Never Forget

Caboolture, Queensland Australia

MAX CAMPBELL CATERING CORPS 3rd Tank Battalion

Caboolture, Queensland Australia

My battalion is posted in Caboolture, Queensland and the cricket match in play commenced three hours ago. My team, the 3rd Tank Battalion, fielded first and now chase a run total of 170 runs. Wielding the bat for just under an hour, my run score is slowly gathering momentum. At last I have a batting partner who looks like they intend to stick around for a while.

The bowler, a gentleman by the name of Geoff, has delivered the last couple of overs and the ball has lost it shine. He has the reputation as a medium pace bowler but on the odd occasion can mix things up by delivering an unpredictable ball of greater speed. I note that Geoff's run up is longer than usual and adjust my stance. The ball weaves in a drunken state down the pitch, its pace and unpredictability a treacherous weapon. I steady myself, watching the red blur skid across the seam lifting in front of me. I step forward and tap it up over the slips towards the outfield. My partner takes off for the opposite end, for what should be a safe three runs. The outer fieldsman slides onto his hip, cutting off the ball's journey to the boundary. Once fielded, the ball is catapulted back towards the stumps. It is a wild throw that quivers through the air, bounces away from the stumps finding a gap and rolls quickly, taunting the two in chase.

Without a second's hesitation my partner turns and runs again. Realising that there isn't really a run in the overthrow I curse my mate. I suspect it is his fear of facing Geoff, rather than his high regard for my batting a skill that has him avoiding the striker's end. Hearing the ball whistle Dixie in my ear, it is a race between runner and the ball. Stretching the bat out in front, I missile myself parallel to the pitch. The bat is safely planted only milliseconds before the ball hits the outer stump sending the bails tumbling end over end into the air. On impact with the ground, the stinging numbness sends pulsating shocks up my arm. Oh hell, I grimace staring at my throbbing right index finger that is pointing perpendicular to its comrades. It is already dressed in a deepening purple bruise.

*********

I sit on the side of the hospital bed, nursing my injured hand. The drawls of American accents intertwine with the nasal Aussie twang. After the game and a few cleansing ales I was dropped at the American hospital base, Southport. The drug administered to numb the pain is taking effect. It is quite strange looking at a deformed finger, bursting with purple swelling without feeling discomfort. The doctor comes in, grasps the offending finger, and pulls moving it into its correct position. His bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. His lofty, silent treatment confirms my belief that the yanks are a nation built arrogance. My closed eyelids having shielded me from my squeamishness open to the accompanying popping sound.

"Aw, I'm so tough I didn't feel a thing," I say winking at the Australian nurse.

The nurse is around my age. She is on the shorter side and has the best hips and thighs I have ever seen. Many chaps would scoff at my preference for wider hips. However, I stand by my choice on the presumption that sturdy foundations are needed for a big heart.

"I saw you squeezing your eyes shut in fright. Just like a little boy. I bet you wanted your mummy to hold your hand!"

Her words are delivered in such a blasé way that I am wondering if she is having a lend of me or is downright nasty. Turning her head to reach for the medical tape, I am intrigued by her portrait. 'Agnes'- I know her name because it's on her name badge, has a round face, straight nose and a prominent chin. After her hips and legs, I think that Agnes' almond shape, hazel eyes are her next best feature.

"What's your name love?" I ask knowing full well what the answer will be.

Agnes stops what she is doing and flashes her name tag which is at eye level in my face.