mTBI, PTSD and Stress (Catch All)

[MikeF]

Things Fall Apart

“Well, I still get to call you CPT Few for now. After a year of therapy I have reached normal for the recall skills of someone who has suffered from a traumatic brain injury (TBI) which simply means that I am an average retard person. I still have consistent headaches, dizziness, vomiting, and photophobia. On top of all that, I am still kicking myself in the ass for leaving the mission. That has been one of the hardest things for me to handle. I was finally doing what I had spent my adult life training to do, and I left before I was finished.”
-Wounded Paratrooper

“You stole my past, my present, and my future.”
-Female school teacher in Zaganiyah to SSG Joshua Kinser (A/5-73 Recon), July 2007.


January 2007.* I walked up and down that road.* Inside, I challenged God.* I screamed at him to take my life.* Let them be.* I pleaded with him to let these boy’s go home to see their families.* *I tempted fate.* Allah did not listen.

Everyone was scared.* We were walking into unknown territory. No one wanted to go down that road, but it was the only way.* It was the only path to Turki Village.* Every twenty meters or so, the road would explode, and I would lose another man.* We’d stop, begin treatment, call the air medevac, and wait.

The road was scattered with plastic double-stacked Italian anti-tank mines.* They were dug deep into the ground, and we had no way to identify them.* I tried mine plows, mine detectors, explosive ordinance disposal teams, and bulldozers.* Nothing worked.

We didn’t know what Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBIs) were at that time; however, deep inside me, I knew.* I watched my boys’ minds fade away.* They were simply gone.* They could not even count from one to ten.* They couldn’t remember anything.* I knew this decision would haunt me for the rest of my life.* I knew, and I didn’t care.* We had to go to Turki Village, and I decided I would get there if it cost me everything.

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew everyone was watching me.* I was commanding over 200 men: Americans and Iraqi Kurds, tankers, scouts, infantry, field artillery, and engineers.* I did the only thing that I could think of- I got pissed off, tempted fate, and walked up and down the road to encourage my men.*

*We had just left a village.* I can’t remember the name of it, but it scared me.** I was no longer easily scared.* The village was completely empty.* Al Qaeda had cleansed it.* A week later, a tribal sheik would show me the video of the bodies on his cell phone, but I already knew.* They had drug out everyone-men, women, and children, and they summarily executed them in the canals.* There were at least 100 people in this village.* Now, it was empty.

Al Qaeda had set up a command and control center in the town’s square.* They used the roof to observe us as we came down the road.* We were able to kill most of the reconnaissance elements, but two escaped by low crawling through the brush.* I ordered my men to burn the brush.* We would finally catch up with those men two days later.* They would not survive.

Inside the command and control center, there was a communications room, sleeping area, medical station, and torture room.* On the radio, I was asked repeatedly how I knew it was a torture room.* I was frustrated trying to articulate what we were seeing.* My higher headquarters wanted pictures and video tape for exploitation.* Moose started laughing.* He walked into the torture room, licked his finger, touched the stained wall, tasted it, and said, “Yep, sir, it’s blood.”* I nearly fell over laughing.* That story was amusing to tell to my boss.*

We found an underground tunnel network extending around the compound.* The design was pretty innovative- it appeared to be bomb-proof.*

Throughout the town, signs were placed on the doors- “Apostates-You are Rejecters of the Faith- you will die.”*

The villagers’ crime was being Shia.

After a long series of discussions all the way up to the division commander about collateral damage, we were finally given the authority to destroy the command and control center.* As we moved back onto the road, an F-16 dropped a 500 pound bomb.* In some ways, I thought maybe this would make it better.


The War Machine rumbled south towards Turki Village.* We would make this right.*

[MikeF]

7 May 2007. Septar let her through. He stepped back, and gave me a wicked smile of sarcasm-a knowing smile, one that penetrated my soul and showed the depths of his inhumanity. She walked towards me, three inches away. I could smell her sweat and the years of ingrained turmoil. She thrust herself to the ground. She threw sand upon her face repeatedly, slapped her cheeks, and screamed in Arabic, “Walla, Walla (I swear, I swear)!!!” She begged for forgiveness for her sons. Alas, they had served as scouts for Al Qaeda, and they were in prison. She begged for relief and forgiveness. She pulled out her ###, slapped it harshly as a means of signifying the evil that she had bore from her groins and nursed through childhood, and she cried incessantly. She thrust her arms and hands upon me, the sand leaving a mark upon my cheek, scraping down my body and kissing my feet. With the wisdom of Solomon, I offered no reprieve and no outward signs of remorse. To compound the situation, she was Moose’s aunt, and her brother, MAJ Karim, had been assassinated by AQIZ.

Septar laughed. I had passed his test. I went to lunch with Al Qaeda. -Zaganiyah, 7 May 2007

[MikeF]

March 20, 2008. Almost a year ago today, I climbed out of my HMMWV in utter shock and total disbelief. The bicyclist that I had inspected only moments prior detonated himself inside my interior lines. I walked to the blast site detached and aloof: oblivious of the smell of burning flesh, the ringing in my ears, or the screaming of the civilians. As I stumbled aimlessly towards the blast site, I was consumed solely by an abject sense of failure. After this emotion subsided, I was overcome with a desire for revenge. I wanted nothing more than to annihilate anyone directly or indirectly associated with this bombing. These thoughts dissipated within a matter of minutes as my soldiers voices penetrated my internal debate, “What do we do now, sir?” I quickly regained my composure and began commanding. In the aftermath, four soldiers and two young children were killed, and two soldiers severely wounded. My soldiers’ faces were so dismembered that I had to remove their body armor and read the nametapes on their uniforms to identify the casualties.


Jason Nunez was my driver for eight months. He could never stay awake during any extended training exercise, and I used to yell at him constantly about how he was going to get our crew killed due to his lack of mental toughness. After I was done yelling, I would tell him to relax, his fear would subside, and he would shine his infectious grin. Jason grew up in Puerto Rico. He was chasing the American Dream. He simply sought to work hard and make a better life for his children than he had growing up. After his enlistment, he flew to San Antonio and spent a year learning the English language. His recruiter convinced him to enlist as a nuclear, biological, and chemical specialist with a high-speed video. Furthermore, he volunteered again to join the Airborne. Jason was very upset to learn that his military occupation specialty (MOS) is not very exciting. He planned to re-enlist as an elite airborne reconnaissance scout. Upon redeployment, his young wife and six-month old daughter were going to move from Puerto Rico to North Carolina, obtain their citizenship, and begin a new life. At his funeral, his mother ripped off the American flag from his casket and replaced it with the Puerto Rican flag. She was convinced that Jason was simply another Puerto Rican boy enslaved into servitude to die in Bush’s war. She was wrong. He is my brother. One day, I will visit to tell her about the Jason that I knew. Jason was a paratrooper who died serving his newfound country. He was 22.

Anthony White was one of my mechanics. Previously, he was a juvenile delinquent, but Staff Sergeant Tyrone “Smithy” Smith turned him into a fierce paratrooper. At Patrol Base Otis, on the demarcation line between sectarian enclaves of Abu Sayda and Mukisa, the platoons would limp a HMMWV struck by an improved explosive device (IED) back to the base that appeared beyond repair. After a careful inspection, Smithy would tell me not to worry- he’d have it functional the next morning. Anthony would grab the CD player and speakers, crank up the Tupac, and go to work. He never complained. He always had a big smile on his face. He would say over and over again, “Don’t worry sir, I got this ####.” They never let me down. They would work through the night, and the next morning, the platoons would take that HMMWV back on patrol. When trucks were not being blown up, Anthony would fire up the grill and provide hot hamburgers to the boys after patrol. When he wasn’t grilling or fixing trucks, he would beg me to let him outside the wire on patrol. Upon his death, his father called senators and demanded investigations and punitive action on the chain of command. He was 21. He is my brother.

Jason Swiger was a unique individual, a beautiful person. He drove a black Hearst scattered with bumper stickers. When it got a flat tire, the Hearst stayed forever parked in front of my troop area. He loved the Army. He loved Fort Bragg, jumping out of airplanes, and being a scout. He loved his wonderful wife Alana, and he loved life. You could never stop Swiger from planning some type of practical joke. He was constantly in trouble. He flowed with it. He was a damn good paratrooper. He was 24. He is my brother.

Orlando Gonzalez was an oddball. He had grown up with estranged parents, and he never seemed to fit in. He was extreme introvert, but a good trooper nonetheless. In the last weeks of his life, he found peace. He found a home in Shadow Troop. He was 21. He is my brother.
Additionally, the 300 men of our squadron lost another 19 men with another 100 receiving Purple Hearts for wounds received from enemy fire and 20 suffering from TBI or PTSD.

They were my boys.

I loved them dearly. I think of them often.

They are no longer with us. Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes, when I walk through the dining facility and see young paratroopers eating, I see their faces. I have to remind myself that they are not my boys. It saddens me.

[MikeF]

On Killing

“I can kill all day long, but what is the point?”
-COL. David Sutherland, 3BCT, 1CAV

“Treat everyone with dignity and respect, but be prepared to kill them.”
- COL. Bryan Owens, 3BCT, 82nd ABN

October 31, 2006. “Sir, trade weapons with me,” Bernie whispered from the protection of our hide site. We were hidden deep within the grape vineyards. We had snuck in under the cover of darkness, found the enemy, and now it was time to kill. We had been tracking our prey for weeks. We were finally given the go. As the women and children scattered, the sniper quickly began to recede back into the safety and anonymity of the town. For a moment, he was in range. Staff Sergeant Joshua Bernthall focused. We traded weapons- his sights were conditioned for room clearing, mine for long-range observation. He calmed his body, breathed deep, and squeezed the trigger. With the first round, he zeroed my weapon to his specifications. With the second squeeze, in one fell swoop, the bullet traveled out of the palm groves, across the Diyala River, down the crowded street, and the sniper fell- one round to the head-perfection. Operation Shaku Maku had begun. Thankfully, there would be no civilian casualties today.

In On Killing, Dave Grossman contends that in combat, a soldier must dehumanize his enemy in order to kill him. He argues that the psychological nature of man will not allow one to kill another if you consider them as your equal. That sounds all and good. It’s logical, thoughtful, and academic; however, Dave never killed a man.

My experiences were vastly different. In a counter-insurgency effort, one has to eat dinner with one’s enemy, spend time with them, get to know their families, become intimately engaged with them, and then kill them.

There is always doubt, and you hardly ever know for certain that you had the right man. You just make a decision. In those times, I felt like Gabriel, God’s chosen Angel of Death.

* In some ways, in some stark contrast, I feel tranquil.* In other ways, I’m distraught.

I am neither anti-war nor am I a war-monger. It’s just a part of who we are- part of the cycle of life. My life is quite the paradox- I have little regard for shooting weapons or the pomp and ceremony of the garrison military. I simply don’t care for it. If this war wasn’t going on, I’d have left the Army a long time ago to pursue a business career. That’s the way the Few family rolls. We’re strikingly independent. It’s not a question of a cup half empty or half full- our cup overfloweths. The oxymoron of our surname is never-ending.

However, in combat, I’m notoriously brutal. I turn on a darker side, and I found that I can kill without remorse. Not murder, but killing whether it be man, woman or children. I have never committed a war crime- my actions were totally justified by jus in bellum (conduct in war). Whoever is culpable is subject to die. In some sense, this choice should only be left to GOD….

** Deep inside, as I compartmentalized the tragic horrors of my experiences, a cancer of the mind began to overtake me. Slowly, it ate away at my mind, my heart, and my soul. I became numb.

[MikeF]

Liminality

“Social scientists have a word to describe what you are experiencing--it is called liminality--the state of being betwixt and between.** You have gone*beyond your*old*frame of reference and standard way of viewing the world, and you are just beginning to grasp and understand what the contours of a new frame of reference might look like.* The space is uncomfortable, disconcerting, unnerving, especially to those around you, but*critical to the creative process and breakthrough thinking.* Stay with it.”***

*"The liminal state is characterized by ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. One's sense of identity dissolves to some extent, bringing about disorientation. Liminality is a period of transition where normal limits to thought, self-understanding, and behavior are relaxed - a situation which can lead to new perspectives."*

-Dr. Nancy Roberts


May 2008. The Good Book provides stark examples of how the Good Lord tamed wild men over time. After his triumphant defeat over Goliath, David was forced to hide in the desert for many years until he was mentally ready to become King. During this time, he learned wisdom. During this time, he centered himself. He was no longer boy. He became a man. After escaping the wraith of the Egyptians, the Israelites stumbled through the desert for forty years until they submitted to God. After the crucifixion, Peter renounced Jesus three times. Jesus forecasted this betrayal, but Peter was a proud man. He promised the Messiah that he would never betray him. After the crow squawked thrice, Peter finally submitted. It was the only way.

April 2008. This process was definitely unnerving for everyone involved. At any other point in my life, the story of Greg Mortensen would have found its way inside my brain, processed, and pushed out a coherent thought, but I was not ready for it. My life was unbalanced. On the year anniversary of my fallen, in the midst of a loveless marriage crumbling away, in an academic realm of constantly picking apart Iraq, in luncheons with generals trying to explain Iraq, I was not centered.

I’ve spent my entire adult life hunting Al Qaeda. I immersed into another culture, conducted investigations, identified the enemy, and then I killed them. My life has been one of destruction as I chased ghost across the world. Then, I heard the beautiful story of a man that builds schools. That’s it. He builds schools. This man is single-handedly winning the so-called Global War on Terrorism through his own actions- stubbornness, sense of purpose, and love. His efforts are quite innovative, yet impractical for the bureaucracy of any government. The story tipped me over because I was not centered. I hit my break point.

They finally came to get me. They carted me off to the psychological ward.
“Oh no,” they thought, “Mike has finally lost it.”

No one ever said it out loud, but I could see the sadness in their eyes. This proud warrior was broken. How could this happen? After a week of being poked and prodded, after in depth examinations by psychiatrists and psychologist, it was determined that I did not have any normal serious mental problems.

I had not lost it. I was simply a little unwell.

I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

I am not the only one.

[MikeF]

Things Come Together

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. Shame on the man of cultivated taste who permits refinement to develop into fastidiousness that unfits him for doing the rough work of a workaday world. .

-Theodore Roosevelt


“Mike, you can’t lean on this Iraq thing for excuses your whole life. Frankly, you are the worst man that I have ever met.” - Ex in- law

[MikeF]

In the end and somewhere in between, I am in the process of centering myself. I know who I am, I know where I’ve been, and I am beginning to get a sense for where I’m going. I am not a classically trained anthropologist nor am I a scholar. I’m a simple paratrooper who’s lived an extraordinary life in the service to his country. Instead, I’m learning how to live, and in doing so, I must tell the story of the men I’ve lost. I must find some semblance of reason, some notion of rationale to their sacrifices.

In Iraq, my presence was far from that of a neutral observer. I was an occupier who’s second and third order effects are still being felt on this society; however, through a series of events, I established long-standing ties. I penetrated the deep seeded ancient politico-social-religious networks of the tribes. From an Iraqi perspective, I am a Tamimi; I am a Zuharie. I am Naqeb Few. If I ever return as a civilian, I have land grants, two wives and a girlfriend awaiting me.

Paradoxically, I’m just a southern Baptist boy and a product of the North Carolina public school educational system. I grew up absorbing the Judeo-Christian western values system that laid the great foundation for our nation. I fear the God of Abraham, David, Jesus and Peter. A great, great, great, great grandfather of mine signed the Declaration of Independence for the state of Georgia, yet I’m two generations removed from the coal mines of West Virginia. For undergraduate studies, I pursued an understanding into the study of money. I chose to attend West Point, and I’m fully indoctrinated under the MacArthur principles of “duty, honor, and country.” In sum, I have significant ingrained blocks into truly understanding the Diyala River Valley.

Nonetheless, I’m inextricably linked to Zaganiyah. The plight of the modern Arab society is deeply woven into the fabric of my life. This understanding transcends the superficial support the troops, transnational terrorism, or you’re with us or against us. This understanding is real.

For far too long, we’ve failed to grasp a true understanding of Iraqi society. We simplify thousands of years of rich dialogue, history and tradition into thirty-second sound bites. It is our great failing as Americans. Despite our amazing capacity to design the best manmade form of government conceivable, despite our tremendous ability to overachieve, despite all of the wonderful things that make our society great, we have an unapologetic short-term memory. In this day and age, we are slaves to our IPODs and Blackberries. We walk along unaffected by anything outside our immediate surroundings. In my downtime, I am no better than you in that regard.
I’ve struggled with where to go with this next part. I can make a compelling argument that we should stay the course in Iraq for the next one hundred years.

Contrastingly, I can suggest that we should leave tomorrow. I do not know. Referring back to my indoctrination under Samuel Huntington and Colin Powell’s lead, I will make no policy statements. Just listen.

I cannot tell you what to think. All that I can ask is that you listen to my story, appreciate the heroic tales and sacrifices of my men, feel the pain of the Iraqi society, and come to your own conclusions. I will only ask one thing- please do not go back to sleep.

Past Iraq, the world is a changing, and they desperately need our leadership. These are amazing times, and we have the opportunity to positively shape the future for our children and generations to come. As a wise old boss used to tell me when I was not focused, “Mike, go back to work. The troops need a leader.” We should take heed to his wisdom.
For me, all roads lead to Zaganiyah. In some ways, I’m still there. It is time to tell the story of Zaganiyah. From this story, we can begin to understand this culture. From this culture, we can separate ourselves from their plight. From this plight, THEY can begin to re-engineer the lines drawn in the sand after World War I. Then, we can begin leading again. The sine que nai is that all politics are local, so we must begin there.