S2 SAS: Rogue Heroes got me thinking of a little something about delusion and anger in warfare. Since Paddy seems appropriate to dive in these emotions, here we are!
General topics: war, anger, disillusionment, death and hierarchy
Summary: After Bagnara and his altercation with Bill Stirling, Paddy Mayne reflects on trust and ways of doing, torn between his demeanour and his thoughts on leadership.
Words count: less than 1k
'Italy is not the Great Sand Sea, Paddy. There are civilians here - men, women and children - and I do not trust you and your "members only" to display your particular skills among innocent people.'
'You don’t trust me with innocent people?'
What was trust, but a curious concept in times of war? For it had become an utterly odd thing to rely on, and a confusing field to explore. Was it even necessary, was it simply futile? Ask a man perhaps, pray that he's sober enough not to philosophise, would the answer come right, as easy as a pie? But among all things of dualistic matter, trust remained of the cardinals ones; and Paddy Mayne really loved his rum, hence he started to unravel.
Thus, trust had to be earned. Not in glory or excellence, but through consistency, and through the loyalty of oneself rather than obedience to someone else. Trust was, in fact, neither necessary nor futile, it was either there or it wasn't. One simply had to be enough, without pretending to be something else. Was he truly insufficient then, for them to mould him into something but expect the opposite?
Disappointment came first, in a resurgence of something beneath, not about wanting to do, or to be, as expected, but in a sense of absolute certainty: the job had to be done. And he had done so with all he had, and perhaps more, for he had begun to draw on his men's last ressources – Reg’s eyes could tell, if words weren’t enough to see.
What did Bill Stirling know about trust beyond mundane natters? How could he distinguish the trustworthy from the unreliable, if he was unable to spot the snakes in his own basket? And so, scorn ensued, for disappointment was nothing but the spark of his wrath, and anger had always barked louder. How fortunate – because Paddy was sometimes a man of common sense – that the pushy bastard left their camp once orders had been given, only to take shelter behind the shields of men he did not trust.
Jim's voice pierced a hole in the muddy turmoil that was his mind, cutting through the growls and turning them into whispers. Paddy smiled, almost sniggered, upper lip unveiling a canine, then shook his head as he reached for his bottle, from which he drank the last drop.
'Y'heard the commanding officer? We're heading to Termoli.'
'I've heard yes. I’ve heard everything actually.' A break, of which contained eternity in a few seconds. 'You provoked him, Paddy.'
'Oh he doesn't need my permission to disrespect me, them toffs never bothered to ask, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a feckin' muppet. Y'see, them, they pet with one hand, beat with the other. They expect me to stood down, and not bite back but lap the blood on their fingers, so they don't use their fancy napkins. Yet my tongue’s already licking my wounds, and all I have left are teeth.'
It was as it had always been, and will continue to be: he'll try to change because he had to, turning the boy into a man, the man into a hound, the hound into a ghost, on and on and on…
'Won’t prove him right then, would we, Paddy?'
…till he finds contentment after all, knowing he was wrong, but hoping it won't last. For what was trust, but the comfort of letting yourself be, in your joyful hour and your darkest one, and the assurance of being remembered as you were truly and never lied to be? What was trust but the desert sand, and what lay underneath, what made him someone once, what made him truly seen?
'I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still:
When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead.
And my slow heart said, "You must kill, you must kill":
"Soldier, soldier, morning is red.*"'
Success, they brought, for they obeyed without question, for they listened orders while hearing screams. And he persisted, in something he wasn't built for, like a barber turned into a baker, and he persisted, to be alive still, like a corpse turned into a living. And after Sicily, there were no doubts he’d do it again, all the way to France, then in Berlin, and unto oblivion, may it come in nothingness or pardon.
'Nay, we won't. Then, as prig roosters we shall move too, and sing the cockcrow of our own mornings.'
Nobody will question the sanity of a man already claiming he is lost, for mad he seemed, and astray they were all. Though if cruelty was akin to his war, he thought how human he had remained, to still feel dismay behind fury when thinking of judges who act as juries. Who call for innocent's safety then release beasts like cannon fodder. Like gravel to be thrown.
'Unleash the dogs' they’ve ordered, while they sent a pack of wolves.
* Siegfried Sassoon, “I Stood With The Dead”, The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon, 1919.
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