The Enemy Within

As far back as he can remember, he's been afraid. Not a general sort of anxiety, but the specific kind - that which can dictate the path of one's entire life. The attempts at avoidance, the terror of anticipation, the dread of a confrontation. The fear can be paralysing, robbing him of the ability to move at all. No fight or flight for him, only freezing; like a terrified rabbit at the mercy of its hunter. But here he is, at this juncture where he must gather up all of his courage and press on. His job demands it, his troops expect it. A promotion that others have hotly competed for. Any of them would give their first born to have this privilege bestowed upon them; and yet, here he is - soldier, commander, leader of men utterly terrified at the thought of what he may encounter.

Indonesia, land of rich green rainforests, vibrant jungles, exotic animals and long lost indigenous tribes. Danger at every turn for the unsuspecting in the jungles. He has been posted here as part of an elite squad whose purpose is to flush out a rebel group known to be planning a guerilla takeover of a provincial council that is of significant strategic value to his handlers. Idiya Malokabo the leader possesses a fierce reputation as a jungle warlord hording an arsenal that may include chemical weapons. Known worldwide as a madman intent on taking over the province at all costs, he and his army will be worthy opponents to this highly trained jungle warfare special forces soldier and his men. He will lead them with pride and a resolute determination to engage, battle and overcome the enemy as they have been trained to do for decades. He does not fear Malokabo or his army, nor the potential for an engagement where the rules of war are cast aside. He does not fear his own death, or those of his men - these brave, fearless characters whose fate was sealed when they made the decision to sign up for this most elite of squadrons. The purple berets. Recognised throughout armies of the world as the elite - the most highly trained, disciplined and bravest of all soldiers. Almost superhuman in their strength and ability to conquer enemies in a way reminiscent of automatons in science fiction. Barely human now; their mortal anxieties, doubts and fears erased from both their conscious and sub-conscious minds by their training. No moral conundrums, no spikes of conscience - Yes, the perfect tool to prize this dictator from his hiding place of power. Without him at the helm, his soldiers will falter and meet their defeat at the hands of this far superior force. What is their kill score they ponder in moments of reflection. Does anyone keep track? It must surely be in the thousands by now. A wave of humanity extinguishing another, yet this is their task, their purpose, their job.

HIs most recent engagement had been in the deserts of Afghanistan - dry, barren, unforgiving. But he and his men forged ahead in repeated frontal assaults until the enemy retreated and battle lines pushed back so that there was little the others could do but surrender. A successful mission. Like the one before, and the one before that. All carried out on a dry, desolate landscape, shown on a billion televisions on the world stage. He came home triumphant. He and his troops were lauded by those in power, those who had funded the missions in the name of all that was right and just. But in his bed at home once again, the old fears crept in to his sleep as quietly as his very own snipers slid into the enemy strong holds. Creeping, creeping until in one lightning strike of movement they advance upon him. Sitting bolt upright in bed he screams - blood curdling, from the depths of his soul come the screams. Primal, ancient, ever present but concealed in the light of day. At night. This is when they come. They wait until sleep lulls him into a state of mind and body total relaxation. Then they jump! Launch themselves on to him like a green slimy polluted tidal wave. Cold and clammy bodies jostling to cover him in their slime. Frogs. Big, green bulbous frogs with white underbellies and throats pulsating with blood and rhythmic sounds from the depths of hell, jumping out of trees, climbing up his body, sucking themselves on to him as he stands knee deep in water. He is paralysed in this dream - this damned recurring dream he has had since a child. Unable to move or scream he suffers the abject terror of feeling them coursing up his body, their cold suction pad feet heading upward towards his face. My God, his face! The horror of this moment is almost unbearable. Can a heart stop through sheer fear? He's heard it can. Oh how ironic that would be! A war hero, an elite soldier, a killing machine and leader of men in times of war reduced to a trembling shell of a man; a coward with no recourse, no response. He lies there succumbing to the nightmare, unable to summon his men or indeed his own courage to extricate him from the situation, the enemy, THIS enemy! In a burst of sudden strength he pushes himself upward and awakens. Ah, it was the dream again. THAT dream! He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, body wet with sweat, heart still beating almost too fast for him to bear. He looks over at his wife still sleeping peacefully in the early morning glow. How proud she is of him, how brave she knows he is. He doesn't want to ever disappoint her, to shatter the illusion of this superman, this hero that all perceive him to be. Inside, his stomach knots and he feels that familiar acid rising in his mouth as he thinks about the next mission - Indonesia, land of rich green rainforests, vibrant jungles...