Ah Santa, I can Explain - Norris

This story is the property of the writer Kalimaxos.

You asked for a sequel, you got it.

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Nightmares

"Norris."

I was in a fog in darkness.

"NORRIS!"

I heard a loud voice. It was them. Again!

"You can't escape us," said Rivera.

"Don't even try," said Pearlman.

"Maybe we should try something humorous to get him going," said Rivera.

I had heard this before and hated it.

"Go away!" I yelled at them. "Leave me alone."

"What," said Pearlman. "You don't want to hear how a Jew and a black guy go to Iraq and are left to die while their commander is busy playing hero?"

I looked up to see them in the fog. Both in sand colored camo but no headgear or any equipment. Its like we used to dress on our time off hanging around the base. The black man is Pearlman. Rivera is the Jewish man standing next to him. Interesting characters both. You would think their names are reversed, but they are not. Rivera has a Hispanic father and Jewish mother; so he was raised Jewish. Pearlman is black I don't know how he got that name. He is an orphan raised by foster parents. Go figure.

"Stop it please!" I beg.

"Not going to happen," says Rivera. "Not until you sort things out."

"What am I to sort out?"

"Come on Captain," Pearlman leans in. "Not until you figure it out."

It's the umpteenth time I have seen them come to me. Its my daily nightmare now for close to a year. I will wake soon and be up for hours until I can get them to go away. Sometimes they follow me during the day. They don't speak to me then, but I see them around town in crowds. They stare at me with questioning, demanding looks.

I wake in cold sweat gasping for breath. How many times will this happen? How long can it go on? Will they ever leave me be?

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At the therapist; the report

I tell my therapist for the umpteenth time. He listens and nods. This time he has some papers.

"Norris, we need to talk."

"Talk? More talk? All we do is talk. They keep talking about sorting it out. Sort what out?"

"I have the report in case you want to see it," Doc Russo says.

"They gave it to you?" I ask surprised.

"Well, it has a lot to do with the fact you finally signed the request to release it to me. And who you are. The Army wants you to get better. They don't want it to get out that their Golden Boy Medal of Honor holder has... issues."

"You told them what's wrong with me!" I ask annoyed and shocked that he would.

"That's insulting you would think I would," Doc Russo replies.

Doctor Frank Russo is my therapist. He is a specialist in my condition, being both an MD and a psychotherapist. He specializes in veterans who have E.D. issues after combat. Being who I am, he shuffled his patient load to take me as a patient. I'm sure he will write a paper for his medical journals once he cures me.

"Sorry Doc, I..."

"Never mind you ingrate," he replies looking at the papers as if I annoyed him. "So I went over the report. Bottom line, your Army types did go over the event and found you not responsible for the deaths of your two men. What do you have to say about that?"

"Are you sure they are not just covering up for the guy they made into a hero?"

He looks at me as if I spilled his martini and sighs.

"Page three, I'm sure you can read, but I'll read it for you."

Hassling me is his therapy style. He folds the pages over and reads.

"...The cause of death for Sergeants Rivera and Pearlman is severe trauma caused by shrapnel from the a soviet manufactured 9M113 Kornet anti-tank rocket. Whatever that is."

"It's meant to kill tanks," I reply.

"Well, it apparently exploded in the vehicle because its says the fragments were what killed your men," Doc Frank placed the papers in front of me. "I'm no expert in Russian rockets, but do you think you could have stopped one of those with your trusty M4?"

"No'" I replied. "When does it say they got hit?"

"Same page," Doc responds. "Said they got hit by the rocket soon after you and the rest of your team moved out to attack the insurgents. Norris, they were dead all the time you were going through the rescue. No way they called you and if you look at page four the survivors of your unit have no recollection of the two men in the rear calling out for help."

"So they were dead all along?" I ask.

"I'm afraid so Norris," he sits back. "They were probably the first men to die in your unit in the engagement."

"Shit," I say in realization. "I thought they would be the safest of us all."

"Its war Norris," he replies. "I was in Dessert Storm as a Navy doctor with the Marines. Men die and there is no sense to it. One man is hit by a bullet and lives, the other doesn't. It's how it is."

"Its how it is," I repeat.

"Norris," I know your PTSD is not just caused by that incident. But that incident is the root of it. Think about it."

"So if I wasn't the cause of their deaths, why are they coming back to haunt me and tell me I don't deserve my life and all that?"

'They..." he paused for effect, "are not here to say anything Norris. What you see in your dreams is what YOU think happened. Its your guilt. Survivors guilt. Remember, we talked about it?"

"I remember Doc. So I didn't cause their deaths. That's a weight off my shoulders I guess. But it bothers me that I made it and I have all I have..." I almost sob. "But they died. They should be here."

"You are not God Norris. All you were was Captain Griggs; their commander. You made a tactical decision that placed them as rearguards. On page two that is mentioned as sound tactical thinking. If not them, you would have picked two other men. And you had no way of knowing that the enemy would fire that rocket at the convoy."

"I should have," I reply still thinking it was my fault. "They had to use rockets to stop the convoy..."

"No, they didn't. It says they used a command detonated IED. There was no way you could have known."

I look up at him in wonder.

"Why didn't they tell me all this before?" I ask.

"You were not prevented from reading this had you still had your clearance. I think it was because you were in hospital and then in rehab. And by then you were out of the service with no clearance. So, you just missed your chance to see the final report. You are seeing it now, and trust me its redacted, see all the blacked out lines in pages one and further back. The part about your involvement is not classified. I'm assuming because there was hardly any secret to it. They just didn't have you around to let you know Norris. No conspiracy and no guilt on your part."

"Do you think this is what is causing my," I look away. "My E.D?"

"I'm 95% positive it is. You have no physical damage. Its psychological."

"I don't... I..." I stammer in confusion trying to sort it all out.

"Could all of this have been avoided?" I ask him.

All of this includes my issues with Amber. Our divorce.

"No Norris," he replies. "The E.D. maybe, but not your unwillingness to trust Amber. I had asked you to talk to her and bring her to our sessions for a few times at least. After all that happened, do you still think not talking to one's spouse is the way to go?"

I sat there silent realizing what a mess I had made of my and Amber's lives. How this was to effect our children down the road.

"OK," Doc Russo cuts in. "I know how that mind of yours works. Stop thinking it was all your fault. Its infuriating. We have talked about this many times. You are not God. You are not responsible for everything in life. But if you let this situation as is, you will be responsible for what happens from now on. I'll let you think about that until our next session."

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Don't leave men behind

I got back home deep in thought. My belief that I was responsible for my men's deaths is shaken. I had accepted the death of the men who had gone with me to clear out the column, but not the men I left behind. "The men I left behind!"

That phrase has an origin with me. I remember the first time I heard it. Dad and I are talking about Vietnam; it was soon after I was commissioned after West Point.

"Remember son, as an officer, you can't leave any men behind like that asshole Kissinger did by leaving prisoners behind in the hands of the North Vietnamese. Even if they die, bring their bodies back."

"Don't leave any men behind."

That night I sleep, and they visit me again.

"Do the right thing," Rivera says.

"If you don't take responsibility, you don't deserve anything you have in life." Pearlman this time.

"Guys," I tell them. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to assign you the rear guard."

"We know," Rivera says. "That is not our beef with you."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Because you have to figure it out," said Pearlman. "You have to take ownership for what you did."

"But I did. I am a mess because I did, and it turns out you guys never called me on the radio. I couldn't have helped out. You were dead a couple of minutes after we drove off."

"We know that Captain," they say in unison. "Its what you did to her that is why we are still here."

"What do you mean! Who is her? Amber?"

I yell waking up. But I am alone in my bedroom. I run up to check the kids and they are fine. I didn't wake them. Poor kids, their father is a nut. I spent the night thinking about what they say and Amber and everything else.

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Karen

Amber's mother, Karen, finds me sleeping on the couch. I wake with her nudging my arm and offering me fresh coffee.

"Morning," I say noticing I am covered with a blanket.

"Have a hard night?" she asks with a smirk. What is she talking about.

Oh my Gawd! I have a hardon. Morning wood. Shit! She saw that under my boxers? Oh fuck. My dick is sticking out of my boxers!

"Oh Gawd Karen," I try to apologize, but she will not stop smirking. "I'm so embarrassed."

"Nothing to be embarrassed with what you got," Karen says still smirking and sits down across from me with her coffee.

I want to get up and leave the room, but she is smiling at me.

"When did that problem solve itself?" she askes still with that fucken smirk.

"I," I stammer. "I don't know... I woke up this way."

"OK," she says finally deciding to end my torment. "I'll go check on the kids. You go get dressed; take a cold shower or whatever you men do."

"Yeah," I reply looking away and wrapping myself in the blanket as I stand. "Thanks."

I walk away from her and make a beeline for my bedroom and close the door. Holy shit! I have a boner! Fuck me. Karen saw it. My mother in law. Ex mother in law... fuck, she saw it and just smirked. How long did she stand there staring at my dick before she covered me? How can I look at her in the eye after that?

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Right after the divorce

Looking at our twins, I knew I needed help. I cut Amber off and filed for divorce, but the kids needed someone who really cared about them. Not just nannies and daycare. So I asked Karen to take care of them when I was at work, but I had a guard with her all the time; a female ex. military woman who towered over Karen.

It amazed me that after divorcing her daughter, Karen was as understanding as she was.

"Karen," I said to her a couple of weeks after the divorce. "I appreciate you taking care of the kids during the day."

"You are paying me to watch over my own grandchildren Norris. Think I would pass that up?"

"Still, I would think you would not be happy with me after..."

She had turned to look at me with an icy stare. But softened in seconds. Had I pushed her too far?

"Norris, do you really want me to place having my grandchildren in my life in jeopardy so I can toss my two cents worth in about how you and my daughter ruined your marriage?"

I almost tossed in that her daughter had screwed around on me in Karen's face. But then inside me, I knew I should not. I had not figured out my issues yet but knew that Karen was not responsible for Amber's actions. And Karen was the best person to take care of my children.

"I guess not," I replied.

"Norris, I am not sure what exactly was going on between you two. Amber didn't exactly call me and ask me if it was OK for her to fuck around. Trust me, had she done that I would have screamed at her to run away from that man. But I have talked to her since. She feels guilty about what she did, but you had your hand in it. Why did you cut her off?"

The ultimate question of my guilt. I was still angry with Amber at that point. But the question by my therapist Doc Russo, lingered.

"Had you brought in Amber as I asked." He had said. "Had you confided in her about your problems and their cause, would she have cheated on you?"

That set of questions reverberated in my mind daily. Now Karen, my ex-wife's mother was asking me, and I had no answer. I didn't reply as I left her with the kids and went to work.

I also left because Karen is an older version of my ex. Karen is not even fifty yet. Looking at her still alluring figure and pretty face, I get a constant reminder of how beautiful Amber would still be twenty years from now. We were supposed to have grown older together. The perfect couple with the perfect looks. Everything perfect. What a crock of shit that was. We had failed miserably.

Why had I looked at Karen that way? Was it her uncanny resemblance to her daughter? I was too confused to deal with it. But I did bring it up in therapy. I got the usual psychobabble about transference or such shit. Whatever that means. Again, I dismissed the therapist's warning to be careful and to deal with my issues before creating a mess of what was my life. Hell. It was already a mess I thought.

By then, I had shed my "I am perfect" illusions. The near easy success of my previous life had been shattered. Not the day I found out my wife had cheated on me, but on that day back in Iraq. The day I became the war hero while letting two of my teammates die because I didn't answer my radio. But then we didn't have the Army report to see.

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What happened in Iraq

The therapist had gone over this with me time and again. So you may as well know what I thought happened before receiving the report. The short version.

My Delta team was in between missions at the time and were at the early stages of planning the next one; capturing or killing an Al Qaeda operative who was directing the insurgency in western Iraq. So when a call came that a resupply convoy had been ambushed not far from us, our small unit responded.

All we had was three Humvees with fifty caliber heavy machineguns and there were nine of us. Splitting up in teams of three we sped to the scene guided by the smoke of already burning vehicles, gunfire and explosions.

I was in the lead vehicle as we got closer when a frantic radio message from the convoy said that the enemy was going through the stopped vehicles and killing drivers and other crew. There was no time for planning a response. We had to get in there and stop the enemy to save as many of our soldiers as possible. It didn't help much that the frantic call was from a low ranking female soldier whose commander was dying, and she was in full panic mode.

I don't want to look down at the crews of the convoy. None of us Special Forces types could go on a mission without the support of these men and women. But let's face it, they did not have our training or battle ethos. And that last part is what can get you to survive an ambush. Well trained troops fight back. These poor people just fought in place hoping for others to come save them. It's all they knew to do. And with their commander out of action, even had he tried organizing them, there wasn't much they could have done other than die trying.

I figured that driving down the side of the convoy fast, we could kill the black clad insurgents as they focused on killing the convoy crews before they had a chance to react to us. So I sent one Humvee on the right side of the road as mine took the left. The last vehicle I left at the head of the column to guard our rear taking one of their three men and leaving just the driver and gunner. I needed as many guns with me as I could get.

The carnage of the attack was evident as we passed vehicle after vehicle. There were dead American soldiers by the trucks and the occasional black clad body of the enemy. When we finally got closer, there was an explosion and the other vehicle on the right side of the road blew up. It had been hit by an enemy RPG (a handheld rocket) and everyone but one of the men was killed on the spot. The last was so badly wounded that the enemy thought he had died.

Of course I and the three others in my vehicle continued on. I and one man had dismounted to start killing enemy as the Humvee and its gunner gave us cover. We shot quite a few of them and kept going. Speed and surprise was our only advantage. Somewhere along the way, the other man with me got shot, but he waved me to keep going. Then the supporting Humvee was hit, but I didn't know that either as I kept advancing and killing enemy; mainly shooting at them in the back as they were focused on killing truck drivers or crew.

They say adrenaline makes a man do some amazing things. It makes you forget fear and the pain of being shot. All that happened to me until the shooting pace seemed to ebb. I eventually ran out of men in black to kill and found a group of truck crews huddled together near the end of the convoy. I reached for my radio to get in touch with my men, but I had not brought it along. I had left it on the Humvee.

By then, I was bleeding from five holes on my arm, shoulder, left hip and right calf. The adrenaline gave way and I collapsed on the side of the road. I woke as US soldiers who I figured were the relief force were swarming around the convoy. Two medics were working on me as I could hear a female voice yelling.

"He saved us. He saved us... we were as good as dead."

I didn't know who she was talking about as I was drifting in and out by that point. There are images of a helicopter ride out. Medics over me. Medics and doctors in a hospital. Darkness and nightmares of never ending hordes of black clad men and me running out of ammunition.

Then I woke in Germany in a modern hospital where I was operated on again to fix the damage of the shoulder wounds. I have ninety percent use of my arm because of that operation I am told. But my days as an operator were over. The damage to my leg, although non-life threatening, had left me with a limp deemed career ending.

Eventually I was nominated for the big medal. The Congressional Medal of Honor. I was proud to have received it until the debriefing of the mission when I found out that most of my men had died or been wounded.

I did as was expected of me. I gave interviews to the news types and went to receive my CMH from the man himself; the commander in chief at the White House. I became famous for a while. I was wined and dined by powerful people. Bedded by beautiful women.

Once I was out I and three of my buddies started Delta Fitness. Using social media and Utube, we made our own funny commercials and got people to join in record numbers. Before long, we had locations in ten major cities and turned the company in to a franchise. The money was rolling in and so was the media attention and the perks. Lots of perks.

There were fast cars and even faster beautiful women. I was the face of the company since everyone already knew me, but the other guys were the driving force. They made sure the company ran right as I travelled around doing PR and having fun. But there were lingering issues in my mind. All stemming from the last mission debriefings.