mTBI, PTSD and Stress (Catch All)

[MikeF]

Thunder Runs

I do not remember much of the thunder runs. It was violent and fast, but it was too easy. We were in tanks fighting men with AK-47s and RPGs. It was like some weird made for TV movie. It seemed unfair. Firing a 120mm heat round into a man disintegrates his body. It is as if he never existed.

[MikeF]

Baghdad

April 2003. After we reached downtown Baghdad, we did not have a mission. The original plan ended south of Baghdad with us cordoning the city while someone else went in. Thomas Ricks documents the strategic blundering in Fiasco: The American Misadventure in Iraq, but the events on the ground were much more traumatic.

The most important thing that you learn when conducting a raid in a house is to find a job. If your sector is clear, then you help your buddies by finding something important to do. There is always work to be done during a clearing mission, and that’s what we did in Baghdad. In the absence of a plan or orders, we found a job.

The neighborhood was nestled somewhere deep inside northwestern Baghdad, past the Abu Gharaib prison, north of Saddam International Airport, and a couple of blocks from the Mother of All Battles (MOAB) mosque. I can probably still pick it out on a map. The remnants of a Republican Guard artillery unit were scattered everywhere- the neighborhood littered with artillery pieces, ammunition, grenades, and artillery shells. When we arrived, the children were tossing hand grenades back and forth for fun. I was flabbergasted.

I ordered the platoon to remain in their tanks, and I took two soldiers and began going door-to-door desperately seeking someone who could speak English. Finally, I met Ali. He became my first translator. We sent the children home. The following day, we went house to house again ordering all the men to come outside and clean up the area. No one volunteered. I was irritated. My men and I cleaned up the neighborhood by ourselves.

The next day, Ali invited me to his home for tea. I brought a bag of Starbuck’s Breakfast blend coffee as a gift. He found it amusing, but thanked me nonetheless. We met in the sitting room and drank some wonderful chai. Being a guest, I would never be admitted past the sitting room into the privacy of their home. Completely covered, his wife darted in and out of the room providing refreshments and snacks. I’ve never been subtle, so I asked him to explain his society to me. I explained that in America, the wife runs the home, and there is no way I could ever force her to wear that type of dress.

At first, he didn’t understand what I was saying. After three or four tries, he burst out laughing.

“Mike, it’s no different here. I’ll be damned if I try to tell my wife what to do in the home. We just have different customs. Outside the house, I am the head of the household. Inside the home, my wife is in charge. In Islam, women wear the veil as a means of respect for their husbands- it’s how they submit to Allah; it’s part of their jihad.”

Although I did not agree with it, it made sense. Anyways, it was their culture, and who was I to tell them how to live? I certainly had enough problems of my own to fix in order to live a righteous life. I then asked him to explain jihad. It was foreign to me, and I only had pictures in my head of the planes hitting the twin towers.

“Mike, jihad is two-fold: 1. one’s never ending inner struggle to live a life that is acceptable to Allah, 2. Society’s attempts to live collectively in peace.”

I had so much to learn. We talked for many hours over his future employment, the hope for his children, and the wonderful things that would happen now that Saddam was gone. I thanked him for the chai, and I said goodbye.

The next day, we moved back to Abu Gharaib.
I never saw Ali again.

[MikeF]

Flowers in the Streets

After the Thunder Runs, Baghdad rested for several weeks before erupting into utter violence. We expected flowers in the streets, a simple measure of gratitude for liberation. Instead, Iraqis flocked to our tanks asking for money, cell phones, internet, and Walmart. You name it, they begged for it. I did not know what to make of it. In one of my dumber moments, I deflected responsibility to “the next unit,” the guys who would relieve 3rd Infantry Division. My war was supposed to be over. After a year in the Middle East, we attacked from Kuwait to Baghdad in shock and awe.

I did not know what to do. I assumed we had a plan in place for reconstruction and stability operations. I suppose that is what I get for assuming. In one of my final patrols, I saw some graffiti on the walls. The memory strikes vividly to this day. In English, it stated, “#### Bush, Go Home.” I wasn’t sure how to interpret that at the time. When we drove through the streets, the people respectfully waved and smiled. Right after we redeployed to Kuwait, 1LT Graham White, a friend and former roommate serving in the Ranger Regiment, was struck with one of the first IEDs, a small explosive device thrown from a bridge. After twice being declared clinically dead, he made it back to a full recovery. I started thinking maybe we had messed something up in our assumptions on the validity of this war.

Safely back at Fort Stewart, Georgia, I asked my new commander about my concerns.

“Sir, this doesn’t feel right. I don’t think Iraq is going to end so quickly.”

“Mike, you’re thinking too much. Within six months, this place will be like Bosnia.

I wish I had been wrong. I wish there had been flowers in the streets. Upon redeployment, I could hardly step foot on a tank. I hated to pick up my weapon and go to the range for marksmanship training. I would cry uncontrollably driving in to work. I had raging headaches that would not go away. My vision was blurred. I could not understand what was wrong with me. I hid my shame under the medals of valor on my chest. I thought maybe that would make it better. It did not work. I was searching for validation of our deeds as Iraq began to descend into chaos.

[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.