Harry tried to get me to talk about it at first, but no matter how much I knew I’d had no other option, the fact remains to this day, that my refusal to admit to US involvement with the resistance to that quagmire of evil in that ‘unnamed’ country, Seaman Farell was executed on account of me. His shipmates would have followed too, had it not been for Nelson, the resistance fighters, and our escape.

It was almost a relief when Mrs. Farell slapped me and spat in my face when we arrived on her doorstep to tell her that her son had ‘died in the line of duty.’ As his commanding officer, she fumed, I was responsible and why, why, why? How, how, how? Of course, we were unable to tell her the truth, the entire operation being classified.

But  I was responsible, and still find myself having nightmares about the entire thing. I couldn’t even bring his body home for her!

I was glad I couldn’t let her know he died, scared and screaming, pleading my name to avoid the firing squad, not the ‘brave’ boy who went to his end in service to his country under his irresponsible skipper, as she believes.

It took a few months until I nearly woke the boat up in my nightmare, screaming myself hoarse, sweating like a pig, that Nelson woke me, scooped me up in his arms and held my resisting trembling body until I let it all out, sobbing against his chest. He waited until I finally stopped shaking and made me talk about it.

It was hard. But I finally found some relief in sharing it with him. He knew all about what had happened of course, we debriefed him as soon as we’d returned to the boat. But now, somehow, I knew I’d get past the pain. Or at least live with it.

Sometimes duty’s the pits.