Psychic Warrior by David Morehouse

shortwave radio, trying to capture news of world events and maybe a story or two of home. At the end of the broadcast each man disappeared into the night, headed for his own platoon and tent. I gazed across the valley, contemplating my brush with death, laboring over my vision of the mist, and the hill, and the strange beings who stood atop it. Their message—what the hell could it have been? What did that mean, “Teach peace”? Had it been a dream, or some random image generated by my mind?
    I gingerly touched the tender spot on my head and found that the knot had receded. With a last look across the valley I crawled into the command post tent and found the opening between bodies that would be my spot to sleep. It had been forty-seven days since we’d last bathed, and the tent reeked of bodies and methane. I laid my head on a rolled poncho, closed my eyes, and thought of home and Debbie and the children.
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    Sometime in the night my eyes opened to a surreal light outside the tent. I figured one of the cooks was lighting the gas stove for breakfast and morning tea. Rising, I crawled over the sleeping bodies of my soldiers and into the fresh air of the night. The light—it was like the light of an eclipsed sun—wasn’t coming from any stove. It filled the night sky. The entire Baten el Ghoul and the hills beyond were painted in the strange bluish gray light; I walked to the edge of the bluff and stared into the valley. Dark figures moved effortlessly across its floor, like apparitions. They poured from the rocks in various heaps and shapes and
moved about the clusters of tents. I could hear muffled cries from the Jordanian encampment, and momentarily I thought we were being overrun by thieves or maybe even Israelis.
    Panicked, I turned to run for help. Colliding with one of the figures, I reflexively closed my eyes—except I didn’t collide. I walked right through it. Turning around I watched the figure disappear over the edge of the bluff.
    Gripped by fear, I thought I must be losing my mind again. I reached for the lump on my head, but it was gone. I dropped to my knees trembling and tried to speak or maybe to pray, but my voice would not come. I lapsed into unconsciousness.
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    A stab of sunlight opened my eyes and I quickly felt the goad of the lump on my head. Christ, what a nightmare , I thought as I crawled out of the tent and staggered toward the cook tent for some tea.
    â€œHow’s your head?”
    It was the battalion surgeon, Doc Mellin. Doc was an interesting fellow, a medical doctor who had volunteered for duty with the Rangers but always looked out of place anyway. He wasn’t the physical specimen his predecessor had been, which motivated him all the more. He enjoyed his work, and that ever-present smile on his face made sure you knew it.
    â€œI guess it’s okay,” I said, rubbing the spot.
    â€œCome on, I’ll buy you a cup of tea.” We dipped our canteen cups into the caldron of tea the cooks had prepared and sat down.
    â€œLet’s take a look at this,” he said, poking the lump mercilessly. Every time he jabbed it I flinched.
    â€œDamn, do you have to poke at it like that? If you want to know if it hurts, the answer is yes,” I said, pushing his hand away.
    â€œDid you have any trouble sleeping last night? Any discomfort, pain, stuff like that?”
    I thought for a moment about divulging my strange experiences.
But if for a second Doc thought I might be hallucinating … well, that would have been the end of me. In the Ranger battalion, men are as expendable as ammunition, and when it comes to the bottom line you’ll be gone and a suitable “healthy” replacement will fill your shoes before you’re even missed.
    â€œNo, nothing unusual happening … a little pain, that’s all. I’ll be fine, just keep that Motrin coming.”
    â€œMorning!” came a voice from behind us. It was