An old man in a ditch – Part V – Home, James
Posted on March 6th, 2009 by Richard Catto 1,368 views
This is a work of fiction by Richard Catto.
Chapter 2 Who he was
Part V Home, James
True to her word, Tammy collected me the next day at 9am. I said my goodbyes to Angela and I could tell she was sad to see me go. I walked out to the car park with Tammy leading the way.
“That nurse seemed rather fond of you.” Tammy remarked when I got into her car. “Did she?” I asked innocently. Tammy smirked at me, “As if you hadn’t noticed!” Then she leaned over and kissed me, a long lingering kiss. Tammy smiled with satisfaction at the visible effect her kiss had had on me. I lay back wondering what other delights she had in store for me when we got home.
On the way home, Tammy detoured up Soddom’s Hill. I pointed out where I found the old man. “His name was John McKindle”, Tammy informed me, “I got a call from the Coroner’s office this morning. They identified him from his fingerprints. He was a veteran of the First Gulf War. They said they would email me a dossier of his US Army record.”
As soon as I got out of the car, Barry, our German Shepherd, leaped on me, and smothered my face in affectionate licks. Tammy and I both made a fuss of him. We loved dogs. Barry barked joyfully at the return of his master and then trotted over to his shady spot near the front door, where he faithfully stood guard every day. He lapped greedily at his bowl – it was a scorcher of a day, which was welcome after the past week of rainy weather.
I went inside and accessed our gmail account. There was the email Tammy was expecting. I opened it and read Sergeant First Class John McKindle’s US Army dossier. It was a sparse account of his tour of duty in the First Gulf War, August 02 1990 – February 28 1991. He had been honourably discharged.
He had been assigned to lead a platoon in Operation Desert Storm, which was the code name for the ground attack on Iraqi forces to drive them out of Kuwait. McKindle’s platoon had also operated deep into Iraqi territory along the notorious Highway 80 aka Highway of Death, where many Iraqi servicemen were incinerated in their vehicles by US Apache attack helicopters and fighter aircraft along a stretch of road known as The Mile of Death. The dossier indicated March 15 1991 as McKindle’s discharge date and there it ended.
I was intrigued by the mention of the Highway of Death [1] and decided to research it further online. I googled, “Highway of Death” and was confronted by scenes of horror. An Iraqi man burnt to a crisp, his face set in a final grimace of agony as he tried and failed to extricate himself from his doomed vehicle. I read reports [2][3][4] by journalists describing the attacks on retreating Iraqi forces as war crimes. Amazed, I read that US forces had attacked retreating Iraqis on March 02 1991, on coastal Highway 8, two days after the official cessation of hostilities. Had John McKindle been part of American war crimes against Iraqi forces?
Tammy came over to me. “Find anything interesting?” she asked with a smile on her face. I looked up at her, shaken by what I had read. “Plenty” I replied. She handed me a cold can of Coca-Cola. She touched her can to her cheeks and forehead. “Hot isn’t it?” she asked suggestively. “I think I need to lie down and relax.” I said. “Mmm, yes, I agree”, she said huskily, “let’s go and relax together. This stuff can wait till later.”
I got up and followed her into our bedroom. I glanced back at the open front door and saw Barry poke his head around it. I could have sworn he winked at me.
To be continued…
[] Highway of Death
[] War Crimes
[] The Massacre of Withdrawing Soldiers on “The Highway of Death”
[] US vs Iraq – Another ‘Highway Of Death’ Slaughter
Tags: fiction, Short story, writing
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An old man in a ditch – Part IV
Posted on February 16th, 2009 by Richard Catto 1,398 views
This is a short work of fiction by Richard Catto.
I woke up in the late afternoon after a troubled sleep. Tammy was sitting next to my bed when I opened my eyes. “How are you feeling now?” she asked me. “Okay, I guess”, I mumbled. She got up and came over to me and kissed me on my forehead. Then she held my hand in both of hers and looked at me with the concerned expression that lovers have for one another when the other is in pain and in need of support and comfort.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked her. “The hospital called me”, she replied, “a nurse spoke to me and told me some of what has happened.” “Oh yeah, what did they tell you?”, I asked. “The nurse told me that you’d collapsed after hearing that your father had died. I’m very sorry.” “That man”, I choked angrily, “was NOT my father!” I was almost yelling. “What? I don’t understand.” said Tammy.
“I found an old man lying in a ditch this morning. I called for an ambulance but he died. I accompanied the medics back to the County Coroner who decided to hold me while they investigated matters. They took a DNA sample from me, and apparently they deduced that the man who died was my biological father, but they must have made a terrible mistake. I’m going to phone my mother tonight and get this all straightened out.” I told her.
Tammy took a few moments to digest this information. “Do you feel well enough to come home tonight?” she asked. “I feel a bit better now. Let me get up and see if I can walk out of here under my own steam.” I pulled the blanket aside and swung my legs out. They didn’t reach to the ground – hospital beds are high off the ground. I slid down and landed unsteadily on the floor. I took a few wobbly steps forward and then had to grab the bed for support. “I don’t understand this”, I said to Tammy, “did they give me any drugs while I was out? I don’t recall feeling this unsteady earlier.” “Shall I go and ask the nurse?” said Tammy. I nodded and she stepped past me, briefly touching my back in a gesture of affection.
Tammy returned a few moments later with Nurse Angela Weston, who immediately shooed me back into bed. “It’s much too soon for you to be galavanting about.” she scolded me cheerfully. She helped me back into bed. “Was I given anything?” I asked her. “Yes,” she replied, “the doctor prescribed a sedative to calm you down. It will take a few hours to wear off. You can go home tomorrow.”
Tammy kissed me goodbye and said she’d be back in the morning to collect me. I felt like an undelivered parcel, left waiting on the shelf. Angela placed a manilla envelope on the bedstead beside me. “Those are the personal effects of your father.” she told me. I grimaced at the word “father”, but decided to let it go, she was only trying to be helpful. “Thank you.” I said “Can I get something to drink?” “This is not a hotel” replied Angela saucily, “but I’ll get you some water.” She went out.
I glanced at the plain manilla envelope wondering ruefully if I should go through a stranger’s last mortal possessions. However, they might give me some clues as to who he really was, I thought. I decided to empty it out on the bed. I opened the envelope and up ended it. Out tumbled a key, a few scraps of tatty paper with scribblings on them, a book of matches from McLarkey’s bar, a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and a quarter. That was it. That was all this poor man had in the world when he died. A wave of pity swept over me for this man. Deep inside of me a truth echoed: this was only the beginning of the adventure. I had to unravel the mystery of who this man was.
To be continued…
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An old man in a ditch – Part III
Posted on January 31st, 2009 by Richard Catto 1,356 views
This is a short work of fiction by Richard Catto.
Despite my fears, I was not left to rot in jail. Officer Pete and a serving woman came in bearing a tray with sandwiches and coffee on it. She placed a plastic wrapped sandwich and a polysterene cup of hot coffee outside my cell then they left. I reached through and managed, with some difficulty and some spilling of coffee, to retrieve them through the bars. I felt like a monkey in a cage. All I needed was a “do not feed the animals” sign and little children pulling faces and poking sticks at me to complete my zoo experience.
I chewed the tasteless polony sandwich slowly and consumed the harsh jail house coffee brand with some distaste. They must contract to an especially tasteless Jail House caterer because I had never tasted such awful food and coffee before. Even my German Shepherd would have turned its nose up at this filth. Well, not really. Barry would eat anything I tossed at him and then look back up at me with big begging eyes and a wagging tail. I missed him now.
I had just choked back my first half of the polony sandwich and was contemplating whether to eat the second half or save it for later when Officer Pete came back in. He unlocked the cell door and beckoned me out. He did not cuff me.
“Sir, the coroner is releasing you but before you go we have some personal information for you. Please follow me.”
Intrigued, I followed Officer Pete upstairs and down the passage from the Coroner’s office into a small neat office with a comfortable leather couch. “Please wait here, sir.” said Officer Pete and he went out. I sat down on the luxurious leather couch and closed my eyes for a moment. I felt a sense of peace come over me. I opened my eyes and looked up at a short cheerful man who was going bald so that he looked like a monk. Father Patrick O’Neal smiled and said, “Bless you, my son.” I stood up and said, “Hello, Father, what is this all about?”
Father O’Neal waved me back down and sat down beside me on the couch. He said, “I have some rather sad news for you, my son.” He paused waiting for my reaction. “Go on”, I said, dreading what he was about to tell me. Father O’Neal pursed his lips and said, “Did you not know the man you found today in the ditch on Soddom’s Hill?” “No”, I replied, “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” “Ah”, said Father O’Neal, “that makes this a particularly hard bit of news to convey to you then.” He paused again, then looking me in the eye he went on, “It seems that from DNA testing done today, that the man you found and who is now deceased was your father.”
For the second time in one day, I was thunderstruck. The first words out of my mouth were, “But that can’t be! My father is alive and well and living with my mother today!” Father O’Neal said, “The DNA tests were done three times in a row to ensure no mistakes were made. According to the laboratory technicians, there is a 99.999% chance that the man you tried to help today was your biological father.” I felt a little dizzy. The room began to swim, and then turn and then I must have blacked out.
When I came to, the first hazy image I saw appeared to be that of a blonde angel’s face hovering just above mine. She smiled at me, her red lips making a sweet small bow. “Oh, there you are”, she purred. Nurse Angela Weston swept a moistened towel over my face to help revive me. However, I wasn’t ready to face reality yet. I closed my eyes and drifted back off to sleep. I dreamed I was running up Soddom’s Hill and an old homeless man was calling after me, but I didn’t want him to catch me. “I am your father!” he kept calling, and I yelled back, “No, it’s impossible! Get away from me you dirty old man!”
To be continued…
Tags: fiction, Short story, writing
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An old man in a ditch – Part II
Posted on January 31st, 2009 by Richard Catto 1,269 views
This is a short work of fiction by Richard Catto.
The Coroner’s office was small and stuffy. He was a big man with a florid look about him, the kind of man who was always sweating and chewing something. I noticed a spittoon in the corner and shuddered. Everything about this place and this man revolted me.
“Are you the next-of-kin of the deceased?” he asked me. He spoke with a Southern twang. “No, sir, I don’t even know his name.” I replied, hoping that this would all soon be over and he would tell me I could go home.
“And you are the anonymous caller who called this in, this morning?” “Yes, I am.” I replied.
“You said he had been ‘robbed’” he paused. “Yes” I interjected. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” “I’m fairly sure”, I said, “it was difficult to make out what he was saying, to be honest.” “I see. Do you mind if we take a DNA sample from you?”
“A DNA sample!” I exclaimed. “Why would you need that?” “It’s just routine, sir.” He produced a cotton swab and opened his cavernous mouth wide, indicating that I should do the same. I complied. Anything to get this over with. He swabbed the inside of my mouth and then screwed it back into its plastic sheath. “Betsy!” he hollered into the next room, “Can you come get this sample and take it to the lab?” Betsy bustled in with matronly efficiency, shot me a brief sympathetic look, and then bustled right out again with my DNA in her possession.
The Coroner, indicated a chair, and said, “Why don’t you take a seat and tell me what all happened this morning?” I recounted the events methodically and he nodded and scratched on a notepad. “Do you know how he died”, I asked. The Coroner shook his head. “Can I go now?” I asked optimistically. Again he shook his head. He poked his head out the door, “Pete, can you get in here?” A police officer entered the room with cuffs in his hand. “Read him his rights”, the coroner said. “What the hell is going on here!” I demanded to know. Officer Pete, spun me around and pinned me to the wall, “Just stay calm, sir” he warned me, and I relaxed in his grip to show him that I posed him no threat. He cuffed me and mirandized me.
As I was being led away, I asked what I was being charged with. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that.” Officer Pete intoned. I was led downstairs and locked up in a spartan cell surrounded on three sides by thick yellow painted bars. Behind me was a yellow painted brick wall. There were three identical cells all in a row. A corridor ran the length of them, with a dirty scuffed melamine floor, that had dark stains on it which was probably dried blood and vomit and god knows what else. I was the only incarceree.
I put my head in my hands and contemplated the pitiful state of my existence. This morning, I had been free, on my way home to have breakfast after a long night shift at the Internet Cafe where I worked three nights a week. I realised I had not eaten. My stomach growled acidicly. I wondered if I would get anything to eat. There was no-one to ask. I was all alone down here and I did not know when I would see anyone again. I wondered if they would just forget about me and I would just wither away and die alone, cold, hungry and miserable in this wretched cell. “I should have just walked on”, I kept telling myself, “Why did I have to get involved in this?”
To be continued
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An old man in a ditch – Part I
Posted on January 31st, 2009 by Richard Catto 1,291 views
This is a short work of fiction by Richard Catto.
This is a story about an old man I hardly met in a ditch one day.
It all started on a rainy day in August. I was walking up Soddom’s Hill when I saw an old man lying in a ditch. I hesitated for a second, before deciding to take a closer look. I felt a little apprehensive as I contemplated what to do. What if he were dead? I didn’t want to get all caught up in something that had nothing to do with me and would just inconvenience and unnecessarily delay me.
I nudged the old man with my toe, and with enormous relief discovered that he was alive, because he gave a loud grunt. However, ironically, far from my troubles being over, they had only just begun, although I had no idea at the time what lay ahead of me.
The old man did not wake up immediately. From the smell of him I realised he had probably fallen down dead drunk. I was about to walk on, when he groaned deeply. I asked him, “Are you alright, sir?” and received a very incoherent reply. I caught the word “robbed”, which pricked my interest. “Did you say that someone robbed you, sir?”, I asked. “Yes!” came the more affirmative answer.
I decided to call the police and let them deal with the matter. With hindsight, I would never have made that call.
“Hello, is this 911 emergency?”
“Yes, sir”, came the reply, “how can I assist you?”
“I’d like to report that an old man is lying in a ditch on Soddom’s Hill saying that he has been robbed. Can you send someone round to take care of him? I think he might need to go to hospital.”
I ended the call, knowing that they would want to ask me a million and one other questions, none of which I was in the mood to answer. I decided to leave. I had done my bit and I wanted to get on with my life. However, at that point of decision, the old man groaned again and said rather weakly, “help me”.
How could I just walk away from someone who so obviously needed help, I asked myself? “What do you need me to do for you, sir?”, I asked the old man. He just groaned again and slumped back exhausted. I decided to use my initiative and see if I could drag him out of the ditch.
He was heavy and he stunk, that sweet, crisp stench of someone who has not bathed in a very long time. His leathered face told me that he was homeless. I wondered what he could have been robbed of.
I got my arms underneath his armpits and wrinkled my nose against the rankness of his odour. In the distance, I heard a faint siren and wondered if that was the promised help. I began to drag him out of the ditch, but it was slippery from the rain and I made very little progress. I stood up sweating. At the bottom of the hill I caught a flash of red lights and I decided to leave the man and see if it was an ambulance. It was. I stood by the side of the road waiting for them to arrive.
They screeched up and two paramedics alighted freshly from the vehicle.
“Are you the man who called 911 about a man in a ditch, sir?” a beefy medic asked me.
“I am”, I said, “he’s still lying there. I tried to get him out, but he’s too heavy for me.”
The medics tumbled down the short slope and began to examine the man.
After a few minutes, the medics called up, “Sir, did you know this man?” I said, “No. What do you mean by ‘did’?” “Well, I’m afraid, sir, that’s he’s dead.”
I was thunderstruck. Not a few moments ago he had been alive, and now he was dead? “That can’t be”, I said, “he was alive just a few moments ago.” “Sir, he’s not breathing and he has no pulse. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for him now, except transport him to the morgue. You’ll have to come along to make a full report.” declared the medic.
My worst fears had come true. I was now embroiled in the saga of the death of a total stranger. I felt suddenly that my life had spun out of control. Events had overtaken me and I was not sure where this was all leading to. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I obediently climbed in the back of the ambulance with one of the medics and sat back to endure the drive to the County Coroner’s office.
To be continued…
Tags: fiction, Short story, writing
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