I woke with a start. My heart raced, and I rose. Sarge was looking out from our improvised foxhole. Slowly, I surveyed the surrounding terrain. The clouds were clearing, and a crescent moon shone, illuminating the ground near us.
Crack!
Time seemed to slow as Sarge’s body rocked back. A cavity covering one third of his head appeared. In that moment I could make out a red angry mass of brain tissue, the surrounding white jagged fractured skull and frayed Kevlar of his helmet. A spray of blood, tissue, and fragments splattered me, and the sick, sweet smell of blood assailed my nose.
I shook my head and my heart raced. As I tried to force myself to slow my breathing, I sat up and blinked my eyes. I was back in my room, the lousy efficiency, the only thing I could afford with my VA disability.
I sat up, reached for the bottle of Jim Beam on the table next to the couch, and chugged the rest of it. It burned as I swallowed it down and waited for the oblivion it promised. My sight was blurry, and I blinked away tears.
“Shit.”
The alcohol wasn’t working. Another night, another nightmare. If I couldn’t numb the ghosts, the half-drunk ‘whys’ would come. Why was it that Sarge died, and I didn’t? Then the mix of more flashbacks and memories of all the others I lost or couldn’t save would come.
“Not again. I can’t. I just can’t.”
I reached over; opened the drawer on the table and took my M1911 pistol out. Sliding the action open, I confirmed there was a round in the chamber and put the barrel in my mouth, the metal cool against my skin.
Someone knocked on the door. “John, are you in there? John!”
I didn’t answer and pushed the barrel deeper and aimed towards my brain.
The door opened. “It was unlocked.” Terry, the outreach peer vet, stood in the doorway. He turned towards me, “Don’t you dare.”