The Haunting Hero

“ . . . up, you old fool.”

“Ooowww! Quit poking me. Why don’t ya just use a cattle prod? Damn, woman! I was sound asleep.”

“Well, I wasn’t, thanks to you screaming, ‘Run, George!  Run!’ It’s that same nightmare again, ain’t it?” 

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh. You can‘t lie to me, Thomas. Not after forty years of putting up with your foolishness. Sit up and look at me.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m looking. What do ya want?”

“You’re soaking wet. I can smell the fear coming off of you.”

“For Christ’s sake, Wilma, the sun’s not even up yet. Now, go back to sleep and give me some peace.”

“Not til you tell me who the hell ’George’ is and what this is all about.”

“It’s nothing. I don’t even remember the dream now.”

“I think you need to see one of those head-doctors. Maybe they can help.”

“I don’t need some cocky shrink, half my age, snooping into my brain. Now, I said let it go.”

“Fine, go ahead and scare me half to death with your wailing. I might as well set the coffee pot to perking since we’re wide awake.”

Thomas listened to the old stairs creak as Wilma plodded down to the kitchen.  He dropped back on his pillow and stared at the blackness against the window. 

The dream was still fresh—an undeletable recording activated by an uncontrollable remote at unannounced show-times. On the screen in the theater of his mind, he watched Corporal George McClain distract the Vietcong by noisily zigzagging through the jungle, allowing Thomas and his fellow Marines to quietly escape in the opposite direction.

The report of the AK-47s still echoed in his ears, long after McClain's body was recovered and sent home to rest.