A Dog Tags Journey

A sharp, deafening crack, and a jolt came hard and heavy. I had been a cold comfort against your warm olive skin, a whisper of your name and a solemn promise that in the vastness of this barren wasteland, you would (and could) not be forgotten. My purpose was simple: to keep who you are alive, a constant thrum against the rhythm of your heart.

I remember that rhythm, as you ran. The cadence of your feet against the hard ground was a pounding drum that made my metal frame clang. My weight bounced on your chest, a familiar steady rhythm to your life in motion. To you living. I remember the air you loved, in those moments. Sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the grit and heat that clung to us now.

I remember the first time I felt your hands. They were careful, your fingers meticulous as you polished away my first smudge. Your voice, low and proud, spoke to the hands of others, and I felt you hold me up for them to see. They saw you. For you, I was not a burden or a number, or words on metal, I was a badge of honour. I was a public declaration of who you were and where you belonged.

But today, that rhythm faulted. The jolt was a shock that ripped through my cold metal body and after an instant of chaos, so many screams and deafening noises, there followed a great silence. Your body, which I had felt at its most alive and with so much purpose, had now became heavy, and still.

The ochre dust of this foreign land, which had clung to every crease of your uniform and had been wiped from me on so many occasions before today, was now a shroud, a gritty blanket settling over me and you, together on the ground. For what felt like eternity, we lay there, a silent pair in the gathering darkness. The air grew cold, but I still felt the fading warmth of your skin through the fabric of your uniform. I clung to that heat, longing to feel your chest rise and fall. Where are you, I wonder?

When the darkness had fallen completely, a light came over us, a sharp burst and then faceless hands reached for me. They were not your hands—they were gloved, impersonal and efficient. It was a quick, professional detachment from you, from my purpose. The snap of my chain, a final goodbye and then, I was nothing more than a dull chime in a plastic tomb. I was sealed away, jostled into a canvas sack with my twin and others like me; echoes of others like you. My world became a shifting void of darkness and a metallic whisper of my own movements.

There was a quick jarring staccato of motion and sound. I had become a prisoner in a rattling metal box; the low steady hum of a massive machine drowned out the screams of the others. Is this hell? The vibration was relentless, a constant buzzing tremor. I felt the air grow thin and cold, a breath-stealing chill that permeated everything. I had never felt so alone in the dark. For days, the roar of that engine was my sky and my ground, a monotonous song in a journey that I shouldn't be on.

After a timeless stretch, the machine fell silent at last. I was wheeled like a forgotten relic, with the others, on a stainless steel cart. Like sardines in a can. A jolly soul hummed a tune as we moved, nothing I remembered from my time with you. How you loved to hum. This new space was a vast, echoing labyrinth that smelled of disused paper and sterile cleaning fluid. I felt the chill of impersonality here, a sense of being just another number to be logged. An item to be processed.

A voice, higher and more delicate than your spoke. Although a few times it was impersonal interactions with other hands, but then she told us stories. She didn’t know the warmth of your skin or the beat of your heart but she did make me feel less alone. The click, click. I remember your hands making similar noises on a machine, the click-clack of keys, a frantic drum against the silent, stuffy room. Your voice, filled with a deep longing for the open air, would sigh. Softly protesting as you rubbed me between your fingers.

Now, this high voice, her hands moving in a fast rhythm, tapped as she talked. Those hands that handled me were soft, but they did not hold me with care. I believe they felt nothing. They were moving me along. My identity, the sacred information I kept for you, was reduced to a scrawled label on a tab, a line item on an endless ledger of lines. I am an entry in a record. Where are you, I wonder?

Before long, my confinement shifted again. The soft, delicate voice was replaced by one more similar to yours—deep and resonant, though it lacked your familiar and specific accent. I found little comfort in it, although for a second, there had been a flicker of hope that it had been you. He handled the folder with a quiet, practised reverence, and for the first time since leaving you, I felt a semblance of care. Like in some way, he did know me.

A soft leather bag now became my vessel. He was not to keep me. The journey was long, and the constant rhythm of the road was my new reality. I feel that maybe I am lost. The sun, a fleeting visitor, would occasionally pierce the window, warming the worn leather and offering a brief, nostalgic heat. In those moments, I could almost feel your steady heart again. In the moments between sleep and awake, when my body is tricked into thinking I am still with you. In reality now, the world outside was a shifting blur of greens and browns, a rush of colours I couldn't focus on, followed by the unending greys of cities and the long, straight lines of dusty plains. I heard the changing sounds of passing traffic, the chorus and horns that were a far cry from the quiet solitude you and I often found ourselves in.

I remember you found peace in holding me close as we travelled. Your fingers rubbing over my letters like a mother strokes her baby's hand. I remember your thumb, a warm, reassuring weight against my cold metal, tracing your name. The driver spoke briefly, his voice a low, kind murmur, not like yours, but with your organised regiment, to his manner at least.

As the sun returned with dawn colours, the driver, with a respect I hadn’t felt since leaving you, moved me to a beautiful, decorative box, made of dark, fragrant wood. Its silence was a balm, a gentle peace that settled my agitated spirit, but how I just longed to hear your heartbeat. Where are you I wonder?

I waited in this quiet darkness, a cold memory holding its breath. Was this it? Was this what I was to be now?

Then the lid lifted.

The air filled with a familiar ghost of scent—lavender and woodsmoke, a memory so clear it was like a touch. Hands, gentle and trembling, reached for me. They were not yours, but they were hands that knew me. Sobbing. Familiar. Her fingers, soft and worn, closed around me, and I felt the tightness of her grip. I felt the gentle press of her thumb, a slow, deliberate caress. My cold metal began to warm against her palm, and as she held me close, I felt a fast, frantic pace, steady. It found a rhythm. Boom Boom. There you are.