Bernhard StoEver - Medusa´s child

The night nurse at her side nodded equably, "life is a powerful engine. What should happen to him? "

"He stays in intensive care, has to make an effort if he wants to get through." The two women left the sickroom without looking back.

The patient struggling with death got nothing from the conversation. He drifted helplessly in the maelstrom of his memories, until long past events flooded his consciousness and brought back to life. They cried out for a short moment and then disappeared silently in a wide blue ocean. And then that ended, too.

+

She had approached him a few months after his return from Vietnam. Early in the morning at Rudi's Bar, where hooked, whores and lots of weird people met to share trivialities. But what did words mean? Mostly nothing! This accumulation of failed lives gave him something an uprooted veteran could hardly find in the maw of a middle-class bourgeoisie. Therefore, `mental instability´ was the diagnosis that he was confronted with. He could not even grin about that, in Vietnam there was no psychic stability. The naked madness was the rule. That was probably why they deported him home. Because of his madness. The transition came creeping, he aimed not only at his opponents, but at everything that moved. He became a ticking time bomb, even for his own comrades. He got the ticket for the flight home and an application form for free, psychological care. The state cares about his children. Of course, they gave him a medal. Only the kick in the ass they denied him, but that would probably too much of a good thing.

It was an amazing woman that caught his attention. Dark-haired, around the thirty, elegant. She smiled at him as if there was something about him that was worthy of being smiled at. Nevertheless, he felt flattered. Sure, he was a man and had felt the Viet Cong on his neck for five years. Five years without women, if he ignored the short breaks in Saigon.

She was not a whore, unfortunately. And she did not want to have sex with him, despite her lewdly smile. She just wanted to bait him. He begrudged her this triumph. As the obedient servant of the state, she invited him to the CIA building for the next day to protect the national interests of the United States, as she frankly called it.

It was clear to him what that meant, they were once again looking for a crazy war hero, who was still prepared killing people, solve them from living. What a fucking shit. But as already mentioned, the lady was exceptionally attractive. She looked serious and a little slutty, a provocative combination. Her tight T-shirt invited him to direct his view to the essentials, at least that's how she presented herself.

He did her the favour. She believed that her stiff nipples would knock him out. But fact was, he just waited to take on a new task. He had failed in civilian life, had not even tried. How should that even go? Subordinated himself to a hairless office stallion? No way. He was a lone wolf and would always be. And he was proud of it. It was a huge task for him to shape the future in a way that it became his own.

The next morning, when he entered the CIA building, two cheap suits with corresponding average faces awaited him in the entrance hall. The building was an imposing block of tinted glass and polished steel. They took him in the middle and led him across a brightly lit corridor to an unadorned door that bore no signage. Without knocking on the door, they entered the loveless furnished office, which did not try to intend to overtax the two agents either visually nor intellectually.

The attractive lady from the bar, her name was Pamela Smith, was already there. She stood at the window, winking confidentially. She had forced her figure into a dark blue trouser suit that never had the task of hiding something of her.

The older of the two agents cleared his throat, pointing to the chair in front of his desk, urging O'Maley to sit down. He introduced himself as Jack Taylor. The other called himself John White. How original, Smith, Taylor and White. Number one, two and three on the popularity scale of American names. There was a small folder in front of them on the table. O'Maley could see the passport photo attached to the upper right corner. It showed the face of a young man, it was his face.

The one who called himself Taylor picked up the folder and opened it, "we know everything about you, well, nearly everything. Various youth homes, car thefts and minor crimes, and again and again violent acts. Then prison and early release for good behaviour. Ten months mercenary in Central Africa. Entry into the army. In Vietnam they discovered your special talent. No one had achieved more kills than you before ... ", he kept flipping through the pages, more out of embarrassment than of curiosity, because he knew what was in it and went on, "before you," his voice lost intensity, "became mentally unstable."

Surely he was afraid O'Maley might do violence to him, as unstable as he was. Taylor was not completely wrong with it, of course O'Maley could do it. Because of this talent they had called him. So, what did this three monkeys want from him? He leaned back and made himself comfortable. Then he waited patiently. After a pause of silence the younger continued, "do you like Negroes?"

The question surprised him. Three pairs of eyes watched him intently, then White reached for the folder, flipping through it as if he were interested in the content. "Here is written you released a black sergeant from a Viet Cong prison camp, remarkable!"

O'Maley seemed to think for a moment, then broke his silence. "It was a normal deed, not worth mentioning."

"What does it mean not worth mentioning? You risked your live for a Negro."

"Blood is red. And besides, he belonged to my unit. Therefore I did not asked about the number of his pigments."

"And in Saigon, in a brawl involving Marines, you fought against your own people."

This aimless chatter bugged O'Maley. What did these guys want from him? He was convinced that they knew the war only from TV. The jungle through which the two had ever had to crawl, were the table legs in nightclubs after a wild session.

O'Maley leaned forward and glared at Taylor. Slowly he lost patience. His voice spat ice cubes, "now get out of it, what's up?"

"Enough, it's enough." Pamela hurriedly left her seat at the window, sat down on the side of the desk and crossed her hot legs. Then she looked at him seriously. She came to the point immediately, "we have a national problem. And we need your help, that's why we turn to you.” Her voice was tight, but fell silent again. The whole situation was grotesque, like in a bad script.

"Silence is of no use to you or me," O'Maley grumbled angrily, rising from his chair and furiously arranging his going.

Pamela hopped off the desk and ran after him, "O'Maley, wait, please!"

He looked at her as if she wanted to drag him into a confessional, but then decided to sit again, "all right, I'm listening."

Pamela breathed with relief. It seemed to O´Maley that they really needed his help. Then she continued, "you have to understand that, it is clear from the report that you have volunteered for military service, but it appears that you changed your mind. On several occasions you said that America has no business in Vietnam, that it's a war against humanity. And then your obsession for Negroes. Not to mention the other things.”

Of course she meant his state of mind. In extreme situations, he tended to simplify complex situations to facilitate quick action. Ostensibly an advantage as long as you were on your own. In fact, a significant risk factor when acting within a group.

"If you consider statements about war as a yardstick for loyalty, you can send most of our boys home. And if you want to know if I'm loyal, I can assure you, I am. But," he paused, "I don´t want that anyone dictate me what is right for my life, especially not you. I'll make that decision all by myself, you understand." His voice quivered with anger. He wanted to be free, but he also knew that true freedom can only be found beyond the walls built by himself. No, it was this narrow-minded complacency that sparked resistance in him. He loved his country, had fought and killed for it. It was also his America.