The Elements of Zion: the Vine, the Branch, and the Thorn

Soldier Side

"I see... Well, I've got your service record pulled up here. It says.. wait a minute... is that right—"

"Yes, five tours," I said.

The doctor looked at me, genuine astonishment momentarily crinkling his brow. "I must say, I've never encountered a veteran with that many deployments under their belt." He paused, considering the weight of that statement. "That's quite a feat."

I shrugged, not quite meeting his gaze. "It was just... the suck as we called it".

He nodded, the understanding in his eyes tempered with curiosity. "And where were you stationed?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

A smile played at the corner of my lips. "Twentynine Palms".

His eyebrows raised in recognition. "Ah, The Stumps, right?".

Twentynine Palms lay nestled within the arid, unforgiving landscape of California's high desert, a place where only two things truly thrived – barbershops and the military base specializing in ground combat operations. It was three hours from civilization, but a mere ten minutes from trouble should one go seeking it. My fellow Marines and I were no strangers to altercations with the locals, and the lure of spending our hazardous duty pay on Vegas slots proved impossible to resist on more than one occasion.

The doctor gave a soft chuckle, clearly trying to put me at ease. "I've heard some Marines actually prefer being deployed to Iraq over that place."

I sensed that he was attempting to draw out deeper memories from me, but I reluctantly decided to play along. "I have some good memories of Twentynine Palms. Iraq, though... not so much."

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the polished surface of his desk, eyes locked on mine. "Why don't we talk about some of those memories?".

The sensation of a myriad of butterflies fluttering within the confines of my chest resurfaced, as I gazed upwards, the ceiling's familiar patterns providing no solace. "Alright," I muttered, a tentative breath escaping my lips, "what is it that you wish to know?"

The doctor leaned forward, his demeanor both professional and compassionate. "It's evident that something transpired during your time overseas which is causing turmoil, Isaac. Many combat veterans that I encounter, often struggle with specific events or memories that haunt them relentlessly. This trauma manifests as triggers in their daily lives, such as a loud noise prompting them to dive for cover, or the scent of a particular dish evoking the memory of napalm's suffocating aroma. Are you experiencing similar triggers?" His voice was gentle, and measured, giving me time to process each word.

A rhythmic tapping of my foot, involuntary yet agitated, echoed throughout the small therapy room. Taking a deep breath in through my nose and exhaling slowly out of my mouth, I finally managed to speak. "Screaming...".

He nodded, solemn understanding painted across his face. "You have my undivided attention, Isaac. Please, share your story."

My mind raced, feet rooted to the dust-soaked ground of a distant land, as I began to recount events from the darkest recesses of my memory. "We were deep in the thick of it, fighting near Fallujah. One night, my squad gets a tip about a bunch of insurgents. Nasty fellas, responsible for a ton of IED's that took out way too many of our guys."

He interjected,"Improvised Explosive Devices?".

"You bet," I said. "Think of these things like meaner, nastier bombs. You can pack 'em with anything you can imagine. Boom! Sometimes they even go off with a cellphone, or by steppin' on the wrong rock." I paused, letting my words sink into the doctor's mind. "Right in the middle of Ramadan, these guys blew up a bunch of my buddies with bombs they hid under the sand.  Like, the explosion would only happen when a truck drove over them. It was brutal - this war had no down time, not even during a holy month".

I looked around the therapy office, the faint scent of lavender calming my nerves as I continued. "We were all fired up to shut this whole mess down. Recon spotted the ones who were planting these bombs, so we were gonna smoke them out in that little village they were holed up in. Hearts pounding like jackhammers, we headed out under the cloak of a dark night."

I closed my eyes, allowing the memories to wash over me like dark, relentless waves. "The village was dead silent, like a baby who hasn't learned the world can bite. We were there to comb the place, find what was messing with us, and shut it down if needed. But the second we showed up, rounds started whizzing by. Being a sergeant back then, I wasn't about to sit on my thumbs. We opened fire to keep their heads down and take control of the situation. After twenty minutes of trading lead like cowboys in a bad movie, things went quiet. They stopped shooting, so we did too."

"Why did they let up?" Said the doctor.

"Because the whole side of their village looked like Swiss cheese".

"Fair enough, continue please," he said.

I hesitated for a moment, uncertain of whether I should divulge the truth. The memories were heavy, weighing on my shoulders like a suffocating mantle.

"Moments later, I heard one of my marines yell 'Peterson!' So I pushed up to where these concrete road barriers were and that's when I saw him..." My voice cracked as I struggled to get the words out. It was like reliving the nightmare all over again, the ghost of a young life lost too soon. "He... he was only nineteen years old..."

The doctor looked down at his desk for a moment and closed his eyes. He seemed to breathe in the words of my confession, understanding the grief and anguish that hid beneath their fragile surface. He nodded his head and said, "It's okay, Issac. You can trust me."

I hesitated but then nodded back, gathering my resolve, and proceeded. "He was one of my fireteam leaders. Corporal Hernandez. They shot him in the neck... All I can see is him just lying there with the look of shock in his eyes. They were...like dying stars, barely blinkin'. Then he spotted me, mouth open to yell somethin', but all that came out was blood."

It was as if a chill had descended upon the room, prowling between the shadows cast by my recollections. "Then I looked at the faces of my two other Marines and it was pure panic. I can remember sweat pouring down their dirty faces, their eyes wide like the glassy orbs of porcelain dolls—helpless."

"I hunched down, pressing my hand to Hernandez's neck. His blood seeped warm into my palm, like I was holding his lifeblood itself. His pulse throbbed under my hand, weak as a kitten's purr. I screamed for a corpsman on the radio, but it was already too late."

My voice quivered. "By the time we got a response, he had bled out..."