A Different Kind of War

*Authors' Note: this story is constantly evolving, constantly being added to. There are so many layers to a piece like this (as you may understand) that it will likely never be finished. (thanks for the editing Catlen) 

Part One

Homecoming

 

He watched the rain trickle down against the car window and did his best to tune out the chaos of family chatter. He had been making a great effort to remain un-summoned and invisible in his corner of the car for the past three hours; his ipod had died some two hours ago but he kept the earpieces in and hoped the family fell for the trick. It was his first day out of the hospital, where he had spent the last three months, and he already hated it " hated the mindless, useless chatter of the family routine, hated the feeling of worthlessness that rode his conscience into madness and so on. At least back in those god-forsaken mountains he had a purpose. Gun in hand, there was no mistaking his life-purpose. What’s more, everyone else had a purpose.  There was no need for, nor time for, mindless chit-chat and uncomfortable pleasantries. Now there was nothing Tyler could do but fake a smile, choke through all the 'Hi-how-are-yas’, and pretend he gave a s**t. It wasn’t that he hated his family; he hated the shame of being worthless, of being idle, and of being bitter. He hated what his family might really think of him now, and what the world would see him as. He counted how many morphine patches he had in the pack beside his feet before slapping a second on his throbbing left leg and taking another handful of assorted pills; some for pain, some for anxiety and depression. The family was watching him. He wasn’t looking up from his lap, but he could feel their prying eyes all over him.

     When they pulled into the driveway he began to tear up and tried not to let his younger sister, who was sitting beside him, see. He looked out over the sprawling 12 acres that their family home was built on, and remembered running across those acres with the family’s two Great Danes; he remembered playing football and riding four wheelers with his friends.  He squinted to see if the rope swing still hung in the oak tree beside the pond where he had spent countless hours of his youth. It was there. All these things he might never be able to enjoy again. The dogs were running to greet them as they came to a stop in front of the house, and he almost smiled; but when his father came around to his side with the wheelchair and had to help him into it, Tyler broke down. There was no more hiding his shame, but he hoped the rain would help his sister not to notice. He had always wanted to be the strong one, especially for his little sister Nikki, and now he couldn’t. He couldn’t even pretend. He held his head down all the way inside, pushing the dogs off of him with his one good arm as they tried to lick the tears off his face. Once inside the family surrounded him, consoling him. They all held him and cried with him for some time, telling him to be strong, and not ashamed. But those words seemed so useless; so fake; just words you are supposed to say to someone when they are in trouble, or pain. He finally talked his father into helping him into bed.

As he lay there in those clean sheets waiting for his meds to kick in, he looked past his parents who were sitting at the end of the bed, around at his room. It was just the way he had left it. There was a football and his water board in one corner, his grandfather's old acoustic guitar in the next. His hunting rifles hung bright and shiny on the rack beside his closet. There were the pictures of him and his friends out on the lake and in various other settings, and one of him and his first deer, taken back when he was ten. Beside his bed, there was a picture of his ex-girlfriend who had written him about six months ago saying she couldn’t wait on him any longer, that it was too much for her, that he be gone. Selfish b***h, he thought, what does she know. I guess she was right to leave though. Look at me now. He hadn’t told his parents that they had broken up, because he didn’t want to face the fact himself. He had needed to have some kind of belief, some sort of hope to hold on to, even if it was false, like every other warrior on the ‘front lines’ needs. He had even thought about her, briefly, during the battle that would change his life, although it was only for a few seconds. He wished only to be able to see her again. He pushed the picture onto the floor and listened to the glass break. As he started to fall asleep, he gazed out the window towards the cloudy sky, and focused on the rope swing swaying in the wind. His father stayed at the end of his bed until he was asleep, his mother busied herself cleaning up the broken glass and tried to hold back her own tears.

In the morning his mother brought him his breakfast in bed, guessing, correctly, that he would rather not have the family see him struggle to use his one good arm. He was hungry though, and all obstacles aside, ate a lot. He had missed his mother's cooking. He could hear the news in the living room, “a hometown hero is home today…..” said the newscaster. Hero my a*s, he thought, and he turned on his own tv, and put it on the military channel, thinking about his boys still out there, and those who had fallen. He thought of those 2 hours of hell that had claimed the lives of most of his unit, and should have claimed his. In essence, he guessed his life was taken. It wasn’t fair in his eyes that he was still breathing, and some of his closest friends, his brothers, weren’t. At least they got the easy way out. He thought as he took his medication and slapped on another morphine patch. The doctors had said he might never walk again, but he wasn’t totally paralyzed, and he could still feel the pain, especially on his left leg, constantly. He thought about the battle again, and sobbed. His sister heard him and alerted his mother. She came in and asked if there was anything she could do, and he simply requested she shut the door. He had to go to the bathroom, but that would have to wait until his father came home from work. He wouldn’t ask his mother for help. He stared at his Military portrait for what seemed hours. He had been a strong, handsome Marine, a Corporal, fighting proudly beside his brothers. It had been his lifelong dream to become a marine, and do his part. He had felt it his calling ever since his grandfather started telling him war stories as a kid. He began to wonder what his grandfather would say now.  He heard the doorbell ring, and his sister rushed to answer.

His door opened soon after and three of his old friends from high school walked in. Tears were shed all the way around. Then, they began talking about the good ol’ highschool days. His friends did all they could to get his mind off his current condition. They talked about football, women, and the night they wrecked his dad’s truck in the middle of nowhere and had to walk seven miles through the dark wilderness just to get cell phone reception, but they had been drunk enough that it didn’t matter that night. It had been an adventure. Tyler attempted a laugh for the first time in a long, long time. They talked about winning the state championship senior year, and his winning touchdown catch. They had brought over some videos of them, including a highlight reel of that championship game, and sat with him for a few hours watching and reminiscing until he couldn’t hold it any longer and asked them to help him get to the head. They looked at him funny at first until they realized he was talking about the bathroom. Two of them carried him to the restroom and then back to bed. They asked him if he wanted to get out but he didn’t want to. He didn’t think it was a good idea. He talked with them a little while longer until the morphine put him to sleep.  When he woke back up, his friends were gone, but they left him the videos, and one of them had taken his letter jacket from his closet and placed it on his bed. His mother brought in his lunch. He ate like a horse again, staring out at the rope swing. He was thankful his friends had come, but it didn’t fix anything. It didn’t suddenly make him able to use both arms, or walk. It didn’t mean he would be able to swing out into the pond or throw his football. It didn’t mean he would even be able to play his guitar, or video games.  And what woman would want me? He thought. He took some more pills, and added an additional patch, falling back asleep. When his mother came in to collect the dishes, she eyed his medication bottles, noticing how low they were getting, and how quickly. She stripped off two of the three morphine patches from his leg and wiped the tears from her eyes as she shut the door. 

He dreamt of the beginning of the battle. They had been about ten miles from base, headed back as night fell, a convoy rolling through what was supposed to be a secure village. He heard the hiss of an RPG and watched the lead humvee go up in flames. His best friend Johnathan Sheppard had been in that one. Another hiss, and he knew that would be the rear humvee. He shouted at everyone to get out. Gunfire erupted from all directions.  They took cover behind anything and everything they could. He quickly ordered pvt. Harrison to call base; to call for air support. He didn’t know whether or not Harrison had the chance to make the call because when he turned back again after dodging his way through a hail of bullets to recover Sheppards’ body, Harrison was down. He dove for the radio unit and called base, covered in the blood spraying from Harrison’s neck. He watched the life fade from Harrison’s eyes and then took his first clear shot, and watched as his enemy screamed and, clutching his chest, fell. He saw movement on a rooftop and took a shot, the bullet struck the man holding the RPG, who still managed to pull the trigger as he fell backwards, but the rocket hit the rooftop the man had been standing on, blowing him and two accomplices apart.  Within the next 15 seconds, Tyler watched PFC Hernandez go down with a bullet to the gut. HM1 Jacobs, the doc, took three bullets to the back trying to carry Hernandez to cover. Jacobs kept trying to get them to cover, until he had no life left in him. Then Tyler took his first bullet, to his left arm, and a second to his leg. Staff Sergeant Hammons took a headshot trying to make it to him, and dropped, his eyes never leaving Tyler’s. Tyler rose again with all his will and fired at anything he saw moving, until a bullet struck him in the back, and an RPG exploded a few yards in front of him, sending him flying. 

He woke screaming, in tears, and the family quickly ran to him and held him; His mother and sister both crying, as well. Tyler begged them not to cry, and to just leave him alone, but to no avail. His father, after seeing that Tyler wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep anytime soon, put him in his wheelchair and rolled him out of his room, to the back porch, where they used to have many man to man talks. He handed Tyler a beer and said “Talk to me son. You can talk to me.” Tyler said nothing, but sat sobbing in his wheelchair, letting the beer slip from his hand, spilling its contents through the cracks in the deck floor.

“Son, I know you feel guilty. I know you feel worthless. But damnit, Tyler, it wasn’t your fault. And you are not worthless. You are one of the greatest men I’ve ever known, and I am damn proud to be able to call you my son.”

Tyler sat silent a while longer until finally he raised his head. “I should have died with my brothers. I should have been given a warrior's death. Now I’m nothing but a cripple. No one will understand. They don’t give a s**t about us. They don’t care about us Marines. a cripple is a cripple. I get to sit in a wheelchair for the rest of my life for defending my nation while everyone else who hasn’t ever done a damn thing for their country spits on me. It's like a bad joke, Dad. The punchline is I’m still alive to suffer more. At least my men got to go out with a bang, not a whimper. They died a noble death, knowing it stood for something. Now I cant even stand, and it seems like It’s been all for nothing.”

     Tyler’s dad sat silent for a few minutes, hiding his own tears, before responding. “Tyler, we are going to get through this. It’s going to be a long hard road, but you’re a warrior, and you will prevail. We will get through this somehow, son. Your family, and your nation, is behind you, whether you realize it or not. You’re a strong man, don’t you dare give up now. Marines don’t give up when the going gets rough, and you are still a Marine. And another thing, your mother and I are concerned about how much of your meds you are going through. Trying to escape your troubles isn’t a warrior's approach, and it won’t help. All you're doing is trading one war for two more.” He waited for Tyler’s response, but Tyler had passed out in his chair. His father rolled him back into the house and lifted him into bed.

 

 

PART 2

A Hero’s welcome

 

The doorbell had woken Tyler at least six times during the morning, followed by muffled conversations he couldn’t quite make out. He wasn’t in the least bit curious as to whom it was that kept showing up, he just hoped no one would bother him. He had a pretty good idea that it was either the press or locals, come to see the “hero” described by channel 6 news, and he wanted nothing to do with either group. He just wanted to be left alone. Around ten or so, his mother brought him breakfast and sat at the foot of his bed.

“Shannon stopped by this morning, son. She said she really wanted to see you. I told her I'd see how you felt about it and get back to her.”

Tyler scoffed. “What, does she want to ride the ‘hero’ wave? She wanted nothing to do with me then, why would she want to see me now, now that I’m completely worthless?”

“Son, she was in tears. She loves you. I think you should give it some thought. I think she genuinely wants to help.”

Tyler blew it off.  “I’d ike to go sit with the family for a little bit, mom.” She rolled him out into the living room, where there were flowers, cards, American flags, and gift baskets everywhere. The sight made Tyler smile a little bit, but none of those ‘tokens’ would bring his men back, nor would they help him walk, not to mention play the guitar again.

His father was watching CNN when Tyler got rolled into the living room. The first report he saw was on the Westboro Baptists, and the latest military funeral they had just picketed. Tyler grew outraged and began to scream. “Is this what my brothers died for? Is this what I almost died for? For these a******s?"

 No one really knew what to say. 

Reviews

[reeyce smythe wilder]

The first thing that caught my attention was how very well detailed this was. Everything was well described so the mood of the story was enhanced. I felt as though I was watching TV as corny as it sounds, but nothing was lacking in this. His thoughts were perfectly conveyed, the dialogue real and easy to connect to. Also deep...almost as if you wrote some parts from experience. Well done. I hope there will be more in the future.

[A.J.]

thank you very much for the read. There will surely be more in the future, however I like to take my time with this one, as I connect with other veterans and learn from their experiences and thoughts during war, so that the story becomes more all encompassing. I want this project to help, if at all possible.