Oh my ****ing God. This one hurts.
My fondest memories with both of these guys go back to the war.
Heh. I remember getting split from my unit on a recce into Rotterdam. The high command had told us that the Dutch were in control of the city. Boy weren't they wrong, Jane? It was casual, my saunter through the streets. You might think me naive, Comic Chick, but I wasn't expecting a ****ing gunfight, was I? No I was not, Sawyer. It doesn't prepare you. The constant fighting. You never get used to the sound of gunshots. Every damn time that first one whizzes past you and cracks the concrete behind you, well, you **** your pants Aziz. ****, my walk wasn't so casual after that, Flickchick. I ran as fast as I could before my knees buckled completely. I just about made it through a heavy wooden gate before my face hit the ground in that little courtyard. Well, C. Lee, I looked up to see dozens of Dutch soldiers staring back at me. And boy were they incensed. "Krijg de kolere!" I'll never forget those words. Fired at me more than the Nazi bullets.
I tried to reason with them, but my dulcet Irish tones did nothing to stifle their anger. Besides, they were right. I had just given away their position, Krypton. But then he appeared. Greens. Imagine a friendlier Hugo Stiglitz-type mother****er. He shushed his comrades, knelt before me and offered me his hand. It was a simple gesture, but for a 16 year old boy who'd never experienced aout but the fields of Derry, it meant everything. He fed me some Nieuwe Haring and gave me a bottle of Fanta Cassis, all while ordering his brethren to prepare for the inevitable German onslaught. I wish I could tell you, Hunter Rider, that I was brave during that battle. I wish I could tell you I fought alongside daddy Greens but I didn't. I was scared. I pissed in my pants and stood in the corner as I watched the Dutchmen fall one by one. The last thing I saw before I made my escape? Well, Greens pulled the pin on that 'nade and told me to run. I didn't even ****ing look back when I heard the explosion.
"And as for Roose?" I hear you ask. Ha. Roose, you son of a *****. I'd been in Burma, oh let's say days. I was one of a select few chosen to be dropped in behind enemy lines and take the Japanese up the arse, like many a movie Reek has told me about. My God, jane, the horrors I saw. A few hours into my excursion, I was hiding in a bush when a Japanese patrol walked past. One of them, I'll never forget his face, this old ****er, stops at the back of his unit and walks over to my bush. I slowly, and quietly as possible, draw my knife from my boot and get ready. The ****er reaches for his waist and fiddles with something. It's a gun. I know it is. Nope, he takes out his mister and pisses in the bush. ON ME! He finishes up, wiggles a few times for good measure, and rejoins his unit. But he knew I was there, Narcissus. He ****ing sent a message.
It was when they killed my best friend, Jonny, a manc, that I finally broke. They skewered him mere metres from my position and I couldn't take it. I screamed and I ****ing ran. I headed for the trees, C. Lee. Realistically, where else could I go? I could hear them behind me. Hooterin' and a-hollerin, ya-hooin' at the thought of fresh meat. I ran for what felt like an eternity when I felt an arm wrap 'round my neck and hook me to the ground. The meaty hand held my tongue 'til I watched my would-be tormentors pass and slip over the horizon. Finally he freed me.
I looked up at my champion. He was built with the glamour of an American, with all the ruggedness of a Canadian, yet the subtlety of a Brit. Australian. Of course. He introduced himself by a different name. I can't remember it now, CC, but I grew to know him as Sext. "You 'im?" he asked me. I didn't answer. I'd heard awful stories about the Aussies if you got on their wrong side. He laughed. "Guess not." He handed me a tin of VB and a snag from Bunnings. "You're Australian?" "****in' oath, ****."
I spent eight more years in the jungle with Sext. Occassionally we'd head into Myanmar and ****e the city, but mainly we kept to ourselves in the jungle. He told me about his daughter, Fish, and I promised I'd marry her one day and rear his grandchilder. I still think it broke him, the day I left the jungle. Not that he'd ever admit it, tough son of a *****.
I sit here now, with Corduroy, my son, and Sext's grand-son, on my lap as I type this. Fish sits in the corner reading a magazine about croquette. They don't know that I can contact Sext via the internet. They don't know because I haven't told them. And I never will. Because I know, he's on his own now and any contact would only serve to further break an already broken man.
You've hurt me with this one, Jane. Both of these men, these great men, saved my life and moulded me into the fan of spiderman blogs I am today. My vote has to go to Roose because, really, how can I tell that is the real Greens? How do I know he survived the explosion? How do I know this isn't Guts masquerading as a man better than he?
