His pack for a bed
Cold unyielding metal for a pillow.
Cradled in his arms, his rifle,
His constant companion.
Tyres whine on hard road
Metal squeaks and creaks and groans
Canvas slaps in the cold slipstream
The engine sings its song
A steady, monotone lullaby
The lullaby changes
The tyre's whine becomes a rumble
He is aware
Head lifts, hands move, alert
Around him in the dim light others react
The truck slows, gears descending
A lurch and he's pushed against the side
The engine growls, speed picks up
Just a bend, just a bend
He relaxes, huddles down
I had thought of saving this for Sunday, but I'll do something different for that occasion..
As I said on Monday, this idea has been rattling around in my head for quite a while. I can't remember what initially sparked the desire to sketch it, but the imagery comes from my past.
I can't count how many times I've sat in the back of a Bedford, huddled up against the cold, lulled to a shallow sleep by the sounds of the truck, trying to put off that final moment when it will come to halt and we'll have to climb out and face the future.
Mostly it would be the prospect of spending a day on a barren freezing range, or having to spend a few days in the middle of nowhere on a training exercise.
But occasionally the future was unknown.......
This is for all those others who have taken the same ride.