Look at this then: I jump out of my chair screaming because a weather computer application, that now includes sound, thunders? It just happened. I say again this is what war does to a man. Always on edge like those tiny, furry animals in the jungle–the ones with huge eyes.
I checked in the mirror to see if my eyes were getting bigger, was fur growing on my back? Evolving backwards.
Sometimes I wake up screaming, ‘tanks! tanks!’ My wife groans, she says to me, ‘stop blaming your sexual problems on combat, it’s got nothing to do with it.’ Then she goes back to sleep. I fall into a fitful sleep and then it starts again, the ‘ironing.’ That’s what the Russians called the training whereby recruits would have to hunker down in a trench whilst tanks rolled over their heads.
In the dream I’m crawling along a trench and want to run away but armed, bikini-clad Russian women block the way, looking down on me and telling me I’m no good for Mother Russia.
One time I woke up and found myself nude, pyjamas gone, I know not where, and I had Russian tank boots on my feet.
My wife leaves for work. As she closes the door she says, ‘watch out for those tanks honey!’
In anguish I roar, ‘you don’t know what it’s like to be under artillery fire bitch!’
Then she laughs. ‘Bang, bang,’ she tells me. Then I hear the door slam. She beeps the horn twice, mocking.
I pull the covers over my head, shaking, weeping.