A Real Unreality

A short story submission for "Your Mental Illness Story."

A Real Unreality

 

     Thrumming from the underbelly of the ship vibrated in his bones as he made his rounds aboard the USS Goldsborough, methodically recording the gauge and thermometer readings on the running machinery in the forward main engine room. The Captain had just called for full speed ahead in preparation for their final run on the **** parallel logistics site on the Viet Nam shore. Their orders were to give back up to the marines in that area, who would move into that region the next morning. The Goldsborough was to take out known gun emplacements, in order to aid the advancement. 

     Just as he laid the clipboard on the desk of the watch station, he was suddenly thrown backwards, flying from the shock a missle hit. Flung through the air by the blast, hitting his head on the main lube oil pump housing, his mind filled up with stars and instant pain. Shaking his head to clear it of the painful fog, he ran to the interspace communications phone to answer the stridently ringing monster.

    "Sanders here, sir."

     "We've taken double hits, lower level. Make your rounds and report any damage immediately," said the Topwatch.

     "Yes sir, right away."

     Hanging up the mouthpiece, he ran to the forward corner of the space, signaling to his teammate, Reynolds, to go to the rear. The main condensate pump and steam main lube oil pumps were located along the forward bulkhead. Their importance to engine room security made it a first priority under these casualty control conditions. Making his inspection and finding everything in order, he turned back to the walkway to report to the Topwatch. Just then the PA system blared out an announcement.

     "Attention all hands, the ship has taken double shell hits from the shore emplacements in the aft Chief's Mess. Volunteers are required to aid the corpsmen and firefighting team. Report to the aft Chief's Mess ASAP."

     He headed to the nearest communications station on the lower level and called up above.

     "Sir, Petty Officer Sanders here, I'd like to volunteer to help. Reynolds is with me down here and he can handle things while I'm gone."

     "Very well, go forward and report the Chief Corpsman on duty."

     He headed forward as fast as he could, dodging others coming aft in the narrow passageway, stumbling over firefighting gear left in the way. Upon entering the doorway of the Chief's quarters, he was overwhelmed by the sight of carnage and death. The bulkhead ran with a red liquid that looked so surreal, that his brain did not instantly recognize it for what it was; blood, human blood ran from the bulkhead in rivulets of red. He fought down the nausea that threatened to make him throw up, gagging and swallowing as he wound around the wounded on the deck getting to the Chief Corpsman at the back of the space who was working on a wounded sailor. Squatting down next to the man, he said, "Petty Officer Sanders, sir, how can I help?"

     "Go aft and help those corpsmen with the dead. They're putting the bodies in body bags. Be sure each bag is tagged with identification. Now, go... GO D****T!"

      "Yes sir."

     He headed to the aft portion of the space where the bunks lined the back bulkhead, finding the two corpsman kneeling next to the two dead sailors. He knelt down and started helping the corpsman move the body into the body bag. The dead sailor had been almost torn in half by the blast, shrapnel having sliced into his living body, tearing vital organs on its way through.

     "My God," he thought, "the blood, God, it's everywhere. How could there be so much blood?"

     "Hey guy, wake up, we got dead here that need attending. Help, or get the hell out, now!"

     He swallowed his vomit, taking several deep breaths, then nodded at the corpsman.

     "I'm sorry, here, let me get that."

     He reached across the body bag and grabbing the zipper, ran it up the enclosure. The corpsman went to one end of the bag, indicating that Gus was supposed to grab the other end. They hefted the body onto the waiting stretcher, and strapped it down with safety straps. As the lifted the stretcher and started to move through the space, Gus again had a surge of nausea at the sights of all the gore and blood covering the small space. He fought the vomit rising in his throat.

     "Where did all the blood come from? There's so much of it."

     "Shut up sailor. Have some respect for the dead. Move it. We have to take these bodies to the helio pad on the fantail."

They maneuvered the stretcher up the ladder to the fantail, just as the enactments had trained them in the casualty control drills. The night sky was full of beautiful, twinkling stars, unconcerned with the fates of men.

     The body bag on their stretcher started moving, jerking and swaying. Then the zipper started to slowly move downward by itself. Gus looked in terror at the movement of the black zipper.

     "He's alive, hey, he's alive... somebody help us... this guy's alive... come on, somebody help us... he's alive...he's alive... he's alive..."

 

*********

 

     "Honey wake up... baby, it's just a bad dream. Wake up, baby. Wake up."

     His dream slowly dissipated into a red fog as his wife's voice brought him back to reality. Shaking and crying, he grabbed onto his wife, holding her hard for her comfort and support. She was holding back silent tears as she stroked his unruly hair, whispering comforting words and holding him tightly.

     "It was the dream, again," he thought. "Always the dream."

     Gus had PTSD. Ever since his Viet Nam tour in '70, he had had that recurring dream of the time the ship had been hit and they had lost three men and had four wounded. His feelings of inadequacy had made the dreams seem real, and had made the dreams come back time and time again. He couldn't hold down a job, his nerves were shot, jumping at the slightest noise. His attention constantly wandered as he started one small project, only to forget about it and start another. His feeling of alienation from his family and friends was making him a recluse in his life.

     PTSD could be treated, though, and he was on the long road to recovery. Weekly counseling visits at the VA Hospital, and loving support from his friends and family were starting to show good results.

     "With any luck," he thought, "I'll be able to rejoin the human race, someday..."

 

by Gaston Sanders