Sunday Scribblings - "Lost" - 2/27/09

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is "Lost". This is what came to mind.

Gerald was seventeen. It was June 1944. He had joined the army because everyone did. There were other guys from his hometown right here on Omaha Beach, though there were probably guys from every American village. There were soldiers as far as he could see in either direction. Some were laying still. Some were missing bloody pieces. All who could were moving forward, toward the insurmountable odds with superior positions. He did not want to be in France, but here he was crawling deeper into it.
He heard a mortar shell exploding very close to him. The old timers had lied to him, saying the ones you hear don’t hurt you. He woke up several days later, into intense pain and darkness. He was not sure which was more terrifying. He reached up to feel the bandages that covered his eyes. He heard the comforting voice and touch of an angel.
It turned out that she was not an angel, but a nurse on the hospital ship he was a passenger on. He asked. She answered. He had lost sight in his right eye and hearing in the same-side ear. A Purple Heart was pinned to the pillow next to him. He came back as a hometown hero, to parade and celebration. Deservedly so. He spent the rest of his very happy life viewed at a forty five degree angle, compensating for his loss. He took the nurse as his wife and she bore him a son in 1950.

Jerry was eighteen years old. It was 1968. He had been drafted into the army because he couldn’t afford to go to college and was rated suitable cannon fodder. Lots of guys here in Khe Sanh had traded their cap and gowns for jungle fatigues. He did not care about Vietnam and could not have found it on a map six months ago. Now here he was. He made the mistakes of being an excellent shot and a natural leader. His father had taught him both. Those skills put him right up front.
He weathered nightly rocket attacks and assaults from an invisible enemy. He even survived the Tet Offensive. Many of his buddies did not. He learned not to make friends, as it was easier to see a stranger blown away than a friend. He lost his innocence to death, infected whores (they were known as LBFMs), and Buddha stick. He learned that cheap drugs could take away the fear and numb his brain from the horrors he participated in daily.
He came home to ridicule and shouts of “baby killer.” He retreated into himself and jumped from noises others could not hear. He rarely slept and when he did his dreams were Clive Barker horror films. He spent the rest of his tortured life in anonymous groups and back alleys. He often thought of his late, one-eyed, dad and proudly wore his Purple Heart pinned onto his Vietnam Veteran cap. There is no medal or real treatment for the loss that Jerry sustained.