SEALS in Afghanistan. Souce: US Navy
“Do you know Jesus?”
“Talked to him every day in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
“You have an active prayer life?”
“I prayed for my wife to be happy once. She left me the next day. So I’m afraid to ask God for anything else.”
The clean-cut young man looked curiously at the 40-year-old bearded man in the doorway. A three-legged, one-eyed dog hopped past them and tried to hike his leg. He fell over.
“That’s Cy. As in Cyclops. Was going to call him Lucky, but that joke has been taken.”
The clean-cut young man said, “Um, would you like to hear more about how to have a relationship with God?”
“No thank you. If I didn’t have a relationship with God, I wouldn’t still be here.”
Cy hopped back into the house, barked twice, spun once and fell over. He prepared for a nap.
“Have a good day and God bless you my bike-riding friend.” Sean O’Reilly gently closed the door in the missionary’s face. The missionary gave up and left.
“How ’bout that, Cy. He wanted to save my soul. Don’t think he’s up for that job, though. Even the Pope would struggle fixing mine.”
Cy barked at his master. Truth was, he had already saved O’Reilly’s soul. A good dog will do that.
O’Reilly sat down on the tattered green couch and felt his prosthetic. He had been riding in the lead Humvee when his SEAL team was hit by an IED. “Dam’ Taliban. Dam’ Iranians. I sure miss my leg.” Cy panted in agreement. He missed his leg, too. Cy had been hit by a car and abandoned on the side of the road. O’Reilly found him and did first aid on the small terrier. He saved the little dog’s life. Now the little dog was trying to return the favor.
Coming home from war and adjusting to civilian life had been more of a struggle than war itself. For 20 years, he had been a Navy SEAL. BUD/S training made him tough. Combat made him tougher. Marriage made him the toughest. His high-school sweetheart Vicki had been the love of his life. But he hadn’t really been there for their whole marriage. And when he was there, well, it was too much for her to handle. Cy hopped over to the couch and begged to be picked up.
Cy had filled a big hole in O’Reilly’s heart. A good dog will do that, too.
O’Reilly felt a storm coming on — the dark times when the post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) were the worst. He had stuck his pistol in his mouth a couple of times. But SEALS don’t quit. And who would feed Cy? So he gave up the booze, put his pistol away and sought help at the VA. If paper work and red tape only cured PTSD, he would be happier than an astronaut in a Tang factory. O’Reilly couldn’t be too mad at the folks at the VA. They had a hard job with lots of customers.
O’Reilly felt like he was fighting this one alone. People just did not care.
Because most Americans had no idea how many veterans were suffering. And most Americans were oblivious there was even a war in Afghanistan. O’Reilly had the same nightmare every night — a small boy shooting at him with an AK-47 assault rifle. O’Reilly picked up his M-4 and began to squeeze the trigger. But before he could shoot, the little boy vaporized into a red mist from the cannon from an orbiting gunship above.
War was Hell and O’Reilly was on an extended tour of duty. He wore his scars on the inside and out . And as tough as he was — and he was tough — this had been the hardest battle he had ever fought.
So he decided to surrender.
“God, it’s me again. Yes, you remember — the one who wanted his wife to be happy? Yeah, you kind of owe me on that one. Look, I kind of have this nightmare-thing going on. I really need it taken care of. And thanks for Cy. I know angels come in four-legs now. Or as in this case, three.”
O’Reilly looked at the picture of his old man. His dad had been in Vietnam — and never said a word about that war. But O’Reilly had heard him crying late at night. His father never had the resources he had. His father’s life had been cut short because of it.
O’Reilly was the one who had found his body in the closet. That was a hell of a thing to do to a 16-year-old. He never could forgive his dad. Now he completely understood.
“I’m a warrior. But please allow me to have a little peace.”
And with that, O’Reilly and Cy drifted off to sleep. The little boy visited him again, but this time did not have a gun. Instead, he held a bouquet of flowers.
This story is inspired by the heroism and sacrifice of so many Americans since 9/11.
National Center for PTSD — Veterans Administration
woundedwear.org Provides free clothing and modifications to wounded warriors and raise national awareness of their sacrifice.
redcirclefoundation.org — helps families of fallen special operators.
Great story.