Victory's Echo

This deals with combat and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Dale awoke to a storm that disturbed him. The snow was blowing so hard and high around the buildings outside his window that it obscured them in the darkness, transforming them into ghostly shadows. Only the streetlights revealed their outlines. Dale stared at the eerie, deserted scene and felt an icicle of fear form down the length of his spine. He was scared. Scared and alone. He couldn’t understand why clean, crisp, new snow blowing wildly in early February was wreaking havoc with his soul. It was almost inconceivable that an outstanding soldier like Dale Harrison could be experiencing so much angst. In Erie, Pennsylvania, this was a common sight. He’d grown up as a winter baby, so his mental state was not only frightening to him, but it was unacceptable. Dale was home from the war, and for this reason, it was not an uncommon experience.

The loneliness brought on by this squall was almost more than he could stand. He wasn’t sure if he was afraid to leave the house and drive in it because it was what most people would feel or even reconsider doing. Or had the memories of Iraq seeped so deeply into his subconscious the way the sand had had a way of exposing and infiltrating any nook or cranny imaginable on its own warpath. His mom came to mind. He thought of calling her or sending her a text, but decided against it. He didn’t want her to worry since he would be working the night shift and driving in this mess.

More than that, he didn’t want to talk about what he was feeling. He was embarrassed, ashamed, even. He was captivated by the scene that was this view outside his apartment, but it had less to do with blowing snow than with the memories of sandstorms in Iraq. Military operations would slow down to a crawl. Weapons would be compromised, and visibility would be reduced to a haze. The war was never put on hold, but progress was stalled. Timekeeping lost its meaning because sand made its way into the tiniest mechanisms of watches. How had Dale not felt this way then, when he was constantly in the thick of storms over there? He wrapped his powerful arms around himself in an attempt to find comfort and walked away from the window. Coffee would have to suffice as a break from what otherwise would have been a beautiful winter scene.

"This flashback is mild," he heard himself say. The sound of his own words roused him slightly from his reverie, and he realized how cold he was.

"Dale," his mind repeated, "You really think this is mild? Take a look at yourself." Dale shuddered, and not because he was cold.

He made some food, but his appetite was barely there. It was easier to make lunch for work than to stomach what he had before him, but he forced himself to swallow, eating standing up in the kitchen. He was putting himself through the motions once more. What choice did he have? He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he needed to make a change for the better, not for the worse and that it had to happen sooner rather than later. He needed an alternative to the medication. He was still anxious, and the timer for his medication had beeped twice since he woke up. Instead of feeling more relaxed, he'd grown worse. The anxiety was trying to strong-arm him. Dale was realizing that he was experiencing what could not be controlled or treated with medication. He needed an escape from what was haunting him if he wanted to pursue a career in police work. He had served three deployments in a war zone. There was no good reason why he couldn’t work in law enforcement and be great at it. He just had to work harder at concealing what was wrong with him. That’s where things got blurry, confusing, and lonely.

“Yeah, hard work, for sure, Dale,” his mind seemed to taunt.

“I’m not about to let it stop me, though,” he shot back.

Any thought that offered itself to him, either to deter or to encourage him, did. This much he'd learned. He had to distract himself and stay focused all at the same time, and it was exhausting. Thoughts were both his friends and his enemies.

"It will pass," he told himself, "just like the storm will."

The storm, however, had picked up some strength after he’d showered and shaved. He had to pull himself together. He had never before hugged himself, but it couldn't have felt more hollow than a chocolate Easter bunny.

In his apartment, he looked out and felt a sense of overwhelming dread building up within him like the snow accumulating in the streets. Two storms collided. He tried to remember even a hint of what he'd gone through during sandstorms in the war. They were always a nuisance, but they were part of the job, and they always took them as they came. Sandstorms that used to mean almost nothing to him now mingled with a winter storm that was supposed to remind him of his childhood growing up in Erie, where snow was a fun fact of life. It didn’t add up. How had he grown so weak?

“What’s happened to me that a winter storm should have such an effect on me?” His mind asked him if he could move on to policing.

"Or to anything, Dale?" it added.

Life in the war reminded Dale that it was no different there than anywhere else. It was the best he could come up with these days. Life is life, and “as long as there’s life, there’s happiness.” At least that’s what Pierre had said in War and Peace when he was taken as a prisoner of war. War gave life a different look, feel, taste, smell, and sound, but it was still life at its essence. The weather might have distorted the way he experienced summers now, too, as compared to when he was a kid, but it was still summer. The memories hadn't been altered, exactly, but he couldn’t relive them in the same way. Now, these new, globally reheated summers were different for Dale and not in a good way. They were hotter. Hot enough, at least, to remind him of Iraq. What he could remember and hold onto was how he’d immersed himself in Frank Peretti’s novels about spiritual warfare. He would read for hours on his parents’ deck, feeling chilled in the shade even in the hottest part of the day. He’d been inspired to fight enemies he could see and that could be conquered by the good he would do. He couldn’t experience that coolness anymore. He'd grown up, the world had warmed up and being in the military had brought him to a different place.

“And not a good one. Right, Dale?” Again, his thoughts harassed him.

"But it’s beyond my control." He sought to defend himself.

“Even if it was the only way to get to where I am now, and in this condition. What unavoidable change is ever what I want?”

He was still the same person at heart, he believed. Even though the front lines seemed to be turning on him now, he wouldn’t change a thing about his service.

"But Dale," his mind interjected, "you've been changed. Don't you have to make sure no one finds out what you're really going through?"

Dale was unsure whether his thoughts were causing him to get worked up again or if his memories were confused, but this second flashback was like a tsunami he could see approaching, and it was anything but mild. Terrifying seeds of apprehension and painful anxiety began to germinate, and he thought of reaching for more medication. He knew it could be a slippery slope if he chose that route, but he also sensed that where he was about to go, the medication might not be strong enough to follow. In his helplessness, he surrendered, but not the medication. He decided to relax into it and let this monster of a storm play itself out. He could see no other alternative. What did he have to lose? He'd already lived through it. He knew it was safe to look at it with some distance between it and himself. He wasn't losing his mind. He had the advantage of perspective and what he'd learned as a soldier. Oncoming traffic can be frightening, but Dale only had to stay in his own lane.

The battle was in full swing, yet they had entered with only the sounds of the wind all around, the moon and the heavy scattering of stars above. The terrain was a difficult and rugged mixture of the valley and the mountains. Snow added to the challenges they could reasonably expect. What they hadn’t anticipated from al-Qaeda and the Taliban was their overwhelming presence or the enormity of their cache of weapons. They had been caught off guard by the enemy, well-ensconced as they were in the mountain’s caves. It was insidious and sinister, and Dale and his unit were trapped in the valley. They were targeted and pinned down.

Air strikes and the chaos of fallout. RPGs and the smell of burnt fuel from powerful backblasts. Recoilless rifles and their bright flashes of light. Heavy machine gun fire. Mortars, mortars, mortars and their metallic taste. IEDs and their unseen, lethal and ever-present threat. None of it dampened Dale’s determination to see this mission accomplished. It gave him a deep sense of the boldness, audacity and opportunism their enemy possessed. They had seized weapons belonging to and left behind in haste by the US military and coalition forces. Drones and night goggles picked up by terrorists caused particular concerns and doubts, and fears arose for Dale after an extended period of intense, close-quarter fighting. His morale was low, and his mental state was being severely tested. The heavy resistance left casualties on both sides. Soldiers had been killed, seven in all, and Dale had known one of them. He was exhausted, cold, hungry, and longing for home. It was a nightmare they each had to face with their eyes wide open. Dale was moved to his very core by the poignant bravery of the soldiers who ran up the mountains and gave themselves up to visibility to draw the enemy out. Courage, desperation and heroism were forged in that combat, and Dale was honoured to be a part of it all.

Dale sat with the memories until he realized the worst had passed. He was shaken to the core but glad for the numbness. His mind wasn’t talking back. Part of him knew he had already won.

"I made it through that," Dale said, marvelling. "And I made it home. What I did there, I can... I...will do it here. I'm still needed. I want to serve.”

“But Dale...” His thoughts tried to come to him more gently, this time. Imploringly.

“You’ve been through so much. You’re exhausted, used up and burnt out. Don’t you recognize failure when you see it? When you feel it? Hey, you’re doing fine! Just the way you are. Look at what you've survived just tonight! Why change anything when you’ve proven you can do it all by yourself? And no one will have to know that you’re weak and would never be let into law enforcement.”

Dale was half listening but detecting falseness. The pattern of his own thoughts was looking a lot like warfare, and he wasn’t at war with himself. The front lines weren’t turning on him. They’d given him strength to spare that he had yet to grow into. He’d gained the character he had yet to wear proudly. He’d done it all and with heart to spare. There was joy that had yet to be released. There was no conflict of interest, only hope and hard work. Not the kind he'd have to devise himself, and that would keep him confined as a house divided against itself.

“I may be weakened, but there isn’t a weak bone in my body. The only insanity I gave into was to think that secrets are safer, especially when I’ve got NOTHING TO HIDE!” Dale raised his voice and stood up.

“Yes, I need help, and no one can stop me from getting it and getting through that too!"

If anyone knew where to find it, it was Dale. If there was anywhere where it was available, it was in Erie, Pennsylvania. The doors (and there were many) were always open.

At that moment, Dale resolved to make some decisions. He would have the future he envisioned because it was his to take. It was waiting for him. He couldn’t have been more convinced if someone had handed it to him right then and there. What had happened that he could feel so happy overcoming a winter storm that had brought him so low?

Visibility was now nil. Dale looked forward to being behind the wheel during this crazy snowblast. He was positive this storm could be seen from space, and he had to leave the apartment. He stepped outside into a complete whiteout, and while his breath was momentarily sucked out of his lungs, he felt unexpected happiness at the fresh, clean and cold air. He wanted to cry, and when the tears started to well up in his eyes, he didn’t stop them. He knew his Jeep Wrangler's interior would enfold him, and he'd get his hug after all. He stood in the wind for a moment and let it try to blow him around a bit. He wanted to laugh. He could barely see two feet ahead of him, and the ice beneath his feet threatened to sweep him high into the wind, but his confidence had returned, and it was time for higher ground. He felt strength come back into his body since he’d first looked out his window three hours earlier. He got behind the wheel, and it was like driving a little battle tank of his own. He made his way to work and enjoyed not hearing his apartment beckoning him to come and be alone again. It had lost its voice.