Nightmares

This is going to be a fairly short story

(at least I hope so, otherwise I doubt I could finish it) Many thanks to Yellow Peril for his efforts in keeping me straight, and the story readable.

In these days of troubles when we have servicemen and women returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, we still fail them by forgetting that while they may look unwounded, they can be just as sorely wounded as those missing arms or legs, but we just don't see it. This doesn't relate just to this generation, nor does it relate strictly to the military. Relating to a different generation, the story is my attempt to show how they suffer also. There are many levels of 'loving wives'; the wife in this story may well fit the truest definition. If you are looking for unbridled sex or like your stories to be politically correct, then this story isn't for you. It is just a personal tribute to those men and women who volunteer to serve in the Military, no matter what branch as well as Police , Firefighters and all other emergency responders who put their lives and minds on the line on a daily basis so that we can enjoy the freedoms that we have.

Nightmares.

The soldier wakes and blinks. Lying in his small trench against the rock, under his groundsheet covered in sand, the only light is the sunlight creeping under the edges. In front of his face he sees a scorpion poised to strike. At the same time he hears the creak of animal harnesses and the sounds of their hooves scraping on rock. A Yemeni patrol is passing by. Sweat is running down his face as he peers from under his hide. Further up along the ledge, the charges he placed are set to bring down tons of rock to block the pass.

Looking out past the scorpion, he sees a man in Yemeni Army uniform. So much for it just being bandits he thinks to himself.

What do I do if he sees me; I can get him but what about the rest?

Being issued with the Sterling SMG was great at the time, much lighter than the Enfield rifle, but a definite problem with long range. If that damn scorpion stings then there will be no way that he can stay still. Then he will be in plain sight for all to see. He thinks

Maybe if I pushed the button now and finished the whole patrol off, the big shots in Sana'a would get the message. No, you can't fire till they fire at you; remember the ROEs.

The scorpion turns and scuttles away. The Yemeni soldier turns away continuing up the path and the soldier reaches for the detonator mechanism to explode the charges. Then he wakes in his darkened bedroom, soaked in sweat, his heart hammering away and his legs jerking with the tremors of Restless Leg Syndrome. Alongside him his wife of over 50 years snores gently. As for him, he knows that for a couple of hours there will be no more sleep. If he tries, the dreams will only keep going around and around in his mind.

He doesn't know which is worst, this or the memories of a child: the snarling of aircraft engines as the German bombers pass over, the screams of falling bombs and the deafening bursts as they hit the ground, the devastation of an area in city blocks where the biggest industry in the area was a laundry. No wonder he could not enjoy a fireworks show when some of his earliest memories were of watching the city across the river burn, watching the fingers of the searchlights as they probed the sky for aircraft, hearing the roar and the bursting of anti aircraft fire when one was spotted, and seeing the destruction of streets that he knew, of homes of members of his family. He remembered having to help move family furniture from a bombed out house to another house that hopefully wouldn't be bombed.

The memories of a soldier: The drone of the truck engine crossing the desert, watching the horizon looking for movement, and the decision making, is it hostile or not? Looking for disturbed spots in the sand of the road, and when seeing one, getting down and prodding through the sand to find out if there is a mine there, then finding one, placing a little plastic explosive on top of it, then detonating it from far away. Patrolling and destroying pathways in the hills. Firing back when bullets came at you even if you couldn't see where they were coming from.

The memories of a cop: Screaming arguments, families in disorder using crying children as footballs, bodies from murders, suicides, car wrecks, sifting through burned buildings looking for bodies, all too often those bodies being those of children. All those things that people believe that you can forget or get used to and go on to the next problem. Trouble is, you don't forget or get used to any of it. If you make the mistake of caring, the job can and does destroy you and your family. And the plain truth is, how can you not care? Eventually those memories become too much.

Preceded by his dog, he gets up and shuffles through to the living room. On the way he takes another tranquilizer. Something heavier than Ativan would likely do the trick better, but he hates what the heavier drugs do to his mind. Sitting back in his recliner, his dog curled up beside the chair, he picks up a book and turns on the TV to see if there is anything of interest this early in the day. At 4 or 5 am there isn't much on TV other than infomercials. It doesn't really matter what it is, as long as it keeps his mind, eyes and ears busy and makes a noise in the background. He clicks away at the remote trying to find something of some interest.

From the bed Cassie watched George get up, get his robe on and shuffle off down the hallway. She thinks,

Well, I had better get up and put the kettle on for some tea.

That seems to help him relax. Her mind goes back to the young soldier she married while he was on home leave from the Mediterranean. How, at 19 on their wedding day, he looked so young and slim. The month that they had been able to spend together, and at the end of that month standing on the platform at yet another railway station when they had to say goodbye as he very reluctantly headed back to his base.

Then eight months later when he was able to get home again, the holidays, travelling around visiting both their families and the two weeks they spent on an island, where they finally decided to get a start on their family. After all, he would be home in three to four months. Then the letter with the news."Carrie, I hate to tell you this but I have been transferred to a rapid deployment force for Middle East operations, based in Kenya." The realization dawning that it would be up to her to go through most if not all of her pregnancy alone, as well as set up their home.

Her mind goes to a night eight months later, the night before Christmas Eve when she hears someone rap at the downstairs front door and a familiar voice speak to her landlady. She remembers going to the head of the stairs, and there he was, his face thinned and burnt almost black by the desert sun. She had thought that he was still in Kenya, might even be there until February until he could get a ship home. He is here, home, it doesn't matter how, he just is. Home in time to greet their first child when he or she arrives.

After he walked up the stairs and along the landing into the living room he took her into his arms, making room for her swollen abdomen and said he was home for good, he would never have to go away again. The partings were all finished. He didn't even have to go back to be demobilized, all he had to do was serve 5 years as a reservist.

She remembered the celebration. The year before, he had been in the Mediterranean at Christmas while she had spent it at her family home. This year he was home, Christmas Eve was the next day, then Christmas Day and their exchange of gifts. The last one that would be just between the two of them before their family became bigger. Christmas Dinner with his parents and the rest of his family.

Also, though, she remembered those times that his eyes seemed to be looking so far away, the silences, the brooding. It was that something she had seen in the eyes of the older veterans in the hospital she had worked at. The tightness in his voice, as if he were scared that she would go away again and that he would be without her; that his being home was only a dream, and that he would wake up back in the tents of his base camp in Kenya. Her soldier had been changed into someone different, very different from that funny, joyful character of so short a time ago, when their first child had been conceived.

She got up, walked through to the kitchen and pushed the button on the kettle to turn it on. When it boiled, she made tea, taking him a cup, putting it on the table beside his recliner. She saw him changing the channels on the TV remote, just going from one meaningless program to another. She sat beside him, taking his hand in hers. "Another bad one?" she asked. He nodded, looking over at her, increasing the pressure of his fingers on hers.

"They just don't stop!" he whispered. "When I get back to sleep, the dream is still there. It doesn't matter whether it is about the war, Aden or about police work; it just comes back again and again, until I have worked it out of my mind. It wasn't as bad while I was taking those other heart meds that kept me more doped. When I cut back on those, I felt that a curtain had been pulled back from the window and I could see clearly; trouble is that I see other things too. I can't go back to those days where I walked along like a zombie, or the driven person I was on the RLS drugs."

"Some of these so called cures are worse than the problem. I used to wonder how fellow cops could suddenly hide away somewhere and swallow their gun. Now I have no difficulty understanding why, nor why the police suicide rate has doubled over the last year or so. I was reading today that 20 percent of the suicides in the US are veterans. They are doing tour after tour in places like Iraq or Afghanistan until mentally they just can't take it any longer. It's the same for our Canadian men and women who are also committing suicide at higher rates, even while they are there. They don't even wait until they get home. The biggest problem is that there is very little support for those suffering with problems caused by their occupations."

Cassie looked at him quietly, considering what he had just told her.

"Next time you see the doctor, why not ask him about this? Maybe there is some way that you can get help or other meds that don't have as many side effects. Surely there is something that can be done to help. Maybe even some form of counseling. I only know little pieces of what you have experienced, which come out only once in a while, like if you have a drink too many or you are thinking about things like Remembrance Day. I know that there are many things you can't talk about, and that the things you could and maybe should have talked about you kept back for our sakes, mine and the kids."

"Yes, I did that deliberately. Home was that little island where I was free to relax, where I was free to be myself, where I didn't have to think about someone trying to hurt or kill me at some family dispute, or having to go and tell someone that a family member wouldn't be coming home because they had been killed in an accident. I didn't have to worry about being away from my family for a long period of time on detachment somewhere. That was the only way I could stay safe and sane. It was either that or start burying the pressure in alcohol as so many others did. That is why I never applied for any special units, as the pressure on me would have been even greater."

"I want to get help, but the problem is getting people to believe that there is a problem. In a way I have managed to handle this since I got out of the Army, even including everything that the life of a police officer threw at me as well. I have been good at putting on a face. People say that you get used to seeing people dead and dying, that it doesn't affect you as much after a while. That is total garbage! I remember all the accidents, all the suicides and all the other deaths. Maybe the faces aren't clear on some of them, but I don't forget them. Trouble is, there are still many people out there who see these problems as a form of weakness, that if you were tougher you wouldn't have any problems. That way the politicians and the bureaucrats who wouldn't know one end of a rifle from the other can ignore them and fail to fund proper treatment."

Cassie looked at him, concern written across her face.

"Please promise me you will give it a try; you'll never know unless you do. You can't go for the rest of your life taking a beating like this! If you want, I'll come with you to the Doctor. You have to see him about the results of that MRI on your back anyway."

- - - - - - - -

After talking to the doctor about the results of his MRI, George suddenly asked, "Tom, how do I go about getting counseling for problems I have that originated from my work?"

"Just phone the Health Unit and ask to speak with the duty intake worker. They are the people best equipped to deal with problems. All I can do is just prescribe medications, and we both know that with you, that doesn't work. It's easy to say 'take a Prozac', but we both know that with your low tolerance for drugs and the heart meds you are taking already, we are taking chances."

Cassie remembered the internal struggle that George had with himself to make that call. The pride that had almost prevented him from making the call. The reluctance to pick up the phone, dial the number and say, "I have a problem that I need help with." The difficulty completing the drive to the meeting with the intake worker who took a brief history, and who told him, "We work with the Canadian Mental Health Association. One of our counselors could be assigned, or you could be assigned to a counselor at the CMHA. Do you have any problems with that?"

He replied, "No, I'm getting desperate for some help. Drugs don't do it for me. They do more damage than good."

Then came the call from the CMHA and the exploratory meetings with the intake counselor, who eventually agreed, "Yes, you do have a problem with PTSD. I'm going to arrange for you to meet with Jack Hale."

The first meeting with Jack served to set some guidelines concerning what was confidential and could not be talked about without breaking the law. It established what could be talked about, and what couldn't or wouldn't be. Some secrets were so deeply buried that they would never see the surface while he was alive. He didn't see how Hale could help. He was so young, just in his thirties; how could he appreciate what went on half a century ago? Even a quarter century. How could a young man relate to those experiences?

Nonetheless, he worked his way through the workbook he was given. He began learning methods of coping when he begins to feel the stresses of the past. He learned what to do when those memories become overwhelming. He learned that it is okay to break down and cry when those feelings and fears threaten. He started writing a journal, which helped identify problem areas. Taking the time to be comfortable with himself was a starting point. Above all, he realized he should not be afraid to take his wife's hand and talk to her to let her know that he was hurting. When there was a problem, he learned to wake her like she asked, instead of sitting alone facing the thoughts that never end, that are never resolved.

At the end, he understood that those thoughts and memories would never totally go away, but that they can be dealt with. He knew that he was lucky and that, unlike many, his mind was strong enough to deal with them. He realized that whenever they threaten to overpower him, all he has to do is stretch out his hand and have his wife of over fifty years hold his, and he could use her strength as well as his to hold them at bay, hopefully for many more years

The End

Hopefully, in this short story, I've been able to convey some of the anguish felt by many people who have led their lives as emergency responders in all the forms. There is no doubt that there are many who are far worse than the main character of the story, leading lives dictated by their fears, addicted to drugs and alcohol, or totally unfit to function as a productive member of society. We owe all of them a debt of gratitude, as we do their spouses who, in the main, try to keep their partners on an even keel and help them deal with the ghosts of what they have seen and experienced in the service of a free society.