Chapter+12

//Peace At Home//

He arrived just after sunset, just in time to see the afterglow fade away, leaving the dark humid night behind. He felt relaxed and for the first time in 5 years his nerves weren’t stretched taut. Being released after a five year term from the army has its effects on people and most of them weren’t beneficial. His blue eyes stared hard at the rugged wooden door of his small house. He lifted his hands, pushed some brown hair away from his eyes, and walked up the pathway. The creek that accompanied the door as it swung open made him shudder. He clearly remembered that creek, the noise that there was someone in the house that wasn’t supposed to be there. He shook his head, he was just tired, too tired. Making his way upstairs he weakly dropped his luggage, it made a dull thudding sound as it landed on the hallway floor. Opening the door to his house he sighted the bed that still stood in the corner, nicely made for the time he came back. Without bothering to take off his clothes he threw himself onto the bed, and oblivious to everything around him drifted off to a deep, peaceful, and relaxing sleep.



I crouched down by the door and waited. The door in front of me led to a hall, which in turn led outside. I was to making my way across the open grounds, to a small enemy command post and neutralize any tangos I came across. There were, unfortunately, some problems. The first one and the most problematic was that I was alone. The 10 man Delta team that I had started out with had been systematically captured and likely killed. I was sweating; the nauseating feeling welled up again, seeking perhaps a second chance to get the better of me. I slowly pushed out a trembling hand, pushed open the door, and faced nothing. The empty hallway kept swinging around me like a drunken hippo. It wouldn’t stop, didn’t command know I hated ships... There was a quiet, almost non-existing creek, so soft I nearly missed it. I heard it again and again, moving closer. Sweat dripped into my eyes, I can’t see, it’s not fair, give me another chance. I readied my weapon, a customized M4 rested lightly against my shoulder as I risked a peek around the corner. Now, more than ever the weapon bothered me, the sharp metal biting into my arm, and it was heavier than usual. I could smell the smell of oil, tinged with a slight smell of cologne. Was there someone coming? I ponderously made my way into the hallway. It was maybe three paces down that I realized that the sound had stopped. I let out a soft sigh of relief, looking down at the ground and regulating my breathing, only to realize the shadow that was cast to my right. I could see him now, in my minds eye, the sweaty engine operator of the containership, his unshaved stubble creased with oil and grease. In his hand a small 9 mm Automatic GLOCK Competition pointed in my direction, and I became acutely aware of my bare head. Silence! I could hear the sea water splashing across the deck, the captain screaming commands at his crew; I heard the door open, I closed my eyes and let a tear roll down my face. He pulled the trigger…



His eyes flared, his body jumped like a cricket, he opened his mouth too scream but all that came out was a terrified gurgle. Frantically he shoved and pushed, kicked and punched, until he made it out of the bed, though there were no sheets covering him. His body was stiff, his hands wouldn’t respond, he staggered over to the restroom located in a small room to his left. His body and clothes bathed in sweat, he sank into the shower and turned on the shower setting it to cold. It was too much, he couldn’t breathe, his heart constricted, the howl of coyote echoed through the still night, and once again his eyes flared, and his reaction was to bolt for the door, find the gun hidden in his bags and defend his house. It took him a while to calm down, his adrenaline still racing. It took him half an hour to get up and return to his bed. The floorboards creaking under his feet sent shivers down his back, and when he finally flopped down onto the bed like a stranded fish he was aware of pain shooting through his arms and legs. He lay there quietly waiting for a sound, anything to relieve the monotony of the darkness. A faraway hoot of an owl was the only thing he could hear over the loud noises that his bed was emitting from the strain that his body was putting on it after five years of non-use. He made himself comfortable, as much as possible and started counting sheep, something that his drill sergeant had taught him after he woke in the barracks screaming. It… it helped, when nothing else would.



The darkness was alive. I could feel it staring at me, seizing me up like some lion seizes up a potential steak. The walls were closing in, like those old movies I would watch with my father. The rocky ground underneath my feet extended all the way around me, three times I had to fight down the urge of dropping everything and running willy-nilly down the small corridors. It was dank and gloomy, and most importantly I didn’t like it here. I didn’t dare say anything nor do anything, the Lieutenant was there, shoving and pushing us, ordering us about all day and night. I swear someday he’ll end up with a plane ticket home, a nice greenish-grey ball that has a small pin on it. The crunch of rock on rock can be heard behind me, the cracking of sand against rock from in front of me. I smell fear; I can taste it in my mouth, the bitter bile of a coward that’s flowing up my throat and into my mouth. I hear a thud, behind me, my brain screams that something has gone wrong, twisting I find Jimmy on the ground the thin trickle of blood that escapes his still warm lips flows down the rocky corridor, right through the gap between my legs. Fear gets the best of me, I can’t be here, can’t let this happen to me. Dropping my gun, pack, and senses I run headlong into the wall…



I don’t know how much time has passed, I came to my senses a couple moments ago, and I’m alone. Getting up, my head feels like someone smashed my brain open and stirred it with a spoon. Add to the fact that I can’t feel anything, anything good that is, I suppose I’m not dead yet. For the first time I become aware of the staccato of gunfire I hear reverberating in quiet cavern, it was unsettling. Looking down at my surroundings, I note the absence of my gear, my brain asks itself why none of my buddies are around, and why they didn’t try to wake me. Stumbling around in the dark I made my way forward and after a short time found me rounding a corner. A small flicker of light that is coming from what seems to be a wooden door attracts my attention. Cursing the crunch that my footsteps are making I sneak toward the door, just waiting to be discovered. I peak through the slats of the door; the sight makes me gag in horror. Lying on the ground with black bags on their heads are 12 of the 15 other team members, the three others are leaning against the wall, the wall behind their bodies stained red, I see the lieutenants body twitch, his uniform poked through with small holes, made by the small bullets from the Kalashnikov Rifles handled by the seven Iraqis standing in a circle on the opposite side of the room. I gag turning quickly to run, my brain screaming at me, save yourself, save yourself you stupid idiot. I would have probably made it, had there not been a gigantic mass appearing right in the middle of my path, AK-47 shouldered in a ready position. Landing heavily on the floor a sharp rock sank quickly through my pants, into my backside. It was too much, the terror I was experiencing and the swift sharp pain that went through my body, I lost control of my bodily fluids. This was a rather unfortunate incident that annoyed the gun wielding man, who walked up, and kicked me hard in the gut. The last thing I remember as he takes aim, is the door behind me opening, blocked out by the blast of gunfire going off right above my head…



Sitting up, this time with a cold sweat forming over his body, the former soldier faced the window; he could hear the wind blowing through the branches of the willow trees outside his home. He remembered t he events that had happened to him; they were imprinted in his mind, and likely would be for a long time. Before the war such dreams would have been figments of his imagination, yet now they were real. Would he ever be able to function as a normal human being? There was hope, though he did not see it, not with wars like this. He lay down again, if only I could believe there really was some hope for this race, this race of destruction.

A cold cruel laugh filled the room, “There is no hope and you know it, hope is the carrot that keeps the draft horse plodding down the rode.”

“You want me to live without the belief that something can be done, something will save us from ourselves” he cried into the otherwise empty room, “For that there would be no future that I would want to live in.”

“Of course there are always choices, what I am saying is you must remove the carrot and move forward with your eyes wide open, see the diverging paths, see the rivers that flows and the bridges that you need to cross. See that at some point you will be given a chance to forge your own future.”

“So I don’t have to die, I can survive, there is hope!!!” he yelled triumphantly. The cold stillness of the room flowed over him, making him shiver in discomfort.



Two months later, Second Sergeant Harold Malone signed up for another round of service in Iraq. He was found dead 3 weeks later, a knife wound to the heart had killed him. May he Rest in Peace.

pludwig

Moghadam Fard, Mehdi. Personal interview. 12 July 2007.