A Time Away

This is a short story of a soldier dealing with PTSD.

                From the newly blackened sky, solid chunks of earth and metal shrapnel rain down upon the bodies of three fallen soldiers.  Amidst this carnage, confusion starts to run rampant between the remaining soldiers-- the fear of death nearly freezes some in place, while bravado has left others acting as a modern manifestation of the once baby faced young men storming the beaches of Normandy. And while it is impossible to know how one will truly act in the heat of battle, this current brand of bravery seeps through from the subconscious as these new warriors recollect childhood memories of tales told to them by great grandfathers long since passed; the kinds of grandfathers that once were the inspirations of the fearless men portrayed in old war movies and WWII era comic books. So without even realizing the source of their courageousness, a small group of American soldiers muster up the courage to make a break away from the carnage.

                “Go! Right! Right! Move!” Through the deafening barrage of gunfire, the voice of a commanding officer barely rises above the stifling noise.

Without a target, five uninjured soldiers scramble for cover, guns blazing, in an attempt to clear the way; it all happens so fast that their training is briefly lost and their heightened senses take over. In their mad dash they manage to cower together, low behind the safety of crumbled pillars belonging to what once was a temple of worship. Adrenaline fuels the warrior within, as fear fuels the desire to survive.

“How many left behind!” This phrase gets frantically repeated several more times until a meek voice finally answers with a simple, “Six.”

“Alive?” This time the question is only met with a grim silence.

Unexpectedly, a smattering of running footsteps cut out from various buildings and spread out in all directions. With the initial ambush complete, the enemy has taken up cover in the nearby hills; most likely waiting for the remaining men to move out into the open so they can easily be picked off by sniper fire.        

“What should we do now sir?” A young man, looking as if he isn’t even old enough to shave yet, looks up from underneath a thick, sandy beige colored helmet as he desperately waits for some form of direction to set his wildly pacing mind at ease. Unfortunately for this young soldier, a person much more capable of following orders than thinking on his own, has his question only met with a vague, expressionless glance from his superior.

 

A brief quiet sets in. It’s the kind of quiet you may experience after first hearing very troubling news that doesn’t directly affect you, but still shakes you to your core regardless. The men, ready for any signs of movement, struggle to keep their composure. The fate of their brothers in arms appears bleak; there are no groans of pain nor can they hear any movement. They have no choice but to wait until the forceful grip of silence relinquishes its hold upon them.

As the young men wait, the sweet scent of burnt flesh intertwines with the many spindly wisp of smoke rising up from the smoldering ground, climbing ever higher as they all merge together into a single cloud of black death. In a world of order, it is the aftermath from a single act of chaos that now governs the direction of the day-- for amongst the chaos, there are no brave men, only the ones that survive, and the ones that don’t.

 

The minute’s drag along like hours when surprisingly, a light moan, so faint it almost isn’t audible, manages to escape the rubble and reach the ears of one of the five remaining soldiers.

“Did you guys hear that?” The other men perk up as if in anticipation for another sign of life.

They wait several more minutes but there is no follow up sound. Once again the hope drains from their bodies, completely demoralizing them as the realization that out of 11 men, only five appear to remain alive.

The hopelessness only last but a moment before another surprise, seemingly the only good one of a day full of them, instantly invigorates them once more. “I’m-- Guys I’m down-- I’m, hit.” A wounded voice eases its way through the broken rocks and bloodied bodies, with the words “I’m hit” being the only ones to find their desired target.

“Now I know you guys heard that,” in a whisper as not to drown out any following sounds from the rubble, another young soldier continues on, “That sounded like O’Dell.”

                “O’Dell, is that you?” The staff sergeant asks while the five soldiers remain still, waiting in anticipation for a reply.

 

                The initial explosion was absolutely deafening. It is a miracle in of itself that even one person was able to survive it. But unbeknownst to the uninjured men, the closest one to it. Private First Class James O’Dell, has been left barely able to hear as he lay in a heap; his body covered by the same concrete slab that luckily, shielded him from the deadly shrapnel of the blast.

                The men, with the lack of response leaving them unsure of what action to take, quietly deliberate on their next move. “Just stay still O’Dell. Don’t move,” one of them blurts out.

                The faded voice is carried off in the wind; subdued further by the piercing ring brought on by damaged eardrums. In a daze, James O’Dell rolls onto his back as the concrete slab remains propped up on a broken pillar. In addition to the hearing loss, his vision is blurry, he is unable to focus his attention, and he can’t even begin to form any thoughts on what he should do.

 

                “O’Dell stay down stay down! It’s not clear!” With a voice of guidance coming down as if from the heavens themselves, James desperately wants to take heed to the warning. But something deep within tells him not to listen. A voice in his own head urging him to move forward. To use every last ounce of energy to survive. This voice of his own making takes precedence over all others: he will not stay down.

                His body moves on instinct; its actions completely separate from mind. He knows he is crawling towards a nearby building, yet it is not the doing of his will for survival, nor is it the fear driving him to safety. It is an ancient primal instinct causing his body to react, and that until this very moment, has never before been experienced by him.

                “O’Dell is on the move! Somebody needs to help him STAT!

                “No! Nobody move! Keep your position!”

 

                The adrenaline surging through his tattered body keeps him moving at a steady pace. He is unable to feel the severity of the damage inflicted upon him by the blast. Yet even without the intense sensation of pain inhibiting him, he is incapable of progressing beyond that of a downed paraplegic’s crawl: his legs, dangling lifeless much like that of a marionette, are nothing but a mere burden at this point.

                “Still not clear. Provide cover for him.”

                Tiny spurts of air whiz past his head at incredible speed, preceded only by a light popping sound from the distance. Two more times this occurs before James notices that the rocks on the opposite side of the air’s incoming trajectory are bursting apart into small pieces. It’s all happening far too fast for him to comprehend.

                “They aren’t in sight. We can’t protect O’Dell if he keeps moving.”

                Something knocks hard into his right thigh. Immediately, a sickening sharp throbbing from damaged nerves permeates outward from within his femur bone. He tries to continue on but his leg does not comply with his will. Looking down, but only briefly, reveals his right pant leg has transformed from its traditional sandy camouflage to a now thickly painted coating of deep crimson.

                “O’Dell is hit! We have to get him out of there now!” The command is bold, causing the men to come up with an immediate plan.

 

                A sound, like a gentle rolling thunder, is directly followed by the kicking up of dust and sand that makes breathing problematic. Amplifying this dire situation is the unresponsiveness of his body, causing him now the inability to trudge even a single inch forward. With no choice but to stay motionless upon his belly, he waits for the end as his body commences to become cold, lifeless; like a stone sculpture once erected in marvelous grandeur, only to be toppled by insurgents and shattered into irreparable pieces. His body, his instinct, no longer push him to the safety that is only a few feet in front of him. James O’Dell, having exhausted all of his energy, closes his eyes and simply lets his head drop onto a plush mound of sand. It is time for mind, body, and soul to bow down in gracious defeat, for chaos appears to have won the day.

 

 Nearby a plan of rescue is in the process of action. The commanding officer shouts out the plan boldly, clearly, and without hesitation, “You three cover us to the next building. Count to three, then cover us to the third building. Once we make it there, wait for my signal.” The two soldiers rise up and make a break for a nearby building as the three remaining men provide cover fire, shooting back and forth in the direction of the distant hills. James O’Dell lay only a few yards away.

 

Instinct gives way and stops pushing James forward. The shrill hums of gunfire cease, the wind no longer stings the skin of his bare face, and the adrenaline in his veins no longer causes his heart to thrash uncontrollably in his chest. It is only the desire to go to sleep that directs James now. And as he begins to fade away from this world, Images of a firework show back home with his family flashes through his mind.

While the world around him starts to slow down, memories of heavenly twinkles of wonderful color, dancing freely in the night sky for all to see, cause his barely beating heart to quicken. The smiles the show brought upon the faces of his loved ones bring peace to his weary soul. He feels as if he can rest easy now.

Everything fades away as a cold blackness replaces his reality, and there are no more thoughts of happy days. There are no more feelings of joy or sorrow, as the light of life is now nearly extinguished. And for a moment, everything just is.

 

“Up. --ke up!”

An immense, blinding light burns the pupils of his eyes. “Wha-- What’s going on?” James questions, even though he’s not sure anybody is actually there to answer.

“He’s awake!” A nearby voice cries.

With his mind in a dense fog, and a pronounced heaviness weighing down upon his skull, it’s as if he has just risen out from the great depths of the ocean. His vision drastically blurred, he is able to make out the appearance of five soldiers standing around him; one of the men appears to be holding a medical bag.

They are in a grey stone building of sorts, a living room of an abandoned house perhaps, and all of the nearby furniture has been destroyed. The soldier carrying the medic bag has knelt down by James and has started to tend to the man’s injuries. As his eyes pull away from the medic, they begin to shift around the room almost uncontrollably.

Having assessed the whole scene before him, his eyes finally stop and focus on all of the men at once. He can see their lips move but his hearing is coming and going sporadically, making it impossible to follow the conversation.

The men are very tense, with agitation showing on their faces and fear hiding in the dark recesses of their eyes. More popping suddenly burst forth from outside of the building and the men instinctively drop down low. James tries to follow the action around him but the only thing he can focus on is the feeling in his freshly wrapped limbs returning-- shooting back to life in the form of searing pain.

“We can’t wait any longer. We need to move.” James recognizes this voice as belonging to his squads Staff Sergeant.

There is a break in the assault outside and the five soldiers, all still crouched down low, continue to strategize as James begins to regain his senses. It all seems so surreal to him, like he is watching the events from outside of his body. These soldiers, such brave, great men, planning on a way in which they can save their fallen brother; they almost seem to him like hero’s pulled straight from the pages of a comic book.

This scene unfolds before James and he cannot help but break down inside as emotions stir deep within his heart. For it is great sacrifice of life these men are willing to give to save a fellow soldier. And even though he knows he would do the same for any of them, the guilt to be caused if any of these men were to lose their life for his, is simply too much for him to handle. Certainly one man’s life cannot be worth that of five.

The men, one by one, grow increasingly irate as each individual plan of escape gets shot down by the others. And just as the emotions in the room near the peak of combustion, a meek voice coming from the floor brings the anger to a halt, as the words everyone is thinking, but nobody dares to utter, are finally spoken out lout. “You guys need to leave me here.”

Briefly stunned, the Staff Sergeant finally speaks up, “We cannot leave a soldier behind. You know that O’Dell.”

“I know sir, but there is no other choice.”

“That’s enough of th--“

“No! It has to be done!” With all of his remaining energy, the quiet mouse turns into a roaring lion, for James knows there is no other option. He refuses to let the others die trying to save him.

The soldiers, brought into this situation against their own will, huddle up to discuss what they should do. They have no radio, no means of calling for help.  They know they are outnumbered as the nearby hills are filled with snipers. The other men in their squad, as well as their vehicles, have been laid to waste.

There is one option for a safe retreat: through an exit in the back of the house, leads to a series of other buildings in which the soldiers can navigate away from the danger. The only problem is there is no way to carry an injured man through this path. They need to be quick, cautious, and very mobile. None of which can be accomplished with an injured soldier being drug about.

After much deliberation, the men come to an agreement. “Okay O’Dell, we are going to escape through the back,” The Staff Sergeant crouches next to James as he explains the situation further, “Once we reach the base, we will come back to you,” clearing his throat and speaking with a great seriousness now, “Peterson and Rorey are going to stay with you.”

Before he is able to finish the plan James cuts him short. “I’m sorry sir but I can’t let that happen. We all know that’s a suicide mission for them. Please, just leave me here.” His voice trails off with a tremble of desperation.

“I’m sorry son but--“

Without warning, the wall and ceiling on the right side of the room explodes as if hell itself has erupted through the ground below, spewing fire and rock high into the sky only to have it come crashing back to earth with a great fury. A cloud of dust and smoke immediately fill the air so thickly that James is unable to see or breath. He feels heavy rocks bounce off of his body and the explosion cause his ears to throb with pain. He is very quickly buried by debris while everything goes eerily quiet.

Several minutes go by and the rubble begins to settle. Through the haze of dust, James can see that the whole side of the house is now just an open space with tiny flames smoldering along the edges. The hot yellow sun and blue sky peek through the carnage and illuminate the dust with a translucent gold hue. As beautiful as it is horrifying, James cannot appreciate the sight as he breaks into a fit of coughing.

“Is every-- everyone o-- okay?” he fights to get the words out through a second terrible hacking fit brought on by the suffocating dust.

He would think he has gone deaf if it weren’t for the sounds of settling rocks and popping flames. There are no signs of the other soldiers, in sight or sound. James is all alone once more as chaos once again starts its elaborate dance around him.

 

Wanting to call out for his brothers, call out to his family, even a call out to God himself, he remains silent. For the hammering of incoming footsteps echo through the wreckage, and calling out could mean a fate worse than death.

Short, direct words in Arabic are exchanged between a group of men. They are out of sight but their words ring clear. Unable to speak the language, James can only use the tone in which the words are spoken to decipher their meaning. And it is their tone that makes his blood run cold; they are not looking for prisoners to take. They are looking to make sure that they don’t leave any survivors.

The men all split up in different directions and only one pair of footsteps walk towards the broken down building now. The treading of heavy boots pounding through the rubble closes in on James. He shuts his eyes and plays dead as the man nears.

The thumping of rocks being flipped over coincide with the thumping of James own heart. Through all of this, it is only because the thought of survival has finally been allowed to cross his mind, that the fear of death has truly taken over his being.

A brief moment of silence fills the collapsed room with tension. James cannot help but feel as if his shallow breaths and beating heart are like a drum calling to the man to find him. And sure enough, the man picks up his feet once more and draws closer. With the man right on top of him now, the unsteady rocks right next to James topple over, leaving the upper half of his body exposed.

He holds his breath and prays that the man will pass him off as deceased. It will only take a moment, a single moment of absolute silence and the man will be on his way. He will be on his way and James will be safe until help arrives. But the air is still thick with dust, and against all of his efforts, all of his might, the slightest tickle in his throat will be his undoing.

James lets outs the slightest cough, and no sooner does it escape his mouth does the man zero right in on his location. Before he has a chance to think, the barrel of an assault rifle is pushed right against his forehead.

The man sternly repeats the same phrase in Arabic, getting more and more furious with a lack of reply. He drills the barrel even harder into James forehead as he questions once more, only to get the same silent reply.

Just as it seems the man has come to the end of his patience, he switches to English and with a thick accent says, “You only speak English?”

“Y-- Yes.” James manages to get out.

“Are anymore of your men live?”

“I don’t-- I don’t think so.” Until this question was asked, James hadn’t even though about the fate of his brothers in arms.

“That’s no good for you.” With a smirk crossing his face, the man pulls the trigger.

Click.

Surprised, he pulls the trigger once more

Click.

He chuckles as his gun fails to fire. “It would appear God has yet still a plan for you my friend.” The man hastily pulls away and the thumping of his running boots echo into the distance.

 

James lay motionless, half covered by rubble, and surrounded by death. The question as to why the man left him alive doesn’t even come into his mind. His thoughts only focus on one thing now; the fate of his fallen brothers.

The men who sacrificed their lives for him, their death, it eats away at the now fragile constitution of James O’Dell. They could have left before the explosion and they would all be alive right now. They would be able to return to their families, see their wives and children-- they would have had the chance at a full life. But that is all gone, all gone because of the chaos, and mainly, all gone trying to save one soldier that is now laying in the rubble, staring into the blue cloudless sky.

He shuts his eyes once more as if by habit now-- a solitary tear slides down his cheek. It is all over now, the day has been lost, his brothers have been lost, and his future has been lost.

His mind returns to the firework show. His hand being held by that of a child’s; his little sister. His mother smiles at him as she leans against his shoulder. The three of them, without a care in world, look up and marvel as their eyes illumine with the bright lights bursting forth. For this moment, all feels right, as if this should be the end. And in that moment, if it were to be the end, James O’Dell would be absolutely fine with that.

Heavy blades whirl through the air as they fight against the wind of the blue sky. With his peaceful state abruptly coming to an end, James is once again forced back into reality. Helpless, he lies in the rubble, surrounded by small flames. But there, high above him, is a United States black hawk helicopter. James stares at it as it lowers itself in the distance. He knows what comes now. He is rescued. Yet he feels nothing. All he can do is stare straight ahead, unblinking, and completely motionless.

 

“Jamie, are you okay honey?”

James comes to, surrounded by the familiar décor of his home. He first looks down at his right leg: the fabric of his jeans are soaked through just above the knee. In his right hand, resting right at the center of the wet spot, is a lukewarm beer bottle, without so much as a sip taken from it. There is a big screen television in front of him but it hasn’t been turned on.

Confused, James looks back to see his loving wife of 15 years, Amanda, staring back at him. He remains seated in his plush rocking chair, just staring at this beautiful woman. She doesn’t say anything and nor does he.

They stay like this for many moments, with the concern in her eyes growing as they absorb the helplessness from his. Just as she is about to say something, James gives her a gentle smile. And even though the hurt in his eyes in undeniable, she simply returns the smile, and leaves him alone once more-- an act that has surely played out countless times over the years. The moment passes as if to be routine at this point; a result of many arguments and even more hurt feelings.

Alone again, James turns his head back towards the television. And even though it was such a simplistic, honest question, James thinks long and hard on the words his wife has said to him. “Are you okay?” Such a normal show of concern. Yet it fills him with incredible guilt, sadness, and even more worrisome, it fills him with an intense rage.

How dare she think, after all of these years, to ask him if he’s okay-- as if he can ever feel okay. He grips the bottle of beer so hard it feels as if it’s going to crack. Then, without even realizing, James looks at his left hand, and just as tightly gripped, is a Beretta M9 pistol with the hammer cocked back and the safety off.

He stares at the pistol for a minute, just thinking about how easy it would be to end all of this pain, this guilt built up over so many long, grueling years. He lifts the gun up slowly, and he breaths in deeply. “Oh how easy it will be,” he thinks to himself as his finger delicately caresses the curvature of the trigger.

He puts the barrel to his temple, and takes an action he is so familiar with now-- he closes his eyes. He closes his eyes and forgets reality-- losing himself in a firework show. His index finger tightens around the trigger, and he exhales gradually. As the fireworks go off, and the smiles of his family surrounding him, a wonderful tranquility washes over him, and he slowly starts to squeeze the trigger.

 

“Daddy, what are you doing?” Startled, his eyelids spring open, and looking back at him is the innocent face of his five-year-old daughter.

He is silent for a couple of seconds, but then a feeling far greater than that of his own guilt fills his heart, “Nothing pumpkin. Daddy is just being silly.”

In one motion he slides his thumb down on the safety switch and tucks the gun into the cushion of his recliner. Then he puts the bottle of beer on the coffee table and calls to his daughter, “Come here sweetheart.” His daughter lovingly climbs up on him and puts her head against his chest, quickly falling asleep in his arms.

“It would appear God has yet still a plan for you my friend,” he quietly says to himself, pulling his daughter in closer.

 

Author's Note

This is only a draft of a much more detailed story I intended to write, but I lost interest.