When Johnny Comes Marching Home Ch. 01

Hero veteran returns home disgraced and in poor health.

Once a big, scary, well-conditioned brute of a man, Johnny used to be a mean and nasty son of a bitch. If you were his enemy, especially if you were his enemy, he'd as soon as kill you than look at you. Now just a poor excuse for a man, broken and despondent, he was the shell of the man he used to be.

A facade he needed to maintain as a Navy Seal, deep down he was a good man with a keen sense of right, wrong, honor, and loyalty. Whenever he was in uniform, he became the force that the United States military needed him to be. Not having much of a sense of humor, especially when it came to his call to duty, humor didn't factor in the seriousness of his role and in the life and death job that he had to do. He had seen too much carnage to think that anything regarding death, devastation, destruction, and what he did for a living was funny. As if his life was a Medal of Honor, combat video game, with all the pain and suffering sorrow he had witnessed, he was haunted by the horrors of war.

If he thought of anything in what he did and had done, he thought of man's inhumanity to man. With him having nightly flashbacks as if it was happening again now instead of in the past, he thought of all of the innocent women and children, collateral damage and victims of war, that he had seen lying dead in the streets. He thought of all the young men who were mass murdered, mass massacred, mass executed, and dumped in mass graves by the side of the road to rot like dead animals while birds picked at their rotting flesh and bugs ate them from inside out. Now done with all of that and with that part of his life behind him, he was just another drunken, homeless man living in a back alley of a big, busy, city street.

Unrecognizable, just another victim of war, no one he knew from the military would ever recognize him as Chief Petty Officer John E. Mercer. Even though he was now as much of a mess on the outside as he was on the inside, he no longer cared what he looked like and who he was. Just living for today while hoping the good Lord would take him in his sleep, he had lived enough of the horrors of life to last him ten lifetimes. No longer caring if he lived or died, just waiting and wanting to die, he no longer cared for his country, for his brothers-in-arms, or for his fellow Americans. Done with all of that, he had done enough. He had more than carried his load. As if he was invisible during the day and nothing more than a dark shadow in the night, he just wanted to disappear in this dark, dank, dirty alley.

Now understanding first hand why so many people around the world hated America and Americans, he had seen first-hand what his country had done to other regimes and to people all over the world. Wondering if he ever did, in the way they squandered tax money by leaving expensive military equipment behind for the enemy to confiscate, he no longer cared for the United States military. With him always following his orders, he had personally seen the damage from what they were ordered to do. Shocking for him to admit, he no longer cared for the Navy Seals. Seeing them for who they were, they were just trained killers, unconscionable assassins, and mass murderers.

Most times able to justify their actions by believing they were just following orders in the protection of the United States and of the people of America, most of the men he knew had trouble sleeping at night too. Even after pledging their allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, saluting the flag, and singing God Bless America, most of the men he knew couldn't help but have a guilty conscience. Most of the men he knew couldn't justify what they were ordered to do. Most times, they were no better than the terrorists. Matter of fact, interlopers invading a foreign country, they were indeed terrorists to the citizens of that country. With the American military, especially the Navy Seals, having a whole arsenal of weaponry at their disposal, when playing judge, jury, and executioner, it was sometimes difficult for them to justify that deadly force was the only solution.

Never allowed to question the authority of his orders for fear of being accused of insubordination and even treason, he was ordered to follow his orders. Not allowed to know the who, the what, the where, the how, and the why, he did what he was ordered to do. Over his rank and paygrade, he was nothing more than a pawn on a worldwide chess game. Never allowed to see the bigger picture until what they did was declassified, written about in the newspapers, and shown on CNN and on the nightly news, he felt used. He felt lied to, he felt dishonored, and he felt deceived.

*** MadMadMadMaxine ***

Stuck between a rock and a hard place while looking for weapons of mass destruction that never existed, his own president lied to his people. With nothing left to feel good about, he certainly didn't feel good about President Bush and his war hawk sidekick, Vice-President Cheney, starting another war for no good reason but for greed, power, and money. After risking his life dozens of times, he didn't like the fact that he had to survive on his base pay while Vice President Cheney made billions of dollars for himself and for his old company Haliburton with no bid defense contracts. Shuffling the deck of foreign policy with each new president in office, the politicians made a mess of foreign relations and, with no questions asked and no orders not followed, the Seals were ordered to clean up their messes.

When he heard on the news that the US Naval Warfare Development Group, DEVGRU, better known as Seal Team Six caught and killed Osama bin Laden in code name Operation Neptune Spear, he knew it was all bullshit. He knew it was just more lies to appease the American people into justifying the trillion-dollar war on terror. It was nothing more than a story that the politicians wanted to shove down Americans' throats so that they'd stop clamoring to end the war and cut their big bash funding. In bed with munitions factories, the military was big business in government contracts that built armaments, ships, tanks, and planes, and there was no bigger business than fighting a war somewhere thousands of miles away.

Even though he defended the United States government with his life, he didn't trust the United States government to tell him the truth about anything, especially the capture of bin Laden. Deemed classified, if the Seals raided his compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, unless ordered to kill him, they'd never kill bin Laden. That just wouldn't happen. Seals had a hundred ways to disable any man, even a man armed with a machine gun without killing him. He was too valuable an informational asset not to be taken prisoner and returned to the United States alive.

God only knows what they dumped overboard on the USS Carl Vinson at midnight, probably nothing more than 300 pounds of rusty chains, but it surely wasn't bin Laden's dead body. With no photographic or DNA evidence of bin Laden's death released, deemed classified, his capture was nothing more than another government falsified story and cover-up. They must think we're all stupid and we are. With him not sure why, the CIA have been protecting bin Laden and his family for decades. With his family moved from their two-million-dollar condominium in Charlestown, Massachusetts as soon as the Twin Towers were hit, no doubt, bin Laden and his family are now living the good life in Qatar.

*** MadMadMadMaxine ***

Johnny drank to forget the memories of the sight of blood, so much blood, and the smell of burning flesh. When he returned home from the Middle East, one of his favorite foods to eat, he no longer could stand to eat barbeque anything. Morphing into a vegetarian, he no longer could stomach the stench of burning meat.

When he thought back from what he saw from the window of his convoy of vehicles driving down an Iraq or Afghanistan road, we were all nothing more than just a red stain on the road to Hell. Run over by a thousand heavy vehicles, with men, women, and children smeared along the road to become a permanent, dark reddish brown etch in the pavement, he drank to forget the bodies piled high by the side of the road. Good friends and men he'd never forget; he drank to forget his buddies killed or maimed in battle. He drank to numb himself with alcohol so that he'd forget the screams of terror and the horror of battle. Grown men, tough guys, Navy Seals, screaming in pain like babies, even when he covered his head with a pillow and/or raised the volume of the TV, he could still hear their screams.

Always exhausted, he was morbidly tired. He was so very tired. Always taking stock, taking inventory, and more than willing to care for and carry his half of the heavy load, he now was too tired and too battle weary to give a shit about anything. He was sick. He was so very sick. He was hurting and alcohol was the only medicine that temporarily numbed the physical, emotional, and psychological pain that he felt. Passed out in a deep, drunken sleep was the only way that he could stopped the nightmares, the constant ringing in his ears, the gunfire, the bombs, and the screams.

Never able to get to that place, even with all of the alcohol he drank, he didn't want to feel anything. He had already felt enough. He felt too much. He just wanted to die only, as brave as he was and with all of the lives he had taken, he was unable to take his own life. A Catholic, he feared he'd never go to Heaven if he killed himself.

With him fighting for God, for country, and for all of those back home and with his enemy fighting for Allah, for country, and to live the next life with one thousand virgins, he wondered if anyone was right. Now he wondered if all of those he killed for God, for country, and for those back home would stop him from entering the pearly gates. If he didn't make it to Heaven, he'd never see his mother and his grandparents. Just in case he was still admitted to Heaven for fighting the good fight in the way that Saint Michael had always done, he needed to stay alive until it was his time to go.

*** MadMadMadMaxine ***

His only luxury that he afforded himself, he bought a cup of coffee twice a day to use the rest room at McDonalds. Hiding in the shadows and content to remain outside no matter the weather, he didn't bother anyone. Tired of talking and tired of people, he didn't talk to anyone. Other than to order a hot, cup of coffee, he'd go days without uttering a single word. Keeping his head down and keeping to himself, he just wanted to be left alone.

'Leave me the fuck alone,' he sometimes wanted to scream at everyone and at no one in particular while walking down a busy sidewalk.

He was tired of fixing things. He was tired of taking orders. He was tired of fighting enemies imagined or real. He was tired of coming to the rescue and being Johnny-on-the-Spot for what? He was tired.

What good did any of it do him? For living out the rest of his miserable life in a Veteran's hospital, is that the quality of his life for the heroic act of bravery he had done in saving his buddies? Done with doctors, nurses, and surgeons digging out more shrapnel, he was done with all of that. If he was going to die anyway, he'd rather die on his own terms. The worst and best thing his government ever did for him was to remove him from his bed at the VA hospital for being deemed a traitor in conspiring with the enemy.

"Fuck them! What did they know?"

The CIA left him to take the fall without a net or a parachute.

*** MadMadMadMaxine ***

Once the best of the best, better than all of the rest, he was an ex-Navy Seal and a fifth degree, black belt in Judo. He should have been proud that he was a Navy Seal but he wasn't. He should have been proud that he was a fifth degree, black belt in Judo but he wasn't. He had taken too many lives to be proud of his fighting skills and his propensity for killing people with a flick of his hand or a kick of his foot.

How could he be proud that he was a trained killer? If anything he was ashamed that he took out people before it was their time to go. If he felt anything, he felt remorsefully guilty for what he had done. No matter what he confessed and how much he confessed, no acts of contrition could ease his troubled mind and cleanse his blackened soul. He was no better than a gunslinger of old, a Marshall living in the wild west and coming to Dodge to kill some bad men. Instead of armed with a six shooter, he was a modern day, hired gun armed with his Fabrique Nationale MK 48.

In the way of Jean Claude Van Damme was a master at Savate, so was Johnny. Able to kick his feet forward as high as any ballet dancer or kick back as hard as a stubborn mule, his deadly feet gave him as many fighting options as did his deadly hands. He'd make any professional kickboxer look bad, especially some of the lightweight kickboxing champions from Thailand, who had held the titles in the past. One Chuck Norris-type of a kick from him and he'd break a lightweight or a middleweight man in half. An ex-Navy Seal, martial arts instructor, he trained other Navy Seals how to end a fight without prolonging a fight.

"Listen up, ladies, especially when you're fighting more than one combatant, the longer a fight lasts, the more chance you have of being hurt or killed," he said to each class of new recruits he trained.

As if he was Moses bringing the Red Sea together after having parted it, he outstretched his arms and brought his hands together as his signal for the group to come together in pairs and start fighting.

"This isn't a dance, Ladies," he said to two Seals who were walking around one another as if in a boxing ring. "This isn't a joke," he said to two other Seals who were giggling over God only knows what.

As if he was a conductor of a symphony orchestra, he immediately stopped the fighting with an upraised fist and brought the men together as a group again.

"Listen up! When you're in hand-to-hand combat, there are no rules. There isn't a referee. There are no bells. Whether you're fighting one man or three men, unless you have a buddy watching your back, you're on your own," he said pointing his stiff index finger from one man to another. "You do what you must do to survive. You either subdue your attackers or your attackers will subdue you. You either maim or kill your opponents or they will maim or kill you," he said looking around the room. "Make no mistake. Just as you never want to be taken prisoner, take no prisoners unless ordered to do so. With him trained to kill you, it's either him or you."

He remained quiet while looking at the group again.

"Forget what you've learned on the street in always going for the biggest man and putting him down first. That strategy doesn't work out in the field," he said. "Instead, always go for the man closest to you. Work inside before going outside your circle. If you're fighting a bigger man, use his weight against him. Throw him. Get him off his feet. Always an odds type of thing, the more men you put down the less you have trying to kill you."

A recruit raised his hand and spoke when given permission.

"Especially with these men trained in hand-to-hand combat too, how do you realistically expect us to fight more than one opponent and win," said the recruit. "It doesn't seem plausible for us to fight three on our own."

As if he was Superman trying to melt him with his eyes, Johnny gave the man a hard stare.

"That's a fair question if you weren't a Navy Seal but you're a Navy Seal. You're not just a man on the street. You're the best of the best and better than all of the rest. For you to even ask that question, tells me that maybe you shouldn't be here," he said giving the man another long, heated look before looking at the other recruits.

The man stepped back when Johnny loomed forward.

"Yes, Sir," said the recruit.

With him having been in his shoes not that long ago, Johnny nodded his head with an understanding look. It was sometimes difficult for even him to comprehend how he could take out two, three, or four men within a few seconds with just his bare hands. He didn't have to think about what he needed to do, he just did what he needed to do. Had he thought about the defensive and offensive moves he needed to make, he'd be dead.

"If you think the training we give you is hard now, wait until you're in the field without a weapon. You'll wish we had given you more training," said Johnny looking around the room. "Swift, silent, and deadly without firing a gun is what we do. Without a struggle or a sound, you'll wish you knew how to silently kill a man with the flick of your finger, a kick of your foot, a blow from your hand, or a slice or stab of your knife."

As if he was a college professor in class, he looked around the room again. With just a look, he could measure a man. He knew the ones who'd make it and the one's who'd washout.

"It isn't like it is in the movies, ladies, we can't have a messy fight with your opponent bleeding and screaming in pain. It isn't like it is in the movies, ladies, with one punch knocking out a man," he said looking from one recruit to look at another recruit without looking at his next, three victims. "Deadly force means just that. Deadly force is not wounded force or knockout force. Once you know how, it's much easier to kill a man than it is to knockout a man. Deadly force is instantly killing your opponent dead."

With all eyes on him, no one dared talk when he was talking. He was the master. He had a reputation for being called to clean up a mess. He was their Sensei.

"In the way that Bruce Lee won his fights, take a lesson from him. Even he wasn't invincible. Even he knew when to retreat. Hit and run," he said slamming his fist in his hand. "Hit and run. Hit and run. Don't be stupid, feel invincible, and/or afraid or embarrassed to run when outnumbered and outgunned," he said slower while enunciating his words. "Strike and retreat will allow you to strike and fight again."

As if he was fighting an imaginary enemy, he shot out his right hand in one direction and his left arm in another direction while kicking forward with one leg before kicking back with his other leg. The only sound heard was the ruffled sound from the material of his uniform, the sound of the air being disturbed, and the air that he let out of his mouth that released the energy of his deadly blows and kicks.

"They teach you in martial arts class to release air when you strike. Here we teach you to keep your air to yourselves. Making a sound, any sound will get you killed. Swift, silent, and deadly," he said striking out with his feet and hands again. "A sniper is just waiting for you to become a dead target instead of a live Seal."

This time, somehow punching and kicking without making a sound, as if he was a Ninja warrior, punching and kicking again, his strikes and kicks were as effortless as they were soundless. Definitely, he was one man that no one would want to come across in a dark alley.

"Be fast and be committed. You don't have time to think. You only have time to react," he said looking around the room. "If you punch or kick, follow through with speed and with force. Don't rethink your action or reaction and change your mind in the middle of it. Be committed to the strike. Never telegraph your moves and never allow anyone to see you coming," he said pointing his finger at one man to the next. "Hit one, strike the next, kick the last, and never let anyone touch you or hold you," he said while putting one trainee down on the ground, flipping the next one, and putting a submissive choke hold on a third. "Use the element of surprise to your advantage. Never let anyone see you coming."

All in a matter of seconds, he had three men disabled and on the ground. He could have killed them or he could have made good his escape. Only unlike Billy Jack played by Tom Laughton in the movie Billy Jack, he didn't tell his victims where, how, when they were going to be hit, punched, or kicked. He just put them down on the ground in quick order. Then, if they made an offensive move once they were down, it was either a shot to the chest, another to the head, or ground and pound time until they were unconscious or dead.