After Images

Some surviving photos...I have so few after the flood. In fact, a few of these were sent to me from someone else.

1) The division I was a member of...the Third Armored (Spearhead)
2) Where we lived when we first arrived.
3) Where we lived later. Don't know if it was worse or not...more space but primitive conditions.
4) A friend
5) Another friend
6) My boss and his driver
7) Two more friends
8) An anti air track near the perimiter of our camp...I passed it at night on my way to my private spot.
9) Packing up to move out in the wee small hours of the morning. Hurry up and wait.
10) A sandstorm just starting...it wound up collapsing our bathrooms.
11) Long shot of our recon platoon racing back and forth.

I didn't write a real Veteran's Day post on Alt this year. Usually I do put down something on Vet's Day and Memorial Day.

From some of the e-mails I receive (and, to a lesser extent, some of the comments) I fear people may be taking away the wrong messages.

Whereas I try to get people to see the ugly consequences and the reality of sending your nation's children off to fight and die...a lot of the reactions I receive in mail reflect a romanticized vision of whatever I'm writing about. I get a lot of "Thank you for your service" type mails. Those always make me uncomfortable as all hell.

I'd rather they took away inspiration to act. Act on VA issues and all the other problems and issues I cover. I'd rather they think about what I write and use it for something.

Musical Interlude #1: Fortunate Sons

Our soundtrack was a generation out of date. The songs were older than many of us.

Most of our fathers had been to Vietnam. We grew up hearing about the war. Now, as we made ready to fight in our very own war...the music we listened to and the movies we watched were part of our country's last great conflict.

Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket, Platoon. We sat in the middle of the desert watching movies about a jungle war.

There's a saying that the generals are always fighting the last war as they make their plans for the next. We were trying to steel ourselves for the coming war through vicariously experiencing the last.

Our track commander, the young sergeant who led our steel box ambulance, was a huge fan of Creedence Clearwater Revival. Their greatest hits were the musical chords that played us into battle once we crossed the berm.

Some folks are born made to wave the flag,Ooh, theyre red, white and blue.
And when the band plays hail to the chief,they point the cannon at you, lord

I remember madly drumming on my thighs...pumped on No-Doze and fear...hammering away on my legs keeping time with the music. We had been awake for days, staving off the need for sleep by popping amphetamines and everyone was in various stages of mental calamity.

Sitting on the jump bench in the back of the ambulance, I wailed away on my legs like a speed fueled maniac. The others started to get swept up in the humor of it. Deejay joined in by playing air guitar and swinging his head back and forth. Weird little Scrappy pumped his fist in the air. Even Brownie...the hardcore rap fan bobbed his head along. It became A Moment.

It aint me, it aint me, I aint no senators son, It aint me, it aint me; I aint no fortunate one

We needed the laugh, we needed the break in tension

But, also, the music spoke to us just then. We knew we were the bottom of the barrel...the bottom rung of society's ladder. The poor, the trapped, the desperate. Kids from broken homes and broken systems, from shitty little towns and shitty blighted neighborhoods.

It aint me, it aint me, I aint no millionaires son, no.It aint me, it aint me; I aint no fortunate one, no

Just a bunch of dumb fucking grunts who volunteered for this shit. few choices in life...so we chose this. Like the First Sergeant said, if we wanted a comfortable life we should have joined the Air Force.

We were dirt. Just dirt. Unimportant people going nowhere that no one cared about.

And we thought that was just hilarious. What else could you do but laugh?

And laugh we did. We laughed at the war protesters and we laughed at the war supporters. We laughed at the generals and politicians and newsmen on CNN. What the fuck did any of them know?

We laughed at each other and we laughed with each other.

And we laughed our asses off during our little impromptu band performance that day. We all joined in. We were all the same. Four kids...four friends thrown together by life's circumstances. All we needed was each other and fuck the rest

Some folks inherit star spangled eyes,Ooh, they send you down to war, lord,
And when you ask them, how much should we give?
Ooh, they only answer more! more! more!

It aint me, it aint me, I aint no fortunate one,It aint me, it aint me, I aint no fortunate son.

And thinking back on that Moment as I write this...where amid the barely controlled chaos we found time to share some of the laughter and camaraderie that got us through the shit days, bopping along to the music of another generation...I realize something.

When I would ask my dad about his time in his war...he would rarely talk about. Sometimes he'd smirk a little and say "Oh, it wasn't always so bad."

I know what he meant now.

Jesus, I really loved those guys.

Night, Part 3 (Just Another Dream)

I used to dream all the time. Bad dreams. They had little variation and usually revolved around the same two subjects; the Sand Dune and The Kid with No Legs.



The dreams were particularly bad and frequent my first year living in New Orleans. I don't know what the trigger was... if it was because I was yet again in a new environment or if it was just a delayed reaction.



I would wake up violently next to my girlfriend in the little bed in the little apartment we shared near Tulane University. I often woke her in the process. I'd convince her everything was OK and wait, listening to her breathing, until she drifted back to sleep.



Then I'd rise. I loved being up in the middle of the night when everything is quiet. I enjoyed the sensation that I was the only person awake...the only person experiencing this night. The moment was mine and mine alone.



I would step outside into our building's courtyard. I loved the humid, tropical feel of the nights there. The warm air dampened sound and enveloped you. It felt close against the skin...sensual.



The courtyard was full of palm trees and shrubs. In the middle was an oval swimming pool. After standing stock still in the night air for a while...just breathing it in...I would slip into the pool.



At the shallow end were a series of steps. I would slowly walk down them...moving just a little bit at a time....barely raising a ripple. The water was usually still warm from the day's brutal sunlight. I'd glide into the deeper water...not swimming so much as sliding unobtrusively through the water. I'd make my way to the middle of the pool and turn to float on my back.



It felt so peaceful right then. The warm water surrounding me...the sultry air pressing in from above. The pool lights would be out so I'd be floating in darkness. My ears would be below the water line so no outside noise disturbed me. I would float and relax...the tension from the dreams oozing from my body and my mind. I would look up at the stars through the palm leaves and be at peace.



And sometimes I would wonder what it would feel like to slide beneath the water. To just let myself slip. To let that beautiful warm water cover me...cover my sins and carry them away.



It would have been so easy to just drift down...to let the water wash away the sin, the guilt, the fear, the uncertainty, the sadness.



It would have ended the dreams. It would have so peaceful.



Everything up to that point would have been

just

another

dream.

=================================================

Looking over these posts...I fear I give the impression I was deeply disturbed. It wasn't quite like that. It is one of the most difficult things I've ever tried to articulate. I wasn't deep in the throes of constant PTSD flashbacks (although...those did occur but they were relatively rare). And I wasn't in constant states of rage or depression.

These was just a sense of sadness that seemed to follow me. It was always there.

I think some of it stemmed from feelings of guilt. And much of it was because I felt so alone. I wanted to talk to someone...but at the same time I didn't because I knew they wouldn't understand. It was a separation....an isolation...that was maddening.

My friends asked me all the time to talk about what it was like over there. But they didn't want to hear about how I felt...they wanted a good war story. I eventually began avoiding them.

That isolation was a factor in my decision to move away.

=========================================

As stated in another post...I eventually did find someone to talk to. And now I write.

The sadness is still there some days....but nowhere near the level it once was. When I was a much younger man...I was worried that it would be overshadowing me the rest of my life...and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

But I can.

Talking helped.

New Orleans helped. Moving there was one of the best decisions (even if it was sort of a spur of the moment one) I've ever made. The people there were so friendly and accepting...they allowed me to reinvent myself. Like that warm night swim...I was fully embraced. It was a place where I felt peace. The city helped save me.

The dreams still come some nights....but those nights are fewer and fewer. Letting some things out was cathartic. And writing about them (and, by extension, re-examining them) has allowed me the peace of acceptance. The feelings from those years...the years that were the defining moments of my life... will always be just in the background. But now more like shadows than clouds.

And so many years later...I have many new memories on which to dwell.

Now when I dream...I often dream of New Orleans.

Night, Part 2 (Father and Son)

To begin again with the past within the past...another repost from the alt blog. From 21 Sep o6:

How My Daddy Taught me to Swear

He would scream in the middle of the night. Shouting names and obscenities.

I was just a wee lad, maybe 4 or 5 when I first became aware of it. I would crawl out of bed and creep down the hall to listen.

I didn't realize he was asleep. I thought he just chose the early morning hours to get mad and sad. He seemed so happy the rest of the time, jocular and such. I thought he yelled in the night so my brother and I wouldn't see him.

He would scream names sometimes. Victor and Charlie. I thought they were two guys who were bullying him at work the way the bigger kids sometimes bullied the smaller kids at school.

Sometimes he'd sob.

But a lot of the time he swore. Fantastic strings of expletives. I'd crouch outside his bedroom saying the words to myself in a whisper.

I felt like I was getting away with something.

Eventually he'd wake up...or the yelling would become so violent that my mother would wake him. I would retreat to the bedroom I shared with my brother and peek from behind the door. My father always woke the same way on these nights: arms clutched across the shiny skin on his chest as he went into the bathroom for enough time to let mom go back to sleep.

When I was older...I figured out the shiny skin was scar tissue. It covered his entire chest and wrapped around his left side.

Even then...I didn't know how it came to cover him. When I was eight I asked him. He laughingly replied "A German girl nearly captured me once." I knew he'd been in the Army...but my whole frame of reference was World War II movies. I pictured some blond Bavarian Fraulein with a Luger pistol herding him into a POW camp in Berlin...before he made a brave escape like Steve McQueen.

It wasn't quite like that.

My cursing lessons continued for years.

=================================
The present, Oct 2007

My dad and I grew up with an edge of competition between us. It was more like friendly competition than the stereotype of the son trying to surpass the father. But...I may have been doing a little chasing. Chasing that elusive acceptance and approval of my always stoic dad.

He played three sports in high school...I played three. He enlisted right after high school...so did I...choosing the same branch. Dad was a paratrooper...so I did my best and worked my ass off (almost literally) to pass the physical test and get accepted to the airborne school. Everything he'd done...I tried to do as well. With every new emulation of his past dad would just shake his head and chuckle. I knew him well enough to read the approval, the flattery he felt.

At age 24 he went to war. The son went at age 22.

My dad taught me more than how to swear. He taught me that even strong men can be afraid. That sometimes the fear comes back to visit in the dark of night. He taught me that it's OK to ask for help.

My dad said nothing about it but he finally saw a psychiatrist to talk about his nightmares. Just having that chance to talk helped immeasurably and the night terror stopped. A generation later I'd do the same.

It was those unspoken lessons...the example my dad set...that lead me to reach out and get help when I most needed some.

My father and I never talked with one another about our experiences in war. It's hard to explain to people who just don't know. It's not stoicism or humbleness or avoidance. It's just that type of shared experience...needs no talk. We never spoke of our troubles afterward either. But it was those experiences...those in fire and those in night...that showed me that I truly am my father's son.

Night, Part 1 (The Sand Dune)

A repost from my blog at Alt from just over two years past...
from 19 Sep 05:

Another sleepless night...hence my sudden rash of blog posts....I am in my third evening of less than adequate sleep.

I have been staying up for most of the night. Tonight it was a nightmare that woke me.

They come from time to time, usually in cycles.

I had a dream that I was in a road race. It was an actual race in which I ran. After Desert Storm ended my unit performed humanitarian relief missions for some long months. We then pulled back out of Iraq across the border into Saudi Arabia to begin preparations to travel to the coast to pack up and go back to Germany.

We had a decent amount of downtime so we had to be creative with ways to fill the hours. For some unknown reason it was deemed a road race through the desert would be a good idea. Thus the Iraq and Back 10K Run was born.

The combat engineers measured and mapped out a course. Entrants would run 5k to just across the border into Iraq and 5k back again. For the hell of it some people decided to fashion costumes and make a spectacle in the spirit of fun. I decided to run wearing only boxer shorts and combat boots...and in a bit of inspiration used some colored topical ointments and camouflage paint to cover my face and torso in fierce war paint.

There were about 75 runners at the starting line. One of the battalion officers blew a whistle and off we roared in a stampede. I don't know if I can convey the chaos that ensued. The temperature was approximately130 degree Fahrenheit. 75 idiots with more testosterone than brainpower madly dashing through the sand in the general direction of Iraq. Limbs flailing...curse words liberally screeched..strange hooting noises.

After the first few kilometers the temperature began to take its toll. People began to drop out...some literally dropped and were picked up by the field ambulances following the herd at a discreet distance. A sense of urgency to finish struck. The mass of wailing, panting, crying, screaming troopers reached a frenzied fever pitch as it passed the demarcation line into Iraq.

As the herd turned and began the return run the noise lessened. Now it was just an endurance contest to finish...to make it back.

At one point I'm sure I blacked out on my feet.

About 50 or so people crossed the finish line under their own power. I finished in the number twelve spot. The race was a big success for morale.

Later we found out that some people whom we had been helping through relief missions, not too many miles from where we were sitting in the desert, had been attacked by the survivors of the Iraqi Republican Guard. I don't know why. As far as I know they weren't involved in any aborted uprisings. Some of them were killed. Our field hospital had already been packed up and we weren't set up to handle casualties. We saw the medevac choppers go by overhead though.

In my nightmare I'm running the race. I veer off from the pack and head deeper into the desert. I start to run up a sand dune (which even in the dream I know is out of place for the terrain around the wadi al-Batin). And I begin sinking. It's not quicksand...more like deep snow. I sink up to my thighs and it's so hard to move forward. On the other side of the dune someone is crying and begging for help. My movements become more desperate and I just can't reach the top of the dune even when trying to claw my way forward with my hands.

I never reach the top. I always wake up before that.

=====================================

present day, Oct 2007

I used to have nightmares all the time. They didn't start up right away...but started visiting me after I left active duty and my life calmed down. I think I was just too busy for rumination until then. Or maybe mental trauma needs time to germinate...or fester.

I dreamed of the sand dune quite often. And of The Kid with No Legs. And of the day I received my splinters. Frustration, guilt and fear. Nightmare grist.

The odd thing is...other than making me tired some days from lack of sleep...they didn't really bother me all that much. They were just more garbage I brought home with me to go with the splinters, the scars, the premature lines in my face, etc.

No...they were more than that. They were memories and feelings...that I felt bound to keep. Especially those over which I felt some lingering guilt. Maybe that was my some lingering martyr syndrome from my catholic upbringing.

Or maybe it from from a sense of duty that had been instilled in me from a young age by my father...and reinforced by my father figures in the Army.

It's also not completely true that the dreams didn't bother me.
Sometimes they were heavy.

Duty is heavy as a mountain
but Death is lighter than a feather.
-------Japanese proverb

to be continued....

Fire

I'll have to come back to this one. The four viginettes based on the elements was just something bouncing around in my head. I think they'll be interspersed throughout the novel.

I'm not quite ready to put down the story I'll use for "Fire" though.