Fit For Purpose Julian Parrott (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

had just finished uni and was working at the time. I was able to live at home with Tom while he finished his A levels. He was so quiet about everything, wouldn’t let me in. He went off to university and I think he had a good time, but I was never really sure. In his second year he joined the OTC. I think he found something there, in the camaraderie of the military, that became his family.”

Rachel took a drink. She captured and held Nia’s gaze.

“But, his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan forced him to retreat further into himself, I think. He’s been trying to be only in the moment, finding a kind of peace on his bloody boat and losing himself in his earbuds living his life to a soundtrack. Seriously, have you seen his playlists? He even has one ‘songs about food’.”

Nia laughed, “We actually listened to it making breakfast. His including Bob’s Marley’s ‘Jammin’ was inspired.”

Rachel laughed, “You’re not the Nia I thought you were.”

“Good thing?”

“Yes, good thing. Good for Tom. I love my brother and I just want him to find happiness.”

“I want him to be happy too,” said Nia. “I think I can make him happy, but there is the part of him that he won’t let me into.”

“Okay, I know,” Rachel said sceptically. “He hasn’t let anyone in really. He’s only shared bits with me, and I got more information from the army doctors and his old CO. When he was just out of the army, he was having a really bad time, I thought it was nightmares and stuff. Owain knew that the grandfather of a neighbouring farmer had served in World War Two. We thought it would be a good idea to get the old man and Tom together for a chat. Well, it turned out the old farmer had been a para, not only that, he was among the first to land in France on D-Day. They sat together,” she pointed, “There in front of the Aga for hours telling war stories. But then I overheard Tom ask the old man, who was ninety-five, when did his nightmares end and do you know what the old boy said?”

Nia shook her head.

“The old boy said, ‘Never’.”

Rachel noticed the look of concern that clouded Nia’s face.

“I could tell Tom was bothered by it,” Rachel continued. “But after a couple of days mulling things over, he told me that wasn’t his issue. It wasn’t nightmares…”

“Is it PTSD?” Nia asked

Rachel looked down at her hands and then straight into Nia’s eyes, “No. Not really. I think he just reached his capacity for handling tragedy and sadness. He was emotionally spent. He was always a kind and gentle boy, an empath if you will, it just got to be too much for him.”

“Was it the helicopter crash? Did it affect him, more than the physical injuries, I mean?” asked Nia.

“I’m not sure, but it gutted him emotionally as far as his time in the army was concerned, although the leg injury alone would have ended his army career. I think the crash was the straw that broke the camel’s back,” Rachel sighed. “He never really fully recovered from it, if you ask me.”

***

Six years Previously

Tom’s recovery was harder and longer than the doctors thought it would be. Tom’s femur had been shattered and, once the Chinook’s metal had been removed from his leg, new metal in the form of orthopaedic plates and screws had painfully replaced it. His right leg ended up a centimetre or so shorter than his left. There were, also, symptoms of the latest in a series of concussions and he was aware of an ennui that grew on him like moss on a tree. Mobile but limping, he was granted leave and ordered to go home. It was a problematic order as Tom didn’t have much of a home. There was Rachel and Owain at the farm, his own small Manchester house, a beloved classic Mini Cooper, and very little else. Even before he could go ‘home’ he was determined to complete one more important military task.

Tom travelled to Liverpool in full uniform. Departing the railway station, he took a taxi to an unfamiliar address. He found the house he was looking for and knocked on the unfamiliar front door. He heard someone approach from the other side and he instinctively straightened his uniform. The door was opened by a smartly dressed, fit woman in her mid-fifties.

“Mrs Roberts?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Major Tom Price. I wanted to, um, I wanted to let you know that I was with your daughter when she died. I wanted to personally express my condolences to you and your family.”

Mrs Roberts, held his eyes for a moment then with a sigh, “Then, you’d better come in then.”

Mrs Roberts held the door open as Tom stepped over the threshold. She led him into a small vestibule that opened into a nicely appointed sitting room. Over tea and home-made Victoria sandwich cake, Mrs Roberts asked Tom to tell the story of the helicopter crash that took the life of her only child. Tom had recounted the events of the evening numerous times to army intelligence, RAF crash investigators, and families of other dead and wounded. This time, however, his throat tightened and, unbidden, his eyes filled with tears.

“Please, take your time, Major Price.”

When he told Lieutenant Roberts’ mother about her daughter’s last moments he was silently weeping. He felt awful that a grieving mother had to console him. Later, he washed his face in the Roberts’ downstairs bathroom. He used the mirror to straighten his cap, and again smoothed the front of his uniform. He looked at his medal ribbons and felt a phoney. He knew that he was done with this life.

***

London, December 22nd

Nia put the kettle on, enjoying