Why Me?

   Keith Kampbell woke to the rumblings of beer barrels rolling into the basement of the Forgotten Boar Pub. The light was coming from the double doors above to receive the morning delivery. Keith pushed himself up from the stone floor, making a poor job of brushing off his Air Force uniform.

   “Oi, how’d you get down here?” The owner asked in a thick English accent.

   Keith attempted to throw a leg onto the ramp to the outside and make a clean escape. After a couple of failed tries, where the incoming barrels threatened to knock him back, he decided to stagger up the inside stairs.

   “Now, let me unlock the front, we aren’t opened yet. It’s a disgrace. A Canuck behaving as badly as a Yank.” The owner got ahead of Keith and opened up to get him on his way.

   He went back to the rented room but the rest of the squad were already gone. It smelt of cigarettes and booze.

   “You!” the landlady called. “You and I are going to have words. I let this room for one. I’ve counted at least a dozen coming and going this weekend, all hours. I know you’ve had people in here sleeping on the floor.”

   Keith searched his pockets until he realized he must have drunk away what little money he did have. He gave the complaining landlady his back and left.

   Outside on the streets he started walking back to base. His head pounded and he needed to find some water, and maybe even something to eat if his stomach would settle.

   Keith was outside of the city when the air raid sirens sounded. He laid down in a field, but the shrieking horn prevented any sleep. It passed and Keith got back on the road.

   An army truck came by and offered him a lift.

   “The Canuck’s a good fighter.” One of the soldiers laughed.

   Whatever the fight was, Keith had no memory of it. A fellow with a blackened eyes nodded and offered Keith a handshake. They let him off outside of his base and drove on.

   Once there, an Officer stopped him. “Kampbell? Kampbell!”

   Keith saluted. The Officer grimaced, looking at his chest. Keith looked down to find he had sicked up on his uniform some time before. Keith brushed at it.

   “Don’t even try to clean up. You’re too late for barracks. Go to mess.”

   At mess, Keith couldn’t find his squad. He went to their table but they weren’t there. Nineteen new faces were eating and there was a twentieth spot open for him. He sat with his tray and forced food in out of habit than desire. The others started smirking and whispering. They nudged and pointed at Keith’s soiled uniform.

   It angered Keith more than he knew it should have. He knew how to behave. He didn’t mind a bit of teasing. He always got on with others. He liked the odd drink, and a bit more so since the war had started.

   The laughter was growing.

   Keith stood up, shoved his plate and some others off the table, and got up on top of it. “Listen! If there’s anyone here who thinks they’re man enough to take me on, you go right ahead and try!”

   About five of the new men pulled him down and put the boots to him. In the infirmary they wired his jaw and bandaged him up and explained that his squad had been called back from their weekend pass. They had found everyone in town except for Kampbell. The others had been sent on a mission and were all shot down and died.

   For the next year Kampbell’s drinking increased. He still did his duties but his furloughs usually ended in blackouts, both in consciousness and memory.

   One day he was co-piloting new recruits so they could log their hours of experience. Nearing the day’s end Keith went to mess where they had gotten some rare fresh eggs. As Keith sat down to them, he was called to go up again for one last new recruit.

   “Eat your eggs,” Bowden offered. “I’ll fly with the kid.”

   For reasons no one knew, the plane’s engine cut out and crashed near the base. Neither Bowden nor the kid made it. Bowden had a wife and two children. Keith had only a mother in Nova Scotia.

   Months later, Keith was involved in a pub fight. Because of having his jaw wired Keith’s mouth would twitch involuntarily every few seconds. Some jerk made a show of pointing it out to the other patrons. Keith challenged him. Outside, the jerk boasted and stepped off the curb onto the road to draw Keith on. Keith was well drunk and the jerk landed the only punch. Keith fell back like dead weight and his head hit the curb with a terrible crack.

   Against the odds Keith recovered. When the war was over, he returned home and sobered up. A process that took him many years.

   Sixty years later Keith was in a hospital still defying death. Harry came to see him.

   “Hi, Keith. I was… I was thinking about having a drink. Is it okay, that I came?”

   “Yeah, I’m happy to have visitors. I chat with the interns I’m so desperate for company. They’re nice people, but they’re young, and you can only share so many stories with them. So, Harry, if you had this drink, what do you think it would do for you?”

   “Not much.”

   “No, no I don’t figure it would. Is there a reason? I know there doesn’t have to be a reason, but sometime we know what the reason is.”

   “You know how I fell off the wagon and my wife left me? Well, she wants to try again. She came to my anniversary. One year.”

   “And that makes you want to have a drink?”

   “I’m afraid, Keith. Afraid I’ll screw up again.” Harry sat by Keith’s beside staring at the floor while he explained. “She’s been so good to me. I met her on Valentine’s Day. I thought that’s forever, you know?”

   “Yeah, I know. I used to be afraid all the time. I still am. I used to drink away the fear, that’s what I did. You know, I drank my way through the war. I was a tail gunner. I never saw any action. Others did. People I knew. People I met. Some I cared about. They all died. I don’t know why I didn’t. Anyway, the fear. The fear doesn’t go away. You have to learn to live with it, because you can’t live with the booze anymore. We both did about as much of that as our bodies would let us.”   

   Harry stayed for most of the afternoon before Keith was wheelchaired to his dinner.