A Cry For Help

By Attilio Napoli

Burnout; depression; a meeting with a homeless man; traipsing through an illegal refugee camp in Bangladesh. Are these the ingredients to heal a troubled mind?
Sometimes the healing only begins when you come across others in worse situations than your own. U. S. war correspondent Chuck Jennings suffers from burnout and depression. He has reached his breaking point. It takes a chance meeting with a stranger to coax him back to life. Fate intervenes to unite their troubled souls. But are they really kindred spirits? They find out as they wade through the detritus of the illegal Rohingya refugee camp in Bangladesh. There, they discover the healing process begins when they battle their demons by getting in touch with their emotions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Attilio Napoli
• Release date: Sep 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005812454

Attilio Napoli

After putting himself through the grind of attaining an Associate Diploma in Social Sciences, it is not surprising that Attilio (known as ‘Till’ to friends and family) writes about intriguing people and the life issues that affect them. He has also worked in people related jobs for most of his career and has witnessed first-hand the traits that make up individuals’ interesting characteristics.Attilio’s drug of choice is music. 'It’s true,' he says, music soothes the savage beast. He will listen to anything, depending on his mood. Along the way, he discovered the joys of travel, and he can’t get enough of it. His love for travel and music show in his breakout book ‘Tramps Like Us’ and he always finds a way to introduce an aspect of both in his works.Attilio commenced writing in the style he learned at school, and through his life experiences. But he realized he had more to learn. He is a self-starter and a hands-on learner, so he subscribed to several online writers’ sites and accessed writing tutorials. Learning the craft of creative writing whetted his imagination. His obsession now is turning out strong stories that show how troubled characters overcome turmoil in their lives. This is a theme that encompasses his work. When reading his stories, he hopes readers will identify a little of themselves in his characters.

Book preview

A Cry for Help

Attilio Napoli

Copyright © A. S. Napoli 2020

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical. This includes photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Although the situations mentioned in Myanmar and Bangladesh exist, the opinions expressed in this book are the author’s own, and do not necessarily represent actual occurrences.

All characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photograph courtesy of Maaz Hussain (VOA)

When we look squarely at injustice and get involved, we actually feel less pain, not more, because we overcome the gnawing guilt and despair that festers under our numbness. We clean the wound - our own and others’ - and it can finally heal.

Desmond Tutu

Prologue

I screwed my eyes shut as I grimaced and my finger twitched as it found purchase on the curved metal. With an intake of breath, I squeezed the trigger. Instead of an explosion and red and white matter splattering the wall, a metallic click almost burst my eardrum. The gun I had gripped so tight against my temple fell to the floor with a clang and the breath I held escaped in a loud whoosh. A trickle of urine wet my crotch and my leg jerked at the discomfort. All through this, my mind drifted through a foggy haze. It could not comprehend my failure.

How hard could it be to kill oneself? I guessed it depended on the stupidity, or the intent, of the person in question. My intent may have been half-hearted but, in the end, I could thank my stupidity for saving me. The attempt only underlined my incompetence because I had forgotten to load a bullet in the chamber. Still, if I had blown my brains out at that time, I would not have found myself in the position that confronted me two years later.

After that crazy incident, I overcame that darkest of episodes, but the depression didn’t leave me. It popped up at unexpected moments, much like an odd visit from an acquaintance that wants to rehash the past. I still suffered pains when my stomach cramped into tight knots, and attacks of anxiety that sent my pulse racing until I thought my heart would explode. But these surges of panic no longer brought me to my knees. Even so, it was impossible to forget the horrors I’d witnessed.

That was no excuse though. I couldn’t escape the fact that the responsibility for the flare-ups rested on my shoulders. The cause of my problem was the prolonged periods I spent in the field as a front-line war correspondent. Over time, I had forged a reputation as a journalist who immersed himself in his work. It was a trait that my friends and acquaintances liked to rib me about. They described me as an accomplished, but too determined, middle-aged bastard who did not shirk the difficult tasks. A stint covering the Desert Storm operation in Iraq led to other assignments throughout Africa. I returned to Iraq for a second round and, after that, I travelled in and out of Afghanistan from the outset of the hostilities in that country.

My shrink told me from the start I would never fully get over the Post Traumatic Stress symptoms I suffered. I have often heard his soothing voice and felt the weight of his hand on my shoulder as he uttered his wise words. You can only learn to deal with the situation.

I followed his advice and learned to employ breathing exercises, along with other relaxation techniques. The strategies worked, but my salvation came from an unexpected source.

Outside the room in which I sat, invited friends and peers formed a gathering that waited for me to collect my award. Heck. Who would have thought it? A Pulitzer Prize? Me; Charlie Jennings – or Chuck, as most people called me? I found it difficult to comprehend how this could have happened. Go figure. The experts heralded the series of articles I wrote about Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh a mighty achievement, and the audience in the auditorium had come to pay tribute to me.

I swallowed and it hurt my parched throat. The pain eased though, and I heaved a shoulder-raising sigh as I dwelled on how different the assembled individuals were to the desperate souls whose vivid images I brought to the world. It was the reason the award ceremony filled me with trepidation, and I sighed heavier as I recalled the trauma and the tragedy I witnessed along the way.

An uncontrollable shake of the head reinforced my thinking. The idea that I was there because of the misery endured by others did not sit well with me. A burning sensation spread behind my eyes and I recognized it as a sure sign tears were forming. I kneaded them and blinked to stop myself from crying because this was not the time to let my emotions take control of me. This was a moment of triumph, not one for despair. It would not do to appear on stage with red-rimmed eyes. Still, I could not rid myself of the thought.

I had tried in vain many times to come to terms with the notion, but always found it near impossible. Even the slightest hint that I might profit from the situations of people in crisis messed with my mind. Inside my head, it sounded as if the garbled voices of those whose path I’d crossed on my epic adventure were calling out to me. They repeated their plaintive tales all at once, and their incantations did not leave me until I massaged my temples. I consoled myself in the knowledge the story I wrote delivered an important message. A reminder all was not well in that part of the world.

I puffed my chest out with pride as I remembered how the message broke through many barriers. It was all possible because my accounts regarding the state of affairs in Bangladesh achieved their objective. They presented a more precise picture of the situation in Myanmar, and the living conditions in the illegal camp in which the refugees sought shelter. Because of me, readers developed a clearer understanding of the plight of the Rohingya community.

While writing the articles, I also suffered bouts of torment. It wasn’t difficult to understand. Through the people I met, I relived the experiences from the war zones I tried so hard to forget. Painful memories brought prolonged attacks of anxiety. I had seen too many atrocities in my lifetime for that not to happen. It led to me almost taking my life. Yet, it was the time I spent in Bangladesh that helped me put things into perspective. There, I learned that tragedy comes in a multitude of forms.

As I recalled the volatile emotions I endured back then, I grew restless. Even so, I conjured a smile because I realized that same unrelenting edginess had created the energy that fuelled my reports.

I took two deep breaths and, as I regained my composure, I remembered how my stresses had caused me to clash with my employers. They made it clear when they said I should distance myself from the attachments I formed. Still, I expected they would see things that way. They only wanted me to do my job, not become sentimental about what I wrote. The more I contemplated what they told me, the more I felt at odds with their proposition. There was no chance of me discarding the emotion I experienced just because my work didn’t allow for sentimentality.

The stories I composed in the war zones came from a deep desire to inform those on the outside about the everyday events of the conflict. But this was not the same. The feature article that propelled me to the award ceremony reached people on a different level. It caused them to consider emotions that had remained, for the most part, unexplored.

With the Rohingya catastrophe, I unfolded a tale that broadcast complex issues. My account of their tragic circumstances comprised many layers. It not only reported on the victims of convoluted politics, it also emphasized the efforts of the dedicated angels who came to their aid. Ever since I’d met Robert, I developed a compulsion to write the story of the driven man who stood out like a God-like figure in the make-shift refugee camp.

I understood why others regarded him that way. He was the entity that helped me find the path back from the bleak place I inhabited in my mind. I credited him with my healing because he dragged me from the abyss I had plummeted into and instilled a renewed purpose in me. I had fallen into a quagmire of despair, and he encouraged me to open my eyes and see what was possible to achieve. Because of him, I put aside my inner turmoil while I watched him perform miracles. As a result, he became the person I believed in more than anyone I knew.

Robert featured as I outlined the struggle I observed while he and his colleagues battled in the face of incredible adversity to help those who cried out for it. I continued to remind myself that these people were volunteers. They were not the battle-hardened heroes I’d become used to. This wasn’t a war zone. Or was it? The detritus of the illegal refugee camp I waded through in Bangladesh contradicted the notion that it couldn’t be.

I shook my head and a snort turned into a sneer as the memories flickered through my mind. They rolled without pause, as if they were on a continuous loop. The word ‘serendipity’ had never meant much to me. It was through the journey I undertook that I became a firm believer, and it had not been difficult to reach that conclusion. The chain of events that led me to that moment seemed too contrived for me to consider them a coincidence.

Reflecting on the reasons that brought me to the place that was beginning to resemble a cage lulled me into a state of melancholy. But now it was time to focus on the present. I sank my head into my shoulders and rotated it as I cast a glance at the surroundings. The locked room in which I sat granted me the privacy I requested, and I was thankful because I did not want people to see me while I struggled to rehearse my speech.

No matter how hard I studied the shapes on the page though, concentration proved difficult. I squinted as I tried to make sense of what I had written. But the words on the sheet of paper I held between trembling fingers still looked undecipherable. The characters took on the form of the hieroglyphics in an Egyptian tomb, and my eyesight blurred the longer I peered at the symbols. Everything around me seemed distorted. The only thing clear in my mind was the journey that resulted in my moment of fame.

Chapter 1

Afghanistan 2013

Twenty-one months earlier.

Inconsistent mood swings; insomnia; uncontrollable stomach pains; a complete sense of loss of direction. I didn’t know what came first, the anger and irritability, or the increase in drinking.

When I finally admitted I had a problem, I laughed it off. I joked about how mid-life had crept up on me and turned me into a cantankerous old prick. Still, when it came down to it, I knew. There was no need to go online for a diagnosis because I had recognized the symptoms a while ago. It wasn’t a case of it coming to me all at once. The redeeming feature that I was thankful for was that I had retained the ability to reason things over. It meant that, somewhere down the line, I realized that the pressures of my work had caught up with me.

The constant stress I carried tortured my mind in a way that made the turmoil drive me crazy. It was doing me harm. Not unusual if I thought about it. I’d worked as a war correspondent for over twenty years. The job I did took me to conflict zones in Africa, East Timor, and Iraq. It had then deposited me in this horrible, God-forsaken place. Afghanistan - a harsh land of people that others throughout history had tried to tame, but had failed at every attempt.

The scenes I witnessed along the way replayed in my mind as I struggled to sleep. Nightmares that I would not wish on anybody haunted me. The tossing and turning, coupled with the copious sweating, usually started when I reflected on the photos I took on assignments. It did not surprise me that most of them did not make it to print. Much too graphic, the publishers said.

Their thoughts did not sit well with me. I had trouble accepting their attempts to cleanse the facts, and I argued that I only portrayed the reality that confronted our brave men and women every day. It was not in my job description to disguise or sugarcoat what I saw. I had a task to perform and I wanted to carry it out to the best of my ability. The most important aspect of what I did was for me to relay the real harshness of the conflict to the people back home.

Perhaps I overplayed the strength of my convictions. The resolve I displayed alerted my publishers to the intensity that had taken hold of me. In retrospect, I had to give them credit for their foresight because it seemed they recognized my stresses before I did. They tried to reason with me but, when that didn’t work, they reverted to a more subtle approach. Their ingenious plan was to send me on safer assignments for a while. Heck, I understood they acted that way because they cared for me, but I didn’t want their caution to undermine my work. I fumed at the thought that they might question my judgment. In retaliation, I continued to pursue my own agenda.

It was a tough battle to win though and, before long, they took more direct action. They ordered me to slow down, take a break, don’t become so involved. Huh! Don’t become involved? Even so, their concern made me realize that they might be right. Perhaps the assignments I undertook had become riskier. But that was how I achieved the best results. It was how I supplied the stories these same people heaped praise upon. I needed this work. It drove me, gave me purpose. I never overlooked an opportunity for the next headline, and I wanted every story to be better than the last.

I became anxious. My hands now trembled most of the time. Was it my safety I worried about, or was it the thought that the quality of my stories might deteriorate if I took a safer approach? My decision-making suffered because of the mixed emotions that besieged me. It might not have been a smart move, but I defied the publishers’ orders. I needed to consider where I felt most at home, and I knew the answer. I belonged in the field; with the soldiers on patrol.

Brat atat atat – brat atat atat. The rhythmic chatter of the automatic weapon reached us from a distance. I had been trudging along, leaving a trail as my feet dragged in the dusty ground, and the sudden burst of gunfire snapped me from my daydream. The patrol halted on the spot, as if we had run into an invisible barrier. From our frozen positions, we all stared ahead to where we thought the sound came from. Then our attention turned to the patrol leader as we sought his direction. He dropped to one knee and gestured for the troops to do the same with a downward motion of his hand.

My attention did not waver from him as he raised binoculars to his eyes. His head swiveled in slow arcs while he scanned through the shimmering haze of the early day’s heat. He appeared to focus on the few rustic buildings that made up a village over a mile away. A few moments later, he rose and rubbed a hand over his unshaved chin. He looked at the men as if reluctant to give his next order. Then he said, The area looks deserted, but let’s proceed with caution. Fan out. Stay alert. Mitch you take the rear; and keep an eye out for Chuck.

I trailed close behind Mitch, hoping to use him as a shield in case of trouble. Still, the enemy wasn’t my only problem. My face itched as perspiration flowed from beneath the protective headgear I wore and forged rivulets along my dust-caked countenance. I damned the heat under my breath, but I couldn’t blame the sweating on humidity. It had to be my nerves because the Afghan climate wasn’t usually humid. While I pondered over the discomfort, the sweat also trickled into my eyes. They burned with its saltiness, and I peered through slits to keep the men in their combat uniforms in view.

As I looked at them, a sense of inadequacy overcame me. How could I complain when I watched them shuffle forward under the weight of their equipment? It was a familiar sight, and I had observed many similar scenes on other patrols. The heavily clad soldiers always reminded me of the robotic storm troopers from the Star Wars films I’d seen. Even the terrain they traversed resembled a set from one of those movies.

I muttered curses under my breath as I rolled my foot on small rocks strewn on our path. To make matters worse, the bandana around my mouth and nose didn’t stop the fine dust from seeping through. The minute particles choked my throat as they mixed with the little saliva I could muster, only to set like the hard stones I trampled under my feet. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t form enough spit to clear my throat. All I could do was hack until it burned.

We slowed when we reached the outlying buildings of the village, and the patrol leader once again signaled for his troops to drop into an alert position. He cocked his head, and I thought I saw his eyes turn into slits as concentration etched furrows on what I could see of his brow below the cover of his helmet. He placed a finger to his lips to signal he wanted us to remain silent and, at a sweep of his arm, the soldiers spread themselves along opposite walls of a deserted narrow alley. He motioned for a point man to move forward, then grabbed me by a sleeve and pulled me down behind him. His pointing finger, and penetrating gaze, reminded me that I should stay close to him. My stomach growled, and I wondered whether the silent fart I expelled had soiled my shorts.

A few steps into the alley, a dog ran through a stack of garbage, and we hugged the walls in fright. The putrid stench it raised forced me to pinch my nose, while the fingers on my other hand scrambled to find a solid hold on the wall. My lungs burned from the long breath I held, and I waited for the worst. I had only taken a few quick gulps of air when I noticed those in front of me relax. With fingernails embedded to the stone, I exhaled in relief when the point man thrust his palm out to tell us to remain in place. The patrol leader pointed to the spot where I should wait and went over to join his man. He surveyed the situation before he waved for the rest of us to move forward.

When we joined him, I heard the frenzied drone of flies that had attracted the point man’s attention. The furious buzzing came from a nearby house and, on the leader’s head-nod, two men flung their backs against the rough stone wall of the building. One at each side of a bare wooden door, firearms held tight to their chests. When they were in place, the leader pumped his fist up and down. It was a signal for a burly soldier to smash his large boot against the door just below its handle. The planked door offered no resistance to the force of the kick. It flew open with a loud bang and then bounced back on the men who had been waiting to run into the house. They shoved it away with another crash as they rushed inside. Their guns shouldered; ready for action.

All clear. The shouted announcement from within galvanized everyone outside. When the other