Page 5 of The Darkness Within

“Sergeant Nashville Aidan Sommers. United States Army. 89-6717-4613.”

The words came out broken, an anguished sob, as I fell apart and cried, revealing my pain to him finally. I didn’t care if he saw it. I didn’t care if he knew how desperate and hopeless I felt. I had nothing left worth losing, not even my life.

“Sergeant Nashville Aidan Sommers. United States Army. 89-6717-4613.”

The doctor chuckles. “Your birthdate would have sufficed.”

Shaking off the memories, I sign my name on the dotted line and hand him back his pen.

“I’ll just process this, and you’ll be all set to go. I wish you the best of luck in your recovery, Sergeant. Thank you for your service,” he says before leaving.

Thank you for your service.

There are no five words I hate more. He doesn’t give a fuck about my service. Or my sacrifice. He doesn’t give two shits that I’ll spend the rest of my life, every single miserable fucking day of it, haunted by my twenty-two days in hell. It’s just lip service. A formality. It’s fucking bullshit.

Even before my captivity, I hated those words. I remember back at Bragg, before my first deployment, I heard it everywhere I went. At the barbershop, at the dry cleaners, the alterations shop. They said it as casually as one would remark on the weather. Drop a tip in their jar, “Thank you for your service.” Swipe your credit card, “Thank you for your service.” I felt like a fraud because I hadn’t really served, I hadn’t really sacrificed anything for my country at that point.

I thought those words should be reserved for men and women who wasted away in this desert, who served, who sacrificed. But now that I’m one of those soldiers, those words just feel hollow.

Dark shadows dance across the walls. Another day coming to an end. Another day I didn’t participate. Another day wasted in this hospital bed, struggling to survive. I stare out the window at the dark shadow of the giant oak. Will my hospital room at Walter Reed have a tree outside the window? Will it even have a window?

Being at Walter Reed sucks worse than the hospital in Germany. People actually talk to me here. They try to involve themselves in my recovery. They pretend like they care. It’s exhausting, and I resent having to deal with them.

The window has no view. Just the side of a brick wall of the next building six feet away. Instead, I stare at the guard standing watch at my door. He stands there for hours, with his hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When he leaves, another one replaces him. Everyone here knows who I am, even if they don’t know me. My story was all over the news, people tying yellow ribbons around tree trunks and lighting candles, praying for my safe return. Reporters crowded the halls, vying for an interview until the MP’s sent them packing. Military police limit the hospital staff allowed in and out of my room. They limit the amount of visitors I can have, not that anyone has tried to visit me.

After I was admitted to Walter Reed, I spoke with my parents on the phone. My mother broke down in tears. My father didn’t say much other than that he was grateful for my safe return. Neither of them made plans to come and visit me. Not yet, at least. Maybe when I return home to Bragg. Arizona is a lot closer to North Carolina than Maryland.

When I left home after graduating high school to join the Army, my parents were less than thrilled. They didn’t even show up at my graduation from Boot Camp. In the eight years I’ve been enlisted, they’ve visited twice, and I went home once.

To say things are strained between us is an understatement. But when your only child comes home alive instead of in a wooden box, like Gutierrez did, wouldn’t you put your bitter disappointment in his career choice aside and just go see him? Just hold him in your arms and thank God?

Apparently not.

The debriefing committee took two weeks to interview me. More like interrogate me. Five different branches of the Army asked me to repeat my trauma five different times. They treated me like a witness on the stand, trying to poke holes in my story, as if I made the whole thing up. I’ve never felt angrier in my life than I have these past sixteen days. Fuck the Brass. Fuck the Army. My military career and accomplishments used to define me. It was my whole life. Something I was proud of. Now I feel nothing but resentment and shame that I had prioritized my life around an institution that fed me nothing but lies.

Brotherhood. Honor. Leave no man behind. The fucking Soldier’s Creed.

I am an American Soldier.

I am a Warrior and a member of a team.

I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.

I will always place the mission first.

I will never accept defeat.

I will never quit.

I will never leave a fallen comrade.

I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills.

I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.

I am an expert, and I am a professional.

I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.