The Toys of a Warrior
Kenneth Vickery
October 2026
Nicholas rose with the sun. He polished dust off his boots, tightened his belt, and clipped on his helmet. He was ready for the day. This was the last day of his tour. His last day in Afghanistan. Tomorrow he would fly back to Canada.
Today, he could’ve done something mundane. Chosen something behind the wire, like arguing about coffee. But on this tour, boredom was the very worst, and safety was never assured. He was always waiting, listening. Pretending not to care that any moment an alarm could sound. Any moment a rocket could be for him. Any moment could be his last.
He opened the tent flap to cross the yard to the mess tent. Here, behind the wire, choppers beat the air, generators hummed, armoured cars chugged, and radios hissed. These sounds taxed his sanity.
His tour’s legacy–what kept him sane was his program to reach out and help villagers to look after children. A program he wanted to keep. He’d miss helping the local children and wanted to leave it in good standing.
Entering the tent, the smell of fatty bacon, powdered eggs, coffee, and fried potatoes cut the constant background pong of diesel. He wouldn't miss these mess rations.
His soldiers were already complaining. ‘It’s going to be 45 today. I’m hot and sweaty already.’
‘Ah, you newbies live in luxury,’ Nicholas said. ‘We didn’t even have air conditioning when we got here.’
‘If you love it here so much, Sarge, give me your seat on the flight out.’
They made out he was running away, running home to his mummy. Running to where he didn’t need weapons. Running to home-cooked meals; running to embrace his girlfriend; running to where he was out of range of Afghan rockets.
The same old jokes. He’d miss this ribbing, this camaraderie. He’d even miss eating, sleeping and going on patrol together. They annoyed him, sure, but they knew when he’d had enough. He said, ‘I’ll soon forget you bastards.’
The platoon broke up in laughter. They’d heard this before. Everybody knew he lied.
From the eggs, bacon, and instant tea of his Individual Breakfast Pack, he pocketed a biscuit for later. He sat with his platoon, eating stuff that smelled better than diesel fumes and tasted okay if you were hungry enough. They practised basic Pashto and Dari greetings with the interpreters. This would be the last time he would do this.
Time to rally. ‘Okay lads, onward we go.’
His platoon lined up to mount the chopper. Climbing onboard last, Nicholas tapped the pilot window and said, ‘Take us out!’
They were on a mission to talk to locals about clean water and bring school supplies to a village called Shinkay.
The forward operating post shrank below him, showing its ordered rectangles—tents, shipping containers, and barbed-wire fences. Flying North, vehicle tracks gave way to rivers and irrigation channels.
A safe distance from the village, they landed. This was one of many brown hills in the dry ochre terrain. Their kit off the bird; they moved out.
The chopper flew away fast, retreating into the sky. With a lonely mechanical whir, it passed barren, snow-capped mountains, which loomed like angry gods.
On patrol, outside the wire, birds twittered in the sky; the wind whooshed through the grass, and boots clomped on the ground. This was a reprieve from the cacophony at the Post.
In single file, they marched toward mud houses, which clung to a river’s green valley—the village of Shinkay. It hummed and breathed, as it waited for tomorrow to come. The houses leaned together as if they’d say, ‘Here in Shinkay it just is. We are not loud or flashy.’
But closer, he heard the most wonderful chatter. The sound of children playing.
The soldiers removed their helmets, a show of respect for locals, but still, they were unwelcome foreigners.
Even granting the village thoughtful supplies. Even with their weapons shouting, ‘We are a powerful force,’ they were not valued guests here. They were an alien blight. Their goodwill was resisted. Their intentions bled out on the floor. But if the foreign soldiers left, justice would be butcher’s meat and women and children would suffer.
Children gathered. Soldiers were good for handouts. Nicholas squatted. He gave a girl a pencil. He did not notice the boy.
He discovered later that Abdul was sixteen. Not big, not tough, but he shouted, ‘Allah-u-Akbar’ and swung an axe. The platoon fired fast. The boy fell dead. The axe slowed, but didn’t stop. It hit Nicholas on the head.
Through much shouting and gunfire, his world went quiet and dark.
In a hospital bed, Nicholas was wired up. Machines beeped. People whispered. From here, his future appeared doubtful. His past looked disappointing. After his injury, the program to reach out to Afghan villages was shelved, deflating his hopes like balloons in a breeze.
He was back in Canada. Back at home in his country. Back in its loving embrace. But it didn’t make him happy, although he knew it should.
When his mother hugged him, he felt nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. Of course, he loved her and knew he should be delighted to be back where she could care for him, but this was an idea, not a sensation.
‘You’re home now. It’s over.’ His mother said.
But Nicholas knew it wasn’t over. His dreams were full of alarm. Incoming rockets and gunfire. Helicopters and explosions. A car backfiring, the smell of diesel, dust, burning plastic- all transported him back to Afghanistan. These nightmares might be trauma.
His brothers tried to cheer him up, making jokes about an ugly nurse, but he didn’t laugh. Couldn’t laugh. Did he ever find this derisive humour funny? Did the man they were trying to make laugh exist anymore? Maybe his damaged brain made him someone else.
Even before the head injury, his girlfriend had moved on. That’s what she said, and cried when this didn’t upset him. But why should she be upset? He’d lost his sense of self. She’d only lost a relationship.
This newfound indifference might also be brain injury, or a psychological defence. His old personality might gradually return, or some changes might persist. He didn’t know. His doctors didn’t either.
He could’ve grown bitter. He could’ve struck back. He could’ve gone sharp-edged and hard-lined and black, but instead he stitched kindness into his recovery. Letting gentleness be his vehicle. Letting dignity steer his life.
Sitting next to the aqua-treatment pool, Nicholas’ father joined him. ‘I bring you good news. UBC's Centre for Accessibility explicitly supports students with neurological disabilities.’
‘UBC? Oh, you mean the University of British Columbia.’
‘Yes, of course, and they have wonderful programs in both medicine and Law. An old professor of mine was keen to get you into Medicine, but Law or Finance would also be an acceptable goal for you.’
‘Sorry, who’s getting to decide what acceptable goals for me are?’
‘Nicholas, you know that medical and legal professions are the pillars we build our nation on. Our civilisation. Without them, we would end up as primitive and pathetic as Afghanistan. We certainly don’t want that. You should know this better than anyone. ’
Telling Nicholas what he should know only disrupted his gentle disposition. ‘Power and authority don’t make pillars. They just perpetuate oppression.’
His father’s jaw became tight. ‘Don’t be ludicrous. These professions help people.’
‘They help to bend society to the established will. Boxing people in has always failed before. It is failing here, as it is in Afghanistan.’
His dad withdrew like Nicholas just grew a second head.
Nicholas wanted to say something positive. ‘I’m going to try something gentle and creative. I want to learn carpentry. I want to learn to carve.’
His father showed no sign that he approved. Made no response at all.
Back on Vancouver Island, the salt winds blew from the sea. Mountains were covered with forest. Original inhabitants didn’t try to kill him. Even if they suspected he threatened their culture. This was a different planet. No barren, snow-capped mountains. No children wielding axes.
Nicholas began rebuilding his life. He carved wood in a Men’s Shed. In Afghanistan, it was metal, engines, weapons, concrete, dust, noise, speed. In Canada, it was cedar, grain, hand tools, patience, rain, salt air, silence.
At the Men’s Shed, an experienced First Nations carver told him, ‘You don’t shape the wood to your will. First you find out what it’s willing to become.’ At last it felt good to be home.
When they worked on a building site together, Nicholas told the First Nation’s carver about his time in Afghanistan and that he was raising money to help families there. He said, ‘For what are coins? Riches should support children, not wars.’
The old carver nodded, ‘Your words have great wisdom, my friend, but to heal yourself you will need to go back to Afghanistan to meet your old self. This will let you heal.’
Maybe, but the thought of going back? It frightened him.
After six months, Snow turned the land colourless. The sun was hiding itself. This was the wrong season for construction jobs.
His parents didn’t show interest. Not in his newfound passions. Growing out his beard and hair probably didn’t help. They asked him to get assessed. They wanted to cure him.
Worse than the words was their demeaning tone. He asked. ‘Are you trying to commit me?’
His mother took both his hands. ‘We’re trying to make you safe.’
Nicholas laughed.’Compared to Afghanistan, I couldn’t be any safer. There isn’t anything wrong with me.’
‘But you are so different.’
Nicholas took his hands back. ‘Not really. But I can’t hide my true self. Not like I used to.’
His mother turned to his father for help, but his dad was silent.
Nicholas might never be accepted. Not as he was now, and he couldn’t go back to the old Nicholas. But he couldn’t ignore him either.
When his parents were gone, he paced his small apartment. Trapped inside for the winter, anyone could get certified. Maybe his new version wasn’t safe. In Afghanistan, he might get his head cut off, but he wouldn’t be locked up in a treatment centre.
He tossed clothes into a bag like they were shreds of hope. Before anyone could stop him, he flew out. He returned to the land where his war had been. Where he had last been his old self.
Nicholas moved like a wandering cloud through hills that wore brown blankets. He listened to barking dogs. Maybe the sky was noting down their complaints.
His soft, sun-dried clothes were brown. As brown as Afghanistan. He did not stomp in his boots. He didn’t carry a helmet or weapons; Nothing shouting anger, fear, or hate. A scarf wrapped round his neck, as if a thoughtful remark. It was not a disguise, but a way to learn local customs, and the language of the wind, with its talk of dust and dirt.
Goats clomped on paths that meandered. The tracks may not bring them back. He empathised; his journey, searching for his old lost self, may not end in Canada. It may end working abroad. Perhaps with aid agencies.
Dawn stretched its tender fingers to brush this old brown world gold. His new life was flowing again. This was Nicholas’ time. The best time to be a visitor. It was too early for violence.
He felt strong enough to visit Shinkay, where Abdul had rearranged his head. Its mud homes still leaned against each other. Old men sat with stories piled high.
Laughter ran down the main street. Joyful children were playing. They ran in playful zigzags, their smiles shining brightly against their dusty faces. Laughter escaped like bubbles. On a beam, two boys balanced their steeds. A girl marched her rag doll.
They’d lost so much in this war, yet found joy in their games. Laughter was his old goal. The mission of his old self was to nurture potent laughter. To create a bulletproof joy that would shield their gentle hearts.
He knelt by those children, feeling whole with his old self. ‘Where did you get these toys from?’ he spoke Pashto to the boys.
They sighed, ‘Abdul is dead. He made toys for all of us. Wooden swords, horses, painted blocks, a soldier.’
Nicholas touched the horse, a toy carved by Abdul’s hand. The same hand that tried to kill him. This toy brought them hope when war was bringing them loss.
Inside him, a calling beckoned bright. Not with banners or statues or ‘Look what I did.’ Just a desire to fix hearts broken by loud, angry men.
In a soft, careful plan, he created toys—to restore what remained of his old self. His toys slip past the dark into houses and hearts. He repaired what armies shattered apart, because in Abdul's place, Nicholas carved toys for children.