Fiddler’s Green

The first thing Manuel noticed was the lack of pain. This pleasantly surprised him. The next thing he noticed was he was walking. This was also a surprise, since he hadn’t been able to do that for nearly a year. Then another surprise, he realized he was wearing his old SEAL  uniform – tactical pants, sleeveless vest, boots and green boonie hat. He knew he should be concerned, but somehow it didn’t seem important. 

He looked around. Impenetrable white fog surrounded him. All he could see was the cobble stone path beneath his feet, leading steadily downward. He continued walking mechanically, as he considered his situation. He had been in the hospital, lying in bed, cancer eating away at him, his body wracked by an agony the drugs could barely dent.  

Maria had been there, he remembered. So had their kids. Eleven-year-old Tomas, fighting  tears and trying to be a man. Five-year-old Consuela, crying and begging him not to go. His parents had been there too, his mother weeping into his father’s chest. They had been saying their goodbyes. Maria had been holding his hand, tears running down her face. He remembered  telling them it would be okay, that they would be fine, but his voice came out as a whisper.  Then…

Then he was here, walking down a path through the fog. Oh, okay, now it all made sense.  He was dead. He knew that should be concerning as well, but so far that was the only thing that  hadn’t surprised him.  

His feet carried him onwards, without conscious thought. The path seemed to be sloping  downwards, which did not seem promising. He nevertheless squared his shoulders and marched  on. Whatever would be, would be. 

Eventually, the fog started to thin, and he saw what looked like a burnished bronze wall with a gate appearing out of the mist. There was a tall figure standing beside it, also dressed in combat fatigues. As he got closer, he suddenly recognized the figure and stopped. 

“Pat? Is that you?” 

“Hey, Manuel,” the big red headed Irishman said with his usual lopsided grin. “How they hangin’?” 

“I don’t think “they” are there anymore. Dude, the last time I saw you, you were…”

“Yeah, blown apart by an IED, my guts smeared all over the road. Not my best look.”

“So, what are you doing here, wherever here is?” 

“I’m your welcoming committee, snake. Welcome to Fiddler’s Green.” 

“Fiddler’s Green?” Manuel had heard the stories about Fiddler’s Green around the campfire, but thought they were just that, stories. He had even read a poem about it once, something about cavalrymen stopping by on the way to Hell. “It’s real?” 

“As real as anything. This is where old soldiers go. They don’t want our kind in Heaven, and we’re too mean for Hell, so here we are.”

“Huh, so much for everything I ever learned in Sunday school,” he said, shaking his head. Then a thought struck him. “Pat, I don’t know if you would know this, but my wife, my kids. Will they be okay?” 

“They’ll live their lives,” Pat said with a shrug. “They’ll have their triumphs, their tragedies. You did your best, which is all any of us can do. The rest is up to them.” 

Manuel cocked his head. “Okay, since when did you become a philosopher?”

“More like perspective,” the big man said, grinning. “You get a lot of that on this side.”

“Okay, then. So, do I just walk through that gate?” 

“Not yet. You can’t bring in anything but your uniform.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s all I’ve got.” 

“Not quite,” Pat said, pointing to his left arm. Manuel looked down and saw his thorns  were still there. Nineteen thorns tattooed on a vine running from his shoulder to his elbow. 

“I’ve had them since Iraq,” he said in a whisper. 

“I know. Nineteen confirmed kills. You were a hell of a good sniper.” 

“It’s not a trophy, you know. It’s a memorial. I took their lives. I never apologized for that, and I don’t now, but I still carried their lives with me, or their deaths, however you want to  look at it. I just figured I should have an outward symbol of what I carried.” 

“I get it snake, but it’s time to let them go.” 

Manuel hesitated. He actually had grown fond of them over the years. They were always  there, always with him. When the nightmares of bursting shells and dying friends woke him screaming in the night, they were there. When alcoholism cost him his first civilian job and  caused Maria to walk out on him, they were there.  

Maria’s leaving was his wake-up call. He got himself into rehab and got dried out, and  they were there through all of it. When she finally came back, they were there. They were there  when Consuela was born, and they were there when he was diagnosed with cancer. The one  constant in his life, since Iraq. Sometimes late at night, when the memories of blood got to be too  much, when the old horrors were creeping in, he would talk to them. They never answered of course, but it was still somehow comforting. 

“They’ve been a part of me for so long. I don’t know if I can.” 

“You’ve got to,” the big man said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “It’s not fair to you, and  it’s not fair to them.” 

“To them? What does that mean?” Manuel looked up in surprise. 

“It means they’ve been tied to you since Iraq. They can’t move on until you do.” Manuel  stared at him and slowly shook his head. 

“So, no sixty-four virgins?” Pat threw his head back and guffawed. Manuel remembered  that laugh and couldn’t help grinning. 

“Come on snake, we both know that’s bullshit. Now, let them go.” 

Manuel looked down at his arm. Somehow knowing what to do, he reached up and  touched the first thorn. It peeled away in a cloud of smoke that coalesced into a human form. An Iraqi stood there, dressed in a tattered shirt and pants, his brown eyes boring into Manuel’s. 

“You killed me.”

“I did. You would have killed me.” 

“I would have. My name is Orhan Al-Janabi. You should know it.” 

“Thank you for telling me your name, Orhan Al-Janabi,” Manuel said, feeling deeply  moved. “My name is Manuel Ortega.” 

So it went, thorn after thorn, until they were all there, standing around him. Some were in  uniform, or patches of uniforms, most in civilian clothes. Some were clean with neatly trimmed  beards, some scruffy. Manuel sensed no hostility or bitterness from them, but no friendliness  either. They were just soldiers that had been on different sides, but now the sides didn’t matter. It  made Manuel wonder, had the sides ever mattered? Then they all faded away. 

“Where did they go?” Manuel asked, looking around. 

“To their own fates, their own welcoming committees. How do you feel?” 

Manuel considered the question. He felt…lighter. Like a burden had been lifted, a burden  that had been there so long he didn’t even realize it was there. His past was truly behind him. 

“I feel good. I feel…I feel…ready.” 

“Hoo Rah,” said Pat, as he opened the gate. “Come on, let’s go have a beer.”

“They’ve got beer here? Seriously?” 

“Yeah, it surprised me too. Damn good beer, as a matter of fact.” 

Manuel saw a verdant pasture under an azure sky stretched infinitely out before him. Somewhere in the distance, a fiddle was playing. He followed Pat through, the gate closing behind him.