I am always afraid that one night my trigger finger will not stop, that

From Once a Warrior King by David Donovan.  Page 243.  They have successfully completed a nighttime ambush and are withdrawing with a senior VC officer prisoner.

I was about two steps into my run when off to the left a dark figure came into my peripheral vision. The crouching, moving specter was approaching the house from my left; somehow, without taking the time to really look at him, I could tell he was armed. I leaped back to the corner of the house and in the same motion brought my M-16 up to my shoulder. As the rifle butt snugged into my shoulder and as I pulled the gun barrel over to its target, I was already squeezing down on the trigger. I was looking over my gun sight and anticipating the kick of the gun’s firing when I realized the man I was going to kill was Sergeant Abney. The next second seemed to last an hour.

First, I was shocked by the realization that it was Abney out there on the end of my gun barrel. My God, it’s Abney! In that same millisecond I sensed the growing tension in my trigger finger. I knew the rifle was about to fire. In my memory everything seems to have proceeded in slow motion. Now I recognized Abney, but I couldn’t stop my finger from still tightening down on the trigger. It was as if the finger was responding to old neural impulses and had not received the information that I was about to shoot a friend. I felt as if I had to frantically send another communication to my finger, telling it to ease off the trigger. I also tried  to move the gun barrel off target, desperate to do something before the firing pin was released. All this took place in the blink of an eye, but it seemed as if I were a spectator watching a slow-motion film, waiting to see if I could relax my finger before the rifle started firing.

The rifle didn’t fire, thank God! It was a near thing. I sagged weak-kneed against the wall of the hooch. Abney had realized that I had a bead on him about the same second I realized it was he in my gun sight. While I was trying to stop myself, he was trying to get out a sound of protest. Abney’s whispered ‘Don’t shoot!’ came out just as I was able to relax my grip on the trigger.

Abney came hustling on over to me, his eyes casting about him in the dark. ‘Jesus Christ? I whispered as he squatted beside me, ‘I almost killed you!’ I leaned back against the wall of the hooch, my rifle slack in my arms and my hands shaking like leaves. It is hard to explain the bonds that develop between men who live and fight together in a world of isolated desperation, but suffice it to say that I loved Abney like a brother. I was numb.

There is a coda.  The sort of thing that potentially all veterans carry that none of us can know.  

The incident with Abney still provides me with some of my most chilling dreams. In them I am always leaning up against a tree or house, and some sound or motion off to my left gets my attention. I throw up my rifle and bring the sights onto the target. I am already squeezing the trigger when I recognize Sergeant Abney. Then the frightening part begins. My finger continues to squeeze the trigger as if it has a will of its own. I try to relax the finger, to stop the trigger pull, but I can’t. Abney watches helplessly, forced in my dream to stand frozen and stare at me with terror in his eyes. He is a captive spectator as I struggle to keep from killing him. In every dream I have the same terrifying fight with my finger. One message to it is saying, ‘Pull, pull? the other screaming, ‘Stop, stop! It’s Abney!’ I never do pull the trigger, but I think it is because the dream is never allowed to end. I come awake with my heart pounding and my right hand practically cramped from the tension.

I wish the dream would stop coming. I am always afraid that one night my trigger finger will not stop, that somehow my willpower will not be sufficient to the task, and that I will kill Sergeant Abney. What screams or  reaction that might bring I do not know. I guess that is part of the fear.