Pink Mist - Hardcover

Sheers, Owen

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0385541740 ISBN 13: 9780385541749

Publisher: Nan A. Talese, 2017

Synopsis

From the author of I Saw a Man comes a powerful drama in verse that captures both the trauma of modern warfare and the difficulty of transitioning back to normal life after combat.

In early 2008, three young friends from Bristol decide to join the army and are deployed to the conflict in Afghanistan. Within a short space of time the three men return to the women in their lives—a wife, a mother, a girlfriend—all of whom must now share the psychological and physical aftershocks of military service. Written from the points of view of each soldier, Sheers explores not only their experiences in the field of battle, but also the grueling process of recovery following a debilitating injury, the strain of PTSD on a new marriage, and the emotional toll of survivor's guilt among soldiers and their loved ones at home.
     Drawing on interviews with soldiers and their families, Pink Mist illuminates the enduring human cost of war and its all too often devastating effect upon the young lives pulled into its orbit. A work of great dramatic power, documentary integrity, and emotional intensity.

About this title

About the Author:

OWEN SHEERS is a poet, author and playwright. His first novel, Resistance, was translated into ten languages and adapted into a film. The Dust Diaries, his Zimbabwean nonfiction narrative, won the Wales Book of the Year Award. His awards for poetry and drama include the Somerset Maugham Award for Skirrid Hill, the Hay Festival Medal for Poetry and Wales Book of the Year Award for Pink Mist, and the Amnesty International Freedom of Expression Award for his play The Two Worlds of Charlie F. His most recent novel is I Saw a Man. He lives in Wales with his wife and daughter. He has been a New York Public Library Cullman Fellow and is currently Professor in Creativity at Swansea University.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

1 After Before

 

 

The sound of wind on a high hill

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Three boys went to Catterick.

 

 

It was January,

 

snow pitchen on the Severn,

 

turning the brown mud white,

 

fishermen blowing on their fingerless gloves,

 

the current pulling their fishing lines tight.

 

That’s how it was the morning when

 

the three of us did what boys always have

 

And left our homes for war.

 

 

Cos that’s what we did, for sure,

 

make no mistake.

 

Not going someplace but leaving somewhere.

 

Getting out, moving on, away from here.

 

The three of us—Hads, Taff and me,

 

boarding the train that day,

 

a suitcase each and a couple of cans,

 

nervous drags when we changed at Darlington,

 

those fags going down

 

quicker than a cider in summer.

 

 

Three boys, going to Catterick for basic.

 

New recruits, crows they called us,

 

the beastings and learnings and drills all ahead of us.

 

But already there.

 

Three boys. Yeah, we might have thought ourselves men,

 

but we weren’t, not yet, not then.

 

Just three friends who’d once linked arms at school

 

when I was nine, Hads was seven and Taff just eight.

 

Touring the yard, a chain of three, chanting like fools,

 

Who wants to play war?

 

Who wants to play war?

 

 

Jump cut to ten years later and the answer was us,

 

we did.

 

The game became our way you see—

 

out, on, off. So yeah, we did.

 

Three boys, like I said, not men, leaving for Catterick.

 

Friend us on Facebook and you’ll soon see

 

how quick our profile shots scroll back

 

from battledress to uniform,

 

from webbing to sports bag,

 

from ration pack to lunch box,

 

from out there to back here.

 

 

But we’re not scrolling back, not yet anyway.

 

So three boys then, waiting for the bus at Darlington.

 

Smoke and winter breaths in the air,

 

eyeing the other lads, as pale and edgy as us.

 

None of them looked up to much, but then neither did we.

 

None of us looked like squaddies or riflemen.

 

But it was all there, inside us, waiting to happen.

 

We didn’t know it but we were already history.

 

And history’s what we’ve become.

 

Not the kind that’s recorded or sung, perhaps,

 

but history still. Our own, histories of one.

 

 

And look how far we’ve come. Full circle.

 

Back where we left from—Bristol.

 

Bonfire night, and all of us hiding like dogs

 

from the whizz-bangs, the bright and sparkly fun.

 

 

From up here I can see it all.

 

The rockets going up from Clevedon,

 

dropping their lights like lumies,

 

then soft popping ones, rising then falling

 

down in the city on George the Fifth Fields.

 

A crowd of orange faces round the fire and the guy,

 

burning.

 

Burning.

 

 

Can’t go there. Or there. So better stay here.

 

Up on Dundry Hill, under the transmitter.

 

Under the clear night sky,

 

the last of the planes coming in to land.

 

Stars coming out. House windows turning on.

 

Street lights.

 

Always a light in the dark.

 

Even for Hads down there in the Shire,

 

sitting on his mum’s sofa, trousers rolled, curtains drawn,

 

cast in the aquarium light of the screen

 

as he plays Operation Afghan

 

to drown out the sound

 

of the kids on the street mucking around

 

with bangers and whistles, or anything else

 

that might make him jump, start or shit hisself.

 

 

Look at him, scoring the points, dropping them down,

 

reloading his mag.

 

Taking the role, tonight, of a Navy SEAL,

 

doing on that sofa what we all did, once, for real.

 

 

Where’s Taff?

 

Not in the West, that’s for sure.

 

Not in the Shire or out Severn Beach where I used to live.

 

Not with Lisa either, or with Tom his five-year-old kid.

 

No, they’ll be out Clevedon, or down on the fields,

 

taking part in the family fun.

 

But not Taff.

 

He’s deep in the centre, taking cover,

 

mashing hisself on dubstep in the Tunnels,

 

dancing alone in the crowd,

 

feeling the bass vibrate in his ribs,

 

dropping down pills to mix with his meds.

 

 

He’s painen, I can tell.

 

But there’s no way he’ll surface tonight.

 

Not with those rockets and fireworks

 

and all them kids oohing and ahhing,

 

and him, wanting to duck at every one,

 

go firm, get on the buckle.

 

No, Taff’ll see the night through down there

 

deep in the Tunnels, filling his ears

 

with Forsaken, Headhunter and Pinch.

 

He knows he can’t risk them, the rockets or the drink.

 

That if he lets ’em, they’ll both take a mile off him,

 

never an inch.

 

 

So how’d we get here then?

 

How’d we close this circle so fast?

 

If you’ll listen I’ll tell you.

 

Cos it was me what got us boarding that train,

 

what got us leaving not going.

 

Yeah, it was me who said three boys should go to Catterick,

 

with snow pitchen on the Severn,

 

fishermen blowing on their gloves.

 

My idea, my plan, to link our arms again,

 

to go on a tour.

 

To answer the chant of our school days with us,

 

us, we want to play war.

 

 

So let’s talk about before,

 

about why I chose the rank and file.

 

It was January, like I said, 2008,

 

and I’d been thinking about it for a while.

 

Every time I came down Colston Avenue

 

I’d stop at the Army Information Centre,

 

pause at its window, read the ads,

 

the jobs, what they said you could do—

 

JTAC, Infantry, Driver,

 

Cook, Intelligence, Engineer.

 

Raise your sights the brochure said.

 

And one night, I did.

 

 

We’d been out on the piss and were going for a kebab

 

when some scutler of Hads’ stopped in her tracks,

 

bent double and flashing her tramp-stamp,

 

chucked up her guts.

 

While we waited for her and her mates,

 

I read that line again—

 

Raise your sights.

 

When I did, I saw my own face,

 

my ghosted head, right where the picture of a soldier’s was,

 

so now his beret, his uniform, his whole rig was on me,

 

and I was him.

 

 

There were other ghosts too, reflected in that glass,

 

but they were from my present, not my future or my past.

 

A Friday-night crowd mashed on cider and pills,

 

blowing their packets on a night of forgetting,

 

of pulling and shots.

 

An ambulance, paramedics.

 

A drifting litter of boxes and cans,

 

girls more flesh than dress.

 

And I didn’t want any of it.

 

The same big night in the same small town,

 

the Friday carrot at the end of the stick.

 

I wanted something else—him.

 

The man looking back at me,

 

the one with the uniform, the gun.

 

The one going somewhere, getting something done.

 

 

The next day I walked.

 

I was shacked up with Gwen in St. Paul’s back then

 

so I told her I’d be back for lunch, then left,

 

early morning.

 

 

GWEN

 

But you didn’t come back did you?

 

That was the day I lost you. I see that now.

 

I should have held on to you,

 

pulled you back into bed.

 

If only I could’ve seen inside your head.

 

 

ARTHUR

 

But you can’t, can you, babe? That’s a private place,

 

and right then, I didn’t need you, I needed space.

 

But I did come back. I did.

 

 

GWEN

 

No you didn’t. Not Arthur anyhow.

 

Some other bloke, perhaps. But not my man.

 

You was always leaving, always,

 

from that day on.

 

Where did you go anyway?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Out to the bridge, at first.

 

 

GWEN

 

What, to—?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

—No! I had you. And Mum.

 

I was going the other way. I was looking for a life,

 

not to take one.

 

And anyway, I’d never do it there.

 

 

GWEN

 

Why? Too common for you?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

No. Just . . .

 

I saw a man once, who—

 

 

GWEN

 

—You never told me.

 

 

ARTHUR

 

I never told no one. Not even Mum.

 

I was only twelve, thirteen.

 

It were early on, mist in the gorge.

 

I was cycling over to Ashton, the golf course,

 

to look for lost balls in the rough, when—

 

 

He was standing at the edge, smoking a fag,

 

just past the Samaritans sign.

 

Looking straight out he was, at the dawn,

 

but I reckon he heard me,

 

cos he turned then, see. Turned and looked right at me.

 

 

GWEN

 

How old was he?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Older, to me I mean. But young now I guess.

 

Our age about. Twenty-two, twenty-three.

 

He was calm.

 

Just looked at me, took one long drag,

 

stubbed it out, then—

 

 

GWEN

 

He jumped?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

No.

 

Well, yeah, he did. But more like flew.

 

Ran a few steps then launched hisself over.

 

Chest out, arms wide.

 

A perfect ten-out-of-ten high-board dive.

 

 

I didn’t stop. Didn’t want to see.

 

But when I got the other side—well, I cried.

 

His eyes. They stayed with me for years.

 

 

GWEN

 

Why you tellin’ me this now, Arthur?

 

Why only now?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Cos I thought of him again that day,

 

when I walked on to the bridge.

 

How he’d flown like that.

 

I didn’t want to follow him,

 

but I did want something in his dive.

 

In how he’d done it.

 

That’s all I can say.

 

 

GWEN

 

And that’s when you made up your mind?

 

Because of some bloody jumper?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

No, that was later, up at the church.

 

But it wasn’t me who made the call.

 

It was the water,

 

I let the water tell me what to do.

 

 

GWEN

 

Water? What you talking about, Arthur?

 

All I know is when you came back,

 

your mind was set.

 

You were joining—The Rifles,

 

you told me straight out.

 

 

ARTHUR

 

The water in the pendulum.

 

You’ve seen it. You went there with Lisa and Tom.

 

Taff told me. She wrote him a bluey about it.

 

 

GWEN

 

That thing in St. Mary’s? On the wall?

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Yeah, that’s the one. It, not me, made the call.

 

Still don’t know how I found myself there, but I did.

 

Staring at it, the church empty.

 

A long hollow pipe across the beam of a cross

 

with water pumped in to make it swing left or right

 

depending on which way the water is lost.

 

As good a way as any, that’s what I thought.

 

So I waited till it swung, then came back into line,

 

then said to myself “Left’s the army, to the right’s not.”

 

 

I swear, the water took longer that time.

 

I watched the tips of the steel beam waver,

 

dip, lift, like it was taking a breath,

 

before the water filled to a tipping point,

 

and the pendulum fell.

 

To the left.

 

 

And that was it. Didn’t wait.

 

Just walked straight back out.

 

You know the rest.

 

 

GWEN

 

Yeah, I do.

 

But I still don’t know why, just the what.

 

 

ARTHUR

 

Think of where we were, Gwen. What we’d got.

 

 

GWEN

About this edition

• Publisher: Nan A. Talese
• Publication date: 2017
• ISBN 10: 0385541740
• ISBN 13: 9780385541749
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 112