Day 8: Chapman In Office - Talk If You Need To [O]

[Finley JF Chapman]

Country: Somewhere in North Africa
Time: Sometime in mid-summer, afternoon
Weather: Blazingly bloody hot and clear

For the most part, it looked like any old military storage room. Sure, the crates in the corner had been set up to make a makeshift couch, there was a pillow from Finley's own bunk on top, and a sheet had been laid over for comfort. Beside that crate, there was a canteen and a small, makeshift metal cup, left over from the chocolate milk made days before. Finley was still feeling woozy from his "conversation" with a certain Lieutenant, but otherwise, he was as chipper as chipper could be.

That was why, hanging outside of the door of the storage room he worked in, there was a sign. "CHAPMAN IN OFFICE - TALK IF YOU NEED TO", it read, and as Finley puttered around with sorting spare pots and supplies, he left the door a crack open. In his day, one would have to understand, mental health did not have as many facilities or ethical treatments as it did in the modern day. The specifics of "battle fatigue" were still not well understood, and hey, everybody needed a friend. That was why if anyone needed to talk, to have a shoulder to let all their problems spill on to, Finley had been spreading the word he was available. Granted, some of the men looked at him like he was an unwanted bachelor trying to pick up a date, but Finley didn't care. He just wanted to do some good, and if de-stressing via venting helped keep soldiers from snapping, Finley would let them vent.

He whistled an opera tune as he continued to work, neatly sorting everything and anything. Footsteps padded to and fro past his door, but no one had peeked in - yet.

[Deleted]

The room was nothing but a spinning blur of motion, even when he stood very still and stared at one spot on the wall everything continued moving. It hadn’t been more then an hour since that dreaded slip of paper arrived, something so simple and common, but the words it had contained had been a filled with sorrow, pain and despair. It had only been few months since he had received a letter from his mother.


Dear Sam
I know we haven’t kept in contact since you’ve been away, but things have been busy here without you. The shop has become so busy that we are going to have to hire a new worker soon.

We got all your letters and I am very proud of you, I know you want to go into combat and do your part but I am hoping they keep you as you are. You are the only thing I have left in the world now… I’m sorry to tell you this but your father has died. He was bitten by a brown snake and before they could treat him the venom took him. I wish I had more joyful news, but its very busy around here now and there isn’t much good to tell you. I hope this letter finds you well.

Best of luck.

That letter had held no mention of his sister, who was the only one who had sent letters on a regular basis. Sam looked down at the writing on the page, his sisters writing was usually so beautiful, she always put effort into making her words mean something. But in this letter all he could see in her writing was the sorrow that consumed her.


Sam.

Mum’s dead. She hung herself. I’m joining the Nurses and I’m coming to look for you.

Jessica Collar


It was even shorted then his Mothers letter but the words crashed through him. When he had seen that he had received a letter from his sister he had been hoping for something good, a new poem or a story about how well she was doing in the shop. But all he got was one line of words that he had never been expecting to see, and now his sister was leaving Australia and coming to look for him?

As soon as he had read it he had ran to the HQ and asked to be discharged so he could go back and find his sister before she put herself in danger but the amount of red tape to get through would take almost a week just to process his request and even then he could be denied. He had thought about stealing a plane and flying straight home but if he was caught he’d be no use to his sister in prison. Looking down at the empty glass in his hand with overwhelming sorrow, he tried to remember the last time he had felt happy. The only time he could recall was when he was working on an engine, or playing a game of cards. Those were the times when he felt happy and he could do all that at home with his sister.

Stumbling to his feet he pocketed the letter and tripped out the door of his room and entered the hall of his barracks, he unsteadily made his way towards the back door. Outside the sun was blinding and stung his eyes so bad he had to shield them with a weak and numb hand. Why were only his limbs numb and not the pain in his heart? He needed more rum to smooth over that pain. Holding back vomit he made his way to the storage building, it was good being an officer cause he had a key for the Officers store room and he knew that in that room laid a crate full of all sorts of spirits. He knew that because he was the one who had flown the plane that delivered it.

He pushed through a side door and entered into a narrow hallway, stumbling down past the doors until he found the right one and was barged into the room, not noticing the sign on the door or the fact that the door was already part way open. He did stop and stare at the person already in the room, wondering who this person was. Maybe he was here to organise the store room, that would mean he knew exactly where the crate of booze was.
“Oo dere… wherz da rum dat gotz deliverd ere yesterdee?” His words slurred and fell out of his mouth as he supported himself with the doorframe.

[Finley JF Chapman]

His first "client" wasn't really a client at all. Finley had been minding his own business, sorting between forks, spoons and knives for on-base, when someone came stumbling in like a man-sized, drunken rat. Indeed, the poor sign on that storage room door nearly got brushed off, and it was only the sound of footsteps that snapped Finley out of his train of thought. He saluted the officer instinctively, unable at the moment to recall if that was proper or not, and then stared at said officer.

"Oo dere…wherz da rum dat gotz deliver'd 'ere yesterdee?" asked the newcomer. Finley blinked, not quite sure how to respond to the question. What was an officer doing asking for rum? Usually they were the ones seizing the contraband and then keeping it for themselves! (Well, okay, not really...but Finley still had his suspicions.)

"It was seized by one of the Captains," said Finley. "Someone found it and turned it in. Whomever smuggled it in is fit to be court-martialled, or something. Why, do you know how it got here?"

The officer - a pilot, frighteningly enough - looked positively sloshed. Finley could not help but wonder if the man had been sampling some of the taken drinks. That, or someone had been trying to make "herbal tea" out of random tree bark again.... Suuuure, call a psychoactive and outrageously bitter stew as thick as vomit "tea"....

[Deleted]

It took a moment for the words to sink in to his soggy brain. Confiscated? By a Captain?
“Wait, whaa Captain?” That wasn’t cool, it had taken him months to get the rum shipped over from Australia and he had payed a hefty bribe. This wasn’t cool at all. He rubbed his palms together and looked around the room, swaying a little from the grog in his system. Then the questions started, how did it get here? Who smuggled it in?
“Noo, no, no. I don know.” Wait, why was he defending himself?

He was an Officer after all, and this guy was a… something. He took a closer look at the mans uniform. He was a Lance-Corporal… Lance-Corporal?? That was a British rank. What was Sam doing in Britain? Wait, that wasn’t right, maybe this dude was just from Britain. He sat down and looked around as his confusion cleared. His chest still hurt as if his heart was missing and he rubbed the spot expecting to feel a hole.

Why had she done it? Yes it would have been hard to keep going after his Fathers death but surly it wasn’t that bad? Not bad enough to do that and leave Jessica all alone… it was a horrible feeling.

“Who ar you? Why aree you in here?” He looked around at the boxes and the chair; it was set up as if he was living in here.
Sam stumbled over to one of the shelves and started rummaging through the items; there was nothing even remotely alcoholic here. In his stumbling the letter from his sister fell out of his pocket.

(Sorry its so short, lacking muse.)