Memories Part IV (Old Part II)

Part IV.

As I sat in the waiting room, of the VA I suddenly had this feeling that I didn’t belong there. I looked around the dismally painted room and saw men and women with sever body injuries, men who had fought in Vietnam, and the Gulf War. I realized how odd it must look to them for me to be sitting there in their company.

I have no visible scaring, not unless I remove my tee shirt, but those are not the ones that haunt me. Only when I bend over or stand up too quickly do I remember that they are there.
Obviously when I’m getting dressed, but I try not to notice them.
I wasn’t sitting in the waiting room because of those scars, or maybe I was. Officially I was keeping my appointment for PTSD therapy. I don’t like to talk about the things I’ve seen, but everyone seems to think that it will somehow help. I’m not so sure.

“Sergeant Thomas,” the receptionist called to me, “you can come back now.”

I gathered my folder and took a heavy breath, standing up I felt the sharp tightening sensation, just below my waist where my wounds were still healing. It happens from time to time, so I ignored the discomfort and made my way through the door being held open for me by the receptionist.

Why is it that therapist’s offices look so unwelcoming and untherapeutic? This has always been a conflict in my head. How do they expect you to relax and open up when your surroundings look so sterile? I sat down in a semi-comfortable leather armchair and waited for Dr. Jonathan Monroe to join me for what had become our standard Tuesday 2:30 game of tug-a-war.

“How are you today Sergeant,” he asked as he shut the door behind him and sat down in an identical chair across from mine.

“Fine,” I answered without further refernace to my mood.

“How was your weekend?”

“Good,” I responded again without emotion or facial movement. I simply sat at the position of attention. I had decided the first time I met Dr. Monroe that I didn’t like him. He wasn’t Army, hell he isn’t even military, so how in the world was he supposed to understand a damn thing I was saying, if I said anything at all.

“How are you sleeping,” he asked as he made a note on a yellow legal pad he was resting on his lap which I’m certain read ‘unresponsive’ or ‘hostile attitude’.

“I’m still not sleeping,” I answered directly.

“Are you taking the Ambian I prescribed to you,” he asked making another note.

“No. I already told you I don’t take drugs to get rid of a headache let alone to sleep.” I felt like this explanation was unnecessary, and the fact that I as at least the third time in as many weeks that I was forced to explain this concept to him, I felt the repetition condescending.

“But you’ll smoke two packs of cigarettes a day,” he shot back swiftly.

“Here we go,” I thought before answering his confrontational statement. “I’ve been smoking for years, why stop now?” We always started this way; it’s no wonder I haven’t opened up yet.

“How is your stomach,” he asked, retreating to a safer question.

“Still hurts every once in a while.”

“When is your next appointment?” He continued to qui, thinking this line would produce better results.

“In three weeks I go back. The doc wants to make sure everything is healing okay.”

“Are you going to go?” He asked almost cautiously.

“Why wouldn’t I? The faster they clear me, the faster I get back on active duty.” I answered with a look of contempt on my face, thinking ‘I’m twenty, surely this all makes sense to a guy in his fifties.’

“So you think your physical body is the only thing that needs to heal?” I sat motionless and didn’t say a word. “Lets cut the crap Sergeant, you have been coming here for three months and we’ve gotten no where.”

“This isn’t news to me doc.” I responded coldly.

“Do you think you’re any good to your soldiers in the state you’re in?”

“I’m no good to my soldiers right now because I’m not with them, because I’m sitting here with you wasting time.” I was starting to get angry.

“Sergeant, you’re sleep deprived, you’re not eating and you’re in a highly agitated state. Do you think you’re fit to lead?”

“I think I’m more fit to lead than some wet nose who hasn’t been there before” I shouted. “As for my state of agitation, I think you might have something to do with it.”

He took a deep breath and then continued, “Why don’t you tell me about the night you got shot?” He asked changing the subject quickly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled.

“Sergeant, you got shot! You lost men. You feel responsible for their deaths. You’re not responsible, it was combat.”

“I am responsible goddamn-it!” I yelled at him as I banged my fist on the arm of the chair. “You have no fucking idea how horribly responsible I am. What do you know about combat anyway?”

“Why? Why are you responsible,” he countered my anger with calm and poise, refusing to answer my question.

“Because I was in charge. Because I looked those men in the eyes and told them I’d get each one of them home. Because I couldn’t keep that promise, because they’re dead and I’m not and damn-it I wish I were.” I was still yelling, I half expected him to tell me to stop yelling but he didn’t, he just sat in his chair looking at me still as can be with no expression. I can only assume that I wasn’t the first person to yell at him or in his presence, but still I would have thought he would have at least flinched or something.

“The night you got shot, your team was ambushed?”

“Yes.” I said calmly trying to keep the events of that night from entering my mind.

“There were six of you, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many of the enemy would you say?”

“About forty or fifty.” I answered as if a superior was debriefing me.

“You were heavily out numbered.”

"Yes.” I answered quickly.

“What happened that night Sergeant?”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” I said softly.

“Don’t want to talk about it, or don’t want to think about it, Sergeant” he questioned my answer.

It was too late; I had already begun to think about it. The faces of my men began flashing before my eyes. The sound of their voices rang clear in my ears, the smell of sweat and blood purely present in my nose. It was dark, I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face, the cat-eyes on our helmets the only thing that discerned us from the enemy. Then the silence of the night was torn open with explosive gunfire.

“Charlie two-eight to base, come in,” Pfc. Williams yelled into the radio. “We are under attack, I repeat, our position is under fire, over.”

We were situation at a small roadside checkpoint just outside of town. The cold so bitter that the three feet of snow that had fallen around our bunker no longer seemed to matter.

“Charlie two-eight, blackhawks are in bound, hold position, blow white smoke to indicate location, over.” The crackling voice safely nestled at base-camp relayed calmly.

“Roger, white smoke. Medivac needed, casualties sustained. Do you copy? Over!”

“Roger that Charlie two-eight, airvac in rout.”

“Sarg,” Pfc. Williams yelled out to me over the deafening sound of gunfire, “support is in bound.”

Two casualties had been sustained during the first few minutes of the firefight and injuries among the remainder of us were growing in number and intensity. Specialist Adams “Doc,” our medic was the first hit, and Private Roberts, “Buck,” was second. Doc was shot in the back as he stood up. The first round tore him open with the sound of a bag of chips being ripped apart for the fist time. It was a kill shot, he probably never felt a thing, surely he didn’t see it coming most likely the result of a lucky untrained sniper.

“Sergeant Thomas,” Dr. Monroe said softly, “tell me what you’re seeing.” I could hear his voice but it sounded miles away. I couldn’t respond; the horrors of that night had overcome my ability to communicate.

“Get down, get down damn-it,” I yelled over my gunfire to Williams. I was taking careful aim at anything I thought I saw move. “One shot, one kill,” I heard the voice of my Drill Sergeant tell me back in basic training. “One shot, one kill,” I reminded myself as I eliminated target after target.

I was kneeling on my right knee using my left knee as a support when I felt a fire like nothing else I had ever felt before, enter my body with such force that it knocked me to the ground. Williams was right by my side returning fire when I went down.

“Sarg,” he yelled to me putting down his weapon.

“Keep firing, Williams,” I commanded. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a flesh wound.” I knelt back up slowly; It wasn’t just a flesh wound, the painful blow had made its mark just below my body armor, I could feel the blood starting to soak my tee shirt and my BDU jacket. It was warm, but cool as it spread across my waist and down into my pants. The second round entered my body almost on top of the other wound, as I lay on my back I could hear the sound of rotter-blades bearing down on our position and I saw Williams throw a canister of white smoke. I never saw Williams get hit; I never heard it either. I’m not sure if I passed out, but I simply don’t remember how the hell I lost five men in thirty minutes....