The Post-War Dream

By Brian Paone

The South Atlantic Ocean, 1982. Royal Marine Fletcher Layne never expected to see combat when he enlisted, despite his father's vehement protests. Yet when he is deployed to the tiny Falklands Islands, he figures Argentina wouldn't dare challenge the islands' mighty British sovereignty. But all hell breaks loose over the territorial dispute, and he's devastated when a bullet misses him and kills a young comrade.

Returning home with a heavy heart plagued by guilt, Fletcher resents any celebration of his heroism and his parent's disapproval. And as the traumatized survivor wrestles with two imagined voices of nagging conscience, he fears not even the gentle touch of a kind nurse will get him through to a peaceful tomorrow. Can he gain ground over his anguish before the darkness drags him down forever?

The Post-War Dream is a gut-wrenching tale of historical wartime fiction, of one man's quest to reclaim his life before the ghosts of the past win. If you like insights into mental illness, vivid depictions of a bygone era, and a dash of romance, then you'll love Brian Paone's poignant story.

Buy The Post-War Dream to face the fiends of battle today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Paone
• Release date: Jan 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736886762

Brian Paone

Brian Paone, a Massachusetts native displaced to Virginia, has been a published author since 2007. Brian has, thus far, released nine books: “Dreams Are Unfinished Thoughts”—a memoir about befriending a drug-addicted rock star; “Welcome to Parkview”—a macabre cerebral-horror tale; “Yours Truly, 2095”—a time-travel adventure; the “Moonlight City Drive” trilogy—a supernatural crime-noir series; “The Post-War Dream”—a historical-fiction military novel; “Packet Man”—an urban thriller, with a dash of fantasy; and “Selective Listening”—a multi-genre collection of twenty short stories.Brian is a police detective in Maryland and has worked in law enforcement since 2002. He is the father to four children, a self-proclaimed rollercoaster junkie, a New England Patriots fanatic, and his favorite color is burnt orange. And, in 2019, he fulfilled his lifelong dream of becoming the proud owner of a 1981 DeLorean!

Book preview

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Vera raised her body onto her tiptoes to see over the woman’s clashing flowery-patterned gaudy hat in front of her, blocking her sight of the haggard-looking men sauntering off the ship into the gale. She held her mini-Union Jack flag, weighed down by rainwater, halfway raised in anticipation of seeing Arnold’s face leave the ship. She didn’t want to raise and wave it too prematurely, superstitions and all that.

She lowered her body onto the flats of her feet to give her calves a rest and bumped into two other spectators, one on either side of her. She glanced behind her, almost bumping noses with the man standing behind her, to survey the rows upon rows of what felt like thousands of people on Southampton Dock. A tiny stream of water poured like a canteen off the front of the man’s fedora.

A cheer erupted around her. Startled, she swung her head to face forward again, hoping to see Arnold. The crowd had reacted to a pilot’s significant other rushing through the barricade to fall into the arms of her returned and alive beau.

Vera waved her Union Jack flag ever so slightly in reflex to the couple’s obvious excitement and relief. She cleared her throat to help settle her nerves and blinked hard to clear the rain mixed with seawater from her eyes. Any minute now, she was sure of it.

Too many spaces in the line, the man behind her grumbled.

Vera assumed he wasn’t talking to her and didn’t turn to face him. She raised herself upon tiptoes again, watching the small clumps of exiting troops.

When our boys left, they were lined shoulder to shoulder. The man sniffed what sounded like a wad of rainwater and snot farther into his sinuses. Too many spaces in the damn line now.

Vera glimpsed him from the corners of her eyes without moving her head. It didn’t appear he was talking to anyone in particular. When she looked forward again, she noticed the men, haggard, shambling forward, with considerable gaps between each clump. She wondered just how many of the boys hadn’t made it back home. Her chin struck her chest, exposing the back of her neck to the drops falling from the dark clouds, and she sighed.

She pursed her lips and turned to face the man. But we did it. We stopped Hitler.

The man eyed her and bit his bottom lip. We did jack. We stayed safe and sound in our homes. They did it all. He nodded toward the docked battleship. But at what cost?

Vera glanced at the disembark gangplank again as another cheer rose over the crowd. A small group of weary-eyed pilots gave haphazard waves to the smiling faces as they shambled away. One stopped to pinch the cheeks of a toddler whose mother bounced him in time to a drum beat only she could hear.

I felt like I went through it with him, Vera murmured.

The man closed one eye as he dipped his head to the side, popped a cigarette into his mouth, and used a match to light it. He inhaled, then exhaled a puff of smoke. You don’t look old enough to have a man in the war. Why, you’re just a wee-one.

I am seventeen years old and properly engaged, thank you very much.

Brilliant, he mumbled and took another puff. Kids marrying kids and either having babies or getting blown to bits.

Vera harrumphed and tightened her arms by her sides. She turned to face the ship and the exiting pilots. She would not let this crotchety old man ruin her fiancé’s homecoming, especially not one from something as monumental as another world war.

She saw the tip of a soggy pack of cigarettes creep over her right shoulder.

Fancy a fag?

Vera pursed her lips and shook her head. She watched the pack disappear.How long have ya been engaged?

Vera let her shoulder slump but didn’t turn around. He proposed in a letter. I didn’t have time to write him back to tell him a proper yes. He wouldn’t have gotten it in time.

A letter from the battlefield? The man chortled. He probably thought he was about to die and got his knickers in a wad and panicked.

Vera spun and stuck her fingertip into the chest area of his thick, wet overcoat. "Listen, sir, we’ve been together for three years, and we always knew we’d be together forever. Even before he was sent— She shook her head. Ya know what? Never mind. You’re not worth my breath."

He raised one eyebrow and took a long drag from his cigarette without holding it. You tell your fiancé that a veteran from The Great War doffs his hat to him. And Britain thanks him for his sacrifice. He tossed the cigarette to the wet dock and snuffed it out with his shoe. He might be on that ship coming home—the man pointed to the pockets of servicemen still alighting—but he’ll never leave the war. He placed a gentle hand on Vera’s shoulder before turning and manoeuvring through the crowd toward the back. As soon as he had abandoned his spot, two other spectators, whooping and hollering at the disembarking pilots, volleyed to fill the void so they could get a better view.

The surging crowd nudged Vera forward, a heavy speechlessness engulfing her. The unintelligible scream of someone’s name from the mouth of the woman next to her jolted her back to reality. She blinked and shook her head to right herself. She resecured her grip on her tiny flag and focused on the gangplank from the ship.

Her heartrate quickened. Arnold, she yelled and shoved through the few rows of spectators in front of her. Arnold … She had to use her shoulder to push through the last line of people who were refusing to relinquish their front-row view of the returning heroes. Arnold!

Her fiancée stopped to scan the crowd. His coat hung off his frail shoulders, and he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair.

Vera waved her tiny flag above her head with zeal. She bounced up and down, almost pogoing, to get his attention. Arnold!

Their gazes met, and her smile reached beyond both earlobes. Then it slowly faded, and her body slumped as he gave only half a wave, a courtesy nod, and continued shuffling with the rest of his small group away from the crowd. Vera stood there, dazed and battling her bewilderment. Slack-jawed, she followed the love of her life with her gaze. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he looked … broken, soulless.

A shrill scream erupted next to her. She flinched, stuck her finger in her ear, and leaned away from its source. A woman, not much older than Vera, barrelled through the barricade and launched herself into the wide and inviting arms of her lover. His embrace blanketed her with warmth and security, his face glowing with rosy cheeks and a full-toothed smile. Vera steeled herself and glanced toward where Arnold had walked. She stared at the back of his threadbare jacket until he was out of sight.

I’ll just see him when he gets to the house, she whispered to herself with conviction. He just must be knackered.

Vera forced a grin as she turned to weave through the crowd to start the one-mile trek to the train depot. The wind made the rain pellets feel like daggers against her cheeks as she told herself that ’46 would be a better year than this one.

It just had to be.

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Sydney reached across the front seat bench of their ’81 mini and pried Vera Layne’s middle-aged fingers out of a clenched fist as the first signs of dusk settled on the horizon. Vera relaxed her hand and felt Sydney intertwine their fingers in a comforting show of compassion.

I’m sure he will be just fine. Sydney squeezed Vera’s hand. "The BBC says they don’t think they’ll be any real fighting."

Vera tightened her lips to suppress another sob and redirected her gaze from the massive cruise ship on the dock to her friend’s face. You really think so?

Sydney tried her best to flash a bright smile. They said we’re only going down as a show of force. Once the Argies see how they’re outnumbered, they’ll leave the islands and hightail it back to Beuno Aires.

Vera let the vibration from the idling car’s engine hypnotize her as she closed her eyes. I just wish they’d let me have a proper goodbye. Not being allowed to kiss him farewell is rubbish. They’re letting tele crews and news reporters on board, for Christ’s sake.

Sydney watched the streamers waft in the breeze and scanned the waves from shouting family members who had taken up residency on the dock itself, in front of the ship. I can’t even make out anyone from back here.

Vera opened her eyes to see Sydney leaning forward in her seat. That’s not the point. The point is for him to know his mum was here to see him off, even if we can’t seem to get near the ship. If he doesn’t return, then at least he’ll—

Shush, you. Of course he’ll return. They’ll all return.

Vera glared at her friend. I’ve already been through this once. With Arnold. And almost none of them returned from that!

Sydney patted Vera’s hand. Very true. And whilst I don’t want to diminish what you must be feeling right now, watching your only child heading off to war, but the Second World War is a far cry from a skirmish in the Falklands.

Vera removed her hand from Sydney’s hold. War doesn’t discriminate where or how many people are involved. Fletcher has just as much chance of stepping on a landmine as Arnold did being shot down.

Sydney nodded and softened her face. You’re right. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you and Arnold are going through right now.

Vera chortled. Arnold has all but disowned Fletcher since he enlisted. Which, by the way, I’d like to thank you for being here with me. God knows Arnold is probably drinking right now to try to forget what’s happening. When we got married, he told me the last thing he wanted, for any of his children, was to join the service. And here we are …

His only child headed off to war, Sydney said.

The war messed with him, Syd. He still won’t tell me what happened that has been eating him for these past forty years. He refuses to talk to anyone else about it.

Too macho for that, right?

Vera chuckled. That and daft. She let her gaze pan across Berth 106 at the resplendent white SS Canberra, a stark contrast against the dark waters below, and the Royal Marines looking like a uniform-wearing version of vacationers boarding the cruise ship.

They all look the same from back here.

He rang me last night from where they were staying and told me they have to remove their berets and ranks from their smocks. Vera fell silent for a moment, watching the backsides of all the 3 Commando Brigade mosey onto the ship. I stood right there—she pointed to a spot on the dock—when Arnold returned from the war. I can still almost feel how cold the rain was that day. At least it’s not raining today. She glanced skyward through the windscreen at the setting April sun.

That must have been a sweet homecoming.

Vera bit the inside of her lip to fight back the bile she felt wanting to climb her throat. She closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath through her mouth as she listened, through the half-lowered car windows, to the fanfare from the Royal Marines and Parachute Regiment bands playing Land of Hope and Glory and Rule Britannia. Yes, it was fabulous. Everything I had been dreaming about since the day he had left.

Almost … romantic.

Vera picked at a piece of the steering wheel that was coming loose. Yep, just bloody romantic.

The anticipation of jumping into his arms as soon as he got off that—

Hey, Syd, thanks for coming and being here with me. I don’t think I could have handled it alone.

I was honoured when you asked me. And I’m sure Fletcher is secretly happy that his mum is here to see him off, even if a twenty-year-old marine might be too tough to admit it.

He’s still a baby! A sob escaped Vera as she clamped her hand over her mouth to prevent any further emotions from escaping.

Sydney rubbed Vera’s arm. They all look like babies, she murmured. Christ, I hope Maggie knows what she’s doing.

Vera swallowed hard and made eye contact with her friend. It isn’t just because Arnold almost died in the war that makes him refuse to support Fletcher’s enlistment. She wiped a line of snot from underneath her nose with her sweater sleeve. He also feels betrayed by Britain. He has this ideology that World War Two should have been enough to prevent us from going to war again, no matter how bad it gets.

"We can’t just sit back and let the Argies invade the islands. Those are our people who live there. British folk."

I know, I know. Vera dotted the tears from the corners of her eyes to not smudge her makeup. And I’m not stupid to not realize Thatcher needed to move fast. But Arnold thinks she only moved that fast because she felt the need to flex her muscles to the rest of the world.

Like, send a message?

Yeah, that we aren’t pushovers, that the Empire still exists. These are Arnold’s thoughts. He also thinks a good war will help her in the polls. Her popularity has been waning.

And what are your thoughts? Or Fletcher’s thoughts? Sydney shrugged off her jacket and tossed it into the back seat.

Fletcher sounded excited. He would never come out and admit to his mum that he wants to fight in a war, but last night, he told me on the phone that he feels like now he will get to do what he signed up for.

And what did you say?

I asked him if he was thinking at all about how we, his parents, felt about it—how Julia felt about it.

Julia … How is she handling it? They’ve been together, what? Three years now?

Four. Since they were both sixteen. I don’t know how she’s taking it. I don’t talk to her unless Fletcher brings her over. And Arnold is always at home when Fletcher brings her by, and Fletcher won’t mention the military in front of his father. He’s learned that having that discussion is a sure-fire way to end a visit real fast.

So, what do you talk about when you’re all together?

Anything but the military. Footy. Food. The weather. Church. Pub talk.

Do you think Fletcher and Julia are gonna tie the knot?

Oh, I dunno. I don’t think either of them are focused on that right now.

Him going south might make her want to speed it up, for when he returns. Didn’t you feel like that when Arnold got back from the war?

I honestly didn’t know what I felt, Syd. Can we please stop comparing Arnold returning to Fletcher’s leaving? It’s hard enough that his bloody father won’t see his own son off to war. Vera sucked in a deep breath.

Fair enough. Sydney rubbed her palms the length of her thighs to help alleviate some of the tension permeating the car. I think that’s the last of them. She pointed to a small cluster of marines approaching the Canberra’s gangplank without anyone in tow.

I think you’re right. Vera looked from the dock to her friend. Ready to go?

Only if you are.

Vera turned on the engine, forced the car into first gear, and veered from the car park toward home in Cambridge.

Are you going back to the house after you drop me off?

Vera glanced at her friend and steeled herself to prevent her voice from cracking. I want to avoid Arnold for as long as I can today. I’m gonna swing by the church and pray.

Sydney remained silent until the car had made multiple turns. Would you like some company?

Vera swallowed hard. I’d like to be alone for that.

I understand. Sydney nodded. I’ll do my own praying at home … so you’re not completely alone.

Vera only smiled at her friend, for she knew if she tried to say thank you, she wouldn’t be able to dam the tears.

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Fletcher Layne stopped walking toward the Canberra on Southampton Dock to kneel and tie his boots. High-pitched shrill cheering from the crowd made him turn his head to see two women wearing tee-shirts that read, ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentine, We’re Gonna Knock the Piss out of You,’ jumping up and down, waving Union Jack flags, and cheering for all the boarding servicemen.

Corporal Alan Clegg took a few more steps before he realized his oppo had stopped. Everything okay there, mate?

Yeah, these bloody boots don’t stay tied. Fletcher finished and wiped his hands across his combat smock with a black polo neck. He hefted his mountain of equipment and rucksack onto his back again. And could these black nasties be any less uncomfortable?

Clegg snickered and cracked two knuckles on his skinny fingers.

Fletcher smirked. First time on a luxury cruise ship, Corporal?

Clegg spied the massive white cruise ship that looked more like a floating hotel resort docked a few dozen yards away. I’d rather be embarking for Australia or Hawaii on her than the seventh ring of polar hell.

Fletcher slapped Clegg on his tall and lanky back. Oh, it won’t be that cold down there, right? It’s April.

Clegg eyed him and scrunched his face as he readjusted his own stuffed bergen on his shoulders, trying to stop the pickaxe and sleeping bag from tumbling to the dock. Bugger off. You gotta be joking. Look at me. I weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. I’ll have to find some penguins to snuggle with just to keep my bones from shivering out my skin.

I’m trying to tell myself how warm it will be so maybe the cold won’t bother me.

All that thinkin’ is gonna probably only buy you thirty seconds when we get onto the beachhead.

Fletcher chuckled and wrung his hands as they approached the Canberra. He snuck a glance at the cars parked in the distance, all facing the ship. He could discern silhouettes of people in them but nothing more.

Are your parents up there? Julia?

Fletcher sighed. Just my mum.

You should wave. I don’t have anyone here to see us off. My wife took the kids to her parents’ house up in Leeds for the week.

Fletcher turned to face forward again. Nah, it’ll just upset her more. Better to keep walking, get our job done, and get home.

Your old man working or somethin’?

Fletcher peeked at Clegg’s pointy-nosed profile, then focused on the ship. He wouldn’t even come to the phone last night when I rang from Bickleigh. Talked to my mum for almost half an hour.

Clegg slowed his pace, put his hands on his hips, and eyed the top of Fletcher’s head. They let you use the phone?

Yeah, the one in the naafi.

Clegg harrumphed. Wish I had known we could phone out. Would have been nice to talk to my lil sis. She’s taking this pretty hard. So, what’s the deal with your old man? You guys fightin’ or somethin’?

He forbade me to join the service. He was a World War Two pilot during the bombing of Dresden. I guess he came home with a jaded view of war and the armed forces. Got out as soon as he could, then became a secondary school teacher.

Still teachin’?

Fletcher nodded. Still teachin’. And if me joining wasn’t enough, now we have a war to top it off. Which he’s actin’ like it was done on purpose just to mess with him—like I joined three years ago knowing we’d be going to war with Argentina. Bollocks, ever since the Argie salvage workers took South Georgia last month, he won’t even look at me. Treating me like I’m already dead. Fletcher glanced toward the car park again.

Well, this mess will be sorted soon. I have a feeling we’re gonna get to the Falklands, and it will be a lot of ‘hurry up and wait,’ then the Argies will scram home, and we’ll have the most boring polar holiday story ever.

Yeah, Corporal. A paid holiday. Fletcher chuckled and slowed down as they came to a large group of other Royal Marines waiting to board the Great White Whale, Canberra.

Guess we’ll have to buy a tee shirt. Corporal Clegg slapped Fletcher on the back.

They stopped walking to queue up to board, and Fletcher craned his neck to see the top of the ocean liner’s one-hundred-foot height. She’s a beaut alright.

Can you imagine being the captain? Out crusin’ somewhere exotic, only to get a call that your luxury ship has been commandeered as a troop transport for a war, eight thousand miles away? I can hear him now. ‘Get off my ship, newly tanned rich folk, so I can sail this lot down to the gate of Antarctica’.

Fletcher snickered as he ran his fingers through his black hair and panicked for a split second when he didn’t feel his beret on his head. Two weeks ago, I had never heard of the Falklands. When we got the orders, half my mates thought the Falklands were somewhere near Scotland.

Well, that’s why you should hang with smart blokes like me.

Fletcher narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. C’mon. You didn’t know where the islands were either.

Sure did. I was smart enough to look on a map and not assume. Clegg tapped his temple with his index finger.

Fletcher chortled and shook his head. So, is that what happens when you turn thirty, Corporal? You become resourceful?

Your problem, Marine, is you need to pick better mates, guys with their heads on straight.

Oh, bugger off. With all due respect, after two pints, you become an idiot.

They shuffled forward a few steps and stopped. Another group of marines had joined the queue