have any second thoughts about the meeting. Once I’ve decided something, that’s it.
The inside isn’t what I thought it would be. There’s a large, rectangular table, with folding chairs all around it. I’d been picturing chairs in a circle, like an AA meeting. Hello, my name is Wes and I have PTSD.
“Hello, there,” a voice calls out.
A man approaches. He’s old. Pins adorn his black hat, Vietnam Veteran stitched across the front in yellow thread.
“Hello, sir.” I extend a hand. “Is the meeting still on for today?”
“You betcha,” he answers, shaking my hand. “I’m Bill Tennyson.” He motions to two more men I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. “That’s Malcolm Owenfeldt and Creighton Smith.”
I lift my hand in a wave. “I’m Wes Hayden.” If Bill recognizes my name, he doesn’t show it. It puts me at ease.
“We’re expecting a couple more,” he tells me, adjusting his hat. “They’ll trickle in. We have one coming from Brighton, he’s usually a couple minutes late.”
I settle in at the table with the three men. Malcolm is older like Bill, but Creighton is probably only ten years older than me.
We comment on the weather. Bill mentions the construction going on at the edge of town. Creighton says his wife met the woman in charge of the new building at a book club meeting and really liked her. I smile politely and say nothing. I came here to talk about the military, not Dakota. One tough subject at a time.
The door opens and two more men walk in. Both older. No pins on hats though. They take seats and say hello.
“Wes, this is Walt Jenkins and Bryan Blackstone. Guys, meet Wes Hayden.”
Walt eyes me. He looks like a quintessential grandpa. White comb-over, round face, pleated slacks. “Hayden, huh? Like the cattle ranch?”
I’m tempted to lie, but I don’t. “Yes.” I don’t offer more than that, because it’s a stretch for me to be here at all and I don’t want my family’s reputation to affect what I’ve come here to accomplish.
Bill starts the meeting by telling me what years he served, and what countries he was in. This goes on around the table, each man introducing themselves in this way. When it gets to me, I tell them about my three tours in the Middle East, the battles I fought in, and the job I had.
Walt whistles when I tell them I was on EOD. “Thank you for your service, son.”
I nod. “Same to you. Same to all of you.”
“My guess is that you’re here for a reason, Wes,” Bill says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I lean forward in my chair, place my steepled hands under my chin. I’m not sure where to look, so I keep my eyes down on the plastic table. “I joined because I was angry. After the attacks on September 11th, I felt this sense of rage like I’d never felt before. My beloved country had been hurt. I wanted to go over there and kick ass.” I look up into the patient and understanding eyes of men who felt what I felt. “Four years turned into eight, and then twelve. The sense of duty, of loyalty to my fellow soldiers, was powerful. I couldn’t leave them behind for a normal life. Near the end of my last tour, shit went south. We went into a town where we knew insurgents would be. We’d already told the people of the town to evacuate. And they did. Except for the unlucky ones who were used as martyrs.” Tears sting my eyes and I bite my bottom lip to keep them at bay. “We rolled into town in our armored Humvees, and right in the middle of the goddamn street there was a woman and a child with a bomb strapped to them.” I’m in the stale air of the VFW, but all I smell is dust and anguish. It’s cool in this room, but I’m hot under my uniform and Kevlar. My voice is the only sound, but my ears fill with the cacophony of exploding mortars, yelling, and radio commands.
“I knelt in front of them and worked on deactivating it. My men surrounded me, protecting me, while they took fire. One was shot. I remember the sound of him hitting the ground. We had to fall back, but I didn’t want to. My lieutenant had to pull me away.” I feel it, the tight grip around my chest, the feeling of being dragged. “We were around the