On patrol, as per usual, with companions on either side – near enough to see, far enough that between us we cover lots of ground.
I’m focused on my section, my responsibility. I listen, tuning out the soft sounds my companions make, straining to hear anything that will indicate a problem, an intrusion, looking for sign left by someone or something that shouldn’t be…
I glance to my right, checking on my colleague. Yes, she seems to be the same distance away, also focused. I’m tired. I stumble slightly then glance left.
Something slams into my side, taking my breath away. As agony radiates from my side I automatically whirl and fire back.
Only to see my colleague’s weapon pointed right at me! Friendly fire!? What?? Why??
My ingrained defensive response has taken her out … but she still stands, frozen, shocked, staring at me.
I clutch my side where the bullet hit. Agony. Betrayal.
I feel myself weakening. Blood loss? My hand feels sticky where I clutch my side. I fall to my knees, my weapon dropping from my weakening grip.
I don’t understand. How did a routine patrol turn so bad?
I wake slowly, a heavy feeling of doom weighing me down, holding me prostrate in its grip. I manage to lift my achingly heavy eyelids. The room is dim. Tent, rather. Medic tent by the smell.
“What happened?” The voice is even, low.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “She fired at me so I returned fire. Why did she attack me?”
“She tossed a marshmallow at you. You fired live ammo at her.”
My jaw dropped. “No way.” My hand moved to my side, expecting a thick bandage. Nothing. “Huh?” I tilted my neck to look. I finally managed to lift my shirt. It revealed unbroken skin. Only a black and purple bruise marred the surface.
“What??” Blood had soaked my hand. Agony had hammered my side, debilitating me. So where was the wound?
My eyes moved back to my supervisor, stunned. “How…? I felt the bullet! I was bleeding. I just reacted as I would to any enemy fire.”
“She was not your enemy.”
“Why did she fire at me?”
“She tossed you something to help you. You were stumbling. Maybe depleted by the hike.”
My superior gently threw something white and spongy onto my side. A marshmallow.
Agony! I cried out in pain.
He frowned. “Whatever the wound is, it is internal. Any slight touch from outside vastly amplifies it. You cannot continue with it as it is now. It makes you dangerous and vulnerable.” He rose and gestured to the medic.
“Wait. What happened to … her?”
“She survived, no thanks to you. It will be a long while before she … or anyone … tries to help you again. Deal with whatever the real wound is.” He turned and walked out.
I stared at my side, trying to understand. I tentatively touched the bruise. Oh, it hurt! I raised pleading eyes to the medic. “What could cause such pain at such a light touch?”
“There must be some deep internal hurt. It must be examined and excised. It will be painful. Are you ready?”
I wanted to be whole. I wanted to be a part of the team, a contributor. I wanted to belong, to react appropriately, to be a skilled and valuable member of my patrol. I wanted to be trusted. I wanted to be well and to belong.
“Yes.”
A long, long process eventually healed the inner wound, lessened my automatic defences that made me fire live rounds at the friend trying to aid me.
Every patrol is a journey.
What triggers your automatic defences? What wounds do they cause? What wounds hide behind them?
