The Third Bullet
“Oh God Almighty! Please, no! God Almighty, no!”
Army medic Albert Meakin heard those screams from the man in the distant shell crater across the smoke-filled D-day battlefield. Littered about were the bodies of other medics who had failed to reach him. Shielding his eyes from the bodies, Albert scrambled to the man.
A bullet grazed his calf as he tumbled into the crater. From the ferocity of the man’s screams, Albert expected there to be immense gore, but there was not a scratch on him. However, his eyes were fixed in terror. “Get me out of here! Take me home! Please!” He clutched at Albert’s collar and tried to stand up. As Albert reached to pull him down to safety, a bullet nicked Albert’s helmet.
Albert was dazed, then finding himself being draped over the soldier’s shoulder, he thought that the soldier must be trying to carry him to better cover.
As another bullet hit Albert in the arm he realised that he was being used as a human shield. The pain burned so much he couldn’t focus and the battlefield went dark.
Then he heard a woman’s voice, “Albert, wake up. You’re not there anymore. That was fifty years ago.” The burning of his wounds lessened. But the darkness hardly lightened. It improved only to the familiar darkness, with its tiny corner of light, which had been shrouding him since his stroke two years ago. He turned his head towards a faint touch on his arm.
“Take a sip of water, Albert. Here.”
He felt for the hand that offered the glass, and gulped. It was Emma, the student nurse. She was the only nurse who had let him touch her face at first meeting in the nursing home six months ago. It had felt soft and kind. When he had asked what colour her hair was, she had said, “Sort of dark chestnut this month.”
“It’s too short,” he had laughed then, feeling the back of her collar with his unaffected hand.
Now, he heard her switch on the television. The announcer said that the Channel Tunnel was to be officially opened today.
“I suppose this flashback dream has been caused by you thinking about the channel. We’d better get you washed and dressed quick. The priest will be here soon.”
Later in the visitors’ room which smelt of newly-sprayed air-freshener and polish, the priest’s voice was slow and deep. Albert heard the squeak of the plastic armchair as the priest leant forward.
“Albert, I’ve got to tell you something now. The man you helped on D-day, fifty years ago next month, has died. He was called Councillor William Harling and had always claimed that it was he who saved you. Everyone believed him because he hadn’t a mark on him and you’d been shot three times. But on his deathbed, he wanted me to come to tell you what had really happened. In reaching him you bravely took the first two bullets, but he let you take the third instead of him as you both struggled back. I‘ve spoken to the colonel of your regiment. He wants to award you a special medal during the anniversary commemoration. Will you go?”
Albert was silent, but Emma spoke up. “Go. Don’t worry about whether the home can spare the staff. You owe it to yourself to set the record straight. You took the third bullet as well, the one that was meant for him.”
Later that day she was gossiping to him about the latest incident in the home. She was his favourite, yet he knew she was unpopular with the qualified nurses. He guessed that she worked extra hours, often unpaid, giving patients special treats of foods that they liked but shouldn’t have on health and safety grounds. When her patients made more progress than those of the qualified staff, she was accused of copying their ideas. However, when any of their patients got ill, he had heard those staff blaming her.
“So,” he said, “you do other people’s work for them. They take the glory rather than you when it works, but they blame you if anything goes wrong?”
“Yes. I’m like you. I get the third bullet.”
“Hah! And I would take the third bullet for you, any time!”
On the day of the ceremony, Emma released the chocks from the wheelchair inside the taxi. As it bumped onto the ground, Albert was reminded how the jeeps had thudded over a potholed terrain fifty years ago. To his right someone shouted and a line of rifles fired into the air as Emma wheeled him past. Suddenly into his present darkness shocked the image of that day.
He entered the hall, and more orders were barked as he was pushed up the ramp to the creaky dais.
Someone clutched his lapel, trying to pin something on it.
“Get down!” shouted Albert, his mind back in the battle, trying to stand to drag Harling down below the line of fire. The two men staggered and fell.
Albert awoke, not in his usual bed, but to the smell of antiseptic and the clopping of people’s theatre clogs. He heard mutterings about radiography and surgical lists.
“Ah, Mr Meakin, you’ve come round.” The man’s voice was measured. “My name is Dawkins. I investigate incidents outside the nursing home when people end up here in accident and emergency. You accept that you were taken to the ceremony by Emma Cosgrove, a student nurse. Did you know she was doing this in her own time, completely uninsured?”
Albert shook his head. “I’ll sign to accept responsibility. Don’t blame her.”
The man helped him make his mark on the consent form, but his hand went into spasm as the man took the pen away, leaving the pen top stuck in Albert’s hand. A short cylinder with a pointed end, to Albert it seemed fittingly familiar.
Army medic Albert Meakin heard those screams from the man in the distant shell crater across the smoke-filled D-day battlefield. Littered about were the bodies of other medics who had failed to reach him. Shielding his eyes from the bodies, Albert scrambled to the man.
A bullet grazed his calf as he tumbled into the crater. From the ferocity of the man’s screams, Albert expected there to be immense gore, but there was not a scratch on him. However, his eyes were fixed in terror. “Get me out of here! Take me home! Please!” He clutched at Albert’s collar and tried to stand up. As Albert reached to pull him down to safety, a bullet nicked Albert’s helmet.
Albert was dazed, then finding himself being draped over the soldier’s shoulder, he thought that the soldier must be trying to carry him to better cover.
As another bullet hit Albert in the arm he realised that he was being used as a human shield. The pain burned so much he couldn’t focus and the battlefield went dark.
Then he heard a woman’s voice, “Albert, wake up. You’re not there anymore. That was fifty years ago.” The burning of his wounds lessened. But the darkness hardly lightened. It improved only to the familiar darkness, with its tiny corner of light, which had been shrouding him since his stroke two years ago. He turned his head towards a faint touch on his arm.
“Take a sip of water, Albert. Here.”
He felt for the hand that offered the glass, and gulped. It was Emma, the student nurse. She was the only nurse who had let him touch her face at first meeting in the nursing home six months ago. It had felt soft and kind. When he had asked what colour her hair was, she had said, “Sort of dark chestnut this month.”
“It’s too short,” he had laughed then, feeling the back of her collar with his unaffected hand.
Now, he heard her switch on the television. The announcer said that the Channel Tunnel was to be officially opened today.
“I suppose this flashback dream has been caused by you thinking about the channel. We’d better get you washed and dressed quick. The priest will be here soon.”
Later in the visitors’ room which smelt of newly-sprayed air-freshener and polish, the priest’s voice was slow and deep. Albert heard the squeak of the plastic armchair as the priest leant forward.
“Albert, I’ve got to tell you something now. The man you helped on D-day, fifty years ago next month, has died. He was called Councillor William Harling and had always claimed that it was he who saved you. Everyone believed him because he hadn’t a mark on him and you’d been shot three times. But on his deathbed, he wanted me to come to tell you what had really happened. In reaching him you bravely took the first two bullets, but he let you take the third instead of him as you both struggled back. I‘ve spoken to the colonel of your regiment. He wants to award you a special medal during the anniversary commemoration. Will you go?”
Albert was silent, but Emma spoke up. “Go. Don’t worry about whether the home can spare the staff. You owe it to yourself to set the record straight. You took the third bullet as well, the one that was meant for him.”
Later that day she was gossiping to him about the latest incident in the home. She was his favourite, yet he knew she was unpopular with the qualified nurses. He guessed that she worked extra hours, often unpaid, giving patients special treats of foods that they liked but shouldn’t have on health and safety grounds. When her patients made more progress than those of the qualified staff, she was accused of copying their ideas. However, when any of their patients got ill, he had heard those staff blaming her.
“So,” he said, “you do other people’s work for them. They take the glory rather than you when it works, but they blame you if anything goes wrong?”
“Yes. I’m like you. I get the third bullet.”
“Hah! And I would take the third bullet for you, any time!”
On the day of the ceremony, Emma released the chocks from the wheelchair inside the taxi. As it bumped onto the ground, Albert was reminded how the jeeps had thudded over a potholed terrain fifty years ago. To his right someone shouted and a line of rifles fired into the air as Emma wheeled him past. Suddenly into his present darkness shocked the image of that day.
He entered the hall, and more orders were barked as he was pushed up the ramp to the creaky dais.
Someone clutched his lapel, trying to pin something on it.
“Get down!” shouted Albert, his mind back in the battle, trying to stand to drag Harling down below the line of fire. The two men staggered and fell.
Albert awoke, not in his usual bed, but to the smell of antiseptic and the clopping of people’s theatre clogs. He heard mutterings about radiography and surgical lists.
“Ah, Mr Meakin, you’ve come round.” The man’s voice was measured. “My name is Dawkins. I investigate incidents outside the nursing home when people end up here in accident and emergency. You accept that you were taken to the ceremony by Emma Cosgrove, a student nurse. Did you know she was doing this in her own time, completely uninsured?”
Albert shook his head. “I’ll sign to accept responsibility. Don’t blame her.”
The man helped him make his mark on the consent form, but his hand went into spasm as the man took the pen away, leaving the pen top stuck in Albert’s hand. A short cylinder with a pointed end, to Albert it seemed fittingly familiar.
