Glory Hole

            I remember the smell of war: that sharp, sulfurous smell of gunpowder mixed with the scent of blood, unwashed bodies, and hopelessness. Some nights, I still wake up with the smell in my nose, praying that coming home hadn’t been a dream. I remember people telling me that I was lucky. That God had plans for me and so he had let me live. I wanted to spit in the eye of every empty saying that was whispered to me while I laid in that hospital bed surrounded by flowers and the well wishes of faceless strangers.

            I was shot in the neck. The bullet missed severing my vocal chords - and ending my life - by a millimeter.  After weeks of hospitalization and torturous therapy I was able to speak without much pain and so I went on the planned tour with other “Heroes of War.” It was like a dream; I remember the talk shows, the free gifts, and the shameless pride of each American as they looked me in the eye and shook my hand, all the while being thankful it hadn’t been them. It was enough to drive a guilty man insane. I shouldn’t have been the one to come home. It should have been Ryder.

            Ryder was the soldier every other man strove to be; everything came natural to him. From shooting to running to tackling an obstacle course, Ryder was always number one. The weird thing was that no one envied him or sought to make him pay for his natural talents. He was an amazing soldier and we all simply respected him. Everything was difficult for me. Unlike Ryder, I had to work hard to achieve average marks - especially in shooting - but I could run like hell.

            “Hell,” Ryder had laughed, out of breath from my pace, “if I had to police up my gear and get ready to roll there’s no other shoulder I’d rather grab at than yours. S**t man, you’re not even breathing heavy yet.”

            Ryder was always needed to do something-or-other better than anyone else. You’d think the outcome of the war rested entirely on his shoulders the way the officers would seek him out. There was no doubt he would rise quickly through the ranks; he was marked for greatness just as I was marked for anonymity.

            This brings me back to the reason why I am sitting here with my pistol in my lap and waiting for enough strength to lift it. I can hear the sounds of life on the other side of my wall. Car horns and yelling are drowned out by the insistent roar of an approaching train. The steady whump-whump-whump of the wheels reminding me of -

            WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP

            I am sweating unimaginable amounts, squished between two larger soldiers in the belly of a large black helicopter. I strained my neck in order to see the Sergeant’s lips, the constant beat of the propellers making it hard to hear him.

            “Listen up, boys.” The grizzled Sergeant demanded as we landed, “I’ve been in uniform since you were in liquid form and I’m here to tell you that war is nothing more than a messy game. So you get in there and you play it for all you’ve got. Think of those you left back home who are counting on your protection and you kill us some f*****g commies!”

            “Hooah!” The cargo answered as one. We were long used to the Sergeant’s colorful sayings.

            “Now stand your asses up, soldiers, and jump on my command,” he brayed, “horseshoes and hand grenades, boys!”

            Ordered to retrieve a lost band of brothers, we knew only that we would be heavily outnumbered. Lost in the unfamiliar jungle, Ryder’s earlier unit had been bogged down with heavy fire and unable to break free. When we found their emptied packs we looked at each other, realizing a moment before the shooting began that we were unimaginably screwed.

            “Fall out!” screamed a man from the front. “Scatter, scatter!”

            We all scattered to avoid making our entire unit an easy target, with some men digging in their heels and shooting while others ran for some cover first. This was the first time that my life was clearly in danger and - to my everlasting shame - the first time I realized I was a filthy coward.

            As I ran, zigzagging my way towards a group of thick trees, I could hear each lung fill with air, expelling all thoughts but one: survival. My training did not kick in. I did not think of my family and friends relying on me back home. Instead, I panicked.

            When I got to the trees I could feel my heartbeat in my eyes and I was sure they must be bulging. It was a strange time to worry about looking a fool, but I can vividly remember being embarrassed for a moment. The next thing I knew, my lunch made a break for the jungle floor. As I bent over retching, I saw that the colossal tree to my left was hollowed out at the bottom. Some animal’s winter den, no doubt. It was then that I got shot, though I didn’t feel it at the time.        

             Without thinking, I crawled inside the trunk until I was pressed against the back of the inside of the tree and dug up the leaves and sticks around to cover me. I sat there and listened as my brothers were slaughtered. I felt nothing for them, only terror. I didn’t move - barely breathed - as I prayed to survive. Suddenly, the sticks in front of me shifted and I saw a hand reaching in for me. I didn’t think. I just shot. I guess my training kicked in after all.

               I heard a thump and as the hand fell away it dragged the rest of my camouflage with it. That was when I saw Ryder kneeling in front of me. I almost hugged him for coming to save me, confused as to how he had been able to escape the earlier capture, but as I whispered his name a thin line of crimson blood trickled from his mouth. Ryder slumped over dead. Killed by my cowardly trigger finger which hadn’t waited to see who was digging me out. He must have seen me crawl in. The thought made me cringe in shame. I let the blackness take me then.

            I woke up in the hospital unable to talk and floating on a cloud of morphine. My friends and family all told me what a hero I was; the only survivor of one of the worst ambushes in history. I was hailed a hero and given a medal. At first I told myself Ryder would have wanted me to enjoy it, but day by day the lie was beginning to eat at me like a cancer.

            And so here I sit - surrounded by medals and magazines with my face on them - waiting for the courage to do what must be done. I fingered the note on the table, explaining who the real hero of the skirmish had been and confessing my own careless murder of him. Ryder hadn’t run away. Not even after he cleared the area of enemies. He had come for me.

            I finally found the courage to lift my gun.

            “Now, Ryder,” I whispered, “I am coming for you.”

END

Reviews

[James]

I can tell you, that every soldier's biggest fear is being a coward and what makes them function is a combination of training, mental conditioning, but mostly loyalty to their fellow soldiers.

The part that most got me wasn't the battle scene or the play-by-play, but the ending. A Post-traumatic vet struggling to survive one day to the next. The President of my college is a Vietnam vet and he calls it survivor's guilt and I think that that has more to do with this condition than what these guys saw and did.

My latest write was about something very similar; interesting that I saw yours just now.

[James]

I forgot to add that I really liked the story. It's very real and it presents a very real issue that needs more attention.

[Gaia Octavia]

I know this is super late, but I want to thank you for your kind review. It means a lot to hear about others connecting to a story you wrote, as I'm sure you know. What was the name of your story you mentioned? Thanks again!

[James]

Hey, I'm not sure, it may have been Peacetime Promises, thanks for asking. I'm a vet, myself. When I got out I worked as a firefighter for eight years. Now I work at a college in a military town and I work with vets, most of them combat Marines. I had to read this again. Right now we lose 22 vets a day to suicide. This is something that I'm involved in almost daily.

[Gaia Octavia]

It is truly a shame how we leave our "heroes" in the dust and continually let them down, look through them, and refuse to fund what is necessary to save them once they return home (as they saved us when they left). There are so many changes that need to happen in this country, but mental health support and caring for our veterans are priorities. Thank you for your continued service. ✊

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Gaia Octavia,
Your deeply descriptive portrayal is stunning! :Glory Hole" tells the story of smells connected with memories, sounds connected with choices and the taste of wanting to be brave but being human and then feeling guilty. The narrater is nameless withing His or her pain and Ryder then becomes the true main character. Broken one that he is the speaker is shamed by the fact that his life did not measure up to the one he admired so very much. I am not surprised that this story ends as it does.........courage at last to lift my gun........I whispered, "I am coming for you." I just inhaled this story and thought of those I know and have heard of now gone..............Bless you for sharing..............Kathy

[Gaia Octavia]

Thank you so much! It really means a lot to get feedback from someone who understands and connects with your work. I had forgotten about this story and I am glad you enjoyed it. It really does mean a lot 😊

[Kathy Van Kurin]

Gaia Octavia,
I think that the effort in connecting is a worthwhile enterprise. Whether not I always really understand perfectly is not as important as just making the effort? I hope that is enough. Bless you in life and searching and thinking. Kathy