mTBI, PTSD and Stress (Catch All)

[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.

[MikeF]

PART ONE
THINGS FALL APART



“And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.” - Romans 12:2

[MikeF]

CHAPTER TWO: CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE


“People sleep well at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”
-George Orwell, 1984

[MikeF]

Fort Bragg (August 2005-August 2006)

I am not sure where to even start. My story will seem unbelievable to some even though I do not embellish. Sometimes I wonder if it really happened. Maybe it was all a bad nightmare. How the hell did it come to this? Then, I pick up a newspaper and see that after eight years, Bin Laden is still free, our financial markets are in turmoil, and we are engaged in two protracted wars in southwest Asia. It seems maddening, but it is not a dream. We were wrong.

Sometimes I wonder if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams are tossing in their graves. Some of the founding fathers were skeptical of the social experiment of democracy working in the United States much less being forced upon another society. In truth, democracy is neither a predestined inalienable right endowed by our creator nor is it an ends to a means. Rather, it is a gift to be earned and cherished. Those are not my words; they flow throughout the Articles of Confederation and the Federalist Papers.

These realizations dawned not through the burning bush of divine providence, but through the unforgiving observations collected through my years engaged in the bloody, muddy, hands on work of counter-insurgency. I found it ironic that I devoted the majority of my twenties trying to rebuild a society that never existed, chasing an imaginary enemy that we accidently invented, fighting a non-religious war that was indeed religious, and attempting to control the hearts and minds of another culture when my country could not control her own erratic impulses. I was perplexed.

In some twisted sense of political correctness, we attempted to dumb down the nature of war repackaging it into nightly Orwellian sound bites for Fox News. Unfortunately, the editing process edited out the more important parts- things like honoring the dead by allowing the country to pay homage to their final trip home. Redeploying home in between tours, I observed a United States that I no longer understood- consumerism turned to gluttony, capitalism to greed, religion with no God, freedom overtaken by fear. The racing thoughts clouded my brain and unnerved my inner core. I was angry.

Is everything really different or was it always this way? Clinical psychologist call it compartmentalized psychosis, a temporary insanity. I was misdiagnosed once, but mainly because I was drunk, and I told the doctor that he was the crazy one. New Rule Number 541- No drinking 24 hours prior to a psychological evaluation. You will lose. Just trust me on that one.

In the Army’s Search, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) course, one is taught indirect methods to surviving captivity as a prisoner of war. One is never to be the aggressor or act tough. The best course of action is to appear weak and submit. Only then can one remain strong. I should have paid more attention to the advice those instructors tried to impart on me; however, I’m much too stubborn to listen to others at times. Typically, I learn through blunt trauma rather than mindless repetition.

I’m getting off track. It is far too early to start sharing my haunting concerns, feelings, and personal limitations. Anyways, if I tell the story right, my thoughts will resonate through without me dictating what you should or should not think. More importantly, I hope to share the confusion and disheveled feelings this war extracted on our soldiers. Furthermore, I am very much aware that I could be wrong; it wouldn’t be the first time.

Throughout this tale, you will hear from a disgruntled, sarcastic, and indignant young captain. I will curse, judge, and at times appear quick tempered. Don’t be fooled. This tale is not so much a story of who I was, but a hat that I had to wear. To be an effective combat commander, one must master the art of “fight or flight.” During this period, I acted in a way that would scare my Sunday school teacher and my mother. My granny would cry watching the transformation. I acted in this way to stay alive and complete my mission. War changes men. No one is innocent in war.

In the narrow, precise world of academia, this story should be considered an inductive case study on humanity, economics, psychology, politics, religion, diplomacy, and war- all the essential ingredients of a refined counter-insurgency brew. For now, I’ll stick to that line of thought. Bear with me, it is about to get exciting. I’m going to take you to a place that you can hardly fathom, much less comprehend. For the sake of our children, I believe it is time to share. First, you have to step out the door.

[MikeF]

“Green light, Go”

January 2006. The brisk southeastern wind zipped into the unpressured cabin of the C-130 as the Air Force Loadmaster turned control over to the Jumpmaster, “Army- your door.” Through the eerie green candescent light, I watched First Sergeant (1Sgt) Royce Manis begin the intricate task of inspecting the door for any imperfections or obstacles that could impede the jumpers exit. During his twenty years in the elite Army Ranger Regiment, Royce perfected this task through endless repetition, and his body swept the door gracefully in calm, fluid precision as delicate and accurate as the San Francisco symphony conducting Beethoven’s Fifth. Later, in my darkest hour, Royce would assist me in fighting through Dante’s seventh level of hell with the quiet professionalism that embodies the best mantra of the non-commissioned officer corps.

Next, Royce thrust his upper body into the night to inspect the outside of the aircraft ensuring that nothing protruded to obstruct our descent. Satisfied that the right door was kosher, he pulled himself back into the bird, spun 180 degrees clockwise, extended a thumbs up, and waited for Sergeant First Class (SFC) John Coomer to finish checking the left door. John is another mild mannered quiet professional: a father, brother, husband, and leader. John is a guy you want to follow in any situation. His calm demeanor would later prevail in the worst of circumstances. Ten seconds later, Coomer and Manis gave a silent nod, turned towards the jumpers, extending their arms parallel with index and middle fingers pointing forward, arched an imaginary ‘M’, and sounded off in unison, “Stand-by.” With all inspections complete, the Air Force pilots navigated towards the drop zone (DZ) slowing to 130 knots preparing to unload 64 paratroopers into the darkness of this calm North Carolina night.

As the plane approached the DZ, 1Sgt Andrew Coy walked towards me. For this JFEX (Joint Forcible Entry exercise), Andy served as a safety. He would not jump. Working in conjunction with the Air Force loadmaster, his tasks were to inspect the safety of the aircraft prior to take-off, accept all static lines as jumpers exit the door, and retrieve the discarded static lines and parachute straps back into the aircraft. Then, he returned with the crew to the corresponding airfield. It is an important job, but outside of about three minutes of high adventure, it is rather boring and mundane.
************************************************** ********************************

Andy was one of the few multiple tour Iraq and Afghanistan veterans in my new unit. He and I quickly hit things off when I transferred to Fort Bragg in June 2006. We transcended past the “Old” 1990’s Army of parades, inspections, cutting grass that didn’t grow, and superficial training exercises against a Russian Army dismantled sixteen years prior. We focused on real combat learned through years of blunt trauma, burning bodies, and costly mistakes. We did not have any answers, but we clearly understood that business as usual was not working.

Andy would say, “Sir, if it looks like ####, smells like ####, and taste like ####, then it is probably ####.”

I preferred to take a more tempered approach. I chose the word absurd to describe the current predicament. 2005 was a horrible year in Iraq, and 2006 was not looking brighter. Three weeks after this jump, the mosque in Samarra would explode igniting a full-out civil war. In 2005, during my previous Iraq tour, I served a brief stint on the Multi National Corps- Iraq (MNC-I) staff. Fortunately, my boss selected me to moonlight as a liaison officer for CJSOTF-AP (Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force- Arabian Peninsula), the resident Special Forces command in Iraq, so I was not required to spend too much time in Saddam’s Al-Fawah palace, more commonly known as the puzzle palace.

I learned a great deal during that tour. Special Forces command took me in as family, and I learned the science of guerilla warfare. They allowed me to work in their J2 (Intelligence) and J3 (Operations) sections. At night, I poured through volumes of doctrine on why men rebel against the government, how to organize resistance organizations, clandestine activity, deception operations, and other devious means of conducting small wars. In effect, I attended a mini-graduate course in counter-insurgency.

Previously, my study of warfare consisted of the Army’s Armor Captain Career Course instructions on determining the most effective means to defeat the Russians in the Fulda Gap. When I probed my instructors on Iraq and Afghanistan, I was told that I must not get too focused on fighting the past wars. That was 2004. Considering we were still engaged in both wars, I could not relate.

Simultaneously, I got to pull back the curtain and observe the high command. I observed the senior level discussions of the Coalition’s perspective on the state of Iraq. I was allowed to sit in on the big meetings with generals and politicians as long as I kept my opinions to myself. God, that was nerve-racking. Most of the time, I feel that I have something relevant to add to almost any conversation! How could they ask such sacrifices from me? I never understood why the generals were not interested in my enlightened opinions. I persevered through. At least I did not have to make them coffee and iron their uniforms.

Semantics aside, I walked away feeling confused and unnerved. The generals were good, decent, and respectful men. They were not the raging, war-mongering lunatics depicted in many anti-war films. I often wondered what burdens they must carry at night. I wondered how they slept with the weight of the world on their shoulders. They wanted to do the right thing and win, but winning was ambivalent in the current state. In another form of irony, as a young captain, I pitied the generals much as I grieve for you today. I wanted to scream that the emperor had no clothes on. He was fooled by his mindless court jesters. Why could they not see????

The briefings in the puzzle palace required a woeful disregard for the truth as it pertained to the average Iraqi. Beautiful, masterful PowerPoint slides displayed measures of progress that could outshine an Enron annual report- measure of effectiveness ranging from the number of joint Iraqi-American patrols, traffic control points, raids, and numbers of enlistments obscured reality. Ignorant propaganda slogans proclaiming, “As they stand up, we will stand down,” “We’ll fight them here so we don’t have to fight them in the US,” and “You’re with us or against us” clouded judgment. Too black and white in a world of gray. One plus one equals three. If it is written, then it must be truth.

Contrastingly, Abu Massad Al-Zarqawi implemented the beginnings of his dream of an Islamic caliphate in Iraq. The self-proclaimed QJBR, al Qaeda of the Two Rivers, recruited Sunni resistance groups resisting the occupation. Zarqawi intended to fight a holy war against the West; the Sunnis simply wanted to regain their perceived birthright- control of Iraq. The two meshed in a fragile marriage of convenience.

Simultaneously, Muqtada al Sadr recruited his Mahdi Army (MA). They infiltrated the Iraqi Security Forces and Police. Special Police Units under the control of the Ministry of Interior began a “cleansing” of former Baath officials. The Shia wanted retribution and validation for years of suffering under Saddam.

We did not see. We had no excuse not to see. Temporary treaties between enemies are as old as Cain and Able- quid pro quo of balanced opposition. We were still waiting for our victory parade in Bagdad and flowers in the streets.

Prior to the invasion, British historian Toby Dodge argued that Iraq had been on the verge of a civil war ever since its independence from British rule following World War One. Benevolent dictator control squashed opposition and kept internal feuding minimized for ninety years. GEN Colin Powell’s Pottery Barn remark did not quite fit. We did not break Iraq; we simply open up the box. Following this line of thought, Saddam was not the problem or solution in Iraq; he was a symptom. By mid 2005, the bonfire of ethno-sectarian, religious, and tribal strife was stacked and well soaked in gasoline. All that remained was the spark. All we could see was the imaginary clothing of fictional notions of success.


************************************************** **********************************

Andy continued to walk towards me in the bird. This was my first mission as a company commander. Conversely, this jump was his last as a first sergeant. Before he walked away, he wanted to impart one last piece of wisdom to his young friend.

“Mike, this is your first mission. I know you are nervous and scared. Let it go and have fun. Command goes by way too fast. Just enjoy it. I know you will do well. Now, go take care of your boys.”

I looked him straight in the eyes and nodded a knowing nod. Royce Manis and John Coomer sounded off with a thunderous boom,

“30 SECONDS!!!”

Andy walked back towards the door. Jumpers shook their static lines. It was time. The exit light flashed from red to green.

“GO!!!”

The jumpers rushed out the door. As the momentum of the line sped up, Andy smiled at me, and I began my march towards the exit. I handed my static line to Andy, turned 90 degrees, planted my left foot, and surged my right leg forward. My body followed. I was officially an airborne reconnaissance commander on his first mission.

[MikeF]

The euphoria did not last long. Typically, one strives to exit the aircraft and form an L-shape upon descent. Then, one begins to count to five and wait for the chute to release. On the other hand, I over-packed my ruck sack, and the weight flipped my body head first and upside down instead of upright. I tumbled downward in some twisted Z shape. As I struggled to regain my L-shape, my chute deployed. My risers were twisted beyond recognition. This mishap would speed up my descent and could prove potentially fatal. I began engage rigorously in a bicycle kick to unwind my chute.

Despite the difficulties, I could not help but notice the calm darkness of this night. Engaging in a massive tactical night jump is an amazing endeavor to participate in. You saw it in Band of Brothers, but Hollywood cannot capture the serenity of nature juxtaposed with the violence of action contained with paratroopers descending into enemy territory.

As I un-assed myself, I was descending rapidly. I fixed my parachute, but my boots were getting closer and closer to touching the ground. My ruck and weapon remained strapped to my body. Not good. I unfastened the quick release on my weapon and ruck, pulled my risers to slow down, and closed my eyes. This was going to hurt.

So how did yours truly end up in such a predicament? The real story began long before the attacks of 9/11. It begins long ago with a young Egyptian named Sayyid Qutb. Historians and sociologist will debate for decades over what happened to him, but I think it is a fairly simple answer. Sayyid’s mother did not hug him enough. All he needed was a hug!!!

[MikeF]

Men have sought to make a world from their own conception and to draw from their own minds all the material which they employed, but if, instead of doing so, they had consulted experience and observation, they would have the facts and not opinions to reason about, and might have ultimately arrived at the knowledge of the laws which govern the material world.
-Francis Bacon