"I was wondering about your scars. On your back?" Laila understood boundaries and utterly ignored them. "It's just ..."
The lid of the footlocker closed with a slam and the pilot dipped her head, fingers curling on the surface. Laila considered that, perhaps, she should have kept her mouth closed as the pilot pushed herself to her feet and shifted over to the next footlocker along, kneeling down once again and beginning to rummage inside the belongings of people long dead.
The pilot had closed all the shutters on the windows and had turned out the lights. The only illumination coming from an old hurricane lamp that sat on the floor between the two beds. She had changed into a set of army, or navy, or whatever fatigues, with heavy boots completing the look. It kind of suited her, the sleeves rolled up to precise positions, each roll the exact same length as the other.
Laila looked at the bed it seemed she was to sleep on and saw a set of those fatigues laid out for her, folded and ready. Several pairs of boots sat on the floor and she could tell the pilot had found a number of different sizes for Laila to try. In the oppressive silence after her question, Laila decided to get dressed, grimacing at the musty, dusty smell of the clothes, but they were better than the ruined ones, at the moment. In the morning, when they returned to the beach, she would see if the plane hadn't blown up in the night and try and retrieve something decent from her luggage.
A tin cup rattled onto the table between the beds, followed by another and the pilot held up a bottle of bourbon, waggling it. A note attached by a piece of string dangled from the neck, reading 'For the end'. Ominous message aside, she could use a drink. Or several. She nodded, thankful that the pilot hadn't throttled her for being so direct and intrusive, and the pilot cracked the seal, taking out the cork, and poured a large amount of alcohol in each cup before flopping onto her pristine bed, looking to the roof and cradling her cup.
"It was in Helmand." The sudden break in the silence almost made Laila draw her fingers back from the cup left for her. "An IED."
"Helmand. Right." She took a sip of the bourbon and almost choked. Alcohol from the days of yore was strong. "I think I might have performed there."
"No. You haven't." The pilot took a long sip and didn't seem to notice the sharp taste. "It's in Afghanistan."
"Right. Right." That sounded somewhere abroad. She might have performed there, the pilot didn't know. Neither did Laila, but it was possible. She'd had several world tours. "What's an 'IED'?"
"A bomb. Hidden at the roadside. We were heading back to base and stopped because we saw something suspicious. The Gunny, gunnery sergeant, went to check it out, but it was fake. The real one ... it ..." The pilot sniffed, knocking back the rest of her cup and reached over to fill it before continuing. "You see, 'Don't ask, don't tell' had ended years ago, but it was still frowned on to fraternise in your own squad, but she ... she ..."
Laila started to realise she had stirred up feelings that were still far too raw for the pilot. She didn't know what this 'Don't ask, don't tell' thing was, but it seemed obvious the pilot had some kind of relationship she wasn't supposed to. The pilot downed her second drink, rubbing her finger under her nose before reaching over again, and Laila had only had a sip. She took another, just to feel included, and grimaced again.
"I'm sorry. It's alright. You don't have to tell me anything." Laila drew her legs up to her chin and paid good consideration to attempting another sip. "I was just being nosy. Forget I ..."
"No. It's fine. You see, she was the first woman I ever loved. Had crushes, you know, but not love. And she was it. Had it all. And then this ... this bomb ..." She looked at Laila then and the glistening of tears became obvious in the flickering light of the lamp. "She saw it first and gave the duck and cover, but it was too late. She stepped in front of me, shielded most of me but, like you saw, some shrapnel got by. I finished my service, got shipped out on medical, bought a plane, learned to fly, in that order, ended up here. End of story."
"What was her name?" Laila lifted the cup to her lips only to find the cup empty. She leaned over, but the pilot reached the bottle first, pouring more into Laila's cup and then her own again.
"Jeanie. I used to say 'I dream of Jeanie'. The show?" The pilot screwed up her forehead at Laila's blank look and shrugged. "Anyway. That was her name. That was what I called her. Jeanie."
Laila waited, but it seemed that was all the pilot was ready to say, which, admittedly, was a lot more than she had expected, and far more personal, too. She had expected, she didn't know, something less sad. A motorcycle accident, or maybe the pilot had done something dumb as a kid, but bombs? The pilot was a veteran, that seemed clear. Army, or navy, or those ooh-rah people. The mariners? No, the Marines! Maybe them. She had a tattoo on the bicep of one of those enormous arms, but Laila had paid more attention to the scars. And the pilot's body.
She started to hum, the silence bearing down on her. One of her most popular love songs that had sat at the top of charts for weeks. Everybody loved it. The humming moved into singing and she felt glad that all the screaming and the running and the oil, and the shrieking and this absolutely evil alcoholic drink hadn't ruined her voice. She turned on her side and continued, singing, to the pilot.
And the pilot responded, mirroring Laila, laying on her side and cradling the cup to her chest, head supported by her other hand. Laila locked her eyes with the pilot's and sang only for her. Maybe a little for herself, too. She hoped it would chase away the sadness of the pilot's memories and give them both something to feel good about in a place that had very little of that. When the song came to an end, the silence fell once more.
"That was better than I expected." The pilot nodded, looking impressed, and turned onto her back.
"Pilot?" Laila had already started to move before she really thought about it. "Maria?"
Maria didn't resist as Laila placed a soft kiss upon her lips, lifting up to see if she had made one of the dumbest mistakes of her life. Hitting on someone that had just related the tragic story of their first love. That had to be the single, most improper thing she had done in her entire life, or wasn't even close, but she had wanted to kiss her for some time and now seemed as good a time as any. They both needed it. The closeness, the intimacy. Something to push back against the bleak, oppression of the island.
For a moment, it seemed as though Maria had taken it as badly as Laila thought she would, her body stiffening, a quick shuffle back, sitting upright. A frown as Maria pursed her lips, tasting the bourbon on both of them. Her chest rose and fell and Laila started to think that, maybe, she should scooch back over to her own bed. At least the woman could say something! Anything. Tell her to get lost, or that this wasn't the time. Scream at her. Something!
She didn't expect the tin cup to clatter to the floor as Maria slipped her hand up, across Laila's shoulders, along the line of her neck to curl her fingers into Laila's still oily hair. Not gentle, but not brutal, Maria pulled Laila close and their lips met once again, tongues flickering at each other, excited breaths merging as their kisses became ever more urgent. They parted and frantic fingers began to attack the buttons on each others' army issue, or navy, or whatever, shirts.
This had been simmering from the moment Maria had woken up on the beach. All the bickering, the snapping, the ignoring? That was all foreplay for this moment. Probably not the best time, or place to start something as explosive as this was going to be, but sometimes you simply didn't have a choice. As Maria slipped the shirt from Laila's shoulders, allowing it to gather at her elbows and around her waist, they paused, staring at each other, breaths coming thick and fast.
The howl penetrated the walls of the barracks and Laila almost howled even louder. The rising and falling of the siren once again, choosing that exact moment to spoil everything. She didn't even have time to shrug the shirt back onto her shoulders as the vicious, piercing nose began to rise, burrowing into Laila's head, smothering the sound of the siren that heralded it. Maria, too, clutched at her head, nails digging into her scalp, her mouth wide open, not screaming, only open, and Laila tried it. It did help, but not much.
She wanted to clench her eyes tight, but if she was going to die here, she wanted to die seeing the woman before her. Maybe they weren't destined for more. Maybe it wasn't love and may never be, but they shared something. It might be something profound, or desperate, or even just profound, desperate horniness, but it was real and it happened and Laila didn't want to forget one second of it. She took a hand from her head and started to reach out for Maria.
Only for Maria to start to flicker, to wobble as though looking at her in a sideshow hall of mirrors. Maria, the blankets on the beds, the hurricane lamp, they all began to fade and then come back, fade and come back, but each time they faded, they faded for longer. Laila tried to keep reaching for Maria, but the pain became too strong, feeling as though her entire head were about to explode. The last thing she saw before she could do nothing but close her eyes and scream was Maria mouthing something. 'Don't' something? 'Don't' ... the pain was too much! 'Don't' ... 'move'! Don't move! As though she even could.
She could feel pain in her eyes from clenching them too tight, but that was the only pain she could feel. The constant throb in her shoulder, notwithstanding, but she had, after a fashion, become kind of used to that. The sound had gone and because she had clamped her eyes so tight, she could see kaleidoscope colours and shapes passing in front of her eyelids. The sound had gone, but Maria hadn't said anything. Perhaps she waited for Laila to start. Whoever talked first, it looked like the moment had passed for them to get sleazy together.
"Sarge!" That was not Maria's voice. It was male, for a start, and behind her. "Sergeant! It's happened again!"
Laila didn't want to open her eyes now because, from the sound of it, things had become even more weird than they were before. She heard whispers coming from all around her. Male whispers. Interested whispers. Laughter, taut and nervous, but laughter and Laila couldn't begin to believe that she looked laughable, no matter how much oil she had in her hair. It was probably a good idea that she opened her eyes, if only to make sure Maria was still there and only silent because she, too, didn't want what sounded was happening was happening. The sound of booted feet pounding on smoothed out concrete came to her ears.
"Well I'll be good god damned!" Another male voice, the exclamation coming in a whisper, then the following words at a bellow. "Atten-hut! About face, you filthy rats! Show some god-damned decency!"
The sound of a whole bunch of boots slamming down onto that very same concrete floor, scraping and slamming once again. Now she didn't want to open her eyes because she had a good idea why this 'sergeant' had called the others around her 'filthy'. She reached out before her, but touched nothing but an empty space and then, reluctantly, began to open her eyes.
Maria wasn't there. It wasn't nighttime and the hurricane lamp did not sit at the side of the bed. She saw no bottle of bourbon on the table. It was very clearly daytime. The wall behind the bed looked almost as though someone had painted it that putrid, pale green colour recently and, yes, she glanced down at herself. She was sitting here with that shirt gathered around her waist.
"Oh, god." She shrugged the shirt back up over her shoulders and began to fasten the buttons as fast as her fingers could move before glancing over her shoulder. "Oh, god!"
She was surrounded. A semi-circle of men, all in fatigues, all standing so straight they looked as though they were going to pull a muscle, all with their backs to her. All except one man. A brutish looking man with a cigar rolling around between his teeth, an impressive moustache and a look that told her he was about to tell her to do something and she had better do it.
"Right this way, ma'am." The man looked down as Laila stepped off the bed and then, very deliberately looked up, hands moving behind his back. "And you might feel the need to fasten your pants, ma'am."