The paint on the exterior of the tank was chipped, worn from the sheer number of hands that had knocked, the demand for "internet." Robert was baffled by this. He assumed it had to do with the "free wifi" he had written on the side of his tank, but he had no clue. Wifi wan't even a word, after all. At the moment, he was in the outskirts of France, not assigned to the front lines. Hitler was pushed back, a broken leader of a broken nation, using the last vestiges of strength to be a general pain in the ass.
Another knock on the side. Robert sighed. He had sat in silence in the tank, book in hand, waiting for his shift to end so he could return to the barracks. He had plans to visit the whorehouse with his regiment buddies, he hadn't seen Linda since he'd been deployed from the States. He wasn't going to do anything, but he liked knowing the option was there.
The knock returned, freeing Robert from his thoughts. He sat up, climbed the ladder, and opened the hatch. A man, wrapped in a plaid scarf, sporting rather strange glasses, peered up at him.
"You said there's why-fie here?" he asked.
"Sir, I don't know what why-fly is, and I have no intent of learning now," Robert said. The camp surrounding the two men was devoid of Robert's companions, they had all either left, or died in battle.
"I didn't say 'why-fly'. I said 'why-fie'" the man responded. He looks rather queer, Robert thought, queer indeed. The man watched Robert intently, waiting for him to do anything. He didn't.
"Do you have any why-fie?" the man asked again. Robert grimaced.
"I don't have any damn who-fie, or what-fie, or why-fie, that's not a real word and you're not a real man. This is a camp, a place for men, not for little boys like yourself. Go home to your mommy, maybe one day you'll figure out how to hold a weapon."
The man scoffed, and skulked away, holding his device in the air, searching for something. Robert slid down the ladder back to his chair, his post. Kids these days don't understand how tough it used to be, he thought. Suddenly, he heard a crash. He peeked out the hatch again, and the sky was red. Bullets rained down on him, he saw men and women mowed down as they charged towards the Germans, saw planes in the air, saw shrapnel rain down on his best friends and worst enemies. He exited the tank, and ran away. And ran and ran and ran, until now he was running towards enemy lines. He turned, and everywhere was enemy lines, advancing, closer and closer, forcing themselves upon him, beating and bruising him, and as Robert's vision grew black, he felt peaceful.
He woke up in his bed, in the hospital. A young man dressed in scrubs entered, tablet in hand, and looked.
"Good morning Bob, are you feeling any better?" he asked.
Bob blinked. He was back in the tank, accompanied by his crew. Mortars rained around him, his ears rang from the sounds of the battlefield.
He blinked again, and he was sweating, and breathing heavily. The man held his arm.
"Bob, you had another episode. We need to sedate you, do you understand me?"
He shook his head, and he was in the brothel, with a lady of the night. His every instinct screamed to leave, Linda had stayed loyal to you, don't betray her like this, but he wasn't in control of his past.
Back in the hospital, kind eyes of the queer man staring.
Back in the States. His wife screaming. Leaving. Alone. Buddies dead, family abandoned.
Hospital. The doctor standing where Bob had left him. Watching nervously, intently, with that damn tablet of his.
Sitting alone at the table in a coffee shop in London, watching young couples in love taking pictures on their phones, always asking for the why-fie, never noticing his jealous eyes as they tried to warn, to stop, to make them realize the pain they were sentencing themselves to.
"Bob. I'm using the needle now."
Needle. Needling pain. Bullets, firing. Ripping into his arm, his flesh, lying on the field, begging God for mercy but receiving none, abandoning any misguided patriotism, just praying for death, an end to the pain.
Bob, paralyzed, could only move his eyes in a desperate attempt to ward off the medicine, dispel the terrifying memories and dreams he was subjected to in his sleep. But the doctor did not understand. He nodded, and pressed a button, and Bob's eyes felt the weight of the world, and he slept.
The doctor left the room, and checked his phone. The nurse approached him, peeked in the door, and saw Bob in his comatose state.
"Did someone visit to talk to him?" she asked.
The doctor shook his head.
"He's all alone."
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