He...
Is now earth.
Two together.
Forever.
Never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat…The rocking continues as the throbbing watch ticks, then a click. Racked. One in the chamber will do it. There are perils out there, and now in here, his final sanctuary penetrated. The ramparts are in decay, disarray, and tomorrow will again be hand-to-hand combat under the camouflage of hollow-pointed nightfall…never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat, never get off the boat. Never. Get. Off. The. Boat.
There is a story floating around about a dog named Thelma. Her Master exploded, dynamite in a small apartment, bed crisply made, with no note and the curtains nailed shut. His rangy gray and black German shepherd, witness to the fury and smoke, searched everywhere after the body was removed, encased in a black vinyl sack. The puny neighbors watched, pointed, whispered, returned to their well-lit kitchens, and got on with their day. I think we'll have roast beef tonight, honey. Sound good. Sounds great!
Thelma stared at the abandoned and tanned leather sofa, a surfboard propped in the corner, a smattering of sand gently scattered, grains of an undone life. A small lamp on the nightstand lit the stillness in his bedroom for three midnights…after, and Thelma wrestled with the same shadows that taunted his trigger finger—and all those medals earned in the blood are at rest now, silently, in a mahogany box, as he flies half-mast, and that is that.
230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains.… The rocking stops just like that, and he is locked and loaded, and his tool of choice, a Colt 1911, never fails, so he fixes ready in his workspace, eyes up and forward, down range, and nothing. A misfire, imagine that? Only the old ammo, the mirror, and Thelma heard the sobbing…230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket, 230 grains, full metal jacket. 230. Grains. Full. Metal. Jacket.
One salt-laden evening, with family-sized hearts still nauseous and under siege and attack, the backdoor was accidentally left ajar. The gossipy moths congregated at the porch light ‘til dawn, yammering and offering sage advice: you find one where you find the other. Thelma went missing for days. Flyers were nailed to trees, the trees were most pleased to do their part, and the punctuating telephone poles, too. No calls came, but the crows saw and yakked incessantly, and a question hung in midair: there was never a need for a leash, did they not notice?
Thelma returned home about a week later, emaciated and fur matted. That night, the door was locked, and she scratched wildly and howled, and her fierce eyes bled. She crashed through the screen door and faded in the dark, the moon sliding behind a gauntlet of thin clouds, fingers on grasping hands, plucking inky stars one by one, like so many blackberries in a secret hideaway. A rabbit scampered over the slick grass, aware of its mortality, but trailed Thelma nonetheless to her objective. I will pass this intel to the others, and the rabbit squeaked before going subterranean. Dirt is good concealment until it's a permanent blanket and the rabbit dozed.
Assault with surprise and violence of action, assault with surprise and violence of action, assault with surprise and violence of action, assault with surprise and violence of action…He is a breacher. The only way out is the ultimate door he now faces, and the charges are set, and there is no cover, nowhere to run, so this infiltration is face-to-face, and the mess in the morning will be him, blood and flesh Rorschach, ceiling to floor…Assault with surprise and violence of action, assault with surprise and violence of action. Assault. With. Surprise. And. Violence. Of. Action.
A groundskeeper at the nearby cemetery recognized Thelma from a flyer. She was asleep on her Master's grave. Long carrying his hidden memories of bayonets and mayhem, the man knelt gently, placed a bowl of water on the ground for Thelma, and stroked the dog’s head. From that day forward, the back door was left ajar, and Thelma would walk to the cemetery, and the moths, crows, and rabbits would salute, and the groundskeeper would place a bowl of water next to the devoted dog, and he would stroke her head. And in the distance, sad and solemn lightning cracked—twenty-one guns, plus one.
He…
Was war.
She is near.
They are peace.
Author’s Note: Many warfighters returning home often struggle with depression-induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Traumatic Brain Injury. Vigilance Elite – The Shawn Ryan Show is dedicated to preserving history through the unfiltered stories of heroic events and current world issues by honoring the real experiences of the men and women who lived them. I have never met Shawn Ryan, nor am I asking anything from him. His extended interviews with fellow veterans are riveting, gut-wrenching, and worthy of your time and support, as are the warriors who tell their tales. I am enriched and humbled every time I watch.
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