Belfast Sunset

The men crowded out the front door. A few headed right toward their cars. Most hung around outside. Cook was the last out save for the bartender. He exited once he saw that the bartender was finished securing his money and on his way. He paused just outside the door and turned toward the tavern to make sure no one had been left inside. There he was accosted once more by Major Johnson, who stepped between him and the building. He was obviously not ready to give up. “Lieutenant, this is not over! I’m not going to lie down and let some six-week wonder humiliate me in front of my officers. You think you know something about the Army? Why I was in the Falklands…” The blast was deafening. The concussion shattered the plate glass and slammed anyone within ten meters of the tavern to the ground. The major was propelled forward into Cook, who in turn fell backward with the major on top of him. He felt a sudden sharp pain just above his eye as he went down. For several seconds no one moved. As his confusion faded Cook became aware of a loud ringing in his ears. Through it he could hear someone moaning. He felt the major, on top of him, start to stir, still somewhat disoriented. Cook did not have the luxury of waiting until he came completely to his senses. He pushed the major off and started to rise unsteadily to his feet. As he did, he felt something dribble down his forehead. He flicked it off with his fingers absently as he glanced at the Lion. The building had not collapsed, but the interior was a shambles. There were small fires burning in at least half a dozen places. Most of the light fixtures had blown out, but enough were still on that he could see fairly well. He looked around him. There was glass everywhere from the shattered front windows. Most who had fallen were dazed, just starting to pick themselves up from the ground. There was a man getting up a few meters away. His brass identified him as a first lieutenant. His coat was shredded in several places and his face and head were bleeding. But miraculously, except for the bleeding, he seemed none the worst for the wear. It was the same for most of the others. Only one failed to get up. But though obviously injured, even he was conscious, propped up on one elbow. Below him he heard the major groan and start to rise. Without thinking Cook flicked his fingers again as he felt that sticky sensation once more, just above his eye. “Thomas?” came a woman’s voice behind him. “Thomas? Thomas?” The last was a hysterical cry. Cook spun around to see the waitress, herself apparently unscathed, bending over the bartender who lay face down, motionless on the ground. “Sergeant?” Cook called out. “Sergeant Bradford!” he repeated when he did not get an immediate response. “Here sir,” came a voice from one of the Rovers. “Call the base. Get some ambulances here.” “I’m already on it sir.” “Good man. Do that first. Then call the office. Have them wake up the base commander. And Captain Foster. Then see what you can do with the first aid kits.” Cook turned again toward the bartender. He stepped forward and gently lifted the waitress away from him. “Let me have a look, ma’am.” The waitress, sobbing, nodded and moved back. When Cook looked down, even in the limited light he could see that it was not good. The bartender had barely exited the building when the bomb exploded. He was closest to the blast, and the most severely injured. He had come outside without his coat. His back looked like chopped meat. Cook could distinguish several pieces of glass protruding through his shirt. He started to reach forward to pull one of the larger ones out, then changed his mind. Better to wait for the ambulances rather than risk doing more harm than good. He removed his coat and laid it ever so gently over the fallen man. “Is he alive?” the waitress asked, her voice quivering. Cooked looked down and noted the fact that his jacket was moving in rhythm with the man’s breathing. “Yes,” he answered. “But please don’t touch him. The medics will be here very soon. There’s nothing else you can do.” Cook stood up and looked around again. As did he had to stifle a sudden urge to vomit. Directing a tank cannon onto a target, or even shooting a man from 100 meters seemed more like an exercise in physics and control than killing. This…this carnage, was something else again. He breathed a silent prayer that he would never have to witness anything like it again. If there had been any lingering doubt about resigning his commission, it was now effectively erased. One of the privates, the driver who had brought him, raced up. “All the calls have been made sir. What should we do now?