Ryan Smithson (20 page)

All of our planes take off at different times, so every couple of hours the buses come and load a bunch of us at a time. We’re all trying so hard not to cry. No one offers to shake a hand, because you’re supposed to hug your brothers and sisters.

W
hen you come home from a combat tour, the veteran’s association lets you collect unemployment benefits for a few months. It’s so you can have time to readjust, to get back on your feet.

Sitting on my own couch again while Heather is at work, I watch daytime TV. I’m not really watching, though. Daytime TV sucks. And my mind has never been further from home.

Seeing Heather at the airport was magical. Seeing my parents again, indescribable. Their tears, their hugs of joy. Their fears are finally over. They hold me like they’re never going to let me go.

And my life can finally begin moving again. For a whole
year plans stood still. No college. No career. All the people with whom I graduated high school are finishing up their two-year degrees. I’m just starting my first semester in January. With my return home from Iraq I can finally start playing catch-up. Heather and I can start saving for a house. We can start talking about having kids, of being able to settle down.

But my mind is far away.

I think of the war. I think of all the kids still over there, still living in the middle of all the violence. I think of all the soldiers fighting that same, tired battle. But mostly I think of EQ platoon. And I know they’re thinking of me. After all, they’re the only ones who can understand our little slice of military history. They’re the only ones who can understand the feeling of your life being on hold, like a school-yard bully is dangling it just out of your reach. And they’re the only ones who can understand how selfish we were for wishing it all away.

I know now that Andy Zeltwanger was wrong. The best part about being in Iraq is not that, one way or another, you’ll be leaving. The best part about being in Iraq is the platoon who’s there with you.

I think of one particular memory, a peaceful memory. I’m sitting in the motor pool with Seabass. Just sitting there outside the barracks. It’s late dusk. The very end of a day. The very beginning of a night.

The desert is so calm at night. Calmer than anything I can remember. It’s not hot anymore. The temperature has dropped, and it actually feels cool. A dry, comfortable coolness, like nighttime in late August at home.

Even on camp, there’s no noise, just the sound of our breathing. We don’t talk. Sebastian and I sit together in silence, like you’d do with a friend you’ve known your whole life. We’d been talking, I’m sure, about something. Probably something funny. We were probably joking about the commander, or one of the squad leaders, or one of life’s little ironic lessons. But now things are silent.

We light cigarettes and look out over the motor pool. The only light comes from a single “porch” light outside the company’s CQ. The sky as usual shines a curious gray-orange. Sand in the air. Always sand in the air. No moon is out, just dust. This country is beautiful.

The shadows of the dozens of pieces of equipment in our motor pool pierce the orange glow. Tall outlines of dump trucks, of hydraulic excavators with their long gangly arms, of scrapers and dozers and a fuel truck and those unforgettable M916 tractor trailers. Their silhouettes slice open the gray-orange. They remind me of headstones in a cemetery. Dark and silent and eerie. A filthy, taunting bit of foreshadowing…or just coincidence.

We inhale smoke into our lungs and breathe it out. We’re thankful to breathe, thankful to have the choice to breathe
smoke. We say nothing, not about the captain or the army, not about the mission coming up or our families.

We just sit, appreciating this moment of peace, appreciating each other.

And I realize I love Sebastian Koprowski. I realize I love every member of EQ platoon. It’s a weird sort of love. Certainly not like lovers. And not like good friends. Not even like brothers, though that is how we refer to one another. I love Seabass like a buddy, an army buddy. It’s a love that can’t be explained. It’s a fragile sort of love that loses meaning the more I complicate it with words.

Next to us is a pile of new tires. We could sit inside the barracks or out on the deck where our platoon meetings are held, called the BOHICA (Bend Over, Here It Comes Again). We could hang out with the rest of the guys. But we don’t. Instead we sit here next to tires, watching the calm, cool desert. We appreciate the night, the life, the love. We appreciate the silence and silhouettes.

There’s an explosion. Not anywhere near. Somewhere in the distance. Miles across the huge camp. We don’t look at each other, and we don’t break stride in inhaling the smoke.

Another explosion. Surely they are mortars; we’ve heard them hundreds of times before. But we don’t care anymore. We enjoy the silence in between.

“I wonder how long it’ll be until they sound the alarm,” I say.

My brother smirks. The statement is tired and overused. We all understand how much of a joke the mortar alarms are.

Another explosion. Another inhale.

The explosions are far away. Think of the fading echo of fireworks. They’re silent like death is silent.

“Imagine if the five-ton got hit,” he says.

We often fantasize about losing parked equipment to mortar damage. We are hopeful, but it probably won’t happen. We’re not that lucky.

After another explosion there is a long pause before the alarm sounds. It’s a good five minutes after the first explosion. What the hell’s the use? That goddamn alarm, always disrupting a good time.

After a final inhale Seabass turns and says, “Wanna head in?”

“Yeah, let Renninger know we’re not dead.”

Sitting here on my couch, I can hear him laugh through his nose.

I think of hugging him when we left Fort Bragg. I think of leaving EQ platoon. I think of abandoning them.

I am glad to be home, for sure, but, really, the hardest part of going to war is you have to go back home. Culture shock doesn’t begin to describe a trip home from the Middle East, that other planet.

I spend a year there. I am just a kid, a Joe Schmo of the
masses, and I’ve seen things some people will never see. My memories of the war, of EQ platoon, they’ll save me. But my memories will also haunt me.

Psychologists call it post-traumatic stress disorder.

The acronym, PTSD, won’t get out of my head. I sit on the couch, not watching daytime TV, and I remember being at Fort Bragg. I remember the sergeant telling us all what to expect when we get home. Readjustment, that’s what he calls it. PTSD, that’s a diagnosis, he tells us. The way he says diagnosis, it makes PTSD sound like a disease. PTSD
is
a disease, he says.

Ever wonder if there’s a little cancer cell living inside you? Ever wonder if there’s nothing you can do about it?

That’s like sitting on this couch.

I think of that stupid PTSD briefing, that stupid readjustment speech. I think of that active duty soldier asking us how we’ll deal with facing our family again. EQ platoon just gives him blank stares. We don’t know. I remember the dumb, dark eyes of a cow crossing traffic.

This is a room full of soldiers I just spent a year with in a combat zone. Every day our lives were in danger. Now, in a matter of days, we’re going to be ripped apart and sent home to families who can’t possibly understand.

“What will you say to your mother, your child, your wife when they say, ‘You know, I’m really upset that you’re still in the military’?” asks the readjustment expert.

“So am I,” I say.

My response breaks the blank stares, and the room erupts in laughter. Then, pretending to be my family again, he asks me, “‘Well, then, honey, why are you still in?’”

“Because it’s our duty,” someone says.

And that’s it.

We are on American soil again, for God’s sake. The last things we care about are flashbacks and nightmares. We’ve been through a certain degree of hell, and we can tough out some petty psychological trauma.

Ever wonder if that little cancer cell will decide to multiply? Ever wonder how all those cancer cells will finally show themselves?

That’s what waking up in the middle of the night is like.

My eyes pop open. I don’t move a muscle. I was not having a nightmare, but my breath is way too labored for the middle of the night. My heart is ready to explode. My face is coated in sweat. I am absolutely terrified, and I have no idea why.

We live in the country, and the night is still and quiet. It’s quiet like death. Think of a cemetery. Think of cancer cells multiplying.

There’s a red laser light shining on the ceiling. It’s from the alarm clock that sits on my nightstand. It says 2:25
A.M
. The bedroom door is cracked, and yellow light from
a night-light in the hallway slips through. The way I’m breathing, the way my heart feels the size of a watermelon, it’s what dying must feel like.

I am petrified, and what’s scarier is I don’t know why. I’ve never woken up in the middle of the night for no reason. In Iraq fear was commonplace, sure, but never while you were sleeping. Never for no reason. We got used to being afraid. We got so used to it that it wasn’t even fear we were dealing with. It was just humor.

Now lying in my bed, nothing has ever seemed less humorous. I’m on American soil, no reason to fear anything, and my heart pounds like a bass drum. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and turn over to find a more comfortable position. Turning over puts my back to the door.

I need to watch that door,
I think.
Someone is coming to kill me.

I turn back over and close my eyes, trying to stop the pounding in my chest, the labored breaths.

I need to watch that door.

And my eyes pop open.

You’re acting crazy,
I tell myself as I watch the door.
You’re in West Sand Lake, New York. People don’t go around just killing each other. Some people don’t even lock their doors.

That reminds me,
I should check the front door
.

I get out of bed. Heather is sound asleep. I need to protect her, too. I walk to the entrance of our apartment. The
doorknob is locked. The dead bolt is locked. The chain is secure. I check again, just to be sure.

Go back to bed and quit being paranoid,
I whisper.
You’re not in Iraq. No one’s trying to kill you.

I crawl back into bed. I toss and turn for five minutes. I’m not tired at all. My mind races. That four-letter fucking acronym. PTSD.

Ryan, you’ve been home for over a month. Let it go.

I lie on my back watching the dim yellow light shine through the crack in the door. I watch and wait for the door to burst open and reveal my murderer. This feeling of terror, it’s so genuine, like a sixth sense, and no amount of logic can help me escape from it. I contemplate crying, but that just seems useless. What does crying ever really do for us? It doesn’t solve our problems. It doesn’t make us run faster or shoot better. If anything, crying just delays the solution to our problems.

Someone’s coming to kill me.

What if this isn’t PTSD? What if it feels like a sixth sense because it is a sixth sense? What if I’m having an authentic ESP experience, and someone really is going to break in and kill Heather and me while we sleep?

Get a weapon,
I think.

We turned in our M16s at Bragg.

I get out of bed again and go to the kitchen. I pull a butcher knife from the block on the counter. I study it for
a long time. It’s long and shiny and lethal. It will no doubt do the job. I’ll just keep it on the nightstand next to me and use it only if I need to, only if this really is an accurate premonition.

Then I remember those horror stories of men returning home from war and murdering their wives in the bed next to them.

Is this how it starts?
I ask myself.
What happens when I wake up the second time?

I put the knife down and return to bed. I need to sleep, and no one is coming to kill me. I doze off briefly before I wake up in a cold sweat. The red laser light reads 2:37
A.M
.

I need to protect myself. I need to protect my wife.

Get a fucking weapon.

I rummage through the entire house. My heart is rapid, my palms are sweaty and shaking, and not a moment goes by that I’m not checking over both shoulders. There has to be something I can use that won’t be lethal unless I absolutely need it to be.

In the spare bedroom there are drumsticks for the electronic drum set Heather bought me for my birthday. I pick them up and give them a test swing. They are solid and blunt and could surely do the job. I took lessons for three years in high school, and the drumsticks feel natural and controlled in my hands. Isn’t that what weapons are all about: control?

They will do.

If, God forbid, I pummel Heather, hopefully I can stop before it’s too late.

Is this how it starts?

It doesn’t matter. This is life and death. I take them back to the bedroom, place them next to the alarm clock, and don’t sleep more than a wink all night.

I look this up online the next day. It’s called a night terror. And there’s no way I’m talking to some shrink about it. There’s no way I’m talking to anyone about it. I don’t tell Heather. I don’t tell my parents or my sister. I ignore it.

And it happens again the next week. And again a few days later. For a few months this is my routine: a jolting snap from regular sleep and that terrible feeling of dying.

By the last couple of occurrences I am able to retain my sanity quickly and get back to sleep. But I just want them to stop.

The last time the night terrors occur, I wake up once again in a cold, throbbing sweat. I pray for the night terrors to end and the shame that goes along with keeping it all a secret.

What happens next will baffle me for the rest of my life.

I lie on my back watching the door. I breathe deep, trying to ignore the throbbing sound of my heartbeat. The crack in the door is about a foot wide tonight. I watch it intently.

Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

My eyes shut, or maybe they stay open. There’s the
lighted crack in the door, but maybe I’m dreaming.