“What are your names?” I ask, thankful I speak their language. Even so I have to wait a few moments for their shock to subside enough for them to speak to me. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll get out of this. I’ll protect you.” I wait patiently. “My name’s Stormy,” I try, hoping the humanisation of myself will help them.
Patience pays off. Kids, particularly in this region, are resilient. They have to be. As the night quiets around us with only a few final death cries as the bombed building gives up its fight, the older one starts to speak to me, and slowly their story comes out.
They’re sisters. They were kidnapped, taken off the street, and secured in the building. They were told to stay quiet, else US soldiers would find them and goddamn it rape them before killing them. The older girl had obviously obeyed, the younger, so scared, had cried out. It was that cry I heard, and that one which had saved them. I question them but can’t unravel the mystery of why they were taken. Had someone known about our mission? Had this been premeditated murder? I can’t understand. That, surely, is unlikely. They’re just kids, one the teenager I’d previously thought, she’s eighteen and called Nazia. The younger one is older than I’d expected, a small nine-year-old named Marjan. Neither had answers for me.
Time passes slowly. At last I hear an engine, and making a gap through the planks, see a truck full of men I recognise—SEALs from another unit. Easing myself from my hiding place, I approach cautiously, eyes scanning around me expecting an ambush.
“Where are they from?” The large man I know is called Haystack hisses as he spies the girls who follow me out. He’s as vigilant as me.
As are his team members who are reverently recovering Pooh’s body.
I tell him what I’ve gotten out of them so far. When I finish, I spit on the ground. “A message to the friendlies I suspect. Though whether they knew it was a death sentence, I’ve no idea.”
Haystack shakes his head. “You saved the girls, but while I hate to say this, I’d rather Pooh was fuckin’ alive. He was a good fucking man.”
I’d have both if I could.
“Hey, Stormy. Where did you put the girls?”
As if my nightmare isn’t ready to give up on me, I turn to point them out, only to find they’ve slipped away. Jesus Christ. Now I’ve nothing to show for my actions and can only pray they know their way to safety.
That the finger’s pointed firmly at me—all the blame for Pooh’s death—doesn’t stop when I finally get back to camp, and my team is waiting for me.
“Fuck it, Stormy.” Buster shakes his head, his hands bunched into fists and the way he’s vibrating suggests he’s only one step away from letting them fly at me. “Pooh’s fuckin’ dead.”
I round on him. “You think I don’t know that?” But fuck, how could we leave those kids there?
“Whoa.” Tailor steps between us, poking his finger in Buster’s chest. “Pooh wouldn’t have walked away. He’s got… had… a thing about protecting kids. Smythe shouldn’t have pressed that fuckin’ detonator. It’s a wonder any of them are alive.”
“Smythe was following orders,” Gun snarls. “If you’d done that, Pooh wouldn’t be dead.”
Slice stays silent, but the look on his face says everything. Despite how Tailor had phrased it, Gun’s right. All the blame sits with me.
“What the fuck, Stormy?” Smythe approaches, his face red with rage. “You’ll be court martialled for this. I issued a clear instruction. You and Pooh were to get out of there.”
“And cause a fuckin’ international incident?” I’m enraged. “You know who would have killed those kids? Us. US soldiers. We’d have gotten the blame.”
“And now I’ve got a SEAL dead. And that’s on your head. You’ve done it now, Stormy.”
Tailor’s hand grabs my arm and pulls me to him. “Leave it, Stormy. This is a fuckin’ mess. Let the dust settle, then we can talk about it calmly.”
“What do you propose to do about them? You lost the darn kids as well. No fucking witnesses to question.”
I shrug out of Tailor’s hold and send a disdainful look Smythe’s way. Yeah, he could never think fast on his feet. “They were scared kids,” I spit at him. “They knew nothing more than what they told me.”
Tailor’s the voice of calm again. “We should be able to find their father. Find what shit he’s in.”
“Or not,” Smythe remarks. His eyes darken, signalling promise as he adds, “Who the fuck cares about two enemy brats? This is the end for you, Stormy.”
Is it? Is this how I end? A court martial? A death sentence? But honestly, I don’t give a damn what happens to me. I care more that Pooh won’t meet his son or hold his wife again. I close my eyes, it doesn’t help. The nightmare is still there when I open them. The only thing that makes sense of Pooh’s death is that the girls are alive. Fuck this world. Fuck people who can torture and kill in this way. And fuck Smythe. If it wasn’t for him, Pooh wouldn’t be dead.
I know, at the least, I’m staring the loss of my Trident in the face. Whichever way I look at it, it doesn’t matter where blame sits, I disobeyed an order, and now a teammate is dead. It shouldn’t have happened this way.
Knowing I can offer no acceptable, to Smythe at least, justification, I let myself go numb, barely conscious of anything going on, deaf to the muted conversation around me.
I remain so as I’m packed on the earliest transport headed Stateside, and don’t emerge outside my head until two weeks later when I’m at the Admiral’s Mast, slightly bemused, but only vaguely intrigued as to why I didn’t find myself in a court martial.
There’s a lawyer by my side, but I hadn’t briefed him. Still, he’s seems to have the bare bones of the details. Someone else must have told him.
I’ve barely spoken at all since that last mission, just hidden myself away. Pooh’s death, so unnecessary, had hit me hard. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the person who should take responsibility will get off scot-free, while I, a poor grunt, takes the blame.
“Are you going to say anything in your defence?” the admiral asks me directly.
I’m starting to form a negative response when the lawyer shifts at my side. I stretch out my smartly attired hand, literally waving him down. I suppose, if anyone’s to say anything on my behalf, it should be me.
“Sir, I disobeyed a direct order.” My words are clipped.
“As a result of which, a fellow SEAL died.”
I can’t stop my eyes closing momentarily in pain. Then in a strong voice, I reply, “Yes, Sir.”
“That’s it? No justification? No excuses? No pointing fingers elsewhere?”
“No, Sir.”
Admiral Hillier confers with the squadron commander. I know what the outcome will be and am resigned. I’ll be sent for court martial, then will serve time under lock and key. Doesn’t much matter. Unlike Pooh, I’ll be alive.
I bide my time, hands behind my back, spine ramrod straight, and feet slightly apart as I wait for my expected sentence to be announced. I stare at the Stars and Stripes hanging behind the men who hold my fate in their hands, thinking how hard I’d worked to become a Navy SEAL and how much this was my dream. I’d planned to stay in the service for life, and now it’s all been taken away from me.