Still There.

**This story is a work of fiction. It contains descriptions of violence and mental health struggles. However, the themes of feeling isolation and the PTSD our veterans endure are all too real. I wrote this piece to give a voice to the silent struggles many of our Veterans face daily and endure.**

Sam had been back in the “real world” for a few months now. He still walked with the cadence of someone on constant high alert. For Sam, every sound, every gesture someone makes, pulls at his gut. Is it a threat, was that a gunshot, is that person a scout on a cell phone? Sam’s mind is constantly at battle with himself, the soldier in him scanning for threats, plotting exit plans, while his newly civilian mind struggles to convince him he is safe, he is home, there is no threat.

That morning, Sam had convinced himself to go down to the pier, get some coffee and breakfast at his favorite cafe. It was difficult for Sam to venture out since he had returned home, it wasn’t just the pain from his injuries, but the stares, and over sympathy he got from strangers. As he sat there at the cafe, he could feel the people around him staring at his nub that used to be where his left forearm was. As he sat at the high-top table, he put his jacket on to cover his arm, he recalled the day that caused the injury.

While in Afghanistan Sam and his squad was out on patrol in the Kunar providence, their Humvee was struck by a roadside I.E.D. that sent the vehicle into the air. Sam’s gunner, Private First Class (PFC). Hopkins was tossed from the vehicle’s turret as it crashed with a heavy bang on its side. Sam and Specialist (SPC). Gomez, in the passenger side, was just banged up and their ears were ringing. Sam managed to crawl through the turret port.

He could see Hopkins on the ground a few feet away from the damaged Humvee, he was unconscious, there was blood coming from his nose. That seemed to be the only thing Sam saw before the first bullet whizzed past his head. The ting of the bullet against the roof of the Humvee cut through the ringing in his ears. Gomez, still inside the Humvee, reached out to Sam. Grabbed him by his kevlar and yanked him down. As Sam hit the ground, he saw Gomez’s M4 rifle’s barrel emerge from the turret port, the eruption of fire and bullets screaming out of the gun towards the approaching threats.

As Sam realized that Hopkins was exposed, he motioned for Gomez to suppress the shooters behind the dirt wall just south of them as he grabbed Hopkins. Dragging his unconscious comrade back to the Humvee, while he returned fire with his service pistol, the thunderous cracks of his pistol and Gomez M4 rang out in harmony. Their training and survival instincts kicked in, pushing through pain, discomfort and fear. Sam managed to drag Hopkins to the other side of the Humvee, then returned to the line of fire to help Gomez, who was still in the Humvee. Sam banged three times on the roof of the Humvee, waiting for Gomez to cease fire. When Gomez’s M4 went silent, Sam charged to the turret’s port and dove in.

The snaps of bullets pelting the Humvee as he entered the port. Sam looked around for his rifle, Gomez pointed to Hopkins’s SAW, the M249, laying on the door. Just then the radio crackled to life, emitting a burst of static and the rhythmic, distant thud-thud-thud of friendly heavy caliber fire moving closer. Hope surged in the two soldiers, Gomez nodded at Sam, pointed his M4 out the port, fired a couple bursts as he charged out the port and around to the backside of the Humvee.

Once Gomez was in position, he banged on the Humvee three times, Sam pulled the M249’s locking bolt back, took a deep breath, pointed the barrel out of the port hole, squeezed the trigger. The SAW roared to life, the rhythmic chatter, a steady dut-dut-dut-dut echoed the battlefield. The dirt wall the enemy was firing from exploded into clouds of dirt with each bullet that impacted it with a loud thump. As Sam pushed out of the turret’s port, he felt a searing pain rip through his leg, he knew he could not stop moving. He pushed through the pain of what he was sure was either a bullet or shrapnel, he just kept the M249’s trigger pulled back as he moved the other side of the Humvee.

All three soldiers were now in somewhat safe cover, Gomez firing from the front end of the Humvee, while Sam took position at that rear. Their ammo was running low, the enemy seemed never ending. Every time they eliminated one another took their place. Gomez signaled Sam that he was down to one last magazine for the M4, Sam nodded, pulled the spare M4 magazine from the ammo pouch on his vest and tossed it to Gomez.

As Sam hammered away with the SAW, shell casings flying from the machine gun, screams from the enemies as they dove for cover. The whizzes and snaps of bullets hitting the around them echoed Sam and Gomez’s ferocity. Just at the edge of Sam’s peripheral he saw the flashes of gunfire from the tops of the four inbound Humvees, it was the Quick Response Force (QRF) out of Forward Operation Base (FOB) Swift Hammer.

The encroaching enemies turned towards the incoming QRF, returning fire as they moved to more cover. Sam saw their opportunity, he signaled Gomez, he pointed to the three Taliban fighters, still shooting in their direction. Sam held up a grenade, pointed toward the left flank, forcing them to flee to the right side opening. Where Gomez had a clear line of view of their exit.

Sam handed Gomez the M249, stepped back a few feet away from their Humvee. Sam stepped out from behind the Humvee, exposing himself to toss the grenade towards the three Taliban fighters, he pulled the pin. As he tossed the grenade, a blast of heat; fire, dirt, metal, erupted in front of him. An RPG was fired at Sam’s Humvee, striking four feet in front of him. The last thing Sam heard was the explosion, then silence, and darkness.

It was like a light switch being turned on in a dark room, the world came flooding in. Sam’s eyes opened, the sounds of monitors beeping, the commotion of people in a hallway, the glow of the fluorescent lights above him. The confusion of what was happening hit Sam like a freight train. Unknown to Sam, he had been flown to Ramstein Air Base and then transported to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center (LRMC) in German. Where Sam had been in a coma for the past week and a half.

Alarms started sounding, alerting the staff that Sam was moving. Suddenly a nurse pulled the curtain back, she saw Sam trying to get out of the bed, he was pulling at the cords and plugs attached to him. She gently took Sam’s hands, he looked up at her, staring into her kind eyes. Sam tried to speak, but his throat felt like it was filled with sand. He looked at the nurse, his eyes darting to the empty space beside his bed, his hands gesturing frantically toward the door in a silent question.

The nurse didn’t say a word, she knew what Sam was wanting to know. Her eyes welled with tears, a tear slowly traced down the side of her face as she slowly shook her head. She reached into her pocket and pulled out two small, clear plastic bags. She placed them on the bed beside Sam’s hand. Inside were two sets of scorched dog tags. Sam stared at the metal, the silence of the room becoming deafening as he closed his eyes, the painful truth finally came crashing down on his chest with the weight of the dog tags. He wrapped his fist around the dog tags, placed his fist over his chest. The nurse placed her hand over Sam’s, as she bowed her head a single tear fell onto Sam’s fist.

Just then the sound of a car’s tires screeching outside broke Sam’s thoughts. He reached with his right hand to his waist, instincts driving his hand to reach for a weapon in a holster that is not there anymore. He was a civilian, he didn’t need to carry a service pistol anymore. Suddenly, a hand gently rested on Sam’s shoulder. He looked back, saw an elderly gentleman with a medium-length grey bear, an eye patch over the right eye with the Marine Corps logo embroidered on it, and a Vietnam Vet patch on his hat.

He pulled the seat next to Sam from the high-top table, placed his coffee cup on the table as he sat next to him. Sam looked over at the old man sitting beside him. he old vet turned to him and picked up his coffee cup, and held it up to Sam. And in that moment, Sam finally felt like he was seen. Not as a man with a missing arm, nor a disabled Veteran. Just a man with a pain that few will understand. As Sam’s coffee cup clinked against the old vet’s cup, the sounds of the cafe faded into silence, and the two Veterans turned to the window. In a silence they remembered those who did not make it home and those that did but are still lost.