PT FUCKIN' SD, read by Nicholas Delvalle
Saturday, so no patients. We close the office early Friday afternoon and don’t open until Monday morning. I’m just in the office to tidy up a few charts and notes — then I’ll take off for the rest of the weekend, maybe hit the beach. There’s nobody here except me, and the door is locked. I like being alone, where it’s usually so busy.
Well, it’s usually so busy because our office is right here in Oceanside, which is just north of San Diego, next to Camp Pendleton, the big Marine Corps base. Mostly what we see these days are military or ex-military, suffering with PTSD — post-traumatic stress disorder, as everybody knows. PTSD’s a big deal for the Marines — too many cases, and too many suicides. Has a venerable history, PTSD does. Started out as shell shock, then became battle fatigue or sometimes Combat Stress Reaction, before finally morphing into PTSD. The docs on the base send me the especially bad cases, the ones they just don’t have time to deal with.
My name’s Mark Jensen. I’m a PhD psychologist, with this big solo practice, and — like I say — a special interest in PTSD.
There’s a knock on the office door. I get up and open it, a bit annoyed.
A young man stands there, looking to be in his mid-twenties. He’s dressed in a spotless Marine desert utility uniform — desert-camo trousers with the bottoms tucked into tan boots, a camo shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He has a soft boonie cap tucked in his belt and a jar-head buzz-cut. His collar insignia shows him to be a corporal. It’s a bit unusual to see anyone wearing this particular uniform on my doorstep, because Marines are generally not supposed to wear utility gear when off-duty.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says right away. “I can see you’re closed, but this is kind of an emergency.”
“You’re right, we are closed. I’m the only one here.”
“Yes, sir,” he says. “But you are Dr. Jensen, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admit. “But what kind of emergency is it? You know, there’s an emergency room at the hospital on the base. Or there’s also an ER at Tri-City Hospital, up on Vista. I’m a psychologist, not an MD.”
“It’s not that kind of emergency, sir,” he says. “You’re the one I was supposed to see. Sir.”
“Supposed to? Supposed by whom?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” he says stiffly.
“Come on in,” I tell him. “Let’s see what’s going on.” And I step aside. He walks in, looks around blankly. I steer him into the inner office and offer him a seat in one of the big stuffed chairs I use for my patients, comfortable and relaxing, but not enveloping. Guys with PTSD — one of which I’m guessing this kid will turn out to be, they don’t like to be enveloped, and they don’t like to lie down. He perches on the edge of the chair, and I sit down behind my desk. “So what’s up?” I ask.
“It’s Iraq, sir,” he says. “I can’t seem to leave it. It’s like I’m stuck there.”
I’m not really surprised to hear this. “Have you discussed this with your CO?” I ask.
“No, sir,” he says. “It was you I was supposed to see. And I can’t go to my CO, sir.”
“Well, I don’t mean to get all regulation on you, but it’s better if active military comes here through channels. You know, a formal referral from the base hospital.”
“Sir,” he says, “I’m not active military.”
“But — ” I point at his utility uniform.
“Yes, sir, that’s part of the problem. Part of being stuck, sir.”
I’m intrigued by this kid. I can see my idle Saturday afternoon plans evaporating.
“Look, son,” I tell him, “I can’t promise I can take this on without official sanction, but why don’t you just tell me a little more about what’s happening. Then you and I can decide together on the best strategy, and what’s the safest for you.”
“Yes, sir,” he agrees. “That will be fine, sir.”
“Let’s start with your name,” I tell him.
“My name, sir — it’s Rafael Saavedra, sir.” He leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Sir, what I want to talk about is something that happened in Haditha. You know Haditha?”
“Haditha? Isn’t that where a bunch of Iraqi civilians were killed, supposedly by Marines? November, 2005, if I recall. A while ago.”
“That’s it, sir,” he says. “It was 2005, November, yes sir, but what I’m talking about happened in August.”
“August. Okay. 2005. Go on.”
“Yes, sir. Well, the Marines had been trying to take — retake, more like — retake Haditha since May, but we met very heavy resistance, mostly from the Ansar al-Sunna group. As you know, sir, the Qadisiya Dam is right there on the Euphrates, close by Haditha. The dam supplies a lot of electric power to that whole area, plus if it was ever blown, it would flood a lot of places downstream. That’s why Haditha was so important. So, anyway, at the beginning of August we came in full on — AASs, Bradleys, choppers, air cover, and about a thousand Marines — the real deal. The very first day one of our sniper units was overrun and all six Marines were killed. The second day our unit — Regimental Combat Team 2 — was ordered in. There was a kind of feeling in the air — if you know what I mean, sir — that maybe this was going to be a little bit about getting even for the sniper unit. Anyway, we powered over from Haqliniyah, about seven klicks, until we came into the outskirts of Haditha. It was really flat all around, and I guess they must’ve seen us coming.”
His voice takes on an odd monotone. His eyes are wide open, staring.
“They were watching us. They were watching us, but we came on into the town anyway, right into a tangle of narrow alleys. Then we had to advance by LPC — leather personnel carrier. You know, sir, boots — on foot. In one group it was me and the lieutenant and eight or ten other guys — Wedemyer, I think — Pujol — I don’t know — it’s hard to remember. Anyway, these narrow alleys. Mud and stone houses. High walls, too high to see over. A few windows, blue wood frames around them. Smell of dirt, smoke, piss. We came to an intersection and we were afraid to go out into it. You could just feel someone watching, and waiting. So the Lieutenant waved us into a house on the near corner, where we could watch the street from. Me and another guy — that might have been Rymar — we broke the door down and jumped in, high low, you know. First thing we saw was a bunch of women all crowded together around a table. When we came busting in they started screaming like all get-out. They knocked the table over scrambling away from us, and then they all huddled in the corner. The lieutenant and the other guys came crashing in right behind. And they started to laugh when they saw the women, but I pointed at this other door — it was in the far wall, like there was another room back there. So the lieutenant he signaled me to open the door. And I was just coming up to it when it blew open and a bunch of hajis came boiling out firing their weapons, and then everybody was firing every which way, and the women were screaming, and the air filled up with dust and smoke, and there was a whole bunch of yelling and crashing. And then it was over. There was blood everywhere. The hajis were all waxed, and all the women too, and most of the Marines. Especially — especially — I mean — but — ” He chokes up, drops his face into his hands.
“Go ahead and cry, if you need to,” I say. “You wouldn’t be the first Marine to cry in this office, and not the last. I get it, what you’re saying.”
“Do you, sir?” he says, his voice muffled in his hands. He looks up at me, face pale as paper, eyes bright. “Do you?”
“Sure, I get it,” I tell him again. “You can’t figure out why you survived, why you’re still alive, and all your buddies are dead, and maybe if you’d been quicker they wouldn’t be. And, as if that wasn’t enough, you just can’t believe you helped to kill those women.”
“No, that’s not it at all,” he says, his bright, bright eyes on me. “Sir. I didn’t survive. KIA, sir. Killed In Action. Got my head and chest all shot up. All shot to hell. Right when they came through the door.” He stands up and now I can see that the whole front of his utility shirt is soaked in dark blood. And his hair, all shiny with it.
I lurch to my feet, my whole body shaking. “Is this some kind of goddamned gag?” I holler. “It’s not fucking funny. Who the fuck are you?”
“Sir, Corporal Rafael Saavedra, sir, two four six zero one, sir,” he says. “KIA in Haditha, Iraq — two August, 2005.”
“Stop saying that!” I scream.
He leans toward me. I can smell the stink of blood and dust and old sweat on him. “But the really weird thing,” he says, “the really weird thing, sir, is that the lieutenant did survive. Didn’t get hit at all. Not even a graze. He waved me to that door, then he took cover behind the table, like a goddamned chicken-shit.”
I’m staring at him, and he’s staring back with his bright bright eyes.
“The lieutenant,” he says, and his face balloons at me. “Lieutenant Jensen. Lieutenant Mark Jensen.”
“Shut up!” I scream. “Shut the fuck up — !”
*
And the weird thing, the really weird thing, is that I’m alone in my office, standing behind my desk, shaking like crazy, my fists clenched, sweat pouring off me. Shouting at nobody, at nothing.
Saturday, says my desk calendar, which I can see as I’m standing there. The office is closed on Saturday, so of course I’m alone. And I’ve done all my chores, so I can take off now, get in some liberty, some RnR. Maybe hit the beach. I need some chill time. I have a very busy practice here. Mostly I see Marines suffering from PT fuckin’ SD.
(c) Richard Jay Goldstein, 2016
Nicholas Delvallé trained at Bristol Old Vic. Since leaving he’s toured Austria with Vienna’s English Theatre; performed in All’s Well that Ends Well & Anne Boleyn at Shakespeare’s Globe; played Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet by Theatre Sotto Voce, understudied in the National Theatre’s production of A Small Family Business & most recently played Ferdinand/Antonio in The Tempest at the Southwark Playhouse.
Richard Jay Goldstein has been writing for almost twenty-five years, and has published sixty-something stories in the literary and sci-fi/fantasy/horror presses. He’s a lapsed ER doc and lives with his wife, kids, and grandkids in the mountains east of Santa Fe, New Mexico, where it’s pretty quiet, thanks.
Thanks Philomena! Helped by excellent acting and writing both ...
Posted by: Liars' League | Nov 23, 2016 at 12:34 AM
Really enjoyed this, so well done.
Posted by: Philomena Lawrence | Nov 23, 2016 at 12:26 AM