Mayday
“And if there’s no way to radio for help, use red flares or the SOS signal. Three taps of metal on metal. S. O. S.” Though he didn’t make the sound, we could all hear the taps in our heads, hear the exact pitch and call of those taps, the ringing, the way metal can amplify sound, send it long distances, S–O–S, perhaps a shovel against a flagpole, a wrench against a pipe or one rifle to another, although how desperate would you have to be to bang rifles together, what would have happened, what foxhole would you be in, would there be a body next to yours, maybe a little bit alive but not caring that you were knocking her carefully sighted scope to shit, because that sound of metal on metal would be her last hope, that desperate noise above the night sounds or maybe hidden in battle chatter but still you hit with metal on metal, ammunition case against canteen, canteen to rations kit, rations kit to bayonet, one, two, three, one, two, three, you only have to count to three but each set seems so long, so metallic, the helmets now are Kevlar or you’d use it one, two, three, what a ring a metal helmet would have, how it would tug at the ears of someone, a medic nearby, a priest, maybe she’s Catholic, she might be Catholic, yes, you distinctly remember that conversation and how you brought up the priest pedophile thing. And wish for time to say sorry one, two, three, your tiring arms and the longer and longer pauses one, two, three, and now your signal sounds like metal swinging at air.