Voices Carry

Jerry was not a murderer. But, by the laws of his religion, he was a taker of the most precious thing there is-- a human life. Jerry tried to reconcile his faith with his duty for his country. It was difficult. Jerry knew in his heart what he was and he tried to be the decent man he was raised to be. War is like that. It turns ordinary, good men into killing machines. Or, it tries to.. The Iraq War needed to be fought. At least, that was what Jerry was told. The War On Terror. After September 11th, there was the mad rush for retribution. We had been attacked, humiliated, and, most of all, had suffered. The thirst for blood was very much in the air. Jerry was no different than anyone else. He wanted to get the bastards for what they had done. That enemy that dared to attack us and to bring us harm and grief. He was in the majority and he was right. So, at the age of nineteen in 2002, Jerry joined the Marines and proudly followed his family's tradition of service to their country... Jerry went through the hell of basic training. It is the breaking down and building up of human beings-- turning them into raw fighting machines. Jerry knew there was always a sadistic streak that ran through this  particular branch of service. He did not mind. He knew he had to get his mind in a certain way of thinking because chances were very good that he would see combat soon and he needed to be of singular mind about it. Jerry went through his basic training and he was assigned a unit leaving for Afghanistan... Then something happened. It was called Iraq. That leftover war from 1991 that Jerry had heard about when he was a small boy. Saddam Hussain had never gone away and he was using Weapons Of Mass Destruction. The U.S. government had told their citizens that the next step on fighting terrorism was this country. Jerry was a little stunned by this because he knew that we were far from done in Afghanistan. Why go after another country when work still needed to be done elsewhere? Of course, Jerry had no say in the matter. He was a Marine and Marines go where they are assigned. His plans shifted from Afghanistan to Iraq. He was sent in with the first wave of troops in the Spring of 2003... What he and his fellow Marines saw there in their tour of duty forever changed him and numbed him to his core. It is said that when you face death and survive, you come out a changed person. It was true of Jerry. His innocence was lost there. The senseless destruction of the human form and body was his daily life. The blasting apart of human bodies. Babies dying in his arms. Children being trampled on by tanks. Women being raped and being stoned to death. Men being castrated at random. And, the smell. That awful smell of death... It was the same behavior that happens in any war. War does not pick its victims fairly. The brave and decent die horribly. The cowards survive and live a long life.  And, for some of soldiers-- both Allies and the Enemy--- he saw the pleasure that some got out of torture. Jerry remembered that his Dad had survived the horrors of the Bataan Death March in World War Two. The stories his father told [ always very reluctantly] made Jerry think twice about his combat duty. How the enemy, the Japanese, took great delight in not only slaughtering their prisoners, but, also, to put a touch of sadism in this task. One favorite trick was for the Japanese to bury an American up to his neck in the ground, still alive. Then, fresh jam was smeared all over the prisoners face. After a period of time, ants and other insects would crawl on the prisoners face, slowly eating away his face while he screamed in agony.Those stories always stayed with Jerry, but, he tried to push them to the back of his mind when he signed up. He welcomed that form of denial. It was necessary for him to go about this way of thinking in order to survive in war... Jerry tried to make friends over there. It was very hard. One days friend was another days dead body. Jerry did make a good friend, though. His name was Patrick. Patrick lived not too far from where Jerry grew up in Oregon. They had that bound. Patrick wanted to be a doctor. After all he had seen in combat Patrick thought saving lives was his destiny instead of taking them. Jerry confided, in one late night conversation, that he did not know what he wanted to do. Then, looking at the destruction and blood and stench around him, Jerry stated whatever he did after his tour was up he wanted to make things beautiful, to make things grow instead of watching them die.... After a year together, Jerry and Patrick heard that their unit may be reassigned back home. They were overjoyed with the thought of seeing their families again. One day, walking down the street, a small child brought them both a flower. At first, they were on their guard, because who knew what this child was holding. The child, maybe around eight years old, was a little angel. She smiled at them in genuine warmth and thanked them for liberating her country. After all the horrors of the last year this small act of friendliness warmed Jerry and his friend. Then the mortar fire started... Jerry and Patrick took cover immediately. The little girl disappeared somewhere. Jerry and Patrick started firing in the direction they thought the attack was coming from. Lying in the ditch together, side by side, all chaos was going on around them. Jerry saw a some movement across the road where he thought it was coming from and turned to Patrick to tell him. Jerry stopped short. He was suddenly drenched in blood like someone had sprayed him with a hose. When he cleared his eyes Jerry saw that Patrick did not have a head anymore... It was after Patrick's death that the nightmares started. Jerry had a classic case of Survivors  Guilt. Patrick had died and Jerry went on living. But, he wasn't really living in the normal way. Jerry was now sleepwalking through life. He knew that deaths of friends in war is as old as war itself. He was no different than the millions of other veterans of wars in history. However, seeing it first-hand seered his memory in agony. When Jerry dreamed, he was trying to save Patrick but unable to. Patrick was calling for help. These cries tore through Jerry's soul. One persistant dream had Patrick walking among a sea of armless children, all of them pleading for Jerry to deliver them from their suffering.The abrupt wakeups from these nightmares brought fresh pain. The dream could be dismissed but the pain and loss could not. After his year of active duty Jerry was sent home. Dean Man Walking.... When Jerry came home the horror of war came with him. There was no discharge from what he had seen. He began to see life in a different way. He was once a bright-eyed young man in love with the image of the dashing soldier being a hero. He thought war was like in the movies. You would walk off into the sunset and go on with your life. But, of course, that is not how it really is. Jerry saw, in his mind, the face of every person who had died in front of him. Hundreds of them. Soldiers and civilians alike. He saw and heard the screams. They were in the confines of his mind and soul. Therapy was not going to shake that out of his system. By his own account, Jerry had killed 32 people in Iraq, most of them the innocent victims of war.  Some, on whatever mission he may have been on , some out of self-protection. He didn't know them but he had an idea of whom they were. They were families. They had the same hopes and dreams for the future that he had. They wanted life. And, they lost it. Jerry knew he was doing his duty but one day in combat had convinced him that all war is senseless madness. A bunch of leaders using innocents for personal power. Some madmen, Jerry realized, needed to be stopped, like a Hitler or a Bin Laden. But, this war was not so easily defined. Jerry only saw the deadly results and not the grasp of power of heads of state. Again, Jerry knew this all along, but, when the blood of children and friends is running down your face it brings it all home all too clearly... Six months after he got home, Jerry started to hear the Voices. At first, they were whispers in his mind. Soon, they got louder in intensity. The Voices seemed to be calling him from far away. And, they were angry. The Voices told Jerry he had no right to be alive with all of the death that he had caused. The Voices told him he should not be having any enjoyment when he had caused so much pain, The Voices told him the only solution was to kill himself. Only then would the pain be relieved and he would be set free... Jerry knew his mind was playing tricks with him. It was post-traumatic stress from combat duty. Survivors Guilt again. But, as is the case of any tortured mind all reason leaves when guilt and sorrow enter unwanted. Jerry could not dismiss all that he had seen. Sometimes, the flashbacks he had when he was awake resulted in moments when he though he was going crazy. Uncontrolled, sudden anger--- like, when someone looked cross-eyed in traffic at him, or, some idiot in a bar, who had never seen combat, told him what war was like and was cavalier about the loss of life-- seized him and drove the demons into the forefront of his personality. Jerry also suffered from too much time on his hands. He moved back with his parents after coming home and was unable to hold a job. His high school girlfriend was long gone, and, no other woman would take a chance on dating a high-strung ex-Marine. So, his mind worked overtime against him. The Voices grew in demand... On October 17th, 2010, Jerry listened to the Voices. His shotgun was next to his body. The force of the impact had blown Jerry's head all over the walls... Somewhere, in that mess that used to be Jerry, was a once vital, sensitive human being. That person, who was a Boy-Scout and sang in the church choir. That person, who dreamed of making the world a more beautiful place.... The police found the suicide note that Jerry had written. It was simple but from his heart...'' My dear family, I am sorry for what I have done. I could not stand the pain any longer and I needed to leave this life. It was not your fault. You gave me love and I am grateful. My actions do not reflect on you, or, any lack of love and support. I cannot get over the horror I have seen and the death I have caused. I have given the world death and I must be punished. War made me what I am. If anyone shall take notice of my death, please let it be this: THIS IS THE REAL FACE OF WAR. THE INJURED AND THE GRIEVING. THERE IS NO POWER IN KILLING FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS. WE MUST FOREVER TRY TO STOP THE FOLLY THAT IS WAR!!!''....