Jeremiah Workman - Shadow of the sword: a marines journey of war, heroism, and redemption

STAIRWELL TO NOWHERE

I M BEING CHASED . I can hear their footsteps below me, echoing up from the depths of the dimly lit stairwell. The brown concrete walls play acoustical tricks, casting echo upon echo and making each footfall sound like a gunshot. The noises boil and swell around me, growing first loud, then soft, then loud. I know only one thing: I have to get away.

My breathing is ragged. I feel heavy and slow, like Ive been running for hours without respite.

Allah Akbar! shouts a voice below me.

I turn up the next flight of stairs, reach the next landing, turn and climb again. Soon Ive put two more landings between me and them. Ear cocked under my grimy Kevlar, I pause to listen. Have they given up?

More sounds. Pant legs swishing together. Footsteps bark a pursuit. I am the hunted. And I have no way out but up.

I swing up another flight of stairs. Theyre not far behind now. Not far at all. Im on the edge of my endurance. Part of me just wants to sink to the stairs and wait for my fate to catch me.

The marine in me says keep moving. Never give up. Never. In our line of work, you fight; you die. You do not turn pussy.

Up another flight of stairs, no pause at the landing. I spin and hit the next flight in full stride, bounding upward, taking three steps at a time. If I had my M16, Id lay in ambush and kill them all as they came for me. But Ive lost my rifle. I have no grenades. I cant even feel the normal comfort of my K-Bar knife tucked away on my hip. Ive got nothing left but my fists.

Allah Akbar!

If they catch me, I will die. It wont be painless, and it wont be quick.

The stairs seem steeper now. I climb them two at a time, and when I look up, they seem to go on forever, like those long sets of stairs running to the top of those ancient Mayan temples in Mexico. Each new flight seems ever steeper, ever more of a challenge to my fading strength and endurance.

ALLAH AKBAR! Theyre right behind me.

Move, Marine! Move! I will my legs to carry me forward. I grip the handrail and pull myself to the next flight. Just as I hit the stairs, a metallic rattle echoes behind me.

A spasm of light seizes the stairwell. Thunder reverberates off the walls, demolishing my hearing just as smoke billows up around me.

Theyre throwing grenades.

Again.

The blast knocks me off my feet. I get up and unleash the last reservoir of strength within me. It propels me upward, feet chugging. There are no doors, no avenue of escape. I can only climb and keep climbing. But the stairwell never ends.

Another grenade detonates on the landing below. Shrapnel whips and scythes around me, pockmarking the walls. Everything below me is shrouded in smoke.

Im losing the race. Fight or flight. It is the last option of every mammal. Terror sends me up the next flight of stairs. I reach another landing, my right hand scrabbling for purchase on the railing. I slip and fall facedown. Below me, I hear them coming.

A coil of smoke spins away from the landing below. It reveals a figure. Wraithlike, it slides back into the shadows.

Please God. Please. Theyre too close. Im done.

Fight, Marine. Fight.

I run on legs of rubber. I smack off the wall, lose my balance and fall. Get up. Keep going.

Knees are almost shot. I test them with every step. One more stair. One more. The landing is just out of reach.

My legs are finished. Theyre but deadweight now. Its over.

Another metallic clatter as a grenade lands a step below me. I kick it away. It ricochets off the wall and explodes. The concussion pins me flat on the landing. A dull, hammerlike blow deadens every sense. The world goes gray.

How am I alive? I feel no pain. I crawl forward, pulling myself to the next flight with only my arms. My legs trail behind me, as useless as a paraplegics.

Footsteps. I turn to see a cloud of gray-black smoke roiling and twisting up the stairwell at me.

There is movement in the smoke.

Allah Akbar!

The first coils reach me. I try to hold my breath as a tendril snakes along my body and across my face. The smoke probes me, searching for entrance. I cant hold my breath long, and in a spasm I suck in corrupted air. The world goes dark. The last thing I see is a dirty boot on the landing.

This wont be pretty.

Please. Please. Jessica.

No. I will not plead. I will be a Marine to the end.

The smoke engulfs me. I have lost.

REFLECTION OF THE DAMNED

T HE DREAM WAS bad, the worst in weeks. The ceiling comes into focus. I blink the sleep out of my eyes. My heart races, sweat stains my sheets. Im burning up. Every morning, it is always the same.

I remember everything. Every move, every unearthly sensation and disorienting noise. It is the most vivid dream Ive ever had, and I have it night after night after night.

A year ago, when the nightmare first invaded my sleep, I drowned it in liquor. At the time my unit, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, or 3/5, was stationed at Camp Pendleton in Southern California. One night, I wandered into a tavern called The Harp in Newport Beach. On one wall rested a plaque commemorating the achievements of 3/5. Right then, I knew I had my watering hole. In the first month after I got back from leave, I ran up a three-thousand-dollar tab at The Harp.

I discovered that Jack Daniels did what nothing else could. Id drink until I passed out, and in that darkness the nightmares and memories could not find me. Every morning, Id peel my eyes open, unsure of who I was or where Id ended up. Self-awareness only gradually penetrated the crushing hangover. I didnt mind that; it gave me time to slip into myself and prepare for the shock of who Id become. By noon, Id be up and about, focused only on that nights binge, longing for its numb sanctuary.

Not anymore, not for the last five months. Thats when I started drill instructor school and had to devote everything I had left to graduate. Ever since I was a raw recruit, Id wanted to be a drill instructor. A year removed from my tour in Iraq, I fulfilled that dream and graduated tenth in a class of sixty. Be careful what you wish for. That clich has become the story of my life.