"You know what you need to do? Join the army! Do something with your life. Make something of yourself. Here you are living in your parent's house, doin' nothin, goin' nowhere and no end in sight!"
Oh the perils of a lost soul in a predatory world. Johnny was the namesake of Uncle John, the author of the crushing lecture taking all the air out of the room. Slowly but surely war veteran Uncle John inserted the hot knife into Johnny's soul. Is there no American creature more despised than the leach? Johnny may as well have had it written on his forehead. And you can do anything to a leach - it has no defenders.
Johnny's parents never said a word, leaving him to twist in his own guilty wind. The cat, he envied. Unquestioned in its love and care, she was the champion of the house. She knew nothing of wars in far off lands or "economic downturns" or restless youths. Johnny wondered if it came down to him or the cat, who would win. He looked up from the couch to hear his uncle still glowering, chastising him for not having the money to save his soul.
In the silence left of absent praise for Johnny, high Hosannas were raised to Gifted Children Of Others and Dutiful Sons And Daughters. But the Miller's son was still searching, waiting for that bright light to snap on and show him the path to victory. His unraped innocence burned holes in the souls of his family. Never openly daring in their crucifying crusade, always circumspect, leading the horse to poisoned water, not pushing him over the cliff but showing him to the edge.
The cross came calling and Johnny was absent without savior. No girl called him home.
He noticed his uncle stopped his imperial conquest, fortified for attack. Obligingly, Johnny recited words he felt already scripted for him.
"But I don't really know about war. I mean, lots people say they are not doing any good anyway."
"Not good?" boomed the embattled man. "Of course they're good! This country wouldn't exist without war! We'd be speaking goddam German right now if it wasn't for war! Who put them notions in your head, boy?"
Uncle John had the look of a golfer whose thundering tee shot landed both far and fair. His nephew set up the ball perfectly and with great satisfaction he beamed at the boy in approval. Enlistment was imminent, all that was left were futile words of protest swept aside by righteous rejection. Two days later, Johnny sold his soul and he was the toast of the house.
****************
"Dear God, what have I done? This has to be the worst decision of my life."
A chilling fear hit him that first night on the cold, barrack bunk. He must have been mad to barter his life so cheaply! Swindlers all, his family and foes. Johnny never knew he could feel so alone in the universe. Involuntarily, his body began shaking, shivering unknown in the dark. Only God could see his face of terror, realizing he'd put himself at the mercy of the merciless. Use him up they would, traded like a trinket to buy the end they wanted. No more would another being concern itself with the concerns of Johnny.
Like most of the enlistees, Johnny took solace in the mutual mortification of his bunkmates. Johnny was in hell, but they'd be in hell together. It was a shitty deal, but the only one he had. He'd heard of deserters but he'd nowhere near the bravery for that. Going to jail for what you believe? Who has that kind of gall? Johnny didn't dare claim his soul held such importance. He wondered where he'd be right now back home - watching late night TV, no doubt, hoping for a good line up of guests.
During the day he seemed like any other soldier. Definitely not a go-getter, those who were like a fish who'd found water. Johnny was below average but passable. He strained to achieve even that. The nighttime shakes were nightly visitors, revisiting all the little hells stored up during daylight sun. On the outside, he kept up, on the inside, he fell behind. No one seemed to give a shit about anything but what he did on the training ground.
Before deployment, he sent bleeding letters home weaving a tale all was well and how delightful he found it the army decided they found him useful enough for their war.
***************
Camp made basic training seem like home cooking. Sure, there was more freedom but also more facelessness. Private Johnny was a piece of meat to be stored and dutifully prepared to be served as ordered. God knows that's about how much thought was put into his quarters. But the tipping point was in the patrolling, a daily grind of raking one's living hopes over the blazing coals of Hades, a slow motion daymare requiring a sort of controlled mania that bent the mind in squelched screams. No nets were supplied for this high wire act - an act of economic efficiency. One could say "God help you if you fall," only God did not.
Johnny's melting mind was deemed his own provenance. Real men loved war. Nobody wants to hear your bitching. Suck it up! War is the way of the world! As a fighting soldier he stood on the cutting edge of reality, once more leaning over the edge of the cliff. Johnny was determined to love it too. In his nightly shivers, he stroked himself, getting off on the danger of death, of his daily dying. Every day he passed death's exam, the greater the ecstasy of his humping hand. He even soiled the letter from his sister who agonized over his well being, powerless to help.
Finally, fate stabbed its way in on the Ides of March with an I.E.D. exploding, missing Johnny but killing one other and wounding the other two of his patrol. It made the papers at home, turning Private Johnny into a certified war hero, a title of inescapable doom for his deserter's heart. His world turned a seething black, sucking his soul into a sunless universe for all time. Even during the day now, the shakes shivered him into shattered shards, his hand rubbing his crotch, trying to contain his leaking spirit. Disaster came unrealized one day in the mess hall, Private Johnny eating chow with one hand, his johnson out with the other. He didn't realize he could be seen anymore, he just knew he had to get through the day.
Section 8. From war hero to war lunatic. No going home now. The details would inevitably leak out. Secret smirks hidden as the Hand Man walked into a room. "Hey Johnny, did you get your shot off in the war?" Yes, everyone was finished with him now. Time to take out the trash. Private Miller's final shot of the war was through his head. Stinging tears rolling down his face, he didn't want to die.
Only on the wings of tenderness rests the salvation of man.
____________________________________________
They are the casualties of wars you don’t often hear about - soldiers who die of self-inflicted wounds. Little is known about the true scope of suicides among those who have served in the military.
But a five-month CBS News investigation discovered data that shows a startling rate of suicide, what some call a hidden epidemic, Chief Investigative Reporter Armen Keteyian reports exclusively.
“I just felt like this silent scream inside of me,” said Jessica Harrell, the sister of a soldier who took his own life.
"I opened up the door and there he was," recalled Mike Bowman, the father of an Army reservist.
"I saw the hose double looped around his neck,” said Kevin Lucey, another military father.
"He was gone,” said Mia Sagahon, whose soldier boyfriend committed suicide.
Keteyian spoke with the families of five former soldiers who each served in Iraq - only to die battling an enemy they could not conquer. Their loved ones are now speaking out in their names.
They survived the hell that's Iraq and then they come home only to lose their life.
Twenty-three-year-old Marine Reservist Jeff Lucey hanged himself with a garden hose in the cellar of this parents’ home - where his father, Kevin, found him.
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