Prick of the Litter

A somber look at an ongoing problem.

Bobby David: "And she knows the hell I'm going through in this world inside my head."

= = = =

The ground shook as limbs of trees and soldiers flew about wildly.

I keyed my mic "CALL IT OFF! CALL IT OFF! YOU'RE BOMBING YOUR OWN TROOPS!"

Another explosion caused a temporary loss of hearing. It wasn't over as several more bombs detonated, and then it became eerily quiet. Glancing around I saw partial torsos. My left pant leg was dripping red.

With no one to shoot at, I pointed my assault rifle towards the ground.

"ROB! ROB! Wake up! You're dreaming again."

Opening my eyes, I was disoriented. A woman, vaguely familiar to me, was shaking my left shoulder. I recoiled from her touch. Tears pooled in her frightened eyes.

No words were spoken. We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes before I backed my way out of this structure. I was in civilian clothes and at a complete loss as to where I was or why I was there. Where's my rifle? Where's my handgun?

At the first bus-stop encountered, I sat and buried my head in my hands. 'What's wrong with me?'

I haven't a clue how long I sat there. My solitude was disturbed by a deep male voice "You alright buddy?"

Feeling a baton on my hand, I turned my head up to see a uniformed officer.

"Yes sir. Guess I got dizzy."

"Where do you live?"

"Over on Third, near Fedora Avenue. What time is it?"

"Quarter till ten. You got a coat?"

Looking around, I saw no extra clothing.

"I guess not. It is getting cold. Have I done something wrong or can I go home?"

"You can go home."

Fifteen minutes later I let myself into my home. Danette was looking very sad sitting with her legs folded under as she sat on the couch. She waited for me to speak.

"Hey Danette. You okay?"

"I'm getting by. How about you? Where'd you go?"

"Doing okay. Must have taken a nap down by the gas station."

"There's a plate of food in the fridge. Microwave it for three minutes. You had another episode."

"Don't remember it."

"Rob, you need help. This is scaring me. I took a video of this episode and you need to share it with your therapist."

"Next time it happens just get Donald over here. He can handle me."

Donald, or previously known as Andrew, is my older and only brother. He's a real piece of work. I hate him as much as anyone has ever hated anything.

When ordered to report for the service he 'developed' foot problems. Even though everyone knew he was faking it, they gave him a 4F and sent him packing. He never had foot problems before and has never had them since.

My over-bearing father, Andrew Hargrove, is a two-star general. He named his first son Andrew Hargrove Jr. When confronted about military service my brother and father had nose-to-nose shouting matches that always lasted several minutes.

My brother claims that all military personnel are suckers and losers. How my father didn't pull out his pistol and gun him down remains a mystery to me. After it was all over, Andrew Hargrove Jr changed his legal name do Donald Thomas. My parents have disowned him.

When I entered West Point, I got an earful from Donald about what a sucker and loser I was. When I came home physically and mentally wounded, he called me a wimpy loser.

Even though I have told him I don't want him dropping by, he ignores my hints.

+ + + +

I met my bride, Danette, at a campus social. With a father well regarded it seemed like eligible women were paraded around for my benefit at these events. My other classmates were generally from military elite families as well.

Danette and I married a year before I graduated. We moved into a house not far from campus. With my father as a guest lecturer, our paths crossed often. My parents took Danette under their wings.

After graduating I was notified that I be in command of my own unit in Afghanistan. Danette would stay in the house we'd been living in.

It wasn't long before I was sent to Afghanistan. We'd engaged the enemy on several occasions but managed to remain intact. Then our company was decimated by friendly fire. What a pleasant way to say inept decision making resulting in murder.

The ground shook as limbs of trees and soldiers flew about wildly.

I keyed my mic "CALL IT OFF! CALL IT OFF! YOU'RE BOMBING YOUR OWN TROOPS!"

Another explosion caused a temporary loss of hearing. It wasn't over as several more bombs detonated, and then it became eerily quiet. Glancing around I saw partial torsos. My left pant leg was dripping red.

With no one to shoot at, I pointed my assault rifle towards the ground.

I was one of two who survived the attack. Pleading for medevac brought rescuers. Once healed, we were both relieved of duty and discharged honorably. We remain an embarrassing reminder of the ineptness of military intelligence.

I've undergone dozens of tests and months of counseling attempting to help me deal with the depression and nightmares. They aren't really nightmares. They happen day and night. Something I see or hear sets them off.

+ + + +

It had been a rather uneventful few months when I apparently had another episode.

The ground shook as limbs of trees and soldiers flew about wildly.

I keyed my mic "CALL IT OFF! CALL IT OFF! YOU'RE BOMBING YOUR OWN TROOPS!"

Another explosion caused a temporary loss of hearing. It wasn't over as several more bombs detonated, and then it became eerily quiet. Glancing around I saw partial torsos. My left pant leg was dripping red.

With no one to shoot at, I pointed my assault rifle towards the ground.

"ROB! Come on buddy. ROB! Wake up!"

My eyes popped open, I pulled a gun from under my leg, and opened fire. The man in front of me didn't stand a chance.

There was screaming. I went into survival mode and fled the structure.

In a zombie like state, holding my gun, I sat motionless with my head on my knees. Looking up from the curb, I saw a patrol car drive by slowly. They turned right at the gas station. Five, ten, who knows how long but soon enough I felt cold steel on my neck.

"DON'T MOVE!"

I was cuffed and taken into custody. They questioned me about killing Donald Thomas, my brother. After enduring several hours of futile questioning, I was transported to the VA hospital for observation. What a joke. Once they had electrophysiological monitoring recorded showing electrical activity consistent with PTSD, the charges against me were reduced to involuntary manslaughter.

The military stonewalled the media. My therapist detailed my PTSD problems at my trial. I was convicted and given a deferred sentence.

+ + + +

Danette and I drifted apart. One Saturday afternoon I faked it again.

With Danette in her chair, I yelled "CALL IT OFF! CALL IT OFF! YOU'RE BOMBING YOUR OWN TROOPS!"

With nothing to shoot with, I pointed my air pistol at Danette, and then with wild eyes screamed "Fuck my wife while I'm overseas? Rot in hell bro."

I heard Danette scream.

"Your choice bitch. Say a word to anyone and you'll be my next victim. File for divorce and never mention this to a soul."

Danette gasped and then bolted out the front door. It became eerily quiet.

+ + + +

Epilogue:

Donald's death should serve as a reminder of how deeply disturbed combat traumatized soldiers can be. It should also serve as a warning that you don't fuck your brother's wife if said brother is overseas serving his country. Now Danette has to wonder if she really wants to stay married to me. The look on her face, as she fled, tells me I'll never see her again.

That's enough revenge for now, I think. I talk with the voices in my head and then we laugh and laugh and laugh.

= = = =

Veterans commit suicide at twice the rate of non-vets. That's not a new problem, just an ignored one.