1
“‘I’m leaving you!’, she said.
‘Good, get out! This is the third time that I’ve caught you in bed with another dude!’ I said.
‘Well, you’re no more than a lazy sack of s***! All you do is drink beer, chew tobacco, and watch stupid army promos,’ she snickered.
‘Just get out! You’re nagging again,’ I said. I turned on the the TV, put in a lip, and cracked open a beer as if my girlfriend’s nagging had forced me to do it.
‘You’ll never see me again, Jethro! Do you understand?’ she said hesitantly.
‘Good! I hope those other guys do so they can shut you up for me!’ I said.
‘Ugh! When you get gum cancer, give me a call so I can laugh!’
‘I’ll give you a call in a week then.’
Once again, I was alone in my house. One arm clenching a can of Pabst, and my prosthetic arm putting down a tin of chewing tobacco next to the next set of beers to down. That was the last time that I saw her. She walked out on me for the last time since my return from my first tour in Iraq. 
                                    *****
‘Fourteen hours on the plane from goddamn Georgia to goddamn Iraq! Longest flight I’ve ever f***ing taken!’ I said.
‘Amen! You’ve got a mouth on you kid,’ said an approaching voice.
‘Hell yeah—I do! Keeps me from thinkin’ about this s***ty sand devil of a place,’ I said. 
‘What’s your name? I’m Tango,’he said. We shook hands.
‘Jethro. Why do they call you Tango?’ I asked.
‘‘Cause I’ve got the moves.’ Tango did a little dance. ‘See you around, pendejo!’
That was the last I saw of Tango. Got his head taken off by a fifty caliber on the back of a pickup truck. D***, that place was scary. I ain’t ever seen that many Arabs in one place.
My name is Jethro James. I picked up the nickname “Bash.” Apparently, I caved in the skull of a terrorist with my boot. That never happened, but I rolled with it. Four days into the war and I’ve already got a story behind my name. Not bad for a twenty-two year old. I belonged to the twenty-second platoon of the infantry unit. Hoorah! What a coincidence that I was twenty-two at the time. Unfortunately, I was a medic. I saw things that no man should ever see. Given that the war had just started, we didn’t have much time to build up the courage and the fighting skills that we would have preferred to have. That meant that I was always busy pluggin’ up bullet wounds and splinting broken bones.
I remember 9/11 vividly. I wasn’t there, but I was up to my usual redneck habits. Drinkin’ beer, chewin’ tobacco, and layin’ back on my couch, while watching endless hours of television. There was an emergency broadcast showing the two planes crashing into the towers. Fury rose in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. Once that second plane hit I knew we had just jumped into a war. I got my lazy a** off the couch and ran to the local enlisting station in Cook County, Georgia. Most men from the town had managed to get off of their lazy a**es and make it to the enlisting station as well. I was in line for about an hour until I finally made it to the enlisting part. A spry young man with a fully decorated navy uniform was handing out papers without even looking at who he was handing them to. When it was my turn to take the papers, he looked up from his safe desk to gasp for air. I could see above his honors, a name etched out on a gold name tag. It read: Lieutenant P. McGuire. He looked me dead in the eye and asked me:
‘Do you have what it takes, kid? Are you willing to put your life on the line for your country? Are you going to run away and quit if the going gets rough? Most importantly, are you going to help haul away the bodies of your fellow soldiers?’
‘Hoorah!’I answered. He shuffled through his papers and pulled out a blue set. At the top it read: “NAVY S.E.A.L.S.”. What did he mean when he asked if I was willing to haul away the bodies of my fellow soldiers?

      2
Within a week, I was on a naval training base in Virginia,the MCB Quantico. Training was rough. I was up at dawn for a two hour run on the beach, then combat training, survival training, weaponry, and finally time for bed. The only thing I didn’t learn was how to grow a beard. Other than that, I knew everything that had to do from cleaning my gun to learning to stop a bullet wound from killing one of my soldiers. ‘Rub some dirt in it,’ my drill sergeant would say. That was it.
I had taken up a specialty in firing my weapon fast, and I excelled at hand to hand and knife combat. A year of training meant I was ready, but I soon found out that I was wrong. Nothing prepared me for war. No amount of praying or alcohol could erase those memories. They stuck to my side like a bullet that didn’t want to leave. They just stuck there with prongs grabbing on to my flesh.
My first tour, my scariest one and my only one, was in 2002. Iraq was an awful place and still is. Insurgents were everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean that I shot more than twenty terrorists my first day in the field. Bullet after bullet. Piercing the skin of our enemies. So much blood, but I couldn’t stay back and b**** about it. I had a job to do. I had a job to do for my country. The first kill never left my mind. We lost seven men. Not even a veteran medic would be able to control themselves in that situation. It becomes a game of who’s more likely to survive. I just went back to the bunker and stared at the wall bouncing a tennis ball back and forth.
‘Jethro, you good bro?’ asked Sandy. ‘Dude, snap the f*** out of it.’ I knew he was there. I knew that he was trying to get me to talk to him, but I still couldn’t speak. The violence of the day just played over and over in my head. Daryl, a.k.a “Sandy” (short for Sandusky), was an older guy. He was probably in his mid-thirties, and he was my squadron leader. He was tall, with a medium build, a gray beard, and laser focused eyes. I threw the ball against the wall again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the trunk across the room stood out more than usual. Mainly because someone had forgotten to hang up their gun like they were supposed to. My eyes began to wander in order to avoid confrontation with Sandy. I noticed for the first time how neatly everyone had made their beds compared to mine. I felt smaller, more self aware than usual. The room was large which made it easy to get your mind lost in it when thinking of other things. Sandy punched the wall.
‘What’s the matter with you?!’ he raised his tone. I immediately snapped out of it and faced him.
‘I’m sorry sir! I was thinkin’ bout’ stuff, sir!’ I replied.
‘Well stop thinkin’ bout’ s***. There’s nothing you can do about it Jethro. Absolutely, nothing. Because if you could, you would have done it already. I’ve been where you are. The first day is always the hardest, but killin’ these guys gets easier by the day. You understand? They don’t like us and we don’t like them. You shouldn’t feel remorse for these assholes. They took our brothers, so we’ll take theirs. I’ve seen a lot, and there are times where you just gotta sit and drift off, but this isn’t the time. Do that when you’re back state-side. But not here. Please not here. Got me?’
‘Yessir!’ I muttered. He left, but the thoughts still hadn’t. I needed to be strong. I needed to have balls made of pure steel. I needed to not give a s***. That’s what I needed to do.
A couple months had gone by. Same routine. Same thoughts. Same bouncing ball and blank face in the bunker. There was one day that was different. Just that one. We didn’t have our morning run. We didn’t have our usual combat training either. We had a briefing in the war room. The squadron finally had a target. He went by the name of Sahib Mudabi. He was responsible for thirty-two American deaths. Sahib was pain in the ass to find. We’d all been searching endlessly but to no avail. Finally, we had something. An informant for the Iraqi police had put us back on his trail.
At O-Eight hundred hours we packed up our stuff and set out in our vehicles to be at a checkpoint to meet with the Iraqi informant. He had a paper trail on Sahib that put us only three hours behind his last move. Mudabi was smart. He never stayed in a single spot for more than twelve hours. We were hot on his trail. Unfortunately, vehicle support could not have taken us any further so we were on foot. God damn Iraq was a waste land. Hotter than a country girl with daddy issues and as barren as the mouth of a ninety year old. On top of that there was no cover. In my opinion it was an operation to do at night, but who was I to say anything? We weren’t S.E.A.L. Team Six, but still as regular seals we were expected to do missions like this easily.
After an hour or two of walking, we came to a small village. Houses were tightly packed together. The smell of falafel filled the air. Goat s*** too. And yes, there was cover. Thank God! But, as we got closer to the target, the anxiety of insurgent eyes on us slowly began to worry us. Were there snipers surveying the area? For us there were. For them, probably. I felt more exposed than a lone sheep near a wolf den. Except these wolves had firepower. But, so did the sheep. Lots and lots of it. What were we to be afraid of? Get in, kill the target, get out, right? Simple as that. The answer was no. The situation turned to f***in’ s***. We found our target, and you sure as hell bet your a** that he found us too.
There I was again; tryin’ to dodge bullets that I couldn’t see, clenching my gun with the utmost fear, and makin’ sure I kept a pretty good sight on the frags strapped to my belt. Men down to my left. Men down to my right. The mission was compromised and we didn’t know how. I rushed over to help plug up some pretty nasty bullet holes. Gauze, gauze, and more gauze. Add a little tape, and there ya’ go. Good as new. That wasn’t the case.
‘Where are you hit soldier?’ I asked over all the gunfire.
‘In my leg. Do something! F*** me! My f***ing leg!’ he cried out.
I applied some gauze to his wounds and added tape to hold it in place.
‘Here! Hold this there and we’ll get you out of here as soon as possible.’
The gauze didn’t hold up. The tape wasn’t holdin’ s*** in place. The wounds were too deep. By now my uniform was drenched in other soldier’s blood. My goggles were caked in it. It felt like I was taking a shower in it. The men didn’t stop bleeding. It was endless pain. I was running out of morphine shots, but I still did whatever I could to save their lives even though they were long gone. No man left behind, am I right? So this was what the guy at the enlisting station said it would be like. Well s*** then!
Despite the ambush, and soldiers droppin’ like flies, we kept pushing forward our line of offense. We terminated many more terrorists than soldiers who had killed, but they also had many more people, and we were running low on lives to finish the mission and get the f*** out of there. Lucky for me I wasn’t in line of sight because I was dragging not yet dead squad members to the sides of building, in crevices, and into civilian houses. Quite relaxing once I got inside a house. S*** wasn’t going stir-crazy.
I had a spotter with me to give me cover when I was tending to wounds. Being the a**hole and hot-headed p**** that I was, I would always take an opportunity when it presents itself. Unfortunately for me, those opportunities always had consequences.
I saw the target. About three football fields out; give or take thirty yards. I handed my spotter all my medical supplies and said,‘Take care of him. I’ll be right back! OKAY?!’ Off I went. Doing crazy stuff again. Was I probably going to die? Possibly. Did I trust myself to get the job done? Not necessarily. But, did I care? Not even the slightest. Sahib was strategically placed in the corner of a two story building. The windows were very small so a shot was not a possibility. There had to be another way. The only tactical strategy I saw was to come from up top. Bad Idea. Not only did I not see the two other sand devils, but Sahib had a grenade in his mouth and all he had to do was not bite down anymore. As I approached the target, trying to be as stealthy as possible, I noticed that he had two civilians hostage. A young black haired middle-eastern boy, around the age of six, and a slim-figured girl with curly black hair who seemed old enough to pass as eighteen. He had two knives ready to cut their throats.
I realized all of this too late. I took out one of the terrorists out. Another had shot me in the gut. Thank god for bullet proof vests. I took him out with ease, but I failed. Mudabi had already slit the throats of the two children. He looked at me with eyes glazed over in fear and unclenched his jaw, dropping the grenade. Mudabi made no attempt to run; he just fell to his knees and put his hands over his face. I had three seconds to leave. That wasn’t enough. I needed more time.
I saw more of my men coming into the building and I only had one choice. Sacrifice myself, or let us all die. My life flashed before my eyes. All the good times. All the bad. They no longer mattered. I took off my helmet to cover the grenade and had already put my body in a position to jump on top of the it. I felt nothing. Just a flash of lights, the sound of ringin’, and blood creepin’ into the my eyes.
 

            3

I regained consciousness a little while later. My body was numb from all the morphine that had been injected in my body. The only thing I could feel was the burning image of my mangled corpse being sewn into my mind. It was f***in’ horrible. None of my body parts were in place. My hand to the crease in my elbow was hangin’ on by some skin and a couple exposed tendons. My legs were severely broken from the looks of it. I faded in and out consciousness in the back of the extraction vehicle. I was constantly awoken by a slap in the face to make sure I didn’t die. ‘Jeth, stay the f*** awake man! We’re almost back to base! Hang in there! You can’t give up now!OK?’ exclaimed the other unit medic. I knew I was a goner. Blood was slushin’ around in the back of that truck like an overflowed kiddie pool.
We finally got to the E.R., and the morphine started to wear off. Holy s***, did it hurt. The first thing the doctors did was inject me with some more morphine in what was left of my leg. I tried not to look at the mutilation but I wasn’t allowed to close my eyes. At least, that’s what I thought they said. The blast popped my eardrums in the process.
Hours passed. Stitch after stitch. I felt the tugging of my flesh being put back together, but I still did not feel the pain. Thank God for modern medicine; am I right? 
I was out for a couple days recovering in the infirmary. About a week or so until I regained decent hearing and speech abilities. The doctor came in to tell me the news. He was wearing teal scrubs that seemed untouched by any carnage so far. A single pen hung from his shirt pocket, and a pair of reading glasses hung from his neck quite peacefully. It seemed as if he was going to put them on and read me a story.
‘You’re a very lucky man, Chief Petty Officer James. You’ve survived something where very few people even make the trip back to the E.R.. That calls for an applaud, but first let me give you the injury report. As you might know, you will not be able to go back into combat, which might not seem like a big shocker to you. Let’s start from head to toe shall we: you fractured your skull in four different places; twelve broken teeth; a shattered chin; a slight fracture in your neck, which is not life threatening; a broken collarbone; four grenade shards have been removed from your chest; all of your ribs are broken; your right arm has been amputated; your left arm is broken in three different places; and your left and right legs both have fractured femurs. You’ll be staying here for awhile until you’re ready to be transported back to the States. Don’t give up kid. You’re lucky you’re alive.’ 
That was the last I saw of the good doctor. Everyday, I would be injected with morphine to make the pain subside. That’s what started it all. That’s what started my addiction.

        4
Once I was back state-side, I underwent treatment and rehabilitation for many months. Along with treatment was the continuation of a daily morphine injection. But, as the weeks progressed they slowly eased me out of the hard stuff to avoid addiction. How bout that? It was too late. The more I was away from it the more I craved it. I would get some here and there from the sympathetic nurse that took care of me once and awhile. The morphine didn’t just help with the physical pain; it also helped with the mental scarring.
Day in and day out I had flashbacks. Sleep came rarely to me. Everything debilitating about war ran rampant in my mind. From the dropping of a tray or sound of boots in the hallway to the slightest hint of blood is what made me revisit those horrific memories. I would zone out and relive every moment. That’s why morphine and eventually the addition of alcohol helped to make the pain disappear. It allowed me to drift off and think about the happier times in my life. The times that made up for my injuries.
  It took me a while to admit I had problems living normally. I fought myself all the time. I would allow myself to believe that I was okay and that everyone was going through this. I figured that I was hitting my mid-life crisis. The reality is that it wasn’t a crisis. It’s a side-effect of war that needs months if not years of recovery.
During therapy, I was told that I would be given the purple heart for my sacrifice. This was the worst news I’ve heard in a while and the worst three weeks of my life. I was proud of the medal, but I couldn’t hang it anywhere. I had no one to share it with anyway, besides my parents. The ceremony was amazing. Don’t get me wrong, but I was trying to forget. And what a way to forget when you’ve been told to remember.
‘Congratulations Chief Petty Officer James,’said a man sitting in the crowd as I rolled up to the stage to receive my award.
‘Thank you, Sir,” I replied. Once I reached the stage, the person awarding me the medal hugged me a second and whispered, ‘Not many people can say that they have shown as much valor and courage as you have. Be proud of that and always remember the deeds that you’ve done for your country.’
It was hell.
I hadn’t told anyone the pain that I’d been suffering. I lied to my physical therapist. I lied to my physician. I lied to my father, and I lied to my mother.
A therapist seemed like the best option. One that specialized in people who served. I hit up a very old friend. Ol’ Daryl “SANDY” Sandusky. He would point me in the right direction. I called him up on my phone.
‘Hey Sandy, how are you doin’?’ I asked.
‘Who’s this?’ His voice sounded deeper than usual. Maybe he was sick.
‘It’s Jethro.’
‘Oh! Jethro, it’s been a while. What do you need?’ He asked sincerely.
‘I’ve got somethin’ to tell you. Life isn’t the best right now, and I was wonderin’ if you knew of way to help?’ I gestured.
‘You havin’ flashbacks Jeth? Anythin’ else?’
‘Yeah bad ones too. I’m also, kinda, addicted to alcohol,’ I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I was also addicted to morphine.
‘I’m where you are bud. If You need someone to talk to, I’m here.’
‘Actually, I’m wantin’ some professional help. No offense.’
‘None taken. I understand. You want someone who knows what they’re doin’. I get it.’
‘Yeah. You know anyone?’
‘Make an appointment with Dr. Manchego. He’ll get you back on your feet mentally.’
‘Thanks Sandy. See you around maybe.’
‘Don’t mention it. Have a good one. Keep in touch kid.’
‘Sure thing.’

I found an appointment for Tuesday at three. His name was Dr. Richard Manchego. A retired first lieutenant in the marines. He was a rather tall man. Slender, and very built. Age passed over him very delicately. If not for his gray beard, he would look like he is thirty three at most. Dr. Manchego wouldn’t tell me his real age when I asked. He just flashed his dimples along with his signature smirk. Our first conversation when a little like this:
‘Hello Mr. James,’ he said not knowing my rank.
‘Hello Dr. Manchego,’ I said shyly.
‘What is your rank? Jethro, might I call you?’ he asked.
‘Yeah that’s fine. I was a Chief Petty Officer,’ I answered.
‘Correction. You still are a Chief Petty Officer. That will always be with you. Now let’s begin shall we? Let’s start with your daily routine. Take me through it would you please,’ he said.
‘Yessir. Well I wake up, I go to P.T., I go home,’ I hesitated to say the next part and the parts proceeding that part, but I had to do it or this would be for nothing. ‘I drink a couple of beers, shoot up on morphine, then I lie in bed for a couple hours thinkin’ bout’ life’, I continued.
‘What do you think about when you think about life?’ he asked.
‘I think about the life that I don’t have, sir,’ I replied. I noticed an inquisitive look on his face.
‘And why don’t you think about the life you do have? Shouldn’t that be your concern?’ he asked.
‘Because my life right now is not the one that I want to live. It isn’t what I had in mind for my future’, I answered.
‘No one lives the life they envisioned, Jethro. You seem to be a very well decorated soldier. Just a couple weeks ago you received the purple heart. You’re a hero. Why wouldn’t you want to be a hero Jethro?’ he pestered.
‘Being called a hero reminds me everyday of the memories that I try to erase,’ I said.
‘But those memories define who you are. Accepting them as part of you allows you to move on. In addition, doing something good with those memories and passing them on to others helps to filter out the pain’, he said. I was speechless. ‘Explain to me these memories please and what triggers them.’
‘It’s usually mid-combat when we’re taking heavy fire. My squad is getting shot up pretty bad. Explosions are goin’ off, bullets are wizzin’ by my head. My uniform is blotched with blood stains. It usually get triggered by a random pop or cracking sound. The sight of blood.’
‘Jethro. I’m diagnosing you with P.T.S.D.’
‘What’s that?’, I asked.
‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The best way to handle this is to speak out to people. Come see me regularly about your addictions, but don’t hold back on telling your parents. Even random strangers. You need as much support as you can get.’ That’s what he left me with. I see him twice a week to this day. A year and half has gone by since the diagnosis. Every week, I speak out to you soldiers. Every week I tell my story. And every week I feel a little of my old self coming back to me. I am not sober. I am not P.T.S.D. free. I am not healed. But I’m on my way. It’s a challenge that takes heart to finish. It all depends on whether you want to better yourself. That’s why I’m here every week to help myself but also to help you. To help you not make the mistake I made. To not let the side-effects of war take control and make you hopeless. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. You just gotta be willing to buckle up and make the drive. Thank you.”