I know I have used this song before to accompany one of my earliest stories, but I find the lyrics are a perfect match for Mick's state of mind after he has weathered some of the worst storms of his life and finds himself permanently marked by the horrifying impact of the war, unsure of what will become of him, burdened with the memory of the dreadful events he has witnessed - "scared of what's behind and what's before". He knows he can't take anything for granted now, but there's one thing he has set his mind on: get his independence back as best he can.

This is the continued story of his struggle back into life.

Mumford & Sons - After the Storm

And after the storm
I run and run as the rains come
And I look up
On my knees and out of luck, I look up

Night has always pushed up day
You must know life to see decay
But I won't rot, I won't rot
Not this mind and not this heart, I won't rot

And I took you by the hand
And we stood tall
And remembered our own land
What we lived for

But there will come a time, you'll see
With no more tears
And love will not break your heart
But dismiss your fears
Get over your hill and see what you find there
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

Now I cling to what I knewI saw exactly what was true, but oh no more
That's why I hold
That's why I hold with all I have
That's why I hold

And I will die alone, and be left there
And I guess I'll just go home
Or God knows where
Because death is just so full, and man's so small
I'm scared of what's behind, and what's before

But there will come a time ...

I was happy.

Blissfully, splendidly happy.

I couldn't remember when I had felt so wonderful before.

Lying on my back in the finest, sun-warmed white sand, I looked up into her face, the tops of lush green palm trees forming a pretty backdrop to her lovely features.

Her wavy red-golden hair had grown very long, and she wore it loose today. I had jokingly tucked a white flower behind her left ear, and she had kept it there.

She was sitting on top of me in all her naked glory, her hands firmly holding on to my shoulders, moving in a harmonious rhythm that sent hot waves of lust and passion rippling wildly through my body.

My own hands rested on her hips, every now and then straying up her back or down along her buttocks, caressing her smooth skin.

It was just the two of us in this leafy cove, us and the sea softly rushing in the background.

Everything was perfect.

Until a sudden whirring noise broke the silence, followed by a deafening explosion.

Don't they say you never hear the one that's got your name on it?

Well, I heard it, and I felt it.

A searing flash of pain tore my world apart, and then there was nothing but me and a small expanse of beach framed by thick shrubs that scared me for some curious reason.

I couldn't hear the sea any more. The palms were gone, and so was she.

Where are you? I wanted to shout but all I managed was a feeble thin wail.

Somebody hoisted me up and carried me away, and I closed my eyes and just let it happen, leaning my head against a broad chest, feeling a hand caress my hair as if I were a small child.

Next thing I knew I was lying on a bed or couch, a large thick pillow beneath my head, and there were agitated voices surrounding me.

A woman was crying while she spoke in an accusing voice, a voice I knew so well but had not heard in years. "It's all your fault, you made him go! And now look at him. He'll never walk again, and it's all your fault. You knew he would go because you had gone, too. He always wanted to be like you, always, and now …"

"Alice, I never forced him to go. He joined up of his own account. He's old enough to know what he's doing." I knew that voice, too. It was low and gravelly just like my own.

Dad.

Another voice chimed in, "And haven't I always told you boys will be boys, they want their adventures, even if they skin their knees or get the sniffles once in a while?"

Before I could sort out what exactly Dan was doing here with my father still around, another female voice shouted, "Cut it out, all of you! Leave the poor boy alone!"

The other three voices erupted in protest, jangling my nerves, and I wanted to block my ears and scream.

All I was able to do however was to crack open my eyes.

There was Grandma, in her grey cardigan and a faded brown apron dress, forcefully shooing the other three away. "Get out! Go, I said! All of you! And quick!"

Finally, after some more squabbling, they obeyed. I caught a glimpse of their backs as they left the room. Dan's thinning blond hair, Mom's elegant brown chignon, and my father's chiselled profile as he looked back at me with an intense, inscrutable expression before he, too, disappeared through the door.

"Evelyn. Where's Evelyn?" I whispered to my grandmother.

She frowned. "Evelyn? Who is Evelyn? Eliza is here, love. She's come back from Boston to be with you, don't you remember? You'll get married once you're better."

"No, Grandma. I can't marry her", I gasped. "I can't …"

The door opened again, letting in the undefined silhouette of a girl and a blinding shaft of sunlight that stung my eyes.

I squeezed them firmly shut.

And awoke, heart pounding, the bright morning sun in my face, glad that it had been nothing but a strange dream once again.

How I wished for all those haunting dreams to end.

Most frequent were jarring nightmares of death and destruction in a jungle setting that made me relive those blackest days of my life and left me drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my chest constricted with the terrible feeling of having failed to protect my boys.

Sometimes I had those beautiful dreams in which everything was fine for a short, blessed while.

Often, I was back on my island, the splendid turquoise sea stretching infinitely before me as I sat in the sand, legs crossed, sorting pearls.

Once, there had been Nell, perched on my knee on a rock by the French seashore, my arms wrapped around her middle, my lips caressing the back of her neck, or me chasing Eliza along the beach in Maine, brandishing a clump of seaweed whose mere sight made her shriek and flee.

In a way, those lovely nightly visitations were just as awful as the nightmares of torn bodies and mortar blasts and desperate comrades crying out for help I couldn't give because I lay just as mangled.

Awaking from one of those was relief.

Awaking from an idyllic dream to dour reality was devastating.

With this weird dream of my family, it was a mixture of both. Being reminded of my loved ones was hard enough, bringing back the pain of having lost all of them before my twenty-first birthday.

Hearing their shouting match in which they tried senselessly to pin the blame for my injury on one another without ever stopping to speak to me had been disturbing, but what stayed with me afterwards was the reassuring feeling of being picked up and carried to safety, the feeling that there was someone who truly cared.

Had it been my father who'd come to get me out of the danger zone?

I remembered how he used to sweep me up in his arms, laughing merrily, and tuck me into bed every evening with a song or two to lull me into sleep, until he went off to the war that took him away forever.

I remembered the one time my mother had let me sleep in her bed, the night after the crushing news from Europe that my father would never come home.

I could almost feel her body curled around me, holding me close, but not too tightly all night long, seeking to assuage the grief and pain both of us felt at my dad's loss.

I rolled over on my left side, pulling up my good leg, cupping the remainder of the other one with my hand. It didn't hurt quite as badly any more now that the wound had pretty much closed over the sutures. The recurring waves of excruciating pain had given way to a dull burning sensation that wasn't even permanent, but I doubted that I'd ever stop flinching when I touched it.

I wished I could be comforted as easily now as all those years ago when a loving cuddle from Mom or Grandma and their assuring that everything would be alright had sufficed to cure almost every ill.

Would I have wanted either of them to see me like this?

It would have broken my mother's heart to find some of her worst fears confirmed – that the horrible incident she'd always dreaded had indeed come to pass and left me, the son she had always treasured so much and sought so obsessively to keep safe from every kind of harm, disfigured and disabled.

No, she wouldn't have been able to give me much solace. Her sorrow would have made things worse for me, not better.

But Grandma - she would have done it right. How I would have loved to go home to the little house in Maine to recuperate under her care.

I could see her very vividly in my mind's eye, a small pragmatic woman with a stentorian voice, busily fussing about me, spoiling me with food and trying to make me as comfortable as she possibly could, all the while chattering ceaselessly, which would have got on Grandpa's nerves.

Grandpa.

What would he do if he saw me now?

In his way, he had been the sensitive one among the two of them, particularly when it was about me, a fact he knew to hide well. Or so he thought.

He'd have sat with me as often as he could, grimly optimistic, pointing out all the silver linings of the large black cloud that had come over me, telling me I'd run five miles in record time once I had got used to my prosthetic leg, and then he'd have excused himself, presumably for a visit to the bathroom or to go fetch me a drink or a book or something, but he would have gone outside to puff his pipe instead, angrily wiping the moisture from his sharp blue eyes from whose corners the wrinkles radiated like dark sun's rays, deepened by this typical seafarer's squint.

After a few minutes, he'd have come back inside to give me another pep talk, thinking I hadn't seen through him.

Too bad that this was merely a mind game. Grandma's common sense and practical support as well as Grandpa's staunch backing and belief in me might have been just what I needed to get through this, back into a halfway normal life, but they were long gone.

Most of my fellow wounded servicemen had someone to come home to, someone they loved, someone they trusted, someone who would be shocked at first to see their wounds and scars and disfigurements but would also be ready to assist with what they couldn't do on their own, to encourage and support them without being patronizing or overly commiserative – a wife, a girlfriend, a mother, a family or at least a close friend or two.

I had no one.

Or rather, no one to come home to, no one whose whereabouts I knew.

No one who knew where I was and what had happened to me.

No one who even knew I was alive.

I tried to shake the thought of Evelyn. After all, I had decided long ago that I did not want her to see me like that.

Another realization struck me hard, something I had not thought of before.

There might have been someone else to come home to if I had not lost touch with them all these years ago.

Jess and Janie.

I wondered if I should make another attempt at tracking down the girls.

But no, I couldn't.

Apart from not knowing where to start, what would I do in the unlikely case I succeeded? Call them up and say, "Sorry you haven't heard from me for so long, but it would be so nice to see you again. Oh, and by the way, I've been crippled in the war, so could you please look after me a bit?"

Ridiculous.

I should have tried to find them much earlier. It was too late now.

Too late to search for my sisters, too late to search for Evelyn.

I'd have to make it alone, again.

I would have trouble living on my own, at least in the beginning, but I guessed I would be okay eventually, kind of. After all, I was no stranger to solitude, and it might be better if I learned quickly to get by without help. Better than burdening someone else with my useless presence.

Amelia's breezy voice shook me out of my morose musing. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Don't you want to get up for your big day?"

Oh crap.

The bizarre dream and the chain of thoughts it had set off had entirely taken my mind off the great event, although everyone had been talking of little else during the last few days, ever since it had transpired that some Army general was passing through Brisbane on his way back to the States and was planning to visit the hospital for a belated Purple Heart ceremony. And it wasn't enough just to have him walk through the wards and pin the medals to the men's pillows the way these things were usually done. No, someone had decided to make a big fuss and have a celebration in the hospital gardens.

Most of the staff were mightily excited about the upcoming ceremony, Raffles in particular. She had made anyone with more than an inch of hair on their heads get a haircut in honour of the occasion, and everyone who was able to was expected to wear their best uniforms.

I thought the whole thing was pretty overrated, and so I told Amelia sarcastically, "You know just how keen I am on that piece of brass." I grimaced. "As if I needed a stupid medal to make people see that I haven't survived that fucking war unscathed."

"Come on", she said. "You know you deserve a bit of recognition for all you've been through. Eat your breakfast, I'll be back later with your fancy clothes."

When she returned, she brought along my dress uniform. She brushed it out carefully while I took care of the shoes. I had asked her to let me do that, for some reason I didn't know myself.

It was strange to see my pair of brown dress shoes, as good as new, fully aware that I might never wear the right one again. I spit-shined it anyway, it would have felt wrong not to.

I took my time about it, working so slowly that Amelia finally snatched the second shoe, which I had been polishing for minutes, away from me and resolutely said, "That's enough now, you're gonna wear out the leather if you keep on like that. Time to rise and shine in that uniform of yours."

"Which I can't even put on without help", I retorted acidly.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't sell yourself short, Carpenter. I know you can manage alone very well. Go ahead and prove it." She laid the jacket out on the bed along with the rest of the uniform and crossed her arms over her chest.

Of course, she was right. I'd had plenty of time to learn to get dressed by myself, and the only thing she did for me was fold up and fasten the empty trouser leg. This was a task I happily left her to do. It always made me cringe because it rendered my disability so blatantly evident.

When she was finished, she had me stand up and stepped back to give me the once-over, her head cocked to one side. After she had adjusted my tie by some fraction of an inch, she nodded, satisfied. "That's a handsome corporal", was her tongue-in-cheek verdict. "A picture-book hero."

"Yeah, sure. Just a little damaged, this hero is. But the medal he's gonna get today will certainly put things right", I replied scathingly.

She gave me a piercing look, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, I know. I should be glad I'm still alive", I sighed. "But to be honest, I'd be even gladder if I'd been spared the honour of being a hero and seen my boys survive instead. And I'd have preferred to walk out of that shit on my own two legs, too."

"Of course. I wasn't meaning to say you wouldn't." She narrowed her eyes, straightened up on her tiptoes and gently nudged my cap into the perfect angle on my head. "But still I want you to look your best today … and yes, I know what you're thinking. You're not bowing out, Corporal! I want you to go out there and collect your medal. It may not mean anything to you now but maybe it will later. When you show it off to your grandkids, for example."

This was not the time to tell her there would be no grandkids. She didn't know I had no family, at least none I was still in touch with, and that it was highly unlikely I'd ever be a father. And it was time to go outside anyway.

It was a perfect spring day with a sky of such deep cerulean blue that it almost looked artificial, flecked with just a few little white fair-weather clouds.

Three rows of mismatched folding chairs had been set up on the lawn in a wide half-circle, facing a low dais, and there was even a long table of refreshments to one side, complete with spotless white linen and some towering flower arrangements.

With cheery birdsong filling the air and the sweet scent of various bushes and trees in full bloom, the small hospital gardens seemed ready to host a lavish wedding or a festive birthday party.

The only thing that disturbed this illusion were all the cripples flocking to the place. They came limping on crutches and walking sticks, or they walked flawlessly but cradled a slung arm or tried to hold a bandaged head or scarred face up high as they gradually filled the rows of chairs while the wheelchairs of those too weak or too mangled to walk were lined up at the edges.

Welcome to the parade of heroes, I thought sarcastically. What a lovely little freak show.

Brian waved to me from the middle of the second row, signalling me that he had saved a seat for me. I shook my head and gestured at the crutches. With most other chairs in the row already taken, I didn't want to run the risk of tripping on anyone's foot or crutch and go down yet again, with everybody looking on. Instead, I settled for a place at the back and hoped it would be over soon.

Brigadier General Anthony C. Lewis arrived at ten o'clock sharp, an imposing figure, tall and erect in his impeccable uniform. His aide-de-camp looked dwarfed next to him, a diminutive dark-haired man with twinkly eyes and a slight but noticeable limp who wore a lieutenant's insignia.

Lewis greeted the crowd in the rousing tone of a man used to speaking in public and launched into an address extolling the virtues and courage of the American soldier and waxing lyrical about the U.S.'s brave fight against Hitler and his cronies, sprinkling in a few jokes that were rather lame but set off loud ripples of laughter nevertheless.

I thought the best thing about the speech was that it was mercifully short.

Afterwards, Lewis did his circuit, with his sidekick carrying along the box of medals, and pinned one after the other to the breasts of uniform jackets and bathrobes alike.

I was among the last to receive theirs. I nodded to the general's irrelevant congratulations and praise and politely thanked him.

When they had gone on to the next man, I wryly glanced down at the brass heart gleaming on my chest and felt nothing special at the sight.

Should I be proud now? Happy? Exhilarated?

What difference did a Purple Heart make to my fucked-up existence?

It would neither get me a job nor make me whole again.

In fact, this bit of ribbon and metal was a very small compensation for an amputated leg and a heap of broken dreams.

Barely waiting for the ceremony to end, I sidled away to duck into the shadow of a big frangipani tree where I had glimpsed a few spare chairs.

Most of the other attendees were milling around the table of refreshments across the lawn, and I thought myself alone and undetected when I sat down, leaned the crutches against the tree trunk and searched my pockets for a smoke, cursing under my breath when I realized I'd left my cigarettes in the khaki pants I usually wore.

"What are you doing here all alone, Corporal?" a bright voice called out.

Turning my head, I saw the limping lieutenant, Lewis's aide-de-camp, approaching briskly.

I gave him a weary look and a little shrug. I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

The man wasn't easily deterred. Instead of leaving me alone, which was what I'd hoped for, he pulled up a chair, asking belatedly, "May I?"

I shrugged again and said noncommittally, "Feel free."

He sat down and prodded once more, "Won't you join the celebration?"

"I don't think there's much to celebrate about getting hit by a sniper and even less about being short of a leg", I replied moodily.

The lieutenant remained unfazed. "Hey, chin up, Corporal. You may not be going back to battle – figuratively speaking, of course, not that there'd be any need for anyone to go to battle right now – but you can be sure to have a good life ahead of you, despite that." He gestured at my stump, and before I could argue that he had no goddamn idea what he was talking about, he had hitched up the hem of his left trouser leg to show the metal glint of an artificial limb.

A stupidly surprised "Oh" was all I managed.

"Ripped off right below the knee. Mortar shell at Utah Beach, no half-hour after we'd landed", he said matter-of-factly and dropped the neatly creased cloth back over the prosthetic leg. "I know it's not something you can imagine now, having a good life. I remember very well how I was feeling at first when they told me they had not been able to save my leg. And yes, of course there are a few things you and I won't be doing again, but there's a lot more you can actually still do. You'll get used to your prosthetic leg, they're pretty good these days, you'll go back to work, and there will be nothing to keep you from having a fairly normal life. You'll see you can really do most anything you want to do. Exercise. Swim. Drive a car. Oh, and what's most important of course, make love to your woman." At that, he flashed me a conspiratorial grin.

I knew I would not make love to my woman again – any woman, in fact, unless I came across some pervert with a particular penchant for cripples.

The thought of sharing Evelyn's bed again the invalid I had become, a penniless embittered ruin with nothing to my name but difficulties and pain and a bunch of dreadful indelible memories I'd have preferred to forget, was so grotesque, so absurd, that I gave a cynical joyless snort of laughter.

"Don't take it personal, Lieutenant", I said by way of explanation when he gave me a puzzled look, "but I guess you and I are too different by far for this conversation to lead anywhere. It's nice of you to try and cheer me up, and thanks for that nice little heart, too, but I don't think you can actually help me much. Unless the Army has a special program for rehabilitating one-legged pearl divers, my life is screwed up, whatever you say. I don't assume there is a training scheme for learning to sail and swim and dive with your leg chopped off at the thigh?" I raised an ironic eyebrow.

"I fully understand, Corporal", he said, a little sobered, leaned over and patted me on the shoulder. "You haven't quite come to terms with your new situation. That's okay. Take your time about it, but don't give up on yourself too easily. I didn't come to accept my injury over night either, but now my life is fine again, really."

"Well, that's great for you. With two real knees remaining and a comfy job, you've got a little advantage over me. And please don't start to give me any crap about how losing your leg was actually a stroke of luck", I added crabbily. "That's not going to comfort me because I'm not going to believe it. If you'll excuse me now?"

I hastily reached for my crutches in an attempt to rise and leave swiftly, but all I managed was to knock one of them to the ground. So much for a dignified exit.

The lieutenant was quick to help me, but I didn't appreciate his assistance except for a clipped "Thanks". Feeling humiliated again, I hobbled off, half expecting him to follow me. Thank God he didn't.

I decided it might be best to blend in with the crowd in order to remain unmolested by well-meaning strangers. I saw Ronnie Craven waving at me from where he was sitting with a cluster of other roommates and made my way across the lawn to join them.

Someone had organised a gramophone and put on a swing record, music I would have loved if I could have felt it the way I used to.

Sadly, for some reason, music had ceased to move me, and the lively tune completely failed to lift my spirits.

I had always needed music around me, all my life. My father's lullabies in earliest childhood were among my most treasured memories of him, and the piano had been what saw me through many bouts of homesickness in Missouri. Music had helped me earn my living in Portland, and the old gramophone and the collection of more or less scratched records had been my only little luxury in my island home.

Now I was unable to relate to the music, it left me completely cold. I heard it all right, but it didn't get through to me. It was merely background noise at best and extremely unnerving at worst. Sometimes, when I'd sat on my bench outside the kitchens and had heard the same popular hits blaring through an open window over and over, I wanted to go in and smash something, preferably the radio.

Brian beamed at me when I sat next to him and proudly showed me his Purple Heart.

"Now you're officially a hero, mate", I said with a smile, trying to hide how much it saddened me to see his child-like enthusiasm about a medal commemorating the wound that had left his body almost intact but cost him a good part of his sanity.

"You're a hero, too", he replied with a big grin and pointed at my chest. "Where have you been all the time? Have you had a sandwich? They're great!"

When I shook my head, he jumped up and dashed to the buffet to get me a sandwich and a drink.

I watched him with a wistful eye. What was to become of the poor chap with his little-boy mind once he was discharged?

And what was to become of me?

I chewed on the sandwich Brian had brought me, but I couldn't have said what it tasted like.

This incessant wheel of miserable thoughts was rotating in my head again, and I took my leave of my comrades rather fast when I'd finished eating in order to absent myself from the merry crowd and sneak back inside, to be alone in the ward for once. I was sure nobody would miss me out there.

I was halfway down the corridor when I heard some ominous creaking from behind and a voice shouted, "Out of the way, Carpenter!"

Bill Adams and his buddy, Frank Finnegan, came racing along the linoleum floor in their wheelchairs. I flattened myself against the wall as best I could to avoid getting bowled over, shaking my head half exasperated, half amused as I watched them whiz around the corner.

I had not yet made it to my destination when they came back at a somewhat lower speed. Bill stopped in front of me and grinned, "Why don't you get yourself a chair and join us?"

I couldn't help smiling wryly at his exuberance and replied, "Jeez, Bill, you know I'm too old for that kind of crap. You two go bash your heads in all you want. You're hardly more than kids after all."

"Watch it, old man!" Bill hollered cheerfully, pointing a finger at me, his mischievous dark eyes sparkling. "This kid's a staff sergeant!"

"Yeah, sure. Can't salute you with my hands full, though. Now go back outside to play, kiddo."

Frank, the taller and quieter of the two, chuckled. "Good one, Carpenter." Punching his friend in the arm, he added, "Serves you right, Staff Sergeant William J. Big Mouth!"

Bill stuck his tongue out at him, and they set off for the gardens once more, both of them laughing.

I envied them at this moment.

They had each other, had been as close as Saint and I since their basic training, and they had even been wounded together, in the same battle, on the same day. Bill had got hit badly in the thigh when he tried to rescue Frank whose left leg had been torn away by a mortar shell, and both of them had ended up just like me, with one leg amputated above the knee.

They didn't seem to take it as hard as I did. I wished I had their youthful resilience. They still seemed to view life as a big adventure and their serious injuries merely as a hurdle to get over and go on pretty much as before.

I had once overheard Bill trying to comfort his Australian girlfriend who had come to see him. She had appeared much more devastated about the loss of his leg than he did himself. He was that kind of guy, always hopeful, determined to make the best of any situation, bouncing back astonishingly fast, and his positive attitude seemed to rub off on Frank who would have enough reason to complain and pity himself, a young man of twenty-two with a leg gone and tiny shrapnel splinters lodged painfully in the flesh all over his body.

I wished I could take a page of those kids' playbook. But maybe I just wasn't born that way.