All the Cuts and Scars We Hide by Garry Michael
One: Wyatt
The Ambush And Its Aftermath
“Ambush!” Staff Sergeant Bennett yelled while bullets tore through the air.Our feet scrambled as we ran for cover, combat boots pounding, hearts thumping, the incessant clang of metal on metal as shots pierced through cars lining the deserted streets. The crumbling concrete and barrage of grenades dropped around our perimeter created a dust storm that was impossible to see through.
“Lance Corporal!” Martinez yelled.
I looked all around to find Private First-Class James “Jim” Martinez.
A partial dispersion of smoke appeared twenty feet north of where I was standing, and I saw him sitting behind an abandoned vehicle with broken glass windows and all the paint removed from old explosions. He held his right leg, covered with blood seeping through his pants, his face daubed with agony and fear. He was cradling his gun close to his chest while he signed the cross repeatedly.
“Martinez, stay down!” I yelled to get his attention and motioned my hand low to advise him to keep out of sight. I hadn’t yet made the first step in his direction, when someone yanked my pack, pulling me backward before another explosive hit near our location, debris exploding around us, missing us entirely.
I blew out a breath when I realized how close we were from being incinerated by another bomb. “Fuck!” I turned around to find our Staff Sergeant beneath me. “Thank you,” I murmured in between coughs caused by the smoke and ash floating around in the air. I knew I couldn't get to Martinez then because it was too dangerous.
He tapped my shoulder and I peeled myself off him. With his justifiably shaky hands, he turned on his radio and placed another call for backup. “We need to find cover, keep going south,” he screamed, ordering the crew who followed us. But with all the gunfire noises coming from every direction, accompanied by loud native music to confuse us, they couldn’t hear him, much less understand his commands.
One by one, my fellow soldiers were taken down by snipers nestled on top of the dozens of abandoned buildings around Kabul. They undoubtedly had been expecting us. With the window of opportunity to counterstrike narrowed down, we started firing, aiming for nothing and no one in particular while we pulled and carried every live body we could find.
Once we found safe harbor in one of the dilapidated buildings, we assessed our situation. Our commander looked around counting how many of our guys managed to get there. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he cursed as he loosened his bulletproof vest and sat back against the wall, leaning his head down, looking defeated.
I peeked outside and judging by the sheer amount of gunshots fired, we were outnumbered. The shooting momentarily stopped, and cries of anguish echoed through the canyon of the destroyed buildings as we perused our surroundings for our enemies within our confinement.
“Three o’clock!” someone yelled.
Instinctively, I aimed toward that direction. With my vantage point behind a wall, hidden from our attackers, I took them one at a time. But for every Taliban soldier I’d taken down, a couple more appeared to take their place.
An enemy fighter shouted in Pashto and pointed toward me.
“Shit!” My cover was blown. I ducked behind the wall as shots flew my way. Vibrations rumbled through it and I felt the concrete starting to give out. “Goddamn it!” I said, an understanding of my current predicament becoming clear.
The Taliban started to make their move, surrounding our location, when a new brigade of soldiers, that Staff Sergeant Bennett called for backup assistance, cornered the street a couple of blocks from where we were stranded. More shots were fired followed by the whoop of a grenade being launched.
The explosion knocked me to my hands and knees.
My ears were ringing when I scrambled to take cover. I peeked around the remnants of the wall and was relieved to see more of our troops and a battalion of allies had joined the chaos. Back up had arrived.
Marine Corps helicopters hovered above us firing rounds of shots, while fighter jets dropped more bombs, suffocating the Taliban from the ground and the air.
When the enemy finally retreated, we searched around the carnage for live bodies. Gunfire and shouting were replaced by anguished calls echoing through the deserted town adorned with bullet holes.
“Wyatt.”
I combed the street covered with bullet shells, broken glass, and blood for the source of Martinez’s voice. Relieved that my friend was still alive, I hurried toward him, stepping over our fallen comrades to help. He was in bad shape with multiple gunshot wounds to his right leg and torso. “Can you stand up?” I asked.
He just nodded, a grimace on his face.
I propped him up and draped his right arm around me for leverage. “Hang in there, buddy,” I said to him as we navigated our way to the military vehicle that would take us to our camp.
“IED!” someone yelled from a distance and my world exploded before I could take my next step.
An orange ball of fire propelled me twenty feet away. Pain pierced through my skin and screamed through my eardrums. I laid there in shock, eyes wide open. The air above me was thick with smoke and debris falling from the sky like snow on a winter’s day. My breathing became more labored and I fought not to lose consciousness. I gave my body commands, starting with my right arm, then my left. Relieved that both my arms were intact, I did the same with my legs. I said a small prayer when both of them reacted.
I propped my head up to find where Martinez had landed and then I saw his body. What was left of it anyway. “Jim!” I screamed. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe. Heavy footsteps closed in on me and I heard them say my name.
“We got you Lance Corporal, you’re safe now,” someone said.
I let the darkness take me.
***
I woke up gasping for air. My mouth was dry and my whole body was still trembling from the nightmare that had plagued me the past four years. I reached for my neck to feel the chain with Jim’s tag over mine.
I attempted to steady my breathing and laid my shaking hands on the bed, palms down. The light blue sheet was wrinkled and damp. The cold breeze coming from the slightly opened window did nothing to cool my body as more sweat seeped out of me.
“It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.” I kept repeating, trying to get me out of the dark cloud that had taken over me. My heart knew that it was a dream, but my mind seemed to have a harder time believing what was reality.
Without any desire to go back to sleep, I forced myself out of bed, headed to the living room, and braced myself for the aftermath. And based on my previous episodes, I knew the shockwave of imminent gloom would soon claim me for the next few hours. Hours that seemed like days, weeks, even eternity.
I summoned all of what was left of my energy to practice the ‘Counting Method’. It was the very first technique I’d learned during the early sessions I had with my therapist, Dr. Tina A. McAndrew. Never had counting from zero to a hundred felt so taxing than at that very moment. I accompanied every integer with deep breaths building a sense of rhythm. But after a few failed attempts, I gave up. More tears slipped down my cheeks to my lips. Tasting each defeat, I realized that once again, PTSD won the fight.
The stranglehold this affliction had on me grew tighter like a vice grip as the night sky gave way to the morning sun. I shuddered to think how many more of these events were headed my way. Especially this time of the year.
With just enough will and motivation left in me, I unlocked my phone to send my friend and business partner, Elizabeth, a text. I quickly went through my mental Rolodex of excuses, searching for a reason that required the minimal explanation.
I had an emergency and will not make it to work. Please have Avery sail the charter for me. I’ll talk to you later.
After pressing send, I turned off my phone and stared at the loneliness of the room that matched my heart.
It was now Monday and it had been three days since my last episode and I was still reeling from the aftermath. I had sequestered myself to the four corners of my room and only got out of bed to get something to drink and even that was few and far between.
Forcing myself up, I went to the bathroom to attempt to rid myself of this overwhelming malaise. I flicked on the switch and the bright light assaulted my sight. I closed my eyes to cut the sharp pain that was blinding me, a reminder of how long it had been since I’d seen any light. I opened my eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the piercing brightness. When I did, I stood in front of the mirror and studied the man standing right in front of me. His face was haunted and pale with bloodshot eyes staring back at me. I reached to touch my face and blinked my eyes and the man in the mirror mimicked each gesture.
His grey eyes were dulled by the dark circles around them and his blank stare made him look dead inside. I leaned over to the cool white porcelain sink while grabbing its edge and shut my eyes for a few seconds, seconds that turned into minutes while I took long heavy breaths. I tried to think of anything other than the hollowness, but each memory was splintered by the nightmares, replacing the few happy memories I had with the ones I buried deep inside the darkest corner of my mind.
I opened my eyes and lifted my head to face the man staring in front of me, my reflection somewhat looked familiar, a fraction of the man I once knew.
Small victory.
I powered through shaving under the scalding hot shower, pleased to feel anything other than the dull ache that had taken residence in my mind, body, and soul these past few days. I stayed under the massaging spray until the water was freezing cold.
I finished my fourth cup of coffee since I woke up an hour ago, but the coffee I’d hoped to get me going might as well have been water since all it managed to accomplish was to make me pee. My lack of enthusiasm this morning was more crippling than usual and I had to drag myself to my truck. And that was something coming from me. Luckily, I was my own boss and enthusiasm was low on my priority list.
The sound of the metal folding when the garage door opened made my stomach drop. I turned the volume of the car stereo louder to drown out the noise, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Thankful that my quick band-aid worked, I turned the car ignition with my trembling hand, took deep breaths, and drove.
I pulled over on a private road three miles north of town in front of a nondescript beige building. There were a total of eight cars idling in the parking lot. And once the clock struck eight o’clock, people started climbing out of their cars to head inside. I debated whether or not to follow them or do what I’d done so often, drive away.
This would have been my forty-third support group session if I’d manned up and followed through with a program designed to help me cope. But out of the forty-three sessions that passed, I only managed to attend eight of them. And those days that I was able to make it, I’d always expected them to kick me out of the program because of my inability to commit. Even when participation was encouraged, I just sat there and listened. But Jason, the support group leader, just looked at me with understanding and told me he’d see me next time. It’s not that I didn’t try, because I did. And before I talked myself out of driving away, yet again, I got out of the car and entered the building, hoping that this session would be different from the last.