PTSD

This assignment has taken you far. You don't remember when you left camp, but it has to have been at least a day sitting, waiting in the transport.

A look out of the jeep brings you a faceful of dust and sand, and when your eyes clear a wasteland reaches to the horizon. This is Hell. But at least you have your brothers here. You couldn't have made it half as far as you are now without them.

Then a lurch, and a stop. There is no time to think, just go. You already hear shots and screams, like you have so many times since you came to this Godforsaken place.

Lieutenant told you this would be simple, but simple doesn't mean easy. Simple means straightforward. Simple means a frontal attack at the mercy of their bullets and bombs.

You identify the machine gun nest, waste a half-second checking, rechecking, and sprint. This is point A, that is point B. They don't see you yet; good; keep running. Aim for that scrap pile to the right. Once you're there, let those bastards have it.

Fire. Piercing, searing fire. Then sand, in your face and eyes and hands. And then terror. You're down, in the middle of a firefight. The fire eats away... where is it... your left thigh. You panic. Should you turn around and get a look at your location? Should you lie still--maybe they think you're dead?

You hear your name. Where? Behind you, it's... Lieutenant. He's yelling your name. It's getting louder. He's coming for you. You turn to look out of instinct, just in time to see him fall. Please, God, no.

You act. You had to act. You crawl towards him, dragging your leg, turning around to fire at the nest every 15 seconds. He's so close now... You've got him. You turn around and fire again, feeling fury blind you. They shot the lieutenant. They'll all burn in Hell.

He's bleeding bad. From... his left shoulder. How do you cover that up? You have nothing. You have to stop the bleeding. You need pressure. Pressure from... your body--good. In one movement you lift up and sit on his shoulder. He's already out, he can't feel it anyway. You keep firing for years, decades. Your consciousness blurs as you sink into the repetitive, pacifying aiming and trigger squeezing.

A uniformed man walks into your room. He walks to your bed table, avoiding your tubes and belongings. He tells you Lieutenant died. He made it to the hospital, still unconscious, and died a few hours later. He tells you your selfless actions will be recognized by all the United States army. He tells you you're a hero.

5 months later, you lie down in bed at home. Habitually, you resist closing your eyes. You resist resigning from your daily work. But you need sleep, you have work to do tomorrow.

You close your eyes and he immediately greets you. "You killed me," says Lieutenant. "I died because I tried to save you. You killed me. I died because of you."
"You didn't have to save me, Lieutenant. They killed you, I didn't!

"YOU KILLED ME. HOW CAN YOU SLEEP WHEN YOU KNOW YOU KILLED ME?"

Based on a true story from an interview on 60 minutes, November 6th.