A Soldier's Crisis

He’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling seeing nothing, well nothing of the room he is in.

The door opens, “come on Glen, time for your session with Doc Patterson”.

Glen turns over as if he hasn’t heard.

The orderly walks over, sinks down on his hunkers at the side of the bed, “come on lad, you’ve been doing really well, you know doc said you’d have good days and bad days, trust me with the help of these sessions you’ll start to have more good days than bad days, I should know, I’ve been there”.

Glen looked at him, eyes blank, he was back there, guns firing, shells dropping, he curled into a tight ball, if he kept very still they might just miss him.

The scream came suddenly, “Mike, Mike”, but Mike couldn’t answer, bubbles of blood spewing like a fountain came from a wide gash in his chest where the piece of metal shrapnel had torn it open. At this point Glen began thrashing about on the bed, banging his head against the headboard.

The orderly, pressed the security buzzer  which brought help within seconds.  An injection was administered and Glen immediately became calm, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

The following day Glen had his therapy session with Doc Patterson.  These usually followed the same pattern.

He started to describe how he and Mike were on patrol at the road block, a safety measure, in theory to stop radicals entering the village and thus keeping the villagers safe.  The field ‘phone rang, “I’ll get it”, Glen had said.  He hadn’t even reached the ‘phone when the shell hit.  He was knocked to the ground by the force of the explosion and suffered a broken leg, some cracked ribs, cuts and bruises.  He hadn’t realised this at the time, his eyes focused on where Mike lay on his back.  Glen dragged himself the short distance and sees his comrade in arms who over the months had become a close friend.

It was at this point Glen’s narrative ended, he was rocking backwards and forwards in the chair, both arms cradling his head.

“It’s ok, it’s ok”, said Doc Patterson, he was used to this happening at the point where Glen reached his dying friend.

He knew the young man continually relived the moment in his head but struggled to speak of the devastation which had met his eyes.  Added to this, he also knew Glen had massive guilt issues.  If Mike had gone to answer the ‘phone, he would still be alive.  Whether these thoughts extend to the fact that it would have been him laying with his chest ripped open, Doc Patterson had not yet been able to ascertain.

Glen had been in the unit for six weeks, he had initially been sectioned following a spree of destruction.  This had started in his own home and spread to his garden and that of his neighbour where he had destroyed anything and everything in sight.  He’d finished up barricading himself in the neighbours garden shed shouting for everyone to get down and take cover.

His girlfriend had pleaded with him to come out, that it would be ok.

“Liar, liar,” he’d shouted, “its a trap”, for he hadn’t heard his girlfriend’s voice but the voice of the enemy telling him to give himself up.

His state of mind when first admitted to the unit changed from uncontrollable violence, believing all the staff were conspirators spying for the enemy, to complete lethargy when he refused to move from his bed.

Over the weeks with the aid of medication which they were now trying to reduce and sessions with Doc Patterson who tried to get him to open up and speak of the carnage he had witnessed whilst at the same time discussing the guilt he felt.

Strange as it may sound, Glen calmed down when music was played, he had a CD player in his room and would listen to classical music, something he would never have dreamed of listening to in the past.

Doc Patterson discovered from his family that he had a talent for art so artists materials were provided.

At first the paintings produced were a crude attempt at showing the devastation caused by explosions with red paint being splattered haphazardly over the whole canvas.  Gradually the paintings were becoming less angry, the subject matter was still the same but there was a calmer feel to the paintings even though his latest attempt was showing a body lying close to a road block against a back drop of Afghanistan’s rugged mountains.

Doc Patterson was optimistic that he was getting close to Glen speaking about what this painting depicted.

Glen had come to accept that he was suffering from PTSD and whilst he couldn’t blot  out what had happened, he realised the visions he kept seeing were visions and he at least was safe.  There were times though when he felt he had no right to feel safe.

When these dark thoughts entered his head, he put on a CD which had the power to calm his troubled thoughts.

Both men knew it would be a long haul but with Doc Patterson and his teams help Glen was determined to conquer his demons and this determination had been boosted by the fact that two of his paintings were to be exhibited, only locally, but to Glen it could have been the Tate.

The paintings were of scenes in Afghanistan , not the war torn parts that are normally seen but the stark strange rugged beauty of its unforgiving landscape.

By Christine Williamson.

Prompt Words: Bubbles  Buzzer  Liar  Phone  Spree