Paper Bag

Kenny, the former Marine NCO, was back at group last night. Last time the group met it was just Joe Dunn, Dr Kay, Dr Robbins, and me. It was still a good group but without Kenny something felt odd. Dr Kay refers to the three of us as her 'core' of the group. Dr. Robbins has been introduced as an observer in the last few months, once Dr Kay had the groups ok, that is.
"Well... Is he just gonna sit back and take notes? I mean, I don't know about the rest of the guys, but I don't want to be some kind of Goddamn science experiment for some fuck'n intern." That was my concern.
"No, Mike," Dr Kay laughed," he will take part in the group. He's an actual M.D. that is going to go into private practice, however, so many doctors never think to even ask patients if they have military experience let alone PTSD. This is part of a program to help doctors become more aware that you guys are out there."
Joe Dunn has been with the group since the start. A crew chief on a Blackhawk helicopter in the California Army National Guard, he has been deployed to Bosnia where he witnessed the mass graves, Afghanistan, and Iraq. He faces yet another deployment to Iraq later this year.

Last night Kenny was doing most of the talking, discussing a few of the five hundred bodies he has to process through his graves registration center during his last tour. How does he know the exact number? He has a book where he wrote down every single name of ever single Soldier and Marine that passed into his care. Like anyone that has been to war and seen terrible things there are a few, more than a few, faces and names that stick out in his mind. A Marine Gunnery Sergeant that came in with an unexploded RPG lodged in his chest. The brother of a dead Soldier that Kenny had to physically restrain from seeing his brothers body. The dead Soldier that been blown apart by and IED.
"I had to...you know, put this guy together again. As best I could. When he came in there was just parts all shoved in a bag and I had to sort 'em out. The funny thing about it," Kenny laughed deep down in his chest, a quick hard laugh, like a punch to the stomach," not funny 'Ha,Ha' but strange, you know... Was, his fuck'n head was perfect. untouched... Well, except for being served from the body."
I was leaning forward, elbows on my knees, rocking back and forth in my chair, eyes squeezed shut, tight. Something in my inner ear had popped, filling my head with a high pitched ringing, like when you forget to put you ear plugs in on the qualification range and send that first round downrange.
"Well, shit...I couldn't let his fuck'n brother see the body like that. I mean, how bad would that fuck with your head?"
Kennys an older man, in his mid forties, a retired E-9 in the United States Marines. He's worked in the prison system. He's 'been there, done that' as the saying goes. A steady, caring man. If I was wasted I would want someone like him, I would want him, taking care of my body. He honored every man that came into his care.
"What I can't get over is how much the two brothers looked the same..."

Sometimes and active imagination is a good thing. It can take you away from boring situations, let you see wonderful places created by your mind, help you deal with things. The cures of an active imagination is it can make you see things, fill in the gaps to details that are not pleasant.I was imaging my own torn body. Then I was seeing my own ghosts. The bodies I had seen. My friend Arnold Duplantier.

After racing to the CAS, Doc working on SSG Cooper behind me in the truck, we wheeled him into the emergency entrance, his hand on the Kerl Lex bandage Doc had placed on his neck. Under that was the wound caused by the same sniper that had killed D.Doc was cool and professional, rattling off the type of wound sustained and how he had treated it to the doctors that were going to work on Cooper. Doc, 23 years old, directing M.D.s with years of training. That is my best friend.
I went into the room and, along with Doc, helped Cooper into an open bed, blood leaking from the bandage. I was pushed out soon afterward, in my blocky combat gear I was just in the way.
Hovering outside the room were the company commander, the XO, and 1SGT Welsh. I joined them, searching their eyes, ready, eager, to give my report of the action.The CO's eyes were watery, rimmed with red, his face tight with controlled emotion.
"Hey," I touched his arm," hey, Sir, it's ok. SSG Cooper is going to live. He's talking, shit, he was telling jokes on the way here."
He didn't even looked at me.
I turned to the XO, a heavy feeling of dread coming over me.
"Sir? What's going on?"
The XO looked at me, leaning in,"Duplantier is KIA."
"What?!" I didn't hear him correctly. No fucking way.
"Duplantier is dead, killed by the sniper."
All the life, all the strength in my body flooded out of me. "Oh God...no..." I folded in on myself, crumpling to the white marble floor, leaning against the wall. "Oh God... Ds dead. He's fucking dead..."
My throat tightened up, vision clouding over. I began to sob.
His wife... His daughter...

Back in group, I tried to push the memory out of my mind, the pictures. To shove the memory back into the dark place it resides, to not be taken by it. Just like in combat, when crazy things, memories, pictures, movie and book quotes, songs, would suddenly pop into my head at the most random times my head was suddenly filled with a song.

Meanwhile I'll hide my head
Here in this paper bag
Cause if I cant see you
Then you can't see me
And it'll be okay...

Good old Anna Nalick. I swear, I should get paid for the free advertisement I give her. The one CD I bought in Iraq that pretty much became my soundtrack. Gentle, powerful songs that infiltrated my mind. I interpreted her words into my own meaning, fitting the world I lived in, softening the horror I was seeing. Most guys listened to Rap or Rock, steel stringed guitars and thumping bass, lyrics filled with hate and rage. I had Anna Nalick, with the exception of Pappa Roach and their song, 'Getting Away with Murder', she was in my head most of the time.

Inside I was shaking, fighting for control. Old pain and rage filling me. I didn't need this. Not tonight. I was going to go to work after this. I was going work with my good friend Nathan, one of the two remaining people in my life I truly trusted anymore after Rachel left. Damnit.Fight it. Fight it.
This is what group does. Pulls memories out of the dark and into the light. Mostly it's good but not tonight.Hutled into myself, hiding my feelings, I concentrated on the song, mentally turning up the volume.

Some days I wade in the indigo
Singing that song on the radio
I blame these puddles on the rain
You know I gotta keep these cheeks dry today
Gotta keep my cheating strategy
And baby I'm gonna have it made...