An excerpt from When The War Is Over
Chapter One
Alone in a Crowd
Those of us who did make it, have an
obligation to teach others what we know, And to try with
what’s left of our lives to find a goodness and meaning to
this life. The war is over for me now, but it will always be
there for the rest of my days…
Platoon, (Screenplay by Oliver Stone)
“Failed suicide attempt,” I heard
the professional, expressionless tone in the policemen’s
voice – even over the telephone line. “He wants to see
you.”
With heavy heart, I hung up and drove to the
hospital. I had no idea what to expect when I opened the
door to Jim’s room. Of all the veterans I knew, Jim seemed
least likely to choose death as the answer to the problems
he faced.
What on earth could have brought him to this point?
As I stepped into the room, Jim mustered a sheepish
smile. His pale, tired features showed through the false
front. His smile turned to a frown when he recognized me.
“How you doin’ Jim?” I pulled a chair to the
bedside.
“Awful, thanks to the next door neighbor and all
these f—ing people.” He threw a tissue box at the wall
and glared out the window.
Not sure what to say, I asked, “Did someone hurt
you last night?”
He ignored the question. “All I wanted to do was
die, and I couldn’t even do that. I should have done it
some other way – to make sure no one could keep me alive.
God, I’m such a failure.” Jim avoided eye contact and
his voice broke as he said, “This is just another way to
prove it.”
The words took me by complete surprise. Jim had a
beautiful wife, a great family, and a successful career. How
could he consider himself a failure?
In the weeks that followed, I visited Jim whenever I
could, even after he left the medical ward and entered the
in-hospital, eight-week post-traumatic stress program. During those visits,
I discovered some interesting things about my friend.
Jim lived two different lives.
To the outside world, Jim projected a bright and
hopeful exterior. But the inner man, the one who lived
inside, knew a blackness so deep he could swim in it. By the
strength of will, he pulled himself out of bed every day,
his chest aching with depression, and moved through his
obligations. Jim refused to let anyone know how he really
felt. From the day he came home from Vietnam, Jim used all
his energy in a kind of emotional calisthenics – desperate
to keep up the deception.
As a highly disciplined Green Beret, Jim carefully
separated his emotional war from his outward life. He
managed to develop a highly successful business, providing
well for his family.
His military training actually enabled him to lead
two lives – one exuding strength and success – the other
encumbered by depression, guilt, and fear. Jim lived like an
Olympic athlete in a swimming race – swimming with all his
might, anxious to beat his competitors.
Unlike the other swimmers, Jim had a serious
handicap. Jim swam his race attached to a three-foot beach
ball, which he kept firmly hidden under the surface of the
water. When the ball threatened to pop into view, he focused
on keeping it down. But the distraction and effort made Jim
fall behind. Letting go of the beach ball, he would swim
with all his might, desperate to catch up – until once
again, his beach ball threatened to surface.
His life formed an exhausting and unproductive cycle.
Swim a little, push the ball down; swim a little, push the
ball down.
For thirty
years, Jim managed to get through his days in a debilitating
succession of play-acting.
Sleep brought him no comfort. Frequent nightmares
brought a sleep deprivation so severe and so long lasting
that roll playing became nearly impossible. Often, startled
awake by terrorizing combat dreams, Jim moved to the
computer where he spent long hours in the dead of night. His
wife believed he was catching up on work. In truth, Jim used
Internet chat rooms to visit with other combat veterans.
In spite of
the many people in his life, Jim felt alone. Isolated. His
combat experiences trapped him in an unearthly hell. Unable
to connect with other people, Jim had no way of dealing with
his emotional devastation. Like termites attacking the
foundation of a building, eventually the damage became
apparent for all to see, and Jim’s carefully maintained
exterior crumbled to dust. The ball finally popped out of
the water, and Jim gave up the race.
Does this sound familiar?
Most combat veterans can identify with Jim’s life.
You are not the first to have these feelings. In fact,
believing that no one else has ever felt this way, adds to
the isolation most veterans experience. In truth, nearly
every combat veteran faces these issues. Listen to the words
of other veterans of other wars…
When our country decided to take the islands back
from Britain they sent us, (mostly eighteen and nineteen
year olds), to do the fighting. We had practically no
training, and some of us had only fired a few rounds from
our weapons in preparation. We were no match for the
British. Our return home was not a victorious one at all,
and now I wonder if life is worth living. Suicide seems to
be the best way out of the hell I live day after day.
(Argentinean soldier, Falkland War)
If I had not gone to war, none of this would have
happened. It has scarred me in other places besides my body.
My wife would not have divorced me and I would not have lost
my family. If she only knew what I went through in
Afghanistan… (Russian soldier, Afghanistan War)
During these days off, I retreated to my own little
“fox hole,” a small, dimly lit room that was filled with
some old relics that I brought home from the war. There I
would spend time with my demons, and they would torment my
mind through the memories of what I had seen and experienced
in Africa. Nobody at work ever knew of my problems, because
I covered it up so well. I never wanted anyone to think I
was crazy because of the war. (World War II veteran)
I was discharged and went silently back to my job. I
was as confused as everyone else about the “police
action” and not much was mentioned about it after that. At
times, I would feel some bitterness begin to rise up inside
of me… The best way for me to control any bad feelings and
resentments was to work hard in the days and drink a lot at
night. My wife and I became regulars at several taverns and
dance halls, but my drinking became a threat to our
marriage. When I would get drunk, I would either become
remorseful or belligerent… I just had too much pent up
frustration I had to release it somehow. (Korean veteran)
All of these men developed patterns of isolation.
They kept their wartime involvement to themselves. Unable or
unwilling to tell the truth about their past, they became a
kind of secret agent, living a “false identity” in a new
country.
Why were they afraid to reveal the truth? Did they
fear rejection? Guilt? Were they afraid of the questions of
others? Were their relationships too fragile for the
horrible truth they’d experienced? Did they really believe
that they could keep these secrets forever, never having to
tell anyone about the personal side of war?
Why do veterans
have difficulty with intimate relationships?
I can speak from my own experience. I served in
Vietnam from the beginning of May 1965 as part of the first
regular army combat unit to begin escalating the 10,000-Day
War. We were sent for a year into the rice paddies, jungles
and coastlines of Southeast Asia to “stop communist
aggression.”
When I left home, I believed that after serving in
Vietnam, I would be able to come back and pick up my life
exactly where I left off. It never occurred to me that my
experience in Vietnam would change my life forever.
I will never forget my coming home experience:
At two o’clock in the morning, the temperature in
Vietnam hovered in the mid-nineties. We had turned in our
weapons and equipment the previous day and were confined to
a tiny barbed wire compound at the airbase. For some of us
the war was over. We looked forward to boarding a jetliner
and forever leaving this living hell. After drinking dozens
of beers, we scrounged for a place to sleep.
I managed to find a mattress inside a small building
made of corrugated tine and scrap of wood and settled in to
relax for the few hours before our plane would leave.
Moments later, just as I’d begun to slip into a drunken
stupor, a frightening but familiar sound blasted me into
consciousness. Incoming mortar explosions violently rocked
the compound.
Instinctively, I threw the mattress over me as the
air-bursting explosions ripped through the area. Pounding my
fists into the ground, I screamed in anger, “You’re not
going to get me now! I’m going home! You’re not getting
me now!”
As suddenly as it began, the explosions ceased. I
heard the injured crying out. Nearby, someone screamed at a
dead friend, ordering him to get up. I ran to a wounded
soldier, his stomach gashed open, and ripped off my shirt.
As I applied it to the wound, I shouted for a medic.
Seven teenage soldiers died that morning in a tiny
compound ten thousand miles from home. After spending one
year in the hell of Vietnam, this was their reward. How
unjust it seemed!
By the time my first year stateside ended, I wasn’t
so sure. Maybe the ones who died were the lucky ones. Though
my body lived through that last night in Vietnam, I left a
large part of my soul behind. At least those who died
wouldn’t have the memories, the nightmares, or the people
spitting on them when they finally got home.
I’d imagined a glorified homecoming. Instead, I was
abused. Nobody wanted to hear about my experiences in
Vietnam; it seemed as thought the entire country wanted to
forget the whole sorry mess. Students were rioting, brothers
were fighting, and quarreling about the right and wrong of
it; I felt caught in the middle.
I could not get the war off my mind. I
kept seeing the same scenes over and over. People dying. The
injured crying for help.
Failure, withal its pain and fear, stood on me like a
giant in lead boots. As a good soldier, I’d done what my
country asked me to do. Now, I was a social outcast for
participating in an “unpopular” war. It felt like
everyone I met blamed me for our involvement in Vietnam.
My country’s disapproval took away any pride I felt
in a job well done.
Eventually, I found my escape. I began to drink a lot
of alcohol and take drugs. I couldn’t control my behavior;
but the alcohol and drugs gave me an acceptable excuse to
behave and react in inappropriate ways. They helped me sleep
without so many nightmares. They numbed my emotions. With
drugs, I could make it through a day without breaking down
and crying uncontrollably about the turn my life had taken.
The war
hadn’t ended for me; it only changed locations.
Now, almost
forty years later, I am still fighting the war. Though now I
concentrate on helping my combat brothers leave their war
behind, I am still recouping the damage done by that
experience. Like Jim, I have observed dozens – perhaps
hundreds of veterans struggle with issues of isolation and
intimacy.
I’ve watched
men move from relationship to relationship, over and over
again, never really identifying the cause of their failure.
I’ve known women who tolerate veteran husbands who
disappear for months at a time – completely unable to
maintain the physical closeness of marriage and family.
I’ve seen veterans retreat, rather than struggle to
maintain a difficult relationship.
I’ve long
wondered about these issues. Wondered about their causes.
Wondered if injured people could change. And now, instead of
wondering, I want to take action. I want to bring healing
and wholeness to my combat brothers. I know that isolation
racks all trauma survivors. Rape, domestic violence,
assault, natural disaster – nearly any traumatic
experience has the potential to keep us from the very ones
we love the most.
I know too
that survivors can reconnect with people. We can trust
others. We can learn the kinds of relational skills that
make successful marriages and friendships. We can learn how
to dismantle the crippling isolation which threatens our
very existence. And in so doing, we can recoup the most
valuable part of our humanity.
We can share
our souls.
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