

# Still Downrange, but in Country – PTSD Parables

by Chaplain David E. Lefavor, D.Min, BCC

Copyright 2010 by David Lefavor

Smashwords Edition

This is an internet text only version of the book:

# Cloudy With a Chance of Ambrosia

by Chaplain David E. Lefavor, D.Min, BCC

# Table of Contents

Chapter One The Power of Parables

Chapter Two Cloudy with a Chance of Ambrosia

Chapter Three Spotlight on PTSD

Chapter Four Why PTSD Stories Matter

Chapter Six Backstreet Memories

Chapter Seven Reaching Out for Help

Chapter Eight Epilogue

Dedicated to those veterans who have answered the call to serve our country and

those who shall have borne the battle.

# Foreword

For those who have endured the battle; wars, unlike fairy tales, rarely end happily-ever-after. For homecomings, victory speeches, and parades quickly fade and are replaced by the quotidian rhythms of life—rhythms consisting of conscious and unconscious memories that are simultaneously distant but ever-near. These are the memories that both reveal and hide the psychic, social, and spiritual wounds of war. Both the congressionally designated June 27th "National PTSD Awareness Day" and the National Center for PTSD's designation of June as "PTSD Awareness Month" are powerful and timely reminders of this reality. A thoughtful reading of this book will foster a clear and deeper understanding and appreciation for the all too tragic, but at times hidden, wounds afflicting the lives of over 20% of our Iraq and Afghanistan veterans, as well as the lingering trauma of nearly 31% of Vietnam veterans. Awareness and understanding constitute the first step toward healing. A reading of "Cloudy with a Chance of Ambrosia" is the best place to begin.

Chaplain Jerry L. Dickerson, Ph.D., D.Min. LCDR, CHC, USN, RET

# Chapter One The Power of Parables

"Once upon a time...." Those four simple words always seem to immediately captivate children, transporting them to the fascinating and wonderful land of story time. With adults, those words are a little different. Such as, "I remember once", or "That reminds me of something that happened to me a while ago", or even "Let me tell you what just happened!" The terminology is slightly different, but the effect is the same: we are immediately interested in the story. Like the rabbis of his time period, Jesus used simple word-picture stories, called parables, to help people understand who God is and what his kingdom or reign is like. Jesus used images and characters taken from everyday life to create a miniature performance or drama to illustrate his message. This was Jesus's most common way of teaching, and his stories appealed to the young and old, poor and rich, as well as to the learned and unlearned as well. In fact, over a third of the Gospels by Matthew, Mark, and Luke contain parables told by Jesus.

The Parables in the Bible have profound and powerful meaning, because they are memorable and used in imaginative ways to convey the everlasting truths that God wanted us to know. Which do you remember better: a lofty analytical discourse on atonement and forgiveness, or the picture of a father running out to meet his prodigal son that had returned home? As songs are able to capture the feelings of our hearts, so do parables powerfully illustrate truth. Parables do this by putting truth in real life situations. They are full of emotion, trouble, and conflict.

A parable is a short allegory with one definite moral. Most of the parables of Jesus are found in the three synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke). Only one parable (in three parts) is found in the gospel of John.

There are also Parables found in the Old Testament. There are 2 parables in Isaiah; the vineyard, Isa 5:1, and the farmer and wild grapes, Isa 28:24. The NIV Study Bible lists 40 parables in the New Testament, although five appear in different gospels in different forms. For example, in the parable of the talents in Matthew 25:14-30, one servant was given 5 talents, one was given 2, and another was given only 1.

A parable is a story based upon common events and occurrences that have a deeper meaning and is derived from familiar, everyday life. The parable is, has been, and always will be the language of the wise for conveying complex and dynamic truth into something that people will want to listen to. Parables are powerful.

The parables of PTSD in this book are constructed from real life events, accounts, and situations. All images and illustrations were obtained from non-commercial public domain websites. Most of the pictures have been digitally enhanced to convey the message that war is hell, and PTSD can be the aftermath of that encounter. Thankfully, everyone who has been to war and borne the battle, does not suffer from PTSD, but everyone does undergo some lasting effects from being in that hell called war.

# Chapter Two Cloudy with a Chance of Ambrosia

Ambrosia and PTSD

You usually find it in the first section of the cafeteria serving line, but with PTSD you never know where it will pop up when you least expect it. Except for some senior citizens, most people just walk by ambrosia on their way to the meat & vegetables. Ambrosia is a unique and sometimes strange fruit salad concoction made up of grapes, pineapple, several types of oranges, marshmallows, coconuts, cherries, and lots of whipped cream. Most grandmothers have a special recipe for ambrosia.

There is something uniquely odd about ambrosia that is so similar to PTSD. Let's take a look at ambrosia and PTSD.

* Ambrosia, like PTSD, seems to have a way of choosing you to be the one to test out the recipe.

* Ambrosia generally lacks any specific form and is never the same.

* Ambrosia, like PTSD, is made up of some strange and confusing ingredients.

* Ambrosia can be overpowering at times, like PTSD.

* No way, would you want to live off a steady diet of ambrosia.

* The ingredients in ambrosia are real, but the combination seems to defy reasoning. With ambrosia, one is never sure of the outcome.

Let there be no misunderstanding here, PTSD is an ever-present malady of the heart, mind and soul of the combat veteran. It has and continues to affect millions. The number of veterans suffering from PTSD is alarmingly high, and growing on a daily basis. Today, hundreds of thousands of service men and women and recent military veterans have seen combat. Many have been shot at, seen their buddies killed, or witnessed death up close. These are types of events that can lead to PTSD. The U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs estimates that PTSD afflicts:

* Almost 31% of Vietnam veterans

* As many as 10% of Gulf War (Desert Storm) veterans

* 11% of veterans of the war in Afghanistan

* 20% of Iraqi war veterans

Don't get me wrong, PTSD is not ambrosia, but the analogy can euphemistically describe the issues associated with PTSD. It is a lot easier to use a comparison to help you see something that is harsh to the eye. Perhaps like looking at the sun with extremely dark glasses on. Only for the purpose of understanding can the severity of PTSD be softened into ambrosia. When you start with that kind of corollary can you then appreciate the stories about PTSD. It is the stories about PTSD that this presentation is really about – not fruit salad, not ambrosia. It's all in the stories.

Another grey morning, staring at the fog,

sitting here alone with my thoughts once more.

Maybe I can put something about this in my blog.

It's times like these I am intruded by some reminders of war,

Is it visions that God is sending my way or just passing smog?

There is so much upon me right now, it's very hard to ignore,

Yet I know that God will carry me to the other shore.

The symptoms of PTSD never really go away entirely. Here is why: There is always a profound psychological and physiological reaction to something traumatic. That traumatic event can't be completely undone, though it can be diminished in the mind. The stories help dull the drama into something routine.

# Chapter Two The Spotlight on PTSD

How many American military served in Iraq and Afghanistan?

Since the U.S. went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003, about 2.5 million members of the Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard. Additionally, related Reserve and National Guard units have been deployed in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, according to Department of Defense data. Of that total number, more than a third were deployed more than once.

In fact, as of last year, nearly 37,000 Americans had been deployed more than five times. Among them were 10,000 members of Guard or Reserve units. Department of Defense records also show that 400,000 service members have done three or more deployments.

In response to all of the American military personnel who answered the call and were deployed in the face of harm's way, our politicians and military leaders rightly praise them for their service and sacrifice. Our troops are recognized and appreciated for the job that they did in Iraq and Afghanistan.

In his remarks with Afghan President Hamid Karzai at the White House on January 11, 2013, President Obama said "Did we achieve our central goal, and have we been able to shape a strong relationship with an Afghan government that is willing to cooperate with us to make sure it is not a launching pad for future attacks against the United States? We have achieved that goal, and for that, I think, we have to thank our extraordinary military, intelligence, and diplomatic teams."

At a White House dinner labeled "In honor of the Armed Forces who served in Operation Iraqi Freedom" on February 29, 2013, Secretary of Defense Leone Panetta said this "To all who fought in Iraq, we thank you for your service. You've earned our nation's everlasting gratitude. We are indebted to you for your willingness to fight, your willingness to fight for your country. We are indebted to your families and to your loved ones for the sacrifices that they made so that their loved ones could help defend this nation."

Secretary of Defense Leone Panetta went on to say "You have done everything this country asked you to do. You return to a grateful nation. And you can stand proud of all you've accomplished. We owe all of you the honor that your service deserves. And we owe to you the assurance that we will never forget the sacrifices of those who are not with us this evening -- those who gave their lives to this country. We pledge to their memory and we pledge to all of you that we will never forget and we will never retreat from what you've accomplished."

On April 16, 2013, General Joseph Dunford, Commander of U.S. Forces in Afghanistan, who was testifying before Congress, had this to say on the record, "We can look at the families and the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines that have served over the last 11 years and say we won because we provided the Afghans the opportunity to seize the decade of opportunity."

President Obama traveled to Fort Bragg, North Carolina on December 14, 2011. Fort Bragg is home of the Airborne and Special Operations Forces. The President gave a speech, hailing the nation's military as the operation in Iraq was brought to a close. "For nearly nine years, our nation has been at war in Iraq. You've endured dangerous foot patrols and you've endured the pain of seeing your friends and comrades fall. You've had to be more than soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines, and Coast Guardsmen - you've also had to be diplomats and development workers and trainers and peacemakers."

The president went on to say, as he stood before the crowd of soldiers at Fort Bragg, "And you - the incredible men and women of Fort Bragg - have been there every step of the way, serving with honor, sacrificing greatly from the first waves of the invasion to some of the last troops to come home. Through all this, you have shown why the United States military is the finest fighting force in the history of the world. All of you here today have lived through the fires of war. You will be remembered for it. You will be honored for it, always."

"You have done something profound with your lives. When this nation went to war, you signed up to serve. And years from now your legacy will endure in the names of your fallen comrades, etched on headstones at Arlington and the quiet memorials across our country; in the whispered words of admiration as you march in parades and in the freedom of our children and our grandchildren."

Generally, PTSD is an anxiety disorder caused by witnessing stressful, frightening or distressing events, not just in combat, but also victims of accidents of any nature and even natural disasters such as hurricanes or tornadoes. When the incidence of PTSD involved military combat, the prevalence of post-traumatic stress becomes somewhat certain. As the duration and intensity begins to add up, so does the occurrence of PTSD. Whatever the cause, PTSD can manifest itself immediately after a traumatic event, although it can sometimes take months or even years, before symptoms emerge, which can come in extreme forms ranging from lethargy and insomnia to aggression.

According to recent figures issued by the Congressional Research Service, one out of five of the soldiers who served in Iraq and Afghanistan, veterans returned to the U.S. with some form of PTSD and/or some form of depression as a result of their armed services, although around half of those suffering from PTSD have yet to seek any form of treatment. Statistics show however that just over 150,000 cases of PTSD have been reported within the U.S. Army between the years 2000 and 2014.

The incidence of PTSD among Army veterans are statistically much higher, with one in three Army veterans estimated to have experienced some form of trauma during their service.

* There are over 2.5 million American veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.

* At least 20% of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans have PTSD and/or Depression. That is 500,000 people.

* 50% of those with PTSD do not seek treatment. That is 250,000 people.

* PTSD distribution between services for OND, OIF, and OEF: Army 67% of cases, Air Force 9%, Navy 11%, and Marines 13%. (Congressional Research Service, Sept. 2010)

* 23 out of 100 women (or 23%) reported sexual assault when in the military.

* 55 out of 100 women (or 55%) and 38 out of 100 men (or 38%) have experienced sexual harassment while in the military.

The 2013 IOM Study on Returning Vets

In response to the surge of over 400,000 Iraq and Afghanistan veterans returning with lingering problems, Congress mandated that the Department of Defense (DoD) and the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) conduct a formal study of the physical and mental health, and other readjustment issues. In 2012, the Institute of Medicine (IOM) was commissioned to prepare and present the study to Congress by the following year.

The 500-page report was released to the public on March 26, 2013, and was for the most part positive in tone. The 2013 IOM study reported that many of the troops returning from the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan were relatively unharmed. A good number of them even reported that their experiences were rewarding, and their readjustment to civilian life was not very difficult. On the other hand, there was a surprising number who came back to the streets of America with varied complex health conditions and found their readjusting to life at home, reconnecting with family, finding work, or returning to school to be an ongoing, uphill struggle.

The 2013 IOM study reported that 44% of the Iraq and Afghanistan veterans have had "readjustment difficulties". Additionally, 48% of these veterans experienced severe "strains on family life". Almost 50% reported to the survey group that they had experienced a lot of post-traumatic stress issues, and 32% have felt "an occasional loss of interest in daily activities".

# Chapter Three Going Downrange

Since the United States went to war in Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003, about 2.5 million members of the Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard, and related Reserve and National Guard units have been deployed in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, according to Department of Defense data. For the military personnel being deployed, from their home in the U.S. to Iraq and Afghanistan, it is referred to as "Going Downrange".

Of that total number who went downrange, more than a third were deployed more than once. In fact, as of last year, nearly 37,000 Americans had been deployed more than five times. Among them were 10,000 members of Guard or Reserve units. Department of Defense records also show that 400,000 service members have done three or more deployments. Going downrange, into the trauma of a combat area, always affects people in different ways, and changes them. Going downrange changed their priorities, worldviews, values, and most of all it changed how they relate to people. They were never the same after they went downrange.

Going downrange took them into a series of what seemed never ending, painful, life-threatening, traumatic experiences. Most downrange deployments lasted from 12 to 18 months. For the young war veteran, surviving on the streets of combat robbed them of who they were, and changed how they viewed the world around them. For the men or women downrange, it was a daily onslaught of uncertainty, death, and terror.

Then suddenly, when they thought it would never end, they were plucked up and flown back to the streets of America. For a large majority of them, coming home after being downrange was a major shock, as a result of what they had experienced in Iraq or Afghanistan. For many, survival on the streets of America required a major change from what they were used to downrange. Many of them found it too difficult and just stayed downrange in their mind.

What they saw downrange

When they got downrange, it didn't take very long for them to learn the rules of engagement, and also the rules for staying alive in an unforgiving combat zone. They learned that trust in their team-mates was not only crucial to the mission, but was vital to keeping them and the others alive. When they went into an unsecured combat area, they were taught to depend upon their team-mate to watch their backs and protect them; they in turn watched and protected their fellow Soldiers and Marines.

When they got downrange, they painfully learned to be suspicious of others who did not look or talk like they did. People died every week at the hands of enemy insurgents, and if they weren't careful, they could've been next. When they got downrange, they quickly learned that the streets were a dangerous place and they did not go outside the secure area, "outside the wire" unless they were armed and not alone. When they got downrange, they became totally absorbed 24/7 into what one soldier called "the hazmat of war".

Things are certainly different downrange. Their only worry was about staying alive, and they did not fret about the essentials that they once concerned themselves with when they were back home. They had no worries about making a car payment; they had no concerns about bills to pay, buying groceries, home maintenance, what to wear, car repairs, relationship issues, etc.

Their whole life was centered on staying alive and protecting their team-mates. They ran on adrenalin. Days moved quickly and weekends did not matter. Many times, the military relaxed a lot of "standards" in war zones. They did not care if you did not shave every day, if your uniform was wrinkled and dirty, or even if your boots were not clean. Haircuts were something of a special occasion.

They have seen it all downrange

The Soldier, Airman, Marine, or Sailor who spent a year tour downrange has seen it all, just about everything you could imagine. When you have been deployed downrange in Iraq and Afghanistan, you have seen it. They have seen unbelievable heroism and they have seen blatant cowardice; they have seen, felt, and tasted fear, and have experienced sweet relief. They have seen men bleed to death surrounded by their fellow cadre. They have seen brains and blood all over the inside of a Humvee, after they watched the vehicle in front of them momentarily vanish in the smoke of an IED blast. They have heard the screams – "Medic! Medic!"

They have lifted dead Afghan children out of cars, and they have looked down at their own hands and seen them covered in blood, mixed with dirt, as they moved the injured to safety. Sadly, they have seen kids with gunshot wounds, and they have watched helplessly as an old Iraqi man pulled the cord on a suicide bomb, killing himself and 10 others in a busy Baghdad market.

Downrange, they have seen two medics over a young soldier desperately trying to get either a pulse or a breath. Downrange, they have heard rounds whiz by as they run for cover as fast as they can, they can still smell the cordite, and hear the percussion thump of mortar rounds.

Downrange, they have seen shrapnel holes as big as their fists in the sides of some of the medevac helicopters. They have fallen down, gasping for breath, as they helplessly try to carry a man so badly bloodied you can't recognize who he is. They have raided suspected insurgents houses at 2am, kicking in the door; sometimes they take a shotgun and blow the lock off. They can't remember how many "bad guys" that have killed, but they never forget their first.

They have looked into the dirty bearded face of a man who just shot and wounded a soldier, and now throws his AK down and raises his hands above his head and yells in perfect English, "I surrender, please don't kill me". They have seen the angry faces of the local villagers and wonder is that the one who planted the IED that killed 2 men the week before. They have seen a Marine using a night-vision sniper rifle laugh as he shoots a young insurgent for cutting the outer perimeter of the Concertina wire.

Downrange, they have seen their fellow comrades get killed one by one, and become angry with themselves because they seem to be getting used to it happening. Downrange, they have seen men so gripped by fear that they became frozen and could not return fire. And right next to him, a soldier stands up and empties his weapon and yells "Come on you bastards, come and get it!" They have seen, smelled, tasted, and experienced it all; the good, the bad, and the very ugly while they have been downrange.

They have driven in convoys for ten hours at a time, patrolling abandoned highways of death, and then suddenly become clogged in a traffic jam that is backed up as EOD clears a suspected IED. They sit there helpless and terrified waiting for the Humvees to roll, fingers nervously on triggers, scanning the houses and rooftops. They look intensely trying to tell the difference between a Sadiqqi (Arabic for friend) from a Haji (Arabic word for someone who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, but their word for a bad guy).

Downrange, they have heard troops say it hundreds of times, "God, I hate this F...ing place!", and at the same time marvel at how beautiful it must've been before the invasion. They have seen local people dressed like someone who lived a hundred years ago, talking on a modern cell phone.

They have come in from their second back to back 18 hour patrol, dirty and smelly, with the beginnings of a full beard and glance at a captain, in a clean pressed uniform who hasn't been outside the wire since he arrived 4 months ago, daring him to say something about their appearance and smell. The captain just shrugs and walks past, looks at the dust, blood, sweat, and dirt on their uniform and then cuts in front of them in the chow line. Yes, that place sucks. Being downrange changes them and they are never the same. When they come home, things have changed with the way life is in America. They have changed also.

Back to the streets of America

The U.S. wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have been the longest sustained combat operations since the Vietnam era, sending more than 2.5 million troops into battle, and resulting in more than 6,600 deaths and 48,000 injuries. With the drawdown of U.S. Military forces from Iraq and Afghanistan, there were over 400,000 young men and women who returned to the streets of home. America was certainly ready for them to come home. However, whether or not they were ready for America is a question with many answers.

Returning Iraq and Afghanistan veterans were faced with the priorities of civilian life again; house, family, job, transportation, food, kids, dog, bills, smart-phone, laundry, cable TV, and a myriad of other intrinsics. Accordingly, while they were on the streets downrange, America had moved on, and there was now a new reality for the vets to deal with on the streets of America. The new reality was not necessarily a very friendly reality for the formally downrange veterans.

Not only had America changed, but the veterans themselves were changed. Many vets were severely injured. None of them were unaffected by their war experiences. The number of combat injuries was very high and their problems persistent. Of the total force that went downrange to Iraq and Afghanistan, 32,221 came back with catastrophic combat wounds. 228,875 veterans came back to the streets of America with conditions related to combat PTSD. Along with that, over 200,000 U.S. troops have sustained combat related traumatic brain injuries (TBI) since 2005. There are some estimates as high as 20% of returning troops that are affected with PTSD, not to mention that 22 veterans a day will kill themselves.

# Chapter Four Why PTSD stories matter

Each story is a step by step ascent up the winding staircase of understanding PTSD. Each story is supported by the central core of the combat reality that War is Hell.

Leadership is primarily about enabling others to achieve some kind of goal in the face of uncertainty. When there's certainty, when you know what to do, you don't need leadership. It's when you don't know what to do, that the art and creativity of leadership matters. PTSD stories matter because they enable others to see a common thread of pain and suffering, and begin to achieve some understanding about the dynamics of PTSD.

When a young boy tries to pick up a Chihuahua by its tail, he will learn a very valuable lesson, and have a most interesting and personal story to tell about the experience. Such are the stories about PTSD. People with PTSD have learned the hard way about not attending air shows; the noise of the crowds and the planes.

Humans have told stories for thousands upon thousands of years, all kinds of stories. No doubt, because these stories have contributed to our survival. Every young person who grows up hearing, telling, reading, and writing stories, gains access to a lifetime of treasures.

Stories about PTSD matter because they are born of pain and suffering and teach us a very valuable lesson about the after effect of war on the human soul. Stories about PTSD matter because they inform and educate non-veterans about the "private war" that carries on after the veteran returns from combat.

Stories about PTSD are very important because they live at the core of consciousness of the combat veteran. Stories about PTSD provide the framework for understanding, interpretation, and the meaning of what it's like to be in combat. Some of the stories may seem bizarre to the person untouched by war, but not to the person who experienced the story, it's as real as it gets.

There is understanding in the stories of PTSD

Telling the story is as much a part of staying alive as taking in food, water, and air. The stories are part of life. To understand the story is to understand about life. Understanding PTSD is actually one of the first steps in the recovery process; focusing on the "how" it happens, rather that the "why" it happens. Those first steps in understanding PTSD are taken by looking at the symptoms. That is why stories about PTSD matter, they are stories of symptoms. The stories began to add bits of understandable color to the random parts of the puzzle. Stories bring out patterns of pain and the similes of suffering that PTSD tries to overpower veterans with.

There is healing in the stories of PTSD

When you have suffered a major setback, experienced betrayal or loss, what have you found brought you some relief? Did the ear of a friend help? Someone listening, not trying to solve your problem but showing in their eyes that they care. They hear and they care.

Telling their stories helps PTSD veterans heal. It releases some of the energy that the experience created and begins to externalize the experience. In telling it, in giving the story to another, it is not ours alone. Someone is sharing it with us. In enabling another to understand and have empathy, we move out of the sense of isolation the experience fostered into community, a requirement for healing.

In the last 20 years, medical practice has increasingly recognized the importance of what's come to be called "narrative medicine" to the patient's healing. Recognition of the value of storytelling's ability to heal is evident in the plethora of writing workshops for veterans that have sprung up across the country since troops began returning from deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Poet and author Maxine Hong Kingston, began the first veterans' writing project in 1993 in the Bay Area, where she witnessed the healing power of writing about war experiences and sharing them in a group. "Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace" resulted from that project.

Another group called "Warrior Writers" began in New York City in early 2007, providing writing and art workshops to veterans to create a culture that articulates veterans' experiences. This group now makes their workshops available around the country. There is a Veterans Writing Project in Washington, D.C., and others exist in Reno, NV; Ogden, Utah; San Diego, and various VA medical centers across the country. Amherst, MA has the Veterans Education Project and the Hudson Valley area of New York has the Veterans Writing Project. The Writers Guild Foundation of Los Angeles runs the Military Veterans Writing Workshop, and New York University holds the Veterans Writing Workshop.

A unique program that enables veterans to both write their story and tell it is the Telling Project. It works with veterans in universities, communities, and organizations to produce innovative performances. After interviews, trainings, and rehearsals, veterans and their family members tell their stories on stage for their communities. The Telling Project has performed in Eugene and Portland, OR; Seattle, WA; Sacramento, CA; Washington, D.C.; Starkville, MS; Baltimore, MD and Iowa City, IA, enabling veterans to speak their truths and their communities to listen.

For a few years, the National Endowment for the Arts supported a writing project called "Operation Homecoming" to help U.S. troops and their families write about their wartime experiences. This program brought distinguished writers to military installations to conduct writing workshops. A related call for writing submissions resulted in more than 1,200 submissions and 12,000 pages of writings. Almost 100 of those were featured in the anthology, "Operation Homecoming: Iraq, Afghanistan and the Home Front in the Words of U.S. Troops and Their Families."

PTSD stories unite the inner and outer self

Writing is an essential step in telling one's story, because writing enables us to create order out of memory's chaos. In sorting through the chaos and stringing together a narrative, we make clear the experience's meaning -- for ourselves and for others. Our truth might not only allow empathy but enlighten.

Combat trauma produces an intensification of the bodie's senses and then shuts them down to protect the mind from becoming overwhelmed. And while this is life-saving in the short term, it is soul-numbing in the long term. Those frozen, intense sense memories get encapsulated in the brain and refuse to fade, taking us whirling back in a second, unpredictably. It is in the stories of PTSD that combat veterans link the pieces, provides a way to defuse those terrifying memories, and release some of the pressure that has built up around them.

# Chapter Five Backstreet Memories

Backstreet Memories

Lurking on the backstreets of our mind,

are remnants of life's forgotten woes.

With concern and earnest, we hope and pray,

that whatever we have stashed, stays behind.

Somehow it always happens when we begin to doze,

that the memories of years ago come back alive today.

Then should we be tormented by haunts of days gone by,

we must footnote with assurance that God always knows

our hurt and pain, and He will carry us through.

The Second War

In his presentation entitled "Just Memory: War and the Ethics of Remembrance", Professor Viet Thanh Nguyen of the University of Southern California said, "All wars are fought twice, the first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory." That phrase is exceptionally true for just about every veteran that has ever served in a combat zone. For these veterans of military conflict, the memories of war remain active on the backstreets of their minds. Technically speaking, a backstreet memory can be described as: a memory stream consisting of sometimes traumatic incidents recollected from an individual's life, based on a combination of episodic (personal experiences and specific objects, people and events experienced at a particular time and place) and semantic (general knowledge and facts about the world) memories. Many veterans are haunted by vivid backstreet memories that confront them at the most inopportune times.

On Veterans Day, in many small towns all across America, there is the usual Veterans Day parade. The parade forms at the end of Main Street, then starts off with ranks of local military, followed by high school marching bands, majorettes, and perhaps convertibles carrying local officials. Then come the ragged ranks of veterans marching together. Some are dressed in their old uniforms which show some signs of wear and tear, many are wearing remnants of uniforms to include badges, patches, and medals on their jackets or hats. Some veterans wear service organizations' hats and badges like the VFW, AMVETS, Marine Corps League, DAV, and the American Legion. They are all middle-aged men, or elderly men sometimes sporting long hair and beards. Sometimes there is a flatbed trailer carrying disabled vets in wheel-chairs. Everyone is waving and cheering. Sometimes there are fireworks which cause the older veterans to jump and twitch nervously. There are American flags everywhere and patriotism fills the air.

The thing that is happening here is more than just an annual demonstration of patriotism and appreciation to the men and women for their wartime military service. The veterans that actively participate in the Veterans Day parades and ceremonies have been inexorably linked to the memories of their military service. The experiential obligation of duty, honor, and country continue to draw them out into the public.

Veterans are collectively and inherently proud of their service to their country. Although the wars that these veterans fought in are long past and rapidly fading into forgotten history, the memories are vividly alive in the minds of the veterans who participated in them. Many times these wartime backstreet memories are unwelcome intruders in the daily lives of veterans. Today veterans of WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and now Iraq and Afghanistan, are plagued and tormented by the lingering influences of post-traumatic stress syndrome. In January 2014, a report from the Department of Veteran Affairs showed that a total of 299,561 Iraq and Afghanistan War veterans were diagnosed and treated for PTSD.

Just like in a Veterans' Day parade, here now are the marching ranks of backstreet memories. The stories are piled together in random order and mixed up with the usual piles of shredded memories. Here are the stories of veterans with PTSD. The parables, stories, and descriptions that are in this book have been compiled from actual experiences.

The Birthday Present

Our grandfather was a B-17 gunner during WWII. For years he talked nostalgically about how he loved flying. He often said how much he would like to go up again, just to experience being "free from the ground and up in the clouds". One year, all of the grandchildren pooled our money together and bought Grandpa Tom a really great birthday present, it was a 30 minute flight in a Cessna 172. He now lives in a retirement home. Grandpa was so thrilled when he opened the envelope and found the gift certificate. He was even more thrilled when the day came for his flight in the little 4 passenger plane. Because my older 19 year-old brother had put in most of the money, he got to ride with Grandpa on this great day. However, as it turned out, it was a very bad day for Grandpa when he used his gift and went flying again. Here is the story of the birthday present in Grandpa's own words:

It was a beautiful day, 78 degrees, no cloud cover, full sun, and a slight breeze from the west. The aircraft was a 4 year-old Cessna Skyhawk 172, with a recently overhauled engine. The Cessna 172 was a really sleek aircraft with a high wing and almost 100% visibility. The run up to take off was smooth and easy and we gained altitude quickly. The Lycoming 180 HP single engine was as quiet as a whisper, as we glided over the vast country side.

The Cessna pilot was young, but very experienced and, as I remember it, about the age of our WWII B-17 pilot. During the war, I was with 93rd Bomb Group stationed in England at an RAF base called Hardwick. Our group flew almost 400 bombing missions over Germany. I was over there for 18 months, and got a Purple Heart and Bronze Star for saving the life of our pilot. I was a ball top gunner and had the best seat on the plane.

The view in the Cessna 172 was breathtaking. After we leveled out, the young pilot said "Here Tom, you take her for a while". Oh man, she was very responsive, not sluggish like the B-17. I flew that little plane for about 15 minutes, and then I began to feel a little queasy. The pilot shrugged it off saying "Oh, no problem, let me take it now, it's probably just a combination of the vibration, the movement of the plane, and the faint whiff of aviation fuel every now and then. As we slowed and gently turned to line up with the airfield, I began to really freak out.

The inside of the Cessna seemed really hot to me, and I started sweating. It became hard to breathe. I even made the comment that it seemed like I could not get enough oxygen to my mask. Then my grandson said "Grandpa, you're not wearing an oxygen mask". I called out again "Ball top to pilot, my mask is malfunctioning! I'm not getting any O2".

The Cessna was nearing the runway now, and suddenly I got taken back to the day our B-17 crashed. We were on the final approach for RAF Hardwick, when #2 engine began smoking real bad with some flames coming out. The pilot quickly shut it off, and then after a few moments we also lost #1 engine. Holy crap, both engines out on the left wing, the flack must have damaged a fuel line; you could smell it all over the plane. I called out again "Ball top to pilot, we have a fuel leak somewhere". My grandson yelled "grandpa, what's wrong?" I called out again, "Ball top to pilot, were gonna crash on the runway!"

The Cessna pilot yelled, "Hey, kid, make that old man shut up". Suddenly, #3 engine cuts out. I called again, "Ball top to pilot, we've lost #3, were gonna crash now, brace for impact". "Kid, make him shut up, I have to land the plane". Just then, the B-17 crashed on the runway, skidded, and then broke into two pieces. Flames and smoke were everywhere, "Ball top to crew, everybody out, she's gonna blow!"

Fortunately, the Cessna landed safely without crashing and burning, and the pilot was somewhat understanding. He told me that he was a former Navy F-18 pilot and it took him a while to wind down from his last deployment off of the coast of Iraq. I could kind of tell he was looking at me wondering if he would suffer flashbacks when got to be 86. I thanked him for the flight, apologized for my moments of terror, and wished him well. As my grandson drove me back to the retirement home, I wondered what my grandkids would get me next year for my birthday.

Dirt Bikes and Trash Bags

I served 2 difficult combat tours in Iraq, and I have been back home about 5 months now, yet I'm still fighting battles, a fight here at home. It's a war of images and shadows, one that no one seems to really understand. It's also a war of anger and anxiety, fought in the deep recesses of my mind. Sometimes it is impossible to put the images out of my mind. They are real; they have shape and form, color, sounds, and smells.

During both tours downrange, I was with an EOD unit involved in patrolling the main highways for bad guys, which always seemed to find us first. As we patrolled the supply roadways, we would always see bomb creators and destroyed vehicles. We were always on the lookout for IED's.

During my first month, we lost 4 men from our company to roadside bombs. My squad was providing convoy security for a military VIP when an ear-shattering explosion rocked our Stryker vehicle. The IED's shock wave threw me against my door, the stench of burning flesh and blood filled the cab. Everyone was dead except me.

I became extremely focused and hyper vigilant to anything that could be a bomb, and I learned that anything on the road could blow up and kill you. Day after day, I saw and experienced death, blood, and destruction. I got to where I didn't feel anything. I felt numb. It was as if nothing had happened. No emotion at all.

In Iraq, you learn to shut out such horror. It's called "survival mode." Your mind and body go numb. You don't recoil from the horror; instead, you make jokes about it. Now, back home, I am still in survival mode. I block out my remembrances by keeping a busy life. Most days I work a 12 hour shift, and attend college classes one to four nights a week. I do this because it helps me forget, it helps me shut out my war. But it's still with me. My war's always with me.

It happened 4 months ago during the summer, and I am just now beginning to understand what transpired. It went something like this: I was driving home on I-10, when suddenly everybody was stopping. We sat there for 30 minutes, engine running with the AC on high trying to keep cool. In Iraq, it was always a scary time when the convoy would be stopped. It always meant an IED, and then snipers, or mortars would begin to zero in on us.

Now, as I sat there waiting on the I-10, I began nervously scanning my 360 looking for any danger. I could almost hear my heart pounding, even over the AC noise blowing cool air on me. As I looked down at the dash, I saw my temperature gauge move over into the red. Crap - overheating. I lowered the windows, shut off the engine, and got out to raise the hood to let the engine cool.

I began to look up and down the rows of trapped cars. Many of drivers were doing the same as me - stop, get out, and raise the hood. I felt lucky; I was in the far left lane with a graveled shoulder area extending over to the grass next to the divider barrier. Just then, I looked down the shoulder behind me and saw 2 dirt bikes coming my way at a high rate of speed. I could hear the loud buzzing of their engines as they sped toward me. In Iraq, dirt bikes always meant trouble; they were the vehicle of choice of the insurgents. Many times they were wired with explosives and the bad guys would use them as suicide bombs.

I was really scared now. I had to get out of there. I slammed down the hood, and ran around my car to get in and suddenly noticed a big black trash bag right next to my car. I shouted to the top of my voice "IED, IED!!!" I jumped into my car, fired her up, and fishtailed down the shoulder at 60 miles an hour. My high speed exodus from the danger zone lasted about 2 miles, taking me right past the accident, 3 tow trucks, and several State Troopers. Everybody was yelling and waving their arms at me to stop, no way! I kept going until I was home. The whole episode was like a bad dream, all blurred and menacing.

The Dark Side of PTSD

(Shawn's story)

I was first diagnosed with PTSD in 2010 after my second tour to Afghanistan.

I tried to cope with it myself and with little help, as there was not much around. This all fell apart the next year, in February and March, with 3 suicide attempts.

When I returned from downrange, I was still on a high and running on high alert, adrenalin, and everything was a life and death decision that had to be made quickly. Therefore, decisions were made on the run at times with only the information on hand and, in hindsight, it would have been better to have waited and made more informed decisions about my life and future.

I made the choice to leave the Army early after my return and this was based on what I thought was best for me, and not for the Army. I had just come back from an intense special operations deployment, and been at the cutting edge of operational and strategic intelligence. I wanted to move straight into another downrange tour as soon as I could.

However, the Army had different plans and that was to move me out of my specialist role to a tour of hometown recruiting. I said "recruiting, that's for losers". Well that was all they were offering me. So I left the Army.

I didn't have the occasion to discuss my feelings with anyone and was probably not willing to, as I saw this as a weakness and had to get out on the top of my game.

I found this attitude quite common among military personnel. We are unwilling to put our hands up to say we are having problems, as we are then perceived as "not up to it" and that it may have a detrimental effect on our career. I was angry with the Army and at the world. I felt that I had been done hard and undervalued.

I was also unable to see into the future. I had been operating in the "here and now" for so long, at such a high intensity rate and making decisions that were valued and acted upon. I felt that I had really lost the best thing in my life, and began a downward spiral of drinking and drugs. It was on that low point that I turned to suicide again. This time, it was with an "off the books 9mm pistol that I had smuggled back from Afghanistan in a team Conex box. I loaded it and held the weapon up to my head, but at the last moment I flinched as the gun went off. The round grazed deep into the side of my head, not enough to kill me, but my right side was paralyzed for 6 months.

I remember my mom and dad coming to visit me in the ICU once I had gained some sort of consciousness. The look in their eyes was my turning point in getting my life back on track.

This was the first glimpse of that light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I spent another 4 months in rehab, learning to walk again.

I suppose God had a plan for my life. Now I am on a journey to wellness that is supported by things I do myself, strength I draw on from family and friends, support from professional people, and my belief God. I saw a psychiatrist who helped me to unravel the dark side of my feelings and experiences, some of which I had not considered since my tour, as they were locked away in my mind. This was the first step to recovery - identify the issues, thoughts, and emotions that led to my illness. Life is too short and precious and there is so much of life yet to experience.

Suicide, a growing epidemic

In January of 2014, the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America (IAVA) released the results of a survey of 4,000 of its members regarding suicide. The survey results emphasized the dark depths of a mental-health crisis that has gripped the U.S. military and the American veteran community in recent years. What showed up was, almost half of the group that was polled said they know of an Iraq or Afghanistan veteran who has attempted suicide. Additionally, 30% actually responded that they have considered suicide since that have returned from deployment.

A startling outcome was that 43% of the respondents indicated that they are not seeking mental-health care because of a perceived negative impact to their career. Also, 80% of the respondents said they don't think the veterans are getting the care that they need.

The Red Eye Flight

It happened on the "red eye" flight back to Chicago. I was exhausted but could not fall asleep, so I just sat there and stared straight ahead. Suddenly, the plane hit an air pocket, and bounced up and down very hard. So hard, in fact, the overhead compartment door right over my head slammed down with tremendous bang. Just about everybody on the plane was asleep and many of them didn't even notice what happened, but I did. It scared me very much and I was shaking and began to tense up.

As I cringed and glanced forward, I saw the whole situation in full living color. Suddenly, I was back in Iraq, and our resupply convoy had just hit an IED. It was extremely real for me, not like the other times, when I was asleep. I could hear the screaming, I could smell the smoke, and feel the tension in the air. When the plane finally landed, I waited until everyone had gotten off, so they wouldn't see that I had peed my pants.

Incoming at the Office

Some decisions have unfortunate outcomes, when you don't have all the information at hand and you can't control the situation on the ground. I was doing the marketing report and listening to some heavy rock music when I was suddenly transported back to Afghanistan. We were being Helo extracted and the bastards were dropping mortars on our LZ. They had us bracketed, and I never prayed so hard in all my life. Due to the heavy incoming fire, the Chinook needed to lift off. I was just stepping on ramp, when I saw that a group of soldiers had run back to the rocks for cover. I quickly jumped off the bird, and ran toward them. I chose to stay back with my buddies because I knew was carrying their ammo. It was 3 days before they could get us out of that hell hole. We lost 2 brave men, and I lost my right leg.

Warning Malfunction

I have been driving a city bus for 6 years, since I came back from Iraq. It's a good job, and I haven't had too many issues from my time in combat. I have a really great bus route that allows me a full 1 hour stop-over at the county line station. I usually sit in my bus to eat my lunch, and then take a 30 minute nap. The city doesn't mind, in fact, I only get paid for 8 hours for a 9 hour day. When I don't feel like a nap, I just sit in my bus and try to read a book. Sometimes, I can't help having thoughts about my 2 tours in Iraq with the Second Marine Division.

Looking back, I remember some of the guys that were killed. The loss of life will sometimes weigh heavily on me. When that happens, I start to relive those decisions and outcomes to see if I or anyone else could have done things differently. I try not to spend too much time thinking about Iraq, but it happens. My counselor says it is just a malfunction from my combat days in Iraq, and I shouldn't be too hard on myself. Sometimes I cry about it, and I don't feel ashamed for doing so.

Carrier Ops

Sometimes during a long flight, when I'm not flying the aircraft, I just sit there, look out the window, and think. I've been flying now for 6 years, 4 with the U.S. Navy, and 2 with the airlines as a first officer. That means I sit in the right seat, and my job is be the co-pilot. Hopefully, next year, I will be the captain.

When I was in the Navy, I was a pilot of an FA-18 Hornet, and flew strike missions over Iraq and Afghanistan. We operated off of an Aircraft Carrier that was stationed in the Gulf. Taking off and landing on a moving carrier was quite a challenge. I got really proficient at landing and catching the #3 wire, it was such a rush of adrenaline. The scariest times were at night when there was no moon, or if there was cloud cover. It was tough, but I handled it just fine. All of the carrier ops were grueling, sometimes non-stop, round the clock bombing, but I handled it just fine.

Now, looking back, there are things that I think about as I sit in this beautiful Boeing 767, gliding at 33,000 feet. What would have happened to my wife and son if I were shot down over Iraq, or Afghanistan? What would become of them, if I were killed while trying to land on the carrier at 2am with zero visibility? How many people did I really kill when I flew over their country and dropped high explosive bombs on them?

Remembering Khe Sanh

Every day he comes to the park, sits there, and watches the kids play, just glad to be alive. Although he is still haunted by sleepless nights, and intrusions of panic, he commits to living day to day trusting in God.

In Vietnam, during the Tet Offensive on Jan 21, 1968, the North Viet Cong attacked the U.S. Marine Base in Khe Sanh, South Vietnam, with over 20,000 enemy troops. For 77 days, the American troops endured a seemingly endless bombardment of shells, rockets, and mortars. At night, troops defended the surrounding hills on foot. Over 2,000 U.S. military were killed, and thousands were wounded. Those who survived were forever changed.

Beirut Déjà Vu

I only did this because my son had kept pestering me about coming out and watch him run in the Boston Marathon. I usually avoid large crowds; they make me nervous, even today. When I got up this morning, I did not realize that I was going back to Beirut. As I saw it happening right before my eyes, all of my senses went into overload; the sound of the explosion, the smell of fear and panic of the crowd, further sounds of emergency and police vehicles, and then the sudden awareness of tension came over my body. I wasn't afraid, and felt I had to do something.

The crowd, who had packed the sidewalks, was now running away from the area of the explosion; the air was filled with a cacophony of terror sounds. It was a mad scene, like something out of a Hollywood movie. Then suddenly, a strange feeling came over me, and I began running toward the chaotic scene of the bomb blast.

When I got close, I went in my corpsman mode and started helping people. Instinctively, all my training with the Second Marine Division suddenly kicked in. "Stop the bleeding, check for breath signs. Sir, don't try to get, up your leg in broken". I saw one man who was apparently dead and I shivered at the sight, but moved on. There was a young woman with a long gash down her forearm, the blood sprayed up at me, but I blocked it with my hand, took off my scarf and wrapped her arm. I wondered where my son was in all this mess. The woman was crying uncontrollably, and looked up at me and said "Am I going to die?" "No you're going to be OK", I told her. She kept crying, as I held her in my arms, I started crying also. Some guy came up to us and took our picture. Somehow, I could not stop crying. I looked around, the EMTs were starting to work their way through the carnage of what was the finish line of the 21 mile race.

As I was sitting there holding the crying young woman, a powerful sense of déjà vu seemed to envelop me like a smokescreen. I suddenly realized that I was actually crying, I hadn't wept since Beirut 1983. Back then, I was a very young Navy Corpsman over there with Battalion Landing Team 1/8 out of Camp Lejeune, when those bastards blew up our building. We lost a total of 241, and 18 of them were Navy Corpsman just like me. So here I was, 30 years later at the Boston Marathon. I could still hear the shouts of "Corpsman up, this one's alive, over here quickly!"

I tried to get up, but my legs were nothing but rubber, and I could not stop crying. A young EMT ran up to us, saw all the blood, looked aghast, and said "Sir, are you hurt". It took a moment for his question to register, my jacket was all smeared with her blood, and I was crying my eyes out. "I'm OK, the girl here has a contaminated deep laceration on her right forearm". I almost thought I heard the EMT say to me "Good work Doc, we will take it from here", maybe he did say that.

The EMTs put her on a gurney and took her way. It felt like I was going into shock, and I began to vomit. On top of all that, I couldn't stop crying, Another EMT came up to me, just as that same guy was trying to take my picture again. "Get out of here", shouted the young EMT. "Sir, are you injured in anyway?" I told him that I was OK. Just then I heard a familiar voice yelling, "Dad, Dad, over here". I looked over and there was my son being held back by 2 of "Boston's finest". I waved at him, and they let him pass.

"Are you OK dad?" I said I was, and my son suggested that we should try and go home. "Yes, let's go home". I was still crying, and my son gave me a hug. Just about that time, the man came by again and took our picture. I told my son that I could not understand why that man kept taking my picture. I told my son, I did not know what was so unusual about an old man, covered in blood, sitting in the middle of the street crying. My son, laughed and said, "Yeah, but dad you're from Chicago, this is Boston!"

A Cold Night on Takur Ghar

I really hate the cold, and I keep asking myself why I am up here in Chicago during the winter. I should be down in Florida where it's warm. The cold seems to bring out the worst in me, and I have had the dream again 2 nights in a row. Oh, the dream, it's always about the same thing. I'm just hoping to get through this night without having to go back to Afghanistan. Tomorrow will be a good day, I can see her and then leave this cold and start back down to Tampa. There is a homeless shelter down there that is run by an old Army buddy from my Ranger battalion. I might even get my job back with the lawn service. Yes, the morning will be better, but I must get through this night.

He has been up in Chicago for the last 3 nights, having hitchhiked up from Tampa for his daughter's high school graduation. It had been almost 10 years since his wife's funeral, and that was when he had last seen his daughter. It had all happened so fast, he could hardly remember getting wounded, coming home from Afghanistan, the charges, the court martial, and then the jail time. While he was in jail, his wife died, and his brother was awarded custody of his daughter.

Now, as he suddenly sits up from sleeping on the sidewalk, it all began to come back to him. The fight at the enlisted club at MacDill, the trial, the sentencing, and the jail time – 5 years. Half way through his sentence, his wife was killed by a drunk driver on South Dale Mabry Hwy, and he lost custody of his only daughter. In 2007, when he got out, he tried working, but his Other than Honorable discharge (OTH) didn't open very many doors in the job market, especially in Tampa.

Without a job, he lost his apartment, so he just hung around Ybor City and slept on the streets. Sometimes he would stay at Metropolitan Ministries, and do odd jobs. There were some good times, but he was always plagued by the haunting memories of a very cold night on March 4, 2002, on top of a 10,000 foot Afghan mountain called Takur Ghar. Just 3 months after being home, he was diagnosed by the CENTCOM psychiatrist as having severe PTSD. He was scheduled to be sent to Walter Reed for some inpatient treatment, when he got into a fight with a Marine at the enlisted club and stabbed him with a K bar. The Marine was actually stabbed 6 times, spent 5 months in Tampa General Hospital and lost his right kidney.

At the court-martial, his Ranger cadre testified against him saying that he started the fight. They were probably right; he had started a lot of the fights that he had been in since his return home. In fact, he had been restricted to the base for fighting. Now, here he was, many years later, up in cold Chicago, sleeping on the street, having nightmares about Takur Ghar.

For 1st Battalion Ranger unit, the battle of Takur Ghar began in the early morning of March 4, 2002, when they took off from Bagram Air Base. They were part of a quick reaction force being sent to a mountain top, named Takur Ghar, in eastern Afghanistan near the border of Pakistan. They were to rescue a Navy Seal that had tumbled out of a Ch-47 Chinook helicopter that had tried to insert a special operations team on top of an enemy stronghold. This reconnaissance mission was being done in support of the large Operation Anaconda. They were unaware that this helo had been hit by rockets (RPGs) and had subsequently crashed further down the mountain. They were also unaware that the mountain was defended by over 50 heavily armed al-Qaeda fighters.

As the second Chinook tried to land on the ridge of Takur Ghar, all hell broke loose; they were shot down by RPGs and began an intense firefight with the enemy forces. Upon exiting the downed helo, 3 Rangers were killed immediately. Over the course of 17 hours, 7 Americans lost their lives, the highest number of combat deaths in a single day by any unit since 1993.

The heavily armed al-Qaeda fighters were dug in on the ridge and had a very large and effective Russian made 75mm recoilless rifle, and a DShK heavy machine gun. The Rangers tried 3 times to assault the enemy position only to be beaten back by superior firepower, RPGs, and mortars. By this time, 3 of the men had been severely wounded, and the enemy was pounding the area around the downed Chinook with mortars and PRGs.

Under heavy attack, and unable to withdraw, the only option left to the Americans now was to call in air strikes on their own position. It is what's called "danger close". Around 2pm, Air Force and Navy jets made a total of eight different passes and finally destroyed the large al-Qaeda bunker. The battle was over, but another struggle was just beginning. Apparently, Bagram headquarters wanted to wait until after dark to send more helicopters to get them out, due to the heavy enemy concentration in the area of the Shahikot valley. The Rangers had to wait another 5 or 6 hours. The temperature began dropping into the low teens and the wind picked up to 20mph. The 5 severely wounded men were fighting for their lives.

Repeated radio calls back, to headquarters reporting the critical condition of the wounded, did little to change the decision to wait until nightfall. Even the commander of the Ranger unit tried, without success, to convince the Generals in Bagram to send the rescue helicopters. As the sun sank around 5 p.m., the wind kicked up and the ridge top at Takur Ghar turned frigid. With the cold, and the elevation above 10,000 feet, oxygen was scarce. The wounded were almost choking for air, bleeding, and coughing up blood. Everyone had bad sore throats and was suffering from dehydration. Snow started to cover everything, as the soldiers began looking and hoping for the rescue helicopters.

While they waited in the bitter cold, the soldiers searched the downed chopper for anything that could provide warmth or something to eat. The Rangers found just enough food for everyone to have a bite of something and put something in their stomachs. They shared what food they found, whether it was a pack of crackers, a Power Bar, or half of a cold meal from military rations. They peeled off the aircraft's sound insulation liner for blanketing the casualties. Some of the men built a lean-to out of wood from a bombed tree to keep the wind off the wounded. It was getting dark and they only had a few flashlights. It was going to be a long cold night on Takur Ghar.

The evening before their mission, some of the Rangers attended a Bible study group held by the Chaplain at the Bagram air base. One of the passages of Scripture was about mountains and deliverance. It was Psalm 121, which begins, "I lift up my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord". As they waited in the bitter cold darkness, some of the Rangers recited those words.

Shortly after 6pm in the darkness on Takur Ghar, one of the wounded men, their medic, slipped into a coma and died quietly. He had hung onto his life as long as he could, and perished as a result of his wounds. Approximately 2 hours later, the desperate men on the ridge top of Takur Ghar saw the first of 3 Chinooks hovering in for a landing. Everyone there reached out a weary hand in welcome. That Chinook was indeed a beautiful sight.

As he sat up suddenly from the cold pavement, he felt the warm tears in his eyes. It was the same dream again, but this time it ended with the rescue. He reached into his pocket, and took out the half-eaten McDonalds burger, took a few bites, and then laid back down whispering the words: "I lift up my eyes to the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord".

The Liberator

My father was 18 years-old when he joined the Army, toward the end of WWII. He lied about his age, he was really 17, but nevertheless he was the youngest soldier in his unit. He was eventually assigned to a battalion with 71st Division of the Third Army. This was around the first part of May 1945, and his companies had entered Austria and were pushing the Germans out as they advanced. They were about 10 miles north of Lambach when they came upon a concentration camp with about 600 inmates. It was like something they had never seen before, and nobody really knew what it was. As he and the other soldiers entered the gates, the sight was appalling. The odor that reached them, a hundred yards or so from the camp site, was so nauseating that they would vomit.

The sight and smell of the camp made my father's stomach do funny things like an egg-beater churning within. It was impossible to count the dead, but 200 emaciated corpses would be a very conservative estimate. For the most part, they had died during the past two days, but there were many other rotting bodies inside the barracks, right beside living human beings who were too weak to move. It is practically impossible to describe in decent or printable words, the state of degradation in which the German guards had permitted the camp to fall. Located in a dense patch of pine trees, well-hidden from the main highway as well as from the air, the site was well-suited for the slimy, vermin-infested living conditions that existed there.

My father was a proud man, but would weep openly when he described their helplessness in trying to save these people that they were liberating. They were all sick, starving, and dying from lack of water. We didn't know; we gave them some of our food and water. They were so grateful, and ate like wolves. Shortly afterwards, many of the inmates began to fall down and go into convulsions and died. The soldiers who were liberating these camps, were discovering that if they fed the severely malnourished men and women, it was too much shock to their digestive systems. As he stated with tears in his eyes, "we couldn't save them. We tried to feed some of these people, and really we couldn't....We couldn't save them. We felt terrible! They were dying in front our eyes! Nothing we could do would save them, because they were so close to death and we couldn't feed them."

My father's unit was ordered to stay with the camp until a proper medical battalion could arrive and take over. They were there two weeks and they lost about half of the prisoners. They were helpless to any measures to keep them alive. They discovered in some of the buildings, what looked like a laboratory, where bodies had been dissected and studied. Additionally, at the back of the camp, in plain sight, was a pile of dead bodies, about 25 feet high, there must have been thousands.

My father's Army unit went on to "process" 3 more Nazi death camps, the largest one held several thousand souls, and was equipped with gas chambers and ovens to cremate the bodies. My father said the shock and abhorrence at the level of atrocities by the Nazis has stayed with him for his whole life. For those young liberators, they were a part of the most traumatic experience that had happened in the 20th century – "The Holocaust".

Even though it has been 69 years since my father witnessed the boney and emaciated masses crying with joy for the prospect of rescue, throughout his life, the image remained burned in his mind. To this day, he still has horrific dreams with terrible night sweats, and he wakes up screaming. Just before he left the Army, he was "debriefed" and told to forget about what he saw in the camps and that he should move on. Like many GI's, he came back, quickly married, started a business, raised a family, and remained very busy. Now, living in a retirement home, he has lots of time to think, and has virtually lost the ability to control the unbidden and unwelcome visions of the camps. Such is the high price paid by the liberators of the Holocaust camps.

Too Hot for a Bonfire - Remembering Forrestal

I really don't know why I came; I wasn't officially part of the university faculty anymore. I was still teaching one of the night classes, but I didn't need to. Retirement did have some benefits. But the annual bonfire was something that I never attended, and I knew why. I tended to shy away from large boisterous crowds, especially air shows. I didn't go to the football games, even though I played on the varsity team for 4 years as part of my athletic scholarship – oh my, that was over 50 years ago. Going to the football games was definitely a "no, no" for me. The crowds, the yelling, the horns, and the screaming idiots were just too much for me. When we would score a touchdown, they would fire a big cannon and they would startle me so bad. The sudden noise, along with the fact that, where the faculty had to sit was right near the cannon and the black powder smoke would make me sick sometimes. I certainly knew why, I was aware of my PTSD. As "Dirty Harry" once said "A man has got to know his limitations, or he is a dead man". So, I put my hand over my mouth.

Coming to this bonfire was a very bad idea. I don't know how I could've been so stupid. I should have my head examined. Then something else occurred to me that even compounded the reality of my bad judgment – it was 4th of July weekend. Holy crap, they're going to be doing fireworks also. As a retired psychology professor, I knew all about the elements of PTSD, and fireworks were not a good mix. I also knew that I needed to get out of here ASAP. I certainly knew that PTSD and fireworks, along with large chanting crowds, yelling screaming college fools were a very bad combination. And here I was, right in the middle of all of this. I HAD TO LEAVE, NOW! I had no choice in the matter. I could feel the heat from the huge bonfire already, and the crowd of idiots was vibrating – wait a minute, I was the vibrating idiot for coming here in the first place. I HAD TO LEAVE.

As I began to push my way out of the crowd, I noticed that I was drenched in sweat, and a few students said "Hey professor, where are you going". I answered back, "It's too hot for a bonfire, and I'm going home".

The crowds and the bonfire were the trigger; I was definitely having a "text book" PTSD flashback. I became powerless to the onset of all this emotion. All my senses were on overload; the sounds, the sensation of heat, the taste of sweat mixed with smoke, the smell of the fire, and the press of the students were transporting me back to the USS Forrestal. We called her the "FID", and it was my first ship - wow, over 45 years ago. A lot of people died on that hot fateful day in 1967 when flames of hell came to the flight deck of the USS Forrestal.

I was a young Navy officer, on my first assignment after graduating from college and then Officer Candidate School (OCS). It was during Vietnam, and Forrestal was engaged in round the clock air strikes on North Vietnam. I was an air ops duty officer, and would pull long hours up in what we called "vulture's row". Sometimes when the CAG was not around, the junior watch officers like me would sit in his big chair. Vulture's row was just above the ship's bridge and afforded the best view of the flight deck and all the organized chaos involved with jets taking off and landing.

It was a very hot afternoon in January 1967, when all hell broke loose and came to visit the FID during air operations. It all happened so fast, an F-4 Phantom was being refueled aft when a spark ignited and set off a fire. The resulting blaze set off a rocket that was mounted on the jet's wing. The rocket streaked across the flight deck and hit a parked A-4 Skyhawk jet. The Skyhawk, which was waiting to take off, was piloted by John McCain, the future senator from Arizona. Just before his plane blew up in flames, he jumped out and ran to safety. The blaze then spread to nearby jets and detonated a 1,000-pound bomb, which killed many of the initial firefighters and further spread the fire. A chain reaction of explosions blew holes in the flight deck and had half the large ship on fire at one point. Many pilots were trapped in their planes as the fire spread. It took a full day before the fires could be fully contained. Hundreds of sailors were seriously burned and injured and 134 were killed in the devastating fire. Twenty planes were destroyed, and it was the worst loss of life on a U.S. Navy ship since World War II.

Running the Mogadishu Mile

It was around the end of October 2013, we went to see the opening of the blockbuster movie "Captain Phillips". The theater was sold out and we had to hunt for a pair of seats in the back. We finally settled in for what seemed like a very good movie; I had read some really good reviews. However, about 20 minutes into the movie, I looked over at my son and he was as pale as a ghost and covered in sweat. He turned to me and said "Mom, I've got to get out of here, I think I going to be sick, and I can't handle the skinnies". I whispered to him, "What are skinnies?" He told me that they were the local Somali militia fighters that tried to kill him in Mogadishu a long time ago. "The skinnies are the ones that we fought during the battle of Mogadishu. We lost 19 men and had over 84 wounded, including myself. I still have bad memories about that time; I lost a lot of good friends that day. I don't want to go back there."

"I've got to get out of here, mom. I'm going to be sick". As soon as we got outside, he did get sick. He threw up all over the parking lot. He was so sick that I had to drive his car. I wasn't used to a 5-speed. I missed, and grinded a few of the gears occasionally. We did finally make it home. After that, he went through a real low spell, and had to go back on his meds for depression. I could not talk him into going over to the VA, he just said "I've got to get better; I have a jump coming up next week in Colorado". He seemed to bounce back and spent the next several days working on his gear, and then was off to a "sky fest jump".

For the last 10 years that he's been living with us. He's had ups and downs. That's the way it has been for him, some depression and then bounce back to some thrill sport. He has been doing just about every kind of high risk, high exhilaration diversion every invented. He loves skydiving, base jumping, motocross racing, and rock climbing; he rides his bike 25 miles every day. Sometimes I worry about him out there on the road, all alone with his bike. He is always in my prayers.

His wife says that he was not the same when he came back from Somalia. She wonders what had happened to him. He got back and then immediately volunteered to be assigned to the Rangers with "Operation Restore Democracy", the invasion of Haiti. After he got home from 6 months of that, he was totally different. He just gave up on life, gave up on the Army, he loved being a Ranger, but he gave up on them. Their marriage only lasted a few years, so I suppose that he gave up on that also - they divorced.

He was on his own for a long while, he even was homeless for about a year. I am sad to say that during that time he was drinking heavily and into drugs, it was a very dark time for him. We lost track of him for a long while, but prayed for him daily. Finally, we found him at a homeless shelter, and his father got him to go to the VA for help. He was in several inpatient programs, and was diagnosed by the VA doctors with PTSD. His service connected disability took over a year to come back approved for 100%. During that time, he lived with us and went to the Vet Center for PTSD groups.

When he got his money from the VA, he bought a motorcycle and said he was going to ride down to Ft. Bragg to see some of his old Army buddies for a while. He was gone about 6 months, spending his time on long road trips across the country. He said it gave him time to think about his life. During that time, he started into sport parachuting. I think it was an outlet for him to keep the nightmares and depression away. He kept busy with his sports, and we did not hear from him for months. Then he would suddenly show up at the house with a scruffy beard and a bag of dirty laundry. He was still haunted by nightmares.

He would always seem to bounce back, and race off to some area of the country to get involved in whatever provided a high surge of adrenaline. He would get on his motorcycle and take off for days at a time. He said he loved the open road, and loved riding on cross country trips. I think it was his way of coping with all of the trauma that he was exposed to in the Army. There was always something about riding his chopper that he seemed to find very comforting. I still believe that he was bothered by those horrible images of war even when he was on the road.

Please don't get me wrong. My husband and I love our son, and want him to be happy. But it seems that the only thing that provides some temporary happiness for him is his involvement in his high risk sports. My sister, who is a psychologist says that he is a "classic adrenaline junkie". He uses high risk sports to cope with his PTSD. When she said that, I got so mad at her that I hung up and wouldn't answer her calls for 3 days. She finally came over, apologized, and we talked for about 4 hours concerning my son's situation. "Addicted to high risk sports?" I still did not believe it. Our conversation went on:

Ok, where is he now?

He is in Malaysia doing some base-jumping with his friends, he sent me an email with pictures.

Have you looked at the pictures?

No, I just got the email last night.

I started up my aging laptop, opened his email, and downloaded the pictures. There he was, jumping off of a building in the middle of a city. My sister said she had heard about that, it was a tall tower called the "KL Tower" in Kuala Lumpur. The tower is over a 1,000 feet high, and only the most experienced base jumpers are allowed to take the "leap of faith".

I thought that base jumping was just sport parachuting. Then I remembered hearing him talk on his phone, saying something about a "wing suite". Not just skydiving, but he's also into motocross riding. He is very good at that, but has had several injuries. I worry about him very much and remember what my sister called him, an "adrenaline junkie". I don't like to think about that, but she might be right. Every time he goes through a low spell, he snaps right back by heading out on his motorcycle to go to some extreme sport event. I worry about him, and feel helpless to do anything about it. I'm just afraid that I'm going to get a phone call some day and learn that he has been killed base jumping, motocross riding, or snowboarding. I worry so much about him. When he is home, he still suffers from haunting memories of Somalia, Haiti, and God knows from whatever "hell holes" as he calls them. I am beginning to believe my sister, that he uses high risk sports as a way of coping with his PTSD flashbacks, nightmares, as well as his general lack of interest in any type of normal life.

We love him very much, but it seems that right now all we can do is show that love through acceptance. He came home from those military operations with an inescapable burden on his heart and soul. Only God can heal those deep scars. Currently, he likes to travel and enjoy thrilling sports. When he is home, we are aware that he has trouble sleeping. He wakes up, drenched in sweat, with nightmares so real he could still see the terrifying images in his dark room. His mind is sometimes filled with the images of lives he had to take. He sees the friends he lost - some to the enemy, some to suicide. He is haunted by the fact that so many of his fellow soldiers were killed and he was only wounded. He keeps himself very active, and safe from horror by doing what he calls "Running the Mogadishu Mile".

The Pueblo Rainbow

It's a 12 hour flight back to Los Angeles, and I seem to have a lot of time to think about my experiences on this trip. When I first heard that the company president wanted to send me over to Pyongyang to set up the purchase order, I said "no, let someone else go". But as I thought about it, I changed my mind; five days in North Korea could be interesting. Since the U.S. has eased some of the trade sanctions against that Communist country, my company was interested in buying 130,000 jogging shoes on a 6 months contract for distribution in our stores on the west coast. It was "small potatoes" by most standards, but we were trying to rebuild slowly, after closing about 13 stores on the east coast. I handled that downsizing and it was very difficult to layoff over 55 good people. Anyway, I needed a break, and this business trip seemed to come at the right time. I said sure, and worked in earnest on the contracts.

Now, I am flying back home. I think that I can understand a little bit about what is going on with my father and why he has had such a hard life. This trip has really helped me a lot, and when I get home I am going to call him and tell him about seeing the ship. But before I do that, I'm going to read up on what happened to the USS Pueblo and how it ended up as a tourist attraction in Pyongyang, North Korea.

We actually signed the purchase order for the jogging shoes on the second day, and I had 3 full days to see the city of Pyongyang. I saw the usual tourist sights: Kumsusan Memorial Palace of the Sun, Kim II-sung Square, and the Pyongyang Central Zoo. I also spent some time just wandering around some of the shops near the hotel where I was staying.

There was one last place that my guide told me about that sounded intriguing, "the captured armed imperialist spy ship USS Pueblo". In his broken English, my guide told me that the ship was kept down by the river at the war exhibition. He went on to say that a special museum was built last year on the Taedong River and was even dedicated by Kim Jong-Un to celebrate the "victory over American imperialism". He seemed to enjoy telling me this, but I was more interested in seeing the ship. My father had been aboard the Pueblo when it was captured almost 45 years ago. I wanted to go there and learn about that ship, and find out what happened. I wanted to go aboard that ship and take some pictures to show my father. My guide said he would provide the address and get me a taxi.

After what seemed like a never ending taxi ride, I finally got there. I really believe the driver circled around the city a few times, because I was just another "stupid American female". After the $45 taxi ride, I arrived at the place my guide told me about. To my surprise, the taxi driver cheerfully announced, "OK, yes Ma'am, here we are, this is the Victorious Fatherland Liberation War Museum". I couldn't believe it, he spoke perfect English. For the last 30 minutes, he was acting like he did not understand what I was saying when I would ask "where are we, when do we get there?"

The museum was a huge 2 story stone monolithic building. I was greeted by a young girl dressed in an Army uniform. In perfect English, she told me that she was a DPRK Army Corporal and she would be my guide. I wanted to see the Pueblo, but she told me that was at the end of the tour which lasted about as long as the taxi ride. It was, of course, history from their point of view. Beautifully set up throughout, with a detailed diorama, bombastic music, battle noises, explosions and light effects, all dramatically showing how the North Korean army defeated the American imperialists, and won the Korean War. Finally there it was, the USS Pueblo. The 60 year-old ship looked to be in good condition, despite its situation.

I wasn't allowed to take any pictures inside the war museum, but my young North Korean Army Corporal said I could take as many pictures of the ship as I wanted to. She indicated that the Pueblo was a "war prize" and they were very proud of its capture by the "brave and fearless DPRK military forces". I later found out that DPRK meant Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Yes, they were extremely proud of this floating Cold War trophy. The inside of the ship was in very good condition. The floors (decks) were tiled with new linoleum, the walls, bulkheads as my father had taught me, were clean and painted.

In the mess hall, was a flat screen TV that played a continuous video showing how the "imperialist armed spy ship was captured by the heroic Korean People's Army while committing espionage in Korean territorial waters of the DPRK" . Further inside the ship, I was shown the "secret espionage equipment". This is what my father worked. I got to stand where he stood over 45 years ago. My pleasant young guide also showed me where my father slept. I took lots of pictures, and it was a very emotional time for me. I also got to sit down on one of the bunks where my father might have slept while he was there.

I thought about saying that I was the daughter of one of the "captured imperialist spy's", but then changed my mind, remembering that I was an American in a Communist country and had virtually no rights against any undue search and seizure. My studies in Constitutional Law had taught me that; I kept my mouth shut and wiped my tears on my shirt. The tour of my father's ship ended on the bridge, where I am sure he took his turn at standing watch. My guide was certainly a most gracious host, and even asked me if I would like to take her picture as she stood smiling on the ship's bridge, so I did.

My tour guide was very knowledgeable regarding the history of the capture of the USS Pueblo, at least the version that they taught her. I knew that all of what she said was vehemently disputed by the American government. However, I am sure that she believed every word of the North Korean account of the "armed imperialistic spy ship that deliberately and flagrantly violated North Korean territorial waters and was taken captive along with her crew of 82 spies". My guide said something that was interesting and believable, the man who was now captain of this ship was originally one of the Army soldiers who took part in the attack and capture of the Pueblo on January 23, 1968.

As I was leaving the ship, I looked back for one last glance as if to say "goodbye", and noticed that a rainbow had formed on the other side of the Taedong River. I stopped and took one last picture of the old Navy ship that my father called home while he was deployed off the coast of North Korea.

Back at the Koryo hotel where I stayed, it had a very good broadband internet connection. They had given me a special wireless modem when I checked in. I was surprised about that because I had heard on CNN that North Korea had shut down the internet. I later learned that the hotel had a special permit, and it was only turned on for American tourists. That was why the intricate modem and password. I didn't worry about computer viruses; my company had installed the best protection software and firewall. I had 18 hours before my flight left and I was eager to jump into researching the capture of the USS Pueblo, and perhaps learning about my father's PTSD.

I jumped right in, starting with a website sponsored by the USS Pueblo Veterans Association. It was called the "Official website of the USS Pueblo (AGER-2)". I spent about 4 hours reading all the files, and munching on the pizza that I had ordered up from room service. One of the links took me to the list of crew members and I saw my dad's name. I read about how that were taken captive and held as political prisoners for almost a year, then released just 3 days before Christmas. During that time, they were beaten, tortured, starved, threatened with execution, and deprived of sleep. They were subjected to daily interrogations and regular beatings. I read with interest how they were brought up before firing squads. They were chained outside in the snow, and then brought in only to be kicked and beaten again. Finally, they were brought into submission to sign elaborate confessions of their crimes as spies. The North Korean government published their confession in its newspapers all across the country.

The American records all indicate that the USS Pueblo left San Diego Naval Base on the morning of November 6, 1967, and headed west toward Pearl Harbor. Stopping there for a time, then across to the Naval base at Yokosuka Japan, then to Sasebo, and finally arriving on station around January 10, 1968. The area where the ship was attacked was approximately 15 miles off the North Korean port of Wonsan. On the day of the attack, the Pueblo was in international waters when several North Korean MIG-21 jets flew overhead. The little ship was also encircled by torpedo boats that began firing machine guns. A few minutes later, a North Korean sub chaser appeared and began firing its deck gun. One crewman, Duane Hodges, was killed and seven others were wounded.

After almost a year of captivity, with Christmas nearing, an arrangement was made between the US and North Korea. In a statement that it repudiated even as it was signing it, the United States apologized for "grave acts of espionage" by the Pueblo. The crew was flown back to California to the Pueblo's home post. A San Diego Union newspaper reporter wrote: "This was the nation's Christmas present, and the emotion was almost too big to handle." The exuberant welcome in San Diego went on for weeks. One Italian restaurant offered free meals to the crew members for every day they'd spent in captivity. The San Diego Chamber of Commerce raised more than $50,000 to buy food and lodging for out-of-town relatives. Actor John Wayne and singer Pat Boone hosted a party for the crew at a hotel.

Then came the formal naval court of inquiry, which convened Jan. 20, 1969, in an auditorium at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. The captain, all the officers, and several of the crew were questioned in front of a panel of five admirals who seemed skeptical, if not downright angry, about the decision to surrender the USS Pueblo without firing a shot. The court of inquiry went on for five more weeks, and decided that the CO and four other officers should face possible punishments ranging from a letter of admonition to court-martial. After more than a year later, the Secretary of the Navy, rejected the recommendation saying it was the Navy's mistake by assuming the Pueblo was safe in international waters. That assumption was wrong, and everybody up and down the chain of command shared responsibility for that. As for the crew of the Pueblo, he said, "They have suffered enough."

From my exhausting internet surfing, I also learned that about 20 crew members, including the captain, had died since that Christmas Eve, 45 years ago, when they came home to a surprising welcome in San Diego. Roughly half of the survivors get together for the reunions that are held every couple of years at different places around the country.

There was one Washington Post article that was especially informative. It was told that the crew were taken to Pyongyang by train in cattle cars and imprisoned in a building known to the men as "the barn." The Commanding Officer was isolated from the others, who were quartered three or four to a room. Crew members were threatened with death, interrogated, and some were severely beaten. "Confessions" as to "criminal aggressive acts" were obtained from all crew members as a result of these threats, ill-treatment, and torture.

As I read these accounts, I wept openly. I was sometimes concerned that someone walking by my room could hear me, or even worse what if my room was bugged. I read from other websites and learned that the crew were sometimes put in individual cells that were small, filthy, and neither ventilated nor heated. Their beds consisted of wooden pallets or cement slabs with one blanket and a mosquito net provided for each of the prisoners. A small pail, for human waste, was placed in the cell and emptied once a day. This went on for over eleven months. The crews were frequently reminded that they were criminals and were forbidden to communicate with fellow prisoners. Severe beatings or prolonged periods of isolation were given to those caught communicating covertly. Yet, in spite of the prison rules, the men organized themselves and followed a chain of command which issued their resistance orders.

There were numerous newspaper articles that were available. I read all that I could download. After hearing the North Korean account, the U.S. version was totally opposite of what my guide on the ship told me. There was one thing that was not in dispute, the fact that the USS Pueblo was a redesigned old cargo ship fitted out with state of the art top secret listening and surveillance equipment. Additionally, a good majority of the crew was part of the Navy Intelligence Command.

As I read more, my lawyer training began to kick in and I started to ask myself questions: Why the U.S. government actually took so long in negotiating the release of the 82 members of the USS Pueblo. Why did my father have to endure 11 months of torture? What was it like for them on a day to day, life or death situation?

When I thought I could not read any more, I came across something that made me laugh so loud that I almost peed my pants. The North Koreans were always taking pictures of the crew, both individually and together as a group. Several of them decided they were fed up with being "political poster boys" for the DPRK. They secretly passed the word; every time someone would take a picture, they would "give the finger". Not directly like you would "flip somebody off", but they would hold it off to the side, or scratch their face, or just by their side. For months this went on, in group pictures and singles, the crew members would all show their middle finger as a clear sign of their disgust of the "hospitality" of the North Korean government. From the Captain right down to the lowest ranking seaman, every picture sent a message home. A few photographers asked what the finger meant and were told it was a "Hawaiian good luck sign".

The finger was shown in the all pictures until their captors found out that they had been tricked. Then the North Korean officials were furious, and threatened to execute them all. There were no executions, but the guards began an intense time of beatings and more torture, the crew called it "Hell week", but it was worth it.

That was it, I laughed and laughed until I cried, then I thought about my mom and what she might have gone through when he got home. I mustered up all my courage and got my cell phone and called her. It was 10:30 in the morning in Pyongyang, so it was 9:30 pm in New York. She answered on the first ring, and we spent about an hour talking, crying, and sharing stories. I wondered if my anytime/anywhere unlimited cell phone minutes included calls from North Korea to New York, but ignored my worries, and we talked on for another hour.

From the visit to the Pueblo, the endless hours of internet research, and the phone call to my mom, I had learned about my father's PTSD symptoms. I learned that he still has nightmares to this day. He is seen at the VA hospital for all kind of service connected maladies. My father has seen countless doctors and therapists for severe back pain, impotence, incontinence, and depression, all the result of torture. My father rarely goes out in public and is self-conscious and embarrassed about having to use a walker because of his leg and ankle injuries.

The recognition by the Navy for the crew was very slow in coming. Even all of the crew were awarded various medals. However, it wasn't until 22 years later that they were awarded the Prisoner of War Medal. This was presented to all the crew on May 5, 1990, at ceremonies in San Diego, California. My mother told me that he had the certificate framed and it is hanging on his bedroom wall.

My dad still suffers to this day from the ordeal. He has weeks of depression, night sweats, and sleeplessness. He is moody, and sometimes suspicious of all strangers. He had their home phone disconnected several years ago, but my mom has her cell phone. My parents live in separate areas of the house; he mostly stays in the basement, and just comes up for meals. When I asked her why she stays with him throughout all these years, she simply says "Well, I love him". I thought to myself, well, that's some special kind of love. I couldn't wait to get away from my father, and left home as soon as I turned 18 and have not ever looked back since. I didn't even invite them to my graduation.

As a postscript to my trip to Pyongyang, North Korea 7 months ago, I had several very good phone conversations with my father. I told him about my trip and my tour of the USS Pueblo. He seemed interested but somewhat guarded, and then said that he still hated the North Koreans. He then said he had started back attending his VA sponsored PTSD support group and felt good about doing that. He talked about going to the next Pueblo reunion. I said I'd go with him, and he agreed to the plan.

He and my mom flew out to Los Angeles last week and spent the weekend at my house. It was a good visit. When I went out meet their plane at the airport, I saw the rainbow again. I have been paying a lot more attention to rainbows lately. When I saw the rainbow at the airport, I took a picture of it.

Palm Sunday Misadventure

I can't believe it has been over 7 years since I have been to an airshow. For some reason, ever since I came back from Iraq, I have avoided large gatherings, places of uncertainty, and sadly to say, I have even avoided my profession as a trauma nurse. I suppose that I could trace my PTSD issues back to my first tour in 2004, at the large level III, 296 bed, Combat Surgical Hospital (CSH) located just 40 miles north of Baghdad. I deployed there with the 32nd CSH and got to Iraq in January of 2004.

My worst memory from that 18 month tour to the Balad CSH was from one fateful evening in early April 2004, when we received over 60 wounded from one major attack in Sadr City. I remember it all too well, because it was Palm Sunday. I had just finished a 12 hour shift in the ICU, got something to eat, and was just getting ready to go to Chapel services when we got word to "prepare for mass casualties, inbound helos".

What had happened was that a routine patrol from the 2nd Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment was escorting a convoy of trucks through a bad area of Sadr City and was ambushed by the Mahdi Army. The Mahdi was a powerful, anti-American militia group founded by the radical Shia cleric Muqtada Al-Sadr in 2003. The small group of U.S. soldiers was hit by RPGs and pinned down by overwhelming small arms fire. A 12-hour ensuing battle erupted as 2 large American quick reaction teams joined the attack. That quickly became the bloodiest fighting since the fall of Baghdad a year before. Remembering the Balad CSH is painful and just being here at this air show somehow takes me back there, Palm Sunday 2004.

Following that night, and for weeks to come, we were overwhelmed by the severely wounded. As I would enter the ICU area, all of my senses would go into overload. I would see bed after bed filled with the youthful well-muscled bodies: men and women in otherwise peak physical condition connected to ventilators, and other life sustaining machines, such as: catheters, wires, IV bags, and drains. The sounds were unmistakable, the soft whoosh of the air handlers bringing in cool air, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. There was a cacophony of smells, from bowels, burns, wounds, and medications. Finally, there was the copper taste in the back of your mouth from all the blood. Sometimes, I can still taste it today. Balad CSH was always a very painful place, and it took a lot out of me. I allowed myself to become attached to some of them, especially those that I thought would make it. Then suddenly, I watched helplessly as they would drift into a coma and die.

At Balad, I learned that war has no schedule, and takes no holidays or days off. I worked at least 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, helping victims of mass casualties, IED's, mortar fire, car bombs, and military operations. I provided nursing care through Easter and Independence Day, through Memorial Day and Thanksgiving, through Ramadan and the Hajj. I worked right through my own birthday, and through the death of my grandmother, and my dog.

When a soldier is dying, I hold his hand and promise him not to let go. I stay by his side and thank him for his sacrifices and hope for the best. However, each death leaves us tearful and empty. My sleepless nights are broken by sounds of nearby mortars, the drone of medevac helicopters, and yes, endless nightmares. Each new day brings me more patients who wrench and break my heart. Then, like the good nurse that I am, I get up and do it all over again, and again.

I learned a lot about myself at Balad. While I was there, I learned that none of us were going to leave there the people we were when we came to Iraq. I discovered that there is a tremendous cost to caring for the wounded young soldiers and Marines. Now that I am back home, I learned that the emotional distancing that protected me at Balad and allowed me to do my job during periods of high stress and trauma, is very difficult to turn off. Sometimes, I inadvertently push my family and friends away. At times I shut them out of my life, because I am scared that I might get hurt again.

It took over a year for me to be diagnosed with PTSD. Although it was officially called "Compassion Fatigue", it is still in the same family as PTSD, and listed as "secondary" PTSD. Its painful symptoms are very real and carry the potential to disrupt, dissolve and destroy careers, families, and even lives. I also learned that often those who suffer from compassion fatigue most are those who are highly motivated to bring about change and healing in the lives of the suffering. Its victims include doctors, nurses, medics, paramedics, firefighters, policemen, and mental health workers – anyone who is routinely exposed to situations that are outside the everyday experiences of the average person. A study of trauma workers from the Oklahoma City Federal Building bombing showed that 65% of the first responders exhibited some degree of severity of PTSD.

So, here I am again 7 years later, Palm Sunday 2011, at the "Wings over Wayne" air show at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in Goldsboro, NC. I am still wondering why I agreed to attend this event. Then I remember, it was because the WWII vets from the DAV who begged me to come and be their nurse. I am nervous and afraid of the crowds and the rush of the jet planes makes me jump and twitch like some kind of "fraidy cat" in a thunderstorm. I am suspicious and paranoid that something very bad is going to happen. I just want to get out of here and go home, curl up in my own bed, and feel safe again.

Chapter Six Reaching out for Help

Department of Veterans Affairs (VA)

The VA's mission is to serve America's veterans and their families with dignity and compassion and to be their principal advocate in ensuring that they receive medical care, benefits, social support, and lasting memorials promoting the health, welfare, and dignity of all veterans in recognition of their service to this nation.

The VA is the second largest Federal department and has over 278,000 employees. The many professions represented in the vast VA workforce are: physicians, nurses, counselors, statisticians, architects, computer specialists, and attorneys. As advocates for veterans and their families, the VA community is committed to providing the very best services with an attitude of caring and courtesy.

The VA comprises of a Central Office (VACO), which is located in Washington, D.C., and has field facilities throughout the nation administered by its three major line organizations: Veterans Health Administration, Veterans Benefits Administration, and National Cemetery Administration.

Services and benefits are provided through a nationwide network of 153 hospitals, 956 outpatient clinics, 134 community living centers, 90 domiciliary residential rehabilitation treatment programs, 232 Vet centers, 57 veterans' benefits regional offices, and 131 national cemeteries.

Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans can receive cost free medical care for any condition related to their service for five years after the date of their discharge or release.

The VA Website for Returning Service Members

http://www.oefoif.va.gov/

Returning Service Members Mental Health Support

http://www.mentalhealth.va.gov/returningservicevets.asp

Vets Centers: http://www.vetcenter.va.gov/

Veterans Service Organizations (VSOs)

Veterans Service Organizations are non-government organizations that advocate for and assist veterans, while also providing opportunities for veterans to get involved in the larger community. Their particular roles and activities will vary. The Department of Veteran Affairs publishes a yearly directory of Veteran Service Organizations. The 2013-2014 listing can be downloaded at: http://www1.va.gov/vso/VSO-Directory_2013-2014.pdf

Veterans Service Organizations (VSO) serves the veterans of the U.S. Military. Veterans Groups serve several purposes, the original purpose was to be a group of support for members of a particular military campaign or awarded a certain award. As veteran groups formed and began to grow and became stronger, they became more of a political power. Today many of these organizations are "chartered", meaning they are officially recognized by the Department of Veteran's Affairs, and at the federal and state levels of government. Both branches of Congress have committees dedicated to veterans of the armed forces and take the advice and knowledge of these organizations seriously when considering legislation that affects veterans.

Chartered organizations have the ability to help the veterans prepare and present claims to the Department of Veteran Affairs. There are four major non-government VSOs in the United States. Their goals are often aligned: helping the veterans of our armed forces, supporting our active duty military, and volunteering to better our communities for all Americans. There are hundreds of Veteran Service Organizations in the U.S., the four largest are: Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), American Legion, American Veterans (AMVETS), and the Disabled American Veterans (DAV).

The Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) began its organization during the Spanish-American War and the Philippine Insurrection in 1899. The mission of the VFW is "to honor the dead by helping the living through veterans' service, community service, national security, and a strong national defense". The VFW played a significant role in establishing the Veterans Administration and creating the modern GI Bill.

The VFW membership is nearly 2 million strong, making it one of the most powerful veterans groups available. They offer many services to veterans and encourage volunteerism within your community and within the organization. Visit the VFW website to learn more and to determine your eligibility for membership.

The American Legion was chartered in 1919 "as a patriotic, war-time veteran's organization, and devoted to mutual helpfulness." This organization is another powerful influence on government policy as it affects military veterans, boasting a membership of nearly 3 million. The American Legion includes many benefits for their members including: travel discounts, medical benefits, relocation, financial services, insurances, and more. Take a look at their benefits page on their website.

The American Veterans (AMVETS) was founded in 1944. Like other veteran service organizations, they focus their volunteer efforts on community service and service to veterans. AMVETS' pride is in its ability to help veterans process their VA claims. AMVETS has a network of national service officers (NSO) that are "accredited" by the VA and processes more than 24,000 claims per year. This equates to more than $400 million in benefit compensation for veterans.

AMVETS has many volunteer programs, depending on which post you belong to. Each post determines the program(s) they are going to involve themselves with each year. There are many different programs, all dedicated to serving veterans, active duty military, or America's citizens. Contact your local post before joining, to ensure your desires are aligned with theirs.

The Disabled American Veterans (DAV) was founded in 1920 and was congressionally chartered in 1932. At more than one million members, the DAV is dedicated to "building better lives for America's disabled veterans and their families". The DAV provides VA claim services for more than 200,000 disabled veterans and their families every year through a network of volunteers.

Regardless of their membership requirements or specialization, all of these organizations have the same basic mission statements that include: serving the veterans, supporting the active duty military, and making our communities better for all American citizens. It is these organizations that partner with and protect our veterans, ensuring they receive the benefits they have been promised and deserve. The following VSOs also provide service and support to veterans:

Resources for Assistance

African American PTSD Association

9 Bldg 16, Rm 115, 600 Veterans Dr.

Tacoma, WA 98493

Tel. (253) 583-1097

Fax (253) 589-4076

Email: tacomaptsd@earthlink.net

http://www.aaptsdassn.org/

American Legion

700 North Pennsylvania Street

PO Box 1055

Indianapolis, IN 46206

Tel. (317) 630-1200

http://www.legion.org/

http://www.legion.org/veteransbenefits

American Red Cross

2025 E Street, NW

Washington, DC 20006

Tel. (800) 733-2767

http://www.redcross.org/

AmVets

4647 Forbes Blvd.

Lanham, MD 20706

Tel. (877) 726-8387

Email: amvets@amvets.org

http://www.amvets.org/

American Ex-Prisoners of War, Inc.

3201 East Pioneer Parkway, #40

Arlington, TX 76010-5396

Tel. (817) 649-2979

Fax (817) 649-0109

http://www.axpow.org/

American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor, Inc.

201 Hillcrest Dr.

Wellsburg, WV 26070

American GI Forum/National Veterans Outreach Program

611 North Flores, Suite 200

San Antonio, TX 78205

Tel. (210) 223-4088

Fax (210)-223-4970

Email: nvopwev@agif-nvop.org

http://www.agif-nvop.org/

Armed Forces Services Corporation

2800 Shirlington Road, Suite 350

Arlington, VA 22206-360

Tel. (888) 237-2872 or (703) 379-9311

http://www.afsc-usa.com/

Army and Navy Union, USA

528 A Canton Road

Akron, OH 44312

Tel. (330) 798-0880

Email: armynavyunion@att.net

http://armynavyunion.com/ or http://navy.togetherweserved.com/usn/servlet/tws.webapp.WebApp?cmd=AssocByShortName&name=76

Blinded Veterans Association

477 H Street NW

Washington, DC 20001-2694

Tel. (202) 371-8880

Fax (202) 371-8258

Email: bva@bva.org

http://www.bva.org/

Catholic War Veterans of the U.S.A.

441 North Lee Street

Alexandria, VA 22314

Tel. (703) 549-3622

Fax (703) 684-5196

http://www.cwv.org/homepage.aspx

Disabled American Veterans

3725 Alexandria Pike

Cold Spring, KY 41076

Tel. (877) 426-2838

http://www.dav.org/

Eastern Paralyzed Veterans Association, United Spinal Association, Vets First

75-20 Astoria Boulevard

East Elmhurst, NY 11370

Tel. (718) 803-3782

Fax (718) 803-0414

E-mail: info@unitedspinal.org

http://www.vetsfirst.org/

Fleet Reserve Association

125 N West Street

Alexandria, VA 22314

Tel. (703)-683-1400 or (800) FRA-1924

Email: news-fra@fra.org

http://www.fra.org/

Gold Star Wives of America, Inc.

PO Box 361986

Birmingham, AL 35236

Tel. (888) 751-6350

Email: DC@goldstarwives.org

http://www.goldstarwives.org/index.htm

Italian American War Veterans of the United States,

Fax (315) 635-0026

http://www.itamvets.org/

Jewish War Veterans of the United States

1811 R Street NW

Washington, DC 20009

Tel. (202) 265-6280

Fax (202) 234-5662

Email: jwv@jwv.org

http://www.jwv.org/

Legion of Valor of the United States of America, Inc.

4704 Calle Reina

Santa Barbara, CA 93110-2018

Tel. (703) 418-1956

http://www.legionofvalor.com/index.php

Marine Corps League

P.O. Box 3070 Merrifield, VA 22116

Tel. (703) 207-9588 or (800) 625-1775

Fax (703) 207-0047

http://www.mcleague.org/

Military Order of the Purple Heart

5413 Backlick Road

Springfield, VA 22151-3960

Tel. (703) 354-2140

Fax (703) 642-2054

http://www.purpleheart.org/

National Amputation Foundation, Inc.

40 Church Street

Malverne, NY 11565

Tel. (516) 887-3600

Fax (516) 887-3667

Email: amps76@aol.com

http://www.nationalamputation.org/

National Association for Black Veterans, Inc.

PO Box 11432

Milwaukee, WI 53211

Tel. 1.866.548.7303

Fax: (414) 562-6455

www.nabvets.com

National Veterans Legal Services Program

PO Box 65762

Washington, DC 20035

Tel. (202) 265-8305

Fax (202) 328-0063

Email: info@nvlsp.org

http://www.nvlsp.org/

National Veterans Organization of America

PO Box 2510

Victoria, TX 77902

Tel. (361) 356-1215

Fax (361)356-1217

Non Commissioned Officers Association of the USA

9330 Corporate Drive, Suite 701

Selma, TX 78154

Tel. (800)-622-2620

http://www.ncoausa.org/

Navy Mutual Aid Association

29 Carpenter Road

Arlington, VA 22212

Tel. (800) 628-6011

Fax (703)-945-1440

http://www.navymutual.org/

Paralyzed Veterans of America, Inc.

801 Eighteenth Street, NW

Washington, DC 20006-3517

Tel. (866)-734-0857

http://www.pva.org

Polish League of American Veterans, U.S.A

PO Box 42024

Washington, DC 20015

http://www.plav.org/

Swords to Plowshares

1060 Howard Street

San Francisco, CA 94103

Tel. (415) 252-4788

Fax (415) 252-4790

Email: legal@stp-sf.org

http://swords-to-plowshares.org

The Association of the U.S. Army

2425 Wilson Blvd

Arlington, VA 22201

1-800-336-4570

http://www.ausa.org/Pages/default.aspx

The Retired Enlisted Association

1111 South Abilene Court

Aurora, CO 80012

Tel. (303)-752-0660 or (800)-338-9337

Fax (303)-752-0835 or (888)-882-0835

Email: treahq@trea.org

http://www.trea.org/

The Veterans Assistance Foundation, Inc.

PO Box 610

Tomah, WI 54660

Tel. (608) 372-1280

Fax (608) 372-1281

http://vafvets.org/index.html

The Veterans of Vietnam War, Inc.

805 South Township Boulevard

Pittston, PA 18640-3327

Tel. (570) 603-9740

Fax (570) 603-9741

Email: vvnwnalt@eapx.net

www.vvnw.org

Veterans of Foreign Wars of the United States

406 W 34th Street

Kansas City, MO 64111

Tel. (816) 756-3390

http://www.vfw.org/

Veterans of World War II of the U.S.A., Inc.

14497 NW 22nd Place

Newberry, FL 32669-2022

Tel. (352) 333-3010

Email: JimPartin50@yahoo.com

http://www.orderfirstworldwar.com/

Vietnam Era Veterans Association

685 Cranston Street

Providence, RI 02907

Tel. (401) 521-6710 or (401) 454-4390

Fax (401) 454-4390

Email: their.spirit@aol.com

Vietnam Veterans of America

8605 Cameron Street

Silver Spring, MD 20910

Tel. (301) 585-4000

Fax (301) 585-0519

http://vva.org/who.html

# Chapter Seven Epilogue

As designated by Congress:

July is National PTSD Awareness Month

10 Steps to Raise PTSD Awareness

1. Know more about PTSD.

Understand common reactions to trauma and when those reactions might be PTSD.

2. Challenge your beliefs about treatment.

PTSD treatment can help. We now have effective PTSD treatments that can make a difference in the lives of people with PTSD.

3. Explore the options for those with PTSD.

Find out where to get help for PTSD and learn how to choose a therapist. Also, see our Self-Help and Coping section to learn about peer support and other coping strategies.

4. Reach out. Make a difference.

You can help a family member with PTSD, including assisting your veteran who needs care. Know there is support for friends and family too.

5. Know the facts.

More than half of US adults will experience at least one trauma in their lifetime. How common is PTSD? For veterans and people who have been through violence and abuse, the number is higher.

6. Expand your understanding.

Learn about assessment and how to find out if someone has PTSD. Complete a brief checklist or take an online screening to see if a professional evaluation is needed. June 21st is National PTSD Screening Day.

7. Share PTSD information.

Share handouts, brochures, or wallet cards about trauma and PTSD.

8. Meet people who have lived with PTSD.

Visit AboutFace.com, an online gallery dedicated to veterans talking about how PTSD treatment turned their lives around.

9. Take advantage of technology.

Download a PTSD Coach mobile app and treatment companion apps in the National Center for PTSD's growing collection of mobile offerings.

10. Keep informed.

Get the latest information about PTSD. Sign up for our PTSD monthly update, or connect with us on Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube.

Putting the pieces back together

The Serenity Prayer

For many people who attend 12-step programs, reciting the Serenity Prayer comes as naturally as breathing. So, it may come as a surprise to learn that the prayer was originally conceived, not as an antidote to addiction, but in response to the inconsolable pain, loss, and guilt that war inflicts on the communities that wage it. The Serenity Prayer addresses the haunting and sorrowful memories that besiege the soul of those who go to war.

The original version of this famous prayer was authored and delivered by Reverend Reinhold Niebuhr at the conclusion of a sermon he preached at the Union Church in Heath, MA. The Serenity Prayer was later published in the "Book of Prayers and Services for the Armed Forces" and used by Chaplains during WWII. Reverend Niebuhr was an American theologian, ethicist, public intellectual, commentator on politics and public affairs, and a professor at Union Theological Seminary for more than 30 years. In 1964, he became a recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and authored many books, including "The Nature and Destiny of Man".

The Power of Serenity

I invite you to take a moment to really look at this prayer. These are very powerful words, starting with God. It starts with God because we cannot achieve any of this by ourselves, without the help of God, who is our Higher Power.

God, grant me

the SERENITY to accept the things I cannot change,

the COURAGE to change the things I can,

and the WISDOM to know the difference;

LIVING one day at a time;

ENJOYING one moment at a time;

ACCEPTING hardship as a pathway to peace;

TAKING, this world, as it is, not as I would have it;

TRUSTING that God will make all things right

if I surrender to God's will;

So that I may be REASONABLY happy in this life.

Serenity is a very powerful disposition. It will allow you to deal with the hardships and disappointments of this life, as well as your own failures. This prayer tells you how to begin a practice of serenity. Start by letting go of trying to control and change things, which you have no control. Accepting that there are some things you cannot change does not make you complacent. It constitutes a leap of faith. It is by accepting what you cannot change and changing the things you can, that you move toward serenity. When you view these obstacles, not just as frustrations or failures, but as opportunities for growth and learning, you can began to transcend your circumstances.

Another very powerful word is courage. It takes courage to change what we can. Courage will allow you to openly and honestly look at your situation, and do something about it. Not based on your past, but based on what is possible with God's help. Finally, looking to God to provide the wisdom to know the difference between what you can change and what you cannot. I encourage you to memorize the first section of this prayer and say it often to yourself.

God, grant me the SERENITY to accept the things I cannot change, the COURAGE to change the things I can, and the WISDOM to know the difference.

Learn part of the verses from Philippians 3:13, 14. "Forgetting that which is behind, and straining for that which is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize".

Imagine how your life would be if you truly stopped trying to control others and events, and instead, focus all the energy that goes into trying to control what you can't control, and direct it toward controlling what you can. Think about all the time you've spent being angry, frustrated, annoyed, irritated, withdrawn, resistant, non-compliant, parental, or defensive. What if you spent a fraction of that time focusing instead on what is good and worthwhile to yourself and others?

Press On.

Postscript

There will undoubtedly be another major conflict in the future that America will need to call upon its young men and women to take up arms and fight for our country. Those young Americans will most certainly respond, as did previous generations. However, they will most assuredly recall, with great detail, how this nation cared for and supported its veterans. President George Washington said "The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional to how they perceive the veterans of earlier wars were treated and appreciated by their nation".

