Chapter 3
Nightmare—D at Sea
It’s quiet. Too Quiet. After two previous deployments, I know what a deafening silence like this can mean in a warzone, especially when it comes on the heels of a three-day firefight.
“Sarge, you okay?” Jensen asks, his voice a whisper.
I wonder how the hell they even got in this mess to begin with. It was supposed to be a simple overnight mission for me and my men. They were to be dropped off at the shack under the dark cloak of night, provide sniper over watch on the main road in preparation for a fuel convoy, and then they were to be picked up the next morning. What they hadn’t anticipated was the enemy knowing the plan from the start, taking out their two support squads who were encircling the neighborhood in Humvees; leaving them alone to fight their way out. In all the firefights and mayhem I had experienced in war up to this point, nothing could’ve prepared me for the carnage his squad’s been met with over the past four days.
There are five of us from Alpha squad—my squad—separated from the rest of our platoon after heavy insurgent activity that nearly killed the lot of us in this small Afghani town. It was supposed to be an easy mission. Easy went out the fucking window about twenty minutes in. I don’t know how the rest of my platoon is doing, but I know my guys need to get the hell out of here… and fast. After fixing communications a day ago, we’ve requested a rescue chopper from headquarters and received very specific instructions on landing location and time, both of which add an element of danger to this already fucked up scenario. But with the break in fighting, this may be our only opportunity for escape. They will bring back the fight—that’s a certainty. It’s just a matter of when.
With our backs against the side of the building, the weapons in our hands—facing out, and ready to fire—tremble with a combination of battle fatigue and fear. Heavy gunfire kept us huddled behind this building’s pockmarked walls for three days, as the enemy kept pushing forward. We were left to wonder if these days of fighting would be our last. Fortunately, our unrelenting counterattack and the air support that eventually came kept them at bay while we fixed communications.
For three hours now, there has been only silence, as they are no doubt taking the opportunity to obtain more ammunition and fresh bodies. A hundred of their buddies now lay dead or dying in the street. Some are from the first round of fighting and have been picked clean by birds. I don’t want to feel like it bothers me to see them in that state. I want to believe they’re insurgents and they were trying to kill us, so our actions were warranted. But should we even be here in the first place?
Not counting the quiet moans of dying men, the streets are empty, and it’s eerily silent. The absence of gunfire after so long is both calming and unnerving.
There’s a dog barking in the distance too, and a whistle of the wind as it stirs up the dusty road, but nothing else. The town was abandoned by most residents long before the battle, as they’re always warned ahead of time. Others, I imagine, hid themselves away sometime thereafter; leaving this place feeling like a ghost town, and it unsettles me.
“Let’s get a move on it,” I whisper, nodding toward the road. My men nod, but their eyes say it all. They’re scared, and they want out of this place. The desperation is ever-present in their eyes, but they’d never say a word. We don’t discuss things like fear out here. And that’s why they wouldn’t know that I’m so scared I can feel a chill in my bones.
“Jensen, Barker… Just like we talked about. You press forward first, Sanchez and I will cover you,” I whisper, my eyes trailing to Sergeant Tommy Callahan—one of my oldest military friends—furthest down the wall. “Callahan, you watch the rear.”
“Roger that,” Callahan responds, winking and clicking his teeth as he aims his machine gun behind them.
I motion Sanchez forward and he meets me at my side, his rifle aimed down one end of the road, and mine down the other.
“Go. We got you,” I whisper over my shoulder.
Jensen and Barker sprint across the road, kicking up dust with their boots and reaching the other side without incident. They raise their barrels, scanning either end of the road like Thomas and I are, and enabling us to lower our weapons and cross the road after them.
I take a deep breath, looking toward Sanchez. He passes me a nod and I take a deep breath, counting off, “One, two, three,” before we take off toward the other side. We reach the others without issue, and I breathe a sigh of relief, wiping the dirty beads of sweat from my forehead.
Motioning behind us, I say, “Thomas, you get the rear. Jensen, Barker, keep over-watch.” I cup a hand to my mouth and, in a whisper yell, I call out, “Callahan… Callahan!”
He turns, finally hearing me, and I wave him forward.
After a few deep breaths, Callahan lowers his 240-Bravo machine gun and takes off. He’s nearly halfway there when I hear it, the piercing sound of a sniper round echoing down the empty road. My heart lurches in my chest as I see Callahan’s face go pale, blood spurting from his side, and his weapon tumbles to the ground before he falls over on top of it.
“Nooooo!” I yell, charging forward, but I’m stopped by Jensen and Barker before I can make it out onto the road. They hold onto me tightly, inching me back toward them.
“Sarge, it’s not safe,” Jensen pleads, a ragged hoarseness to his voice.
“Fuck safety. We ain’t leaving him there to die!” I yell back. “Y’all cover me. I don’t care if you see something or not, you spray bullets down that fucking road, so I can pull him out.”
“Roger, Sarge,” Jensen says as he begins pumping bullets down the road as told. Barker does the same as I creep my way out onto the open road, my rifle up and ready to fire.
Once I reach him, I yell, “Callahan? Callahan?” There’s no response. I can only hear the gargle of blood in his throat.
“Fuck, Tommy,” I groan, petrified that it’s too late. Slinging my weapon over my shoulder and squatting down, I grab him by his protective vest and walk backward in slow, meticulous steps, pulling him along with me. He’s much bulkier than I am, so the process takes longer than I’d like, considering I’m completely exposed, but I would do anything for this man. I will do anything for him.
As the sweat runs into my eyes, and the explosion of friendly gunfire erupts from behind me, I hear Barker yell at the top of his lungs, “Sarge, watch out! Rooftop. Three o’clock!”
There’s more eardrum battering gunfire as I look to my three o’clock while still dragging Callahan. I spot an insurgent with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher sitting on his shoulder go tumbling over the side of the roof, hitting the dirt road below with a loud thud.
“Nice shot!” I yell, just as Jensen comes to my side to help, grabbing Callahan and pulling along with me to pick up the pace.
“Look out!” Barker screams, but by the time I’m able to look up, all I see is a fireball streaking its way toward us, trumping the evening sun in its burning intensity. And then, pitch-black takes hold. I see nothing. I hear only a steady, piercing ring between my ears and the faint, desperate cries of my men.
I gasp, rising from my sweat-soaked sheets in a panic, and throwing a pillow I had clenched in my hands across the room. I don’t initially know where I am, my heart thumping in my chest, as the pillow hits the desk and topples a mess of empty beer bottles over with a clatter. The shattering sound snaps me to the present and I take a thick swallow, shaking my head as I breathe a sigh of relief.
Two weeks I’ve spent in this prison disguised as an apartment. My roommate never leaves his room; just plays video games all day long, and the few times I have run into him, we’ve gotten into some military chitchat, which tends to happen when you bring veterans together. Come to find out, much to my dismay, the guy was dishonorably discharged for two DUIs. He was a shitbag in the Army, and now I have to share an apartment with him for the semester. It’s almost a blessing he’s addicted to video games, since he’s still the only person I know here. I’d rather pass the time with Jerry Seinfeld or Doug Heffernan than some idiot with no deployments under his belt, who couldn’t cut it in the Army. It does get lonely, though. Yeah, there’s about fifty people in each one of my classes, but I’m always the oldest, often the quietest, and how does one strike up a conversation in an environment anyway? You sit down, a professor teaches, time is up, and then you go home. That’s about it. Between the lectures, my scars and my social anxiety, it hasn't been an ideal environment for social bonding.
My laptop sits just beside the TV on the dresser where I left it, trying to get it away from me; though, the screen pulls at my attention from across the room anyway. I should’ve closed it. The rush page for BSU fraternities sits on the screen, as it has been for the past few days, as I mull over my options.
I’d always wanted to be in a fraternity before joining the military—the brotherhood aspect always appealed to me—and after watching all seven seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in a span of two days, I’m drawn ever closer to the possibility of rushing. As old as I am, I can’t help but envision them laughing as I approach the rush party, wondering what such an old man is doing at a frat party. They’d probably bring attention to my eye right off the bat. And what the hell do they even know about the real world? What it feels like to have your whole life turned upside down in the matter of seconds? What true pain really is?
I scowl at the computer screen.
“Fuck that,” I grunt, directing my anger toward the laptop; my words are strong, but my thoughts revolt. No matter how hard I fight it, I know I’m fighting a losing battle; refusing to live like I have these past two weeks, suffocating under the weight of regret and loneliness. I refuse to wallow in the pain of losing the only thing that ever meant anything to me in this life. I refuse to sit here pining over a woman I probably never loved to begin with. I have to rush. I knew it from the moment I first looked it up online. No matter how hard I fight it, the brotherhood of a fraternity—hopefully a suitable replacement for Army camaraderie—is too strong of a desire to fight. I just can’t do this on my own.