I’m excited to share with you all the beginning of a journey that has been both challenging and deeply personal for me. My upcoming book, The Shattered Shield, is more than just a story of war—it’s a story of survival, resilience, and the bonds that hold us together through the darkest times.
The Shattered Shield follows the journey of John Patrick Delaney, a seasoned Navy veteran who finds himself grappling with the weight of his past. The book explores themes of war, friendship, and the mental struggles that follow, particularly for those of us who have served. It’s a story that reflects not only my own experiences but also those of countless others who have faced the harsh realities of war and its aftermath. Hardcover will be released on September 6th, 2024 on Amazon. Paperback will follow on October 15th and the Kindle version on November 1st.
In this book, you’ll find a tale of camaraderie, sacrifice, and the heavy toll that war takes on the mind and soul. I’ve poured my heart into this story, and I hope it resonates with readers who have walked a similar path or who seek to understand the hidden battles many of us fight every day.
Before diving into the chapters, I’d like to share the prologue with you—a small glimpse into John Delaney’s world and the struggles that have shaped him. This is just the beginning of a story that delves deep into the complexities of service, sacrifice, and the fight for inner peace.
Dates for Hardcover, Paperback and Kindle release will be out soon. Waiting for proof copies!
Without further ado, here’s the prologue from The Shattered Shield.
John Patrick Delaney sank into the worn, creaky chair, its groaning springs a reminder of the weight of years and old injuries. His past, once vivid, now seemed like a distant dream. The VA hospital room was quiet, save for the occasional echo of footsteps in the hallway and the distant murmur of voices from the nurses’ station. The soft, artificial light from the overhead LEDs cast a cold, sterile glow, illuminating the pale, institutional walls that seemed to close in on him. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, a scent that had become the backdrop of his days, blending with the bitter tang of his memories.
His Navy blues, long retired to the back of the closet, had been replaced by a faded, duck-themed Hawaiian shirt, its once-bright colors now dulled by time. His jeans were equally worn, the fabric thinning at the knees and hems. Despite everything he had endured, there was still something in his posture—a vestige of command that lingered like the salt air of the Pacific, clinging to his skin even now. He shifted slightly in the chair, the fabric beneath him protesting as he glanced at the young therapist seated across from him. Her eyes were wide, a mix of curiosity and empathy swimming in their depths—green eyes, though not the blue he’d been expecting. For a moment, he’d almost seen someone else in her place, a ghost from his past, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come.
The therapist couldn’t have been more than twenty-six , her wide eyes still bright with the kind of enthusiasm that life hadn’t yet worn down. She sat with a readiness that reminded John of young sailors during their first briefing—eager to absorb everything, unaware of how much it would cost them. Her notepad rested on her lap, pen poised, ready to capture his words.
“So, Mr. Delaney,” she began, her voice soft but steady as she adjusted her posture, “you were going to tell me about the war?”
John’s lips twitched into a faint smile, a reflex more than anything. Another retelling. Another audience. But this time, the words felt heavier, as if dredging them up from the past would cost him something he wasn’t sure he could give. He wasn’t here for storytelling, not really. Therapy was the name of the game. He had resisted it for years, but after Spooky’s visit last week, he had caved, agreeing to at least try.
John chuckled, a hollow sound that barely escaped his throat. “The war,” he repeated, tasting the weight of those words. They held more than just battles—they carried the faces of lost friends, the echo of explosions, the silence that followed. “Yeah, I suppose I was.”
The therapist leaned forward slightly, pen at the ready. “What made you decide to talk about it now?” she asked gently. “You’ve been resistant to therapy in the past. What changed?”
John’s gaze settled on the window, but the view outside blurred as his mind wandered. The world beyond the glass felt distant, almost unreal—a place where people carried on with their lives, unaware of the ghosts haunting the man who sat in that chair. For John, the past was never truly behind him; it hovered just out of sight, waiting for the quiet moments to pull him back under. “Spooky came by last week,” he said quietly, his eyes unfocused as he remembered the visit. “Danielle Lawson. We served together on the Reagan. She’s… she’s doing well. Better than me, anyway. She stopped by to check on me. Said I should stop letting the past chew me up and spit me out. Told me I needed to talk to someone before it was too late.”
The therapist nodded, her expression encouraging. “It sounds like her visit stirred up some memories for you. Did seeing her make you think about the war again?”
John let out a long breath, his mind sifting through the years. “Not just the war. Everything. What we went through, what we lost. Spooky… she’s tough, always has been. But seeing her reminded me of how we were back then—before everything fell apart. Before I became… this.” He gestured vaguely at himself, not old, but a man whose body and mind had been worn down by years of battles—some fought on the field, others in the quiet of his own mind.
“Why do you think you resisted therapy for so long?” the therapist asked, her pen still poised over her notepad.
John laughed bitterly, the sound low and rough. “Because talking about it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t bring back the dead. Doesn’t fix what’s broken.” He paused, his gaze again drifting to the window beside him. Outside, the world went on—cars crawled by, pedestrians drifted along the sidewalks, life continued in its unyielding march forward. But for John, time had a way of circling back, dragging him into the past whether he wanted to go there or not. The hospital air was still, too clean, too quiet, and for a moment, he longed for the rough wind of the open sea, the sharp scent of jet fuel and salt.
The therapist let his words hang in the air for a moment before speaking again. “It may not change the past, but it could help you make peace with it. You’ve been carrying these memories alone for a long time, haven’t you?”
John’s eyes flickered with something—pain, regret, maybe both. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Too long. But what’s the point of dragging them up now? It’s all just… shattered. Like a shield that couldn’t hold.” He paused, realizing that he had touched on something deeper. “I guess that’s what we were, you know? A shield. We thought we could hold the line, protect what mattered. But in the end… everything shattered. We shattered.”
The therapist scribbled something in her notepad. “You’ve mentioned Spooky and the war, but what about the others? Did they shatter too?”
John clenched his jaw, the memories flooding back. “Gazer,” he said after a long silence. “Cameron Mitchell. He was with us right up until that day over the South China Sea. We were a team—the three of us. But that missile…” His voice trailed off, burdened by the weight of loss. “Gazer never made it out. Spooky… she kept going. Stayed in the Navy, fought her way up the ranks. Hell, she was the last commanding officer of the Reagan before it was decommissioned. Rear Admiral now. She always knew how to carry the weight better than I ever could.” John clenched his jaw, the memories flooding back. “Gazer,” he said after a long silence. “Cameron Mitchell. He was with us right up until that day over the South China Sea. We were a team—the three of us. But that missile… it took him down. He never got to see how it all ended.” His voice grew quieter, thick with the weight of grief. “Spooky… she stayed in the Navy. She commanded the Reagan during its final years. She was the last commanding officer before they decommissioned her. After that, she made Rear Admiral. Always knew how to keep pushing forward, no matter what.”
The therapist watched him closely, her voice gentle as she asked, “And you? What happened to you after the war?”
John closed his eyes, his hands clenching into fists as he remembered. “I tried to keep going. Tried to live a normal life. But it’s hard when you’re carrying all this… weight. The nightmares, the panic attacks… they never really went away. And I turned to alcohol. Thought it would numb it all, but it just made everything worse. I ended up spiraling. Left the Navy not long after the war. Couldn’t stay. The years since… well, they haven’t been kind.” He paused, his voice lowering. “I came here to the VA hospital. Figured maybe they could fix me. But nothing really fixes this, does it?”
The therapist wrote something down again. “You’ve been through a lot, Mr. Delaney. It’s no wonder you’re struggling. But that’s why we’re here—to help you make sense of it, to help you find a way forward. You don’t have to do this alone.”
John opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe,” he muttered. “But it’s a long story. And it doesn’t have a happy ending.”
The therapist looked up from her notepad, her expression one of understanding and respect. “I’d like to hear it, if you’re willing to tell it.”
John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he leaned back in the chair, the creak of the fabric the only sound in the room. “All right,” he said finally, his voice resolute. “I’ll tell you. But you should know… it’s not my story anymore. It’s theirs. It’s the story of everyone we lost.”
John absently brushed his fingers over the fresh bandages visible on his forearm, a quiet acknowledgment of the scars—both seen and unseen—that he now carried. With a heavy sigh, he began to speak, his words weighted by memories that had shaped him, memories of a war that had changed the world forever.