A PATRIOT DIRGE: Flashback (Kill Me or Let Me Go)

The Enemy Wears No Uniforms
Sleep and Sleeplessness
Kill Me or Let Me Go

Miguel read somewhere that some unfortunate souls afflicted by seizures opted for lobotomy rather than suffer the consequences of their affliction. He wondered if there was a similar procedure for memories. When he asked an army doctor she told him there was only it was less intrusive. She wrote a prescription. For the next six months he walked around in someone else’s mind and body, not knowing who he was or what he would do next.

He threw the pills away to see if he could find some remnant of his soul hiding deep within the shell of a soldier. He did but it was a sleepless soul. He no longer slept. He lay down, closed his eyes and eased the tension of his muscles but he did not sleep. In a war zone it was dangerous to take sleeping medication. You never knew when you might need all your senses at alert so he did not sleep.

He counted the days until his four-year term of enlistment expired only to discover that the government that signed him up would not honor it. Under a "stop loss" order from the commander-in-chief they could keep him as long as the needed, as long as they wanted and as long as the war went on.

Without sleep there were no nightmares. There were only memories and memories slowly faded. There were still flashbacks – unpredictable and infrequent but as vivid as the stars on a clear night in the Rockies. They were triggered by strange sensations, the smell of kerosene, the pop of a worn light bulb, a shadow on a dark wall, an unfamiliar accent, the crushed shell of a vehicle or burning oil.

He slept without sleeping with a loaded gun under his pillow until he almost shot a friend with whom he was staying. Now, six weeks after he went AWOL and four days since settling in to his Chicago apartment, Miguel Estrada was beginning to believe that the nightmares and flashbacks were finally behind him.

He had a routine and he clung to it like a preschooler to a teacher’s praise. Six o’clock rise, pack a lunch, toast and coffee, report to work, grocery shopping and a quiet evening at home. He watched the evening news, caught a movie and retired with a tattered copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude between ten and ten thirty. He always set the alarm though he was certain it was not necessary.

He would begin night classes at the University of Chicago in five more weeks, when the sultry days of summer gave way to the winds of autumn. Then, he would set a new schedule and begin again.

Someday, he told himself, I’ll go out and paint the town. It was his last conscious thought every night and this night was little different. He pulled a pillow under his head, closed his eyes and let his mind drift where it would. Tonight it drifted back to Iraq, back to Tikrit and back to an Iraqi child pleading for help, pleading for mercy, begging for his mother’s life, his father already dead, his brothers and sisters behind his mother’s skirt.

He sprang from his bed when he heard the sound of a door opening. His vision clouded, his head a jumble of fear and loathing, sweat flowing from his pores though it was not warm in his air-conditioned apartment, he was no longer in Chicago. He was back in Iraq where the enemy wears no uniform. The soft sound of footsteps, click of a gun and he went for his but came up empty. Standing to face the enemy, he felt a blast on his chest that pushed him against the wall, a lamp crashing to the floor.

His vision cleared and he could see that the men before him were not Iraqis. They were not soldiers either though they conducted themselves as soldiers would. They were yelling at him not to move and to hold his hands up. He did so and they moved in, patting him down though he was wearing only his underwear, and binding his wrists in cuffs.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Homeland Security," one man replied.

"Is this America?" he asked.

The man laughed. Yes, but not the America you know and love.

"Why am I being arrested?"

"We’ll tell you all about it," he said.

When they searched the room, they allowed him to dress. Then they hauled him down to a waiting van and took him to a local detention center. It was a building downtown, hiding in plain view, without windows and with no visible signs of what it contained inside.

"Ever been arrested before, Mr. Estrada?"

Miguel stared at the wall behind the interrogator. He was a soldier in enemy hands. He had his training to fall back on.

"We know you have. This country gave you a second chance, a chance to start all over, and how do you repay us? No, I wouldn’t have much to say either. But we’re a forgiving country. We’re going to give you another chance. Give us what we want and we let you walk. That’s right: A free man, a citizen of these United States. His obligations and debts to this great nation paid in full. What do you think of that?"

It was a small room with white walls, a white ceiling, cement floor and a wall of observation mirrors. Miguel stared at the wall, searching for another place and time where no one could reach him, and the interrogator turned to the man standing behind him.

"We offer the deal of the century and what does he do? Stares into space like a dumb wetback. Yeah, we know who you are and we know what you’ve done."

They took him to a padded room, all white, his wrists and ankles bound. Light so bright he could hardly see. One wall had a screen and the other a projector. For the next twenty-four hours they played highlights from the war in vivid color, featuring scenes from Fallujah, Tikrit, Haditha and Guantanamo Bay. It was as if there was a camera over his left shoulder in Iraq, the volume so high it rattled his brain. They fed him a green semi-liquid mixture with no discernable taste and a plastic spoon. They watched him, filmed him and fed back his sorry image superimposed on the war.

"Ever heard of rendition, private? Ever heard of flagging? We could send you back, you know? We could send you to one of our friendly allies…or not so friendly. They’d love to get their hands on you."

"I want a lawyer."

"Haven’t you heard? Terrorists don’t get lawyers. No rights, no due process, no habeas corpus. You belong to us."

After three days of the same routine and several injections resulting in hallucinations he began to crack. His interrogators smelled weakness in the rank odor that radiated from his skin. They pressed harder.

"You can put an end to this right now. A signature on the dotted line and you can go home."

Something about his smile, his audacity, his air of victory suddenly sparked Miguel’s indignation. He returned to his silent resistance for three more days.

"All right, Miguel, you’ve proved your point. You’re a tough guy. We’ll give you that. But now it’s time to play ball."

Balled up in the corner of his padded cell, Miguel turned his head only slightly and began to take in even, heavy breaths of air.

"Kill me."

"What’s that?"

"Kill me or let me go."

The interrogator laughed but a sigh betrayed his frustration. He was beginning to wonder if they were wasting their time. Cruelty and inhumanity bordering on torture was not an easy job for a man who had not yet given up on the guiding principles of democracy. No matter how it was rationalized, each act at variance with his internal code of conduct tore at his gut and stole hours of peaceful sleep.

He gave his colleague a grim assessment.

"Better contact the agency. We’ve gone as far as we can go."