbed hold of his hand again and laughingly pulled at him, pointing down the road to indicate that she stayed in that direction. As they walked she pointed to certain objects, naming them. He murdered the words as he tried to pronounce it. Sometimes she smiled. At others she laughed merrily as he kept on trying to get his tongue around strange sounds.

He got his own back by getting her to try words in his own language. She was naughty and deliberately mispronounced some words just to get him to repeat it to her. He caught her out though and aimed a playful slap at her bum. An action that immediately had her in front of him, her fists raised in playful threat as she howled with laughter.

He reached out, grabbed her hands and pulled her to him. As his arms went around her to hold her in an embrace she smelled him. She remembered the lonely night in the building, listening to gunfire outside. She remembered the pain of her burns and cuts. She remembered the cold fear. But above all, she remembered the smell of his coat and the comfort it brought.

Her arms went around his body and she held herself to him, once again experiencing the feeling of safety. She felt the vibration in his chest, knowing he said something she may never know or understand but it was unimportant now. What mattered was that he had come looking for her. With her entire family wiped out during the war, she had nothing left to tie her to her own country.

He had come looking for her. Deep down she knew he would ask. She would follow him to his country.