Crying in the Rain

Warning: This short story is about the repatriation of a fallen service member and may contain triggers, such as Grief, Loss of a loved one, War, etc. Please be aware of this.

The C-17 Globemaster is the large cargo plane used by 99 Squadron Royal Air Force (RAF).

The RBL is the Royal British Legion, an organisation dedicated to the assistance and support of veterans.

"For fuck's sake!" I raged inwardly as I stood on the tarmac at Brize Norton, waiting for the C-17 to taxi in, watching the guard of honour standing at ease in the rain. "I'm 26, I'm a Captain in the Adjutant General's Corps, I'm 4 months pregnant and I'm a fucking war widow!"

The Guard Commander called the guard to attention and gave the cautionary order: "Guard of Honour will prepare to remove headdress!" She paused to let them get a firm grip on their caps and barked, "Remove... headdress!" Their arms snapped smartly to their sides, holding their caps. I had done the same, as had every other uniform on the tarmac. I could feel the rain soaking through my uniform onto my shoulders as I tucked my cap under my left arm, remaining at attention.

"Pallbearers... quick MARCH!" I hated the young lieutenant; she wasn't waiting for someone on that plane. Then, I realised that she and many others had to do this day in, day out, letting others' grief wash over them, desperately trying to maintain their stoicism close to so much anguish. I could feel the tears beginning, grateful that the rain was also trickling down my face.

The coffins, shrouded in the Union Flag, started to emerge from the cargo plane's drab interior. The pallbearers shouldered their grim burdens and Slow Marched towards the waiting hearses. I blinked to try to clear my eyes. "Which one? Which one?"

Then I saw him. Corporal Danny Robinson, the third member of the Three Musketeers, with Chris and me. We'd all joined the Army together, just another game, just another scrape that three childhood friends dragged each other into, my best friend bar one... no, my best friend now. I sobbed once and clamped my teeth together.

His right arm was in a sling, and the side of his face was covered with a dressing, and as he marched down the ramp, I could see he was limping. The six pallbearers lifted the coffin to their shoulders. I heard Danny give the order to Slow March, and they stepped off. I marched out to meet them, and when Danny saw me, he wheeled to intercept me. We came to a halt facing each other. Tears ran down his face as he said, "Good morning, ma'am. Please excuse me if I don't salute, it's difficult." He glanced at the sling.

"No salute, Corporal, you're bare-headed!" A ghost of a smile touched his lips and vanished.

"Emily, I am so, so sorry. We'll go and get pissed tonight, yeah?"

"Danny, I wish I could..."

"Oh FUCK, Em! Me and my big fucking mouth..." He glanced down at my still-trim belly. "Everything all right?"

"The only damn thing that is. Come on, they won't wait."

He fell in beside me and we marched in quick time to catch up with the coffin, dropping smartly into slow time together as we slotted in behind. "Fuck me, ma'am, you been practicing that?" he whispered.

"Eyes front and fuck off, Corporal!" the black humour, which kept every serviceman more or less sane, bubbled to the surface, even though I was totally broken inside, devastated by grief, my heart smashed into a million pieces.

My eyes drifted to the cap on top of the coffin. The bright red cap of the Royal Military Police that Chris had been so proud of. Ironic that the worst of all of us became a law enforcer. The campaign medals below the cap. The silver oak leaf attached to the Gulf Medal ribbon signifying "Mentioned in Dispatches" for acts of bravery. The white and purple ribbon and silver Military Cross awarded for "exemplary gallantry". "Didn't save my darling Chris from a stray fucking Taliban rocket," I thought bitterly, tears flowing again as Danny and I made our slow way to the line of hearses.

The only thing I remember about that journey to the reception centre was the drive through Brize Norton itself. The villagers bareheaded by the roadside. The RBL Standard Bearers with their standards on the ground. The lines of service personnel standing to attention, saluting as the hearses rolled by.

Thank God for Danny. He steered me through the agonising delays; I just wanted to see my Chris, my hero, my soulmate, for one last time. I was sobbing bitterly, leaning on him, and I must have hurt him when I grabbed his injured arm, as the tears blinded me. He steered me towards the chapels when the Lance-Corporal clerk called: "Next of kin for Sergeant C Taylor."

Walking into the chapel towards the open coffin, I heard the Lance-Corporal with the clipboard say: "Er... Ma'am, ma'am... I think you might be in the wrong place; this is Sergeant Taylor Military Cross..."

From behind, I heard Danny hiss, "No, you fucking idiot, Sergeant Christine Taylor Military Cross is Captain Emily Taylor-Betteridge's wife!"

I wrote this after reading @brokenspokes' wonderful Hard Landing, which deals with the effects of serious injury (both physical and mental) on a repatriated survivor and on all the people who interact with them. I would strongly recommend that you read it!

I also wrote this to see whether I could write something without the long descriptive passages that I like. I aimed for 750 words to get the feel for writing for the competitions, but I need to reduce by 50 -- 70 words.

As always, I welcome all your comments.