Chapter 3

It was three days later that I succeeded with the Magic Eye book. Inside the picture of the coffee beans was a cup with steam coming out of it. It was amazing how it worked: you had to look through the picture to see the hidden picture inside the picture. The downside being it hurt if I looked at too many pictures. I mean it hurt my head inside. When the throbbing started, I closed the book and shut my eyes. These mental gymnastics were a new experience for me.

The days worked into weeks and I was transferred out of the hospital and back to the base I was stationed at before my last deployment to Iraq. Rather than being posted to the usual barracks, I was assigned a single room. I didn't like it. No one to talk to or associate with. I knew the army was separating me from the men going into battle. I could agree and disagree with what they were doing, but I am a soldier and obey orders.

I fell into a good routing of getting up in the morning, after breakfast having one hour with Dr. McGonagall, time for army lectures and basic group training, then lunch and another hour with Dr. McGonagall. Then I went to the gym to work out. I was assigned a personal trainer to make sure I worked the right muscles in the right way and not do anything stupid to my head.

It was about the eight weeks after my accident that I started to get the flashbacks. I think it was about the same time I had finally gotten all the drugs out of my system as I was starting to feel good, working out and getting back into things. The nightmares were bad, really bad because I had no memory to compare against. They were dreams of epic proportion and magnitude and so, so real. I started to wake up in the middle of the night fighting the wind and screaming. I was seeing fire fights for the first time… dead and decapitated people… kids getting blown away… and the noise of screaming people. So real, so tangible, so terrible. Along with the sights and sounds came the smell. The smell of death and decay, the smell of puke and the smell of fear. Your bet, flashbacks are everything they are cranked up to be. I would sit on the bed shaking so badly I held on to the frame for support. Slowly it would subside and I would clean up the puke off the floor, take a shower and lie back down on the bed trying to forget but never succeeding. I kept thinking to myself if these were real or make-believe dreams. But if they were make-believe dreams, why were they so real and keep coming back night after night.

Dr. McGonagall wanted to try drugs to see if they helped the nightmares, but I was against it. Drugs are really scary. In some ways the drugs given me in the hospital were worse then the flashbacks and bad dreams I was having.

It was at this time found sleeping on the floor gave me a better night's sleep. Something about being close to Mother Earth and not falling out of bed… Whatever the reason, I made my bed on the floor and the nightmares did not seem so severe.

Despite short nights, I was getting back into the swing of life. The army lectures I attended were interesting and I grasped the points easily, almost instinctively. It was all there, locked in my head, popping out with a little prodding. I was making progress but I knew my days as an active front line soldier were at an end when I was assigned to view a squad. Viewing did not have a very military sound to it, so I was loose with the activities.

Since I had time on my hands I gravitated over to the firing range. I found I was a pretty good marksman in all three positions. There was satisfaction in finding something I was good at as an army grunt. I started to ask about sniper qualifications. I mean to say, if I can't see action, at least I could work in another area of the fight. The real reason was, I didn't want to loose the security of the army.

My other free time was spent trying to find out who John Tyree was. I don't want to say it was a purely academic study, but there were elements of detachment. I was interested, but it did not feel personal to me. Like if you poke yourself, you see the action and feel the pain. Here I could see the action, but there was no pain.

I was allowed to re-read my files: my abridged files. It had been edited in certain areas. The army is careful like that. The files covered so many interesting facts that I started to play games with myself to see how much I could remember of what I had read. Every now and again I would read something and 'things' would start to stir inside. It is hard to explain. I tried talking to Dr. McGonagall about it, but failed. She then explained it to me. She said that each memory had one or more 'triggers'. These are sights or sounds or whatever that point to a specific memory and want to bring it from the background of our minds to the forefront, so we could relive the event again. Somehow, my connections between the 'triggers' and the memory were not working.

Many sessions with Dr. McGonagall were spent on discussing the past, present and future. To be exact, my past, present and future. As she explained it, at the moment my known past was contained in files, folders and with other people out there. The present is where I was living and creating fresh memories. The future is mine to make. "You have two choices," Dr. McGonagall said, "to search out your past and see if that brings back your memories. Or close that door and start afresh." Despite making good progress, I was still scared inside. I didn't know what I wanted. I did not know if I had the nerve to dig up the past or take the easy way out and start afresh.

My personal kit was shipped from Iraq to me in Germany. There was not much. Clothes, washing kit, letters, no photos and no wallet. I thought, "The old John Tyree believed in traveling light." Most of the letters were from my father, a few from his lawyer William Benjamin, and no one else. I was wondering why? Didn't I have any other family? What about friends? What about girls? Surely I had a girl…

Reading through my father's old letters, and there were quite a few, they came across as stilted and sort of limited. I must have read them at least ten times to try and get a flavor of the man. The letters were a real and a solid connection with the past, despite my father being dead. Amongst his letters was an envelope containing a Buffalo head nickel accompanied by a photo of a young John Tyree with a younger version of, I assumed, my father. On the back of the photo was the word, Atlanta. I stared at the photo as that was all I had of my past that I could actually see. I had no memory of the coin or photo, but I knew they were important to John Tyree as he had kept them, so I kept them.

The letters from the lawyer were confirmation of instructions and copies of items signed. Now I had the name of William Benjamin, lawyer, along with his phone number and e-mail address. "Cool," was how I thought of the new discovery.

The internet is an absolute dream. I hit it hard. Searching, chasing, trying to find thing and looking at anything that might help. Through the internet I was slowly becoming familiar with Wilmington, North Carolina. I could see the hospital where I was born. All the schools I attended and my father's house. I found the realtor who bought the house and he e-mailed me photos of the emptied home and the selling flyer. I had strong stirrings and knew what to expect as I clicked open the photos. I knew what was around the corners even though the photo didn't go there. I knew the plants and holes in the yard. I knew this place! The old memories were moving and I could feel them walking about inside. It was exciting, thrilling, and scary all at the same time. I never thought the word 'home' would mean so much.

I sent a long e-mail to the lawyer William Benjamin explaining the situation. I didn't want to do that but Dr. McGonagall insisted I be open and honest and allow others to help. I wanted to hide behind the distance between Germany and Wilmington. Of course, she was right. The first e-mail back from William Benjamin set out the legal principles of client-lawyer relationship and the fact that the law has no presidents addressing the same person suffering a memory lapse. Since there was no loss of mental capacity at the time of the incident, it was, in William Benjamin's humble opinion, perfectly legal for him to discuss the probate of my father's estate with me. I punched the air in jubilation. I was making progress! Next I asked him if he could scan in all the documents he had of father's estate and send them to me. The initial reply was sure, but it would be a few days. Having time on my hands, that was not a problem.

Once I settled in, I started to talk to long term people at the base to see if anyone remembered me. The place was so transient that I hit dead ends all over the place. While asking about, several soldiers told me it was common for men to shred odds and ends before deployment to Iraq. People cleaning up their past… just in case. It sort of made sense. I hoped John Tyree did not have a messy past that needed to be shredded… and I continued to wonder about my wallet. I know it is a guy thing, but every guy has a wallet but me.

As Dr. McGonagall pointed out, one day I will have to go back to Wilmington, North Carolina. That was where I was born and, hopefully, old friends were still living, and old places that once were familiar to me. The thought of Wilmington gave me the chills. The unknown with all its connotations really did frighten me. Despite my fears, I knew she was right.

I had been back at the base about a couple of weeks when Peter the mechanic asked me a question, "O.G., are you ever going to get back on your Harley? Or do you want to sell it?" People were calling me O.G. after Phantom of the Opera. I have seen the movie many times and love it: except in the end. The Phantom doesn't get the girl!

"Harley?" I asked, "What Harley?"

"The one over in the corner." With that Peter pointed to the far corner of his shop and a tarp over the shape of a motorcycle. I jumped up and walked over. Everyone else followed. I whipped back the tarp to see a shiny solidly build Harley Davidson motorcycle. Instinctively I knew it was mine and how to ride it. Without a second though I swung my leg over and settled into the seat. Damn, it felt good! I turned the key and the Harley roared into life. The noise of the grumble 'V' was soft music to my ears. I kicked it into gear, eased out of the shop, and was off around the base. All day long I went here and there on the Harley, nothing could get me off except meal time. Reluctantly I parked it back in the corner, turned the key off and got ready to toss the tarp over it. Before I did, I opened the two saddle bags and hunted about. Stale food, marked up maps, rags, tools, a cell phone, top-up cards, and a wallet. Not just any wallet, it was my wallet. I was excited as I flipped it open to see my driving license, money, several old photos of me and my surf board, one business card that said, Fritz Esser, Pig Farmer and a well worn piece of paper that had a list of dates starting back on June 16, 2000 and going through each month until December 2010. All the dates up to the time of my accident had a small dot against them.

I thought I had hit the jackpot. Finally, here was something tangible; something sold from my past. Something I could get my teeth into and chew on. I started off with the easy stuff.

The driver's license was a typical North Carolina issue and looks like I had several years before renewal. Flipping it over I noticed I had agreed to be an organ donor and I had DNR checked. A cold tingle ran up and down my spine. At least the old John Tyree was willing to do his bit for someone else. I was not sure if I was. The crappy photograph was the last one taken of the old John Tyree with an unscarred face. I studied it long and hard. This is what I looked like, this was the old me: there was absolutely no connection between me and the face in the driver's license.

Then I slipped out the three photos of me at the beach with a long surf board. They were not close-up shots, but they were of me. "Cool," I thought, "I like to surf. I must give it a try one day." The body was a little thinner, fewer tattoos, longer hair, and a deep sun tan. "Beach bum," I muttered to the photos as I flipped through them time after time. In one of the photos I could see a pier in the distance. I knew that pier and I knew I had fond memories of it. What those memories were, I didn't know.

And finally I came to the business card. There was a name, profession and a telephone number. I stood there actually shaking. My whole body was starting to go into a nervous spasm. I was staring at the first real confrontation with my past. Then I shook it out of me. The thought of a pig farmer being in my past was too far fetched to be real. Curiosity got the better of me so I sat down on an oil drum and pulled out the maps to see where this pig farmer lived. My German was non-existent so a road trip was needed.

The calendar dates were a puzzle, I had no clue what they could mean, but I was willing to give the internet a crack at it.

While waking back to the barracks I tried turning on the cell phone. It was dead. I soon found the charger was missing, so I bought a new one at the PX. The majority of calls were to the pig farmer. For some reason my past lay there.

At my next meeting with Dr. McGonagall I placed the wallet down on the table and started to go through the items. The driver's license and business card did not bother her, but the list of dates did. I knew they bothered her by the way she moved and flitted her hands about. I had gotten to know Dr. McGonagall pretty well through our sessions, and I knew she was bothered. She dismissed the dates as not important and concentrated on the business card. We chatted away for quite a while and it was getting close to the end of our session when she asked me a rather pointed question, "Do you really want to know the old John Tyree?" There was a pause. "What I am saying is, what you are now may not be the same as what you used to be. The old you might not match the new you. Can you face it?"

"Do I have a choice?" I replied slowly. "Then again I'm not sure I want to live a life half missing. It might be good or bad… just look at these tattoos," I added rolling up my sleeve, "Why did I get these? There's a story and it's my story. I hope I am man enough to take it. If not, I shall visit you in Scotland, take your pills and be happy."

With reticence in her voice Dr. McGonagall said, "Oh, go. Go and see what the past holds for you."

"Really?"

Softly she added, "Go and see. If you miss this opportunity, who knows what you have missed and then you will regret it the rest of your life.

"Cool," Was all I could mutter. "But what if…"

"No!" she cut in quickly, "There is no but's or if's." She was standing very close to me. "There is only 'do it'. Don't regret taking the chance. Don't regret taking the risk. Don't regret living your life." Her face was only inches from mine. Her eyes were intense, her lips forming the words so perfectly, her breath flowing on to my face as she spoke. All I could think of was this hunk of a husband tossing the caber in my face and dancing the highland jig on my grave!

I took a gulp of air and moved slightly backward. I composed myself quickly as I said, "Only if you feel it is the best."

"I do." She said most softly as she held my eyes with hers. The way she said those two words, I was sure we were talking at cross purposes.

It was getting hot in there and I needed to get out. I stood to attention, saluted and scooted out.

I didn't realize I would never see Dr. McGonagall again. Her work with me was basically done and her tour of duty was coming to an end.

Soon Dr. McGonagall would head back to Glasgow, Scotland and the HIV Counseling Clinic down the Great Western Road. She rented one room out of a flat in Hillhead Street and bought enough messages for one. Her favorite drink was Irn Bru and she read The Broons and Oor Wullie every Sunday. She would constantly read and re-read her medical notes on Sergeant John Tyree and forever regret wearing her mother's old wedding ring.