*Retold with permission
We had a lot of weird experiences when we were manning the ECPs [entry control points] into the International Zone. There was the usual array of local vendors, political guests and day laborers, but every now and then it was something completely unexpected.
I remember one situation vividly, mostly because it infuriated me. It was obscenely hot out, and I was already pissed about that – standing there for hours listening to each person tell me why their business in the IZ took precedence over everything else. Then this three car convoy rolls up. We in-processed high-level guests all the time, so I just assumed these cars were more dignitaries. They were all BMWs or Mercedes, new, and impeccably clean. But the passengers were a different matter.
Each car had a single driver, and in the back seat of each sat one young girl. All three of them were gorgeous and well-dressed, right down to the perfume. That was kind of odd, but whatever. We asked them to step out, and then we conducted the security search of the vehicles.
That was when I started to suspect something. Each trunk had a suitcase in it, full of lingerie, body oils, fragrances, and basically what’s best described as sex worker clothing. None of it was typical attire for this region, this country, or for girls their age. One of the three drivers was pretty mouthy and spoke broken English, so I asked him what their business was in the IZ.
“We have meeting with minister.”
Okay, that’s nothing new. Why, though? What for? Is this an appointment?
“I have gift for him.” When he said that, he gestured towards the three girls. That’s when I knew exactly what he meant. He was pimping them.
They were young, too; maybe thirteen or fourteen, and they stood there on the side of the road silently, looking down, like they’d just been caught doing something shameful. I’m fairly confident they knew exactly what was going to happen to them, but I have no idea if they consented to it. They were only children.
I also knew the guy wasn’t going into the IZ to sell the clothing in the suitcases, since none of it was packaged or marked. It was loose, and it’d been worn before. Besides, we dealt with vendors all the time. They’d come in with trunks full of DVDs or truckloads of produce. The clothing wasn’t for sale here; the girls were the merchandise.
I don’t have a sister, but the first thing I thought about was this: what if they were my sisters? What if they were my daughters? They were only kids, and this guy was about to permit an unspeakable crime to take place. I looked at him squarely in the eye and told him to get out of there. Go.
Then he started to fuss and complain, which made me even angrier. I got in his face. You need to go. Now. Leave. I guess he figured out that I was genuinely pissed, so he and the other drivers put the girls back in the cars, climbed in, and drove off.
I have no idea who he was or even who he was going to see, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. This isn’t my country and they may have different rules here, but that doesn’t matter. As a Soldier, I have a warrior ethos; and as a civilian and an American, I have a code of ethics. This wasn’t acceptable under any terms, and I wanted no part in what was going to happen to those girls. I didn’t matter if they consented or not. They were only children.
I called in the whole incident to my NCOIC (non-commissioned officer-in-charge), and to my amazement, he chewed me out. When he’d calmed down a little, I explained the whole situation, and then he completely understood. In fact, he told me good job.
Later on, my CO [commanding officer] got after me, too. But again, when I explained the circumstances, he agreed with my decision. He simply said I could have handled it more diplomatically. Maybe I could have, but I really don’t regret what I did. In fact, I wish I could have done more. That sort of behavior is completely unacceptable, and those men should have been arrested. The worst part is that these girls were purchased by a high-ranking Iraqi political figure – the very ones we protected and supported. But if he had no moral objection to having sex with three children, what else was he willing to do?
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The Gunny
We were sent out west once near the Syrian border to attach to a Marine unit doing a big sweep operation through some relatively hostile towns out there. We’d been attached to Marines before, so we knew the drill. They’re sort of strange, and they seem to be in a contest to see whose unit is more miserable. I think some of the went out of their way to make things suck as much as possible. I’d already briefed my guys. This is just want they do. Let them be. They were good guys, but they were nuts.
It was a long convoy, so we didn’t arrive until well after midnight, and it was winter, so we asked around to see about getting some cots or something.
We finally talked to one Marine who told us he’d have to wake up Gunny. “Wait, don’t do that. We’ll just sleep on the ground or something.” No, he said. He’d ask Gunny what to do about it.
A moment later, this burly, barefoot man stalks out and crosses his arms. He was wearing those little green silky shorts that Marines wear.
“Who are you?” he spits.
“Gunny, we’re the psyops team that’s attached to you guys for a couple weeks. The four of us were looking to find some cots or something to sleep on for the night.”
“Come with me,” he grunts, and storms out the door into the night – still barefoot. It was winter, mind you. He walks across the lot to a trailer they’d converted into a bunk house and steps in, and starts kicking racks.
“You and you. Get up.” A Marine groggily mumbled a “what” and Gunny barked a reply. “Get the hell out of here. Now!” Marines start grabbing sleeping bags and stumbling out into the cold.
“Gunny, they’re going to kill us in the morning.”
“No they won’t. They’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” And he left.
We were out doing an op with them one day, and before long they had a small foot patrol pinned down in the city. A whole lot of us were already outside the wire, so we just diverted from our missions and rushed over there to put more firepower into the fight.
As my humvee crested a hill on the edge of town, we looked down into the city and saw a mosque with a bunch of insurgents firing out of windows and over the courtyard walls. Not far away, there was a small group of Marines huddled behind a low wall trying to return fire. They looked badly outgunned.
As we’re halted up there for a moment, I saw the concussion blast of a grenade right next to the Marines, and then I saw a body fly through the air. One of the Marine officers in a nearby truck recognized the guy, too. It was Gunny – an old friend of his. “Shit! Gunny’s been hit!” he yelled, and he threw open the door of his humvee and hauled ass down the hill towards the firefight.
Completely ignoring that there’s a firefight going on, he runs out there into the middle of everything, hauls Gunny to his feet, grabs his hand, and starts running up the hill with him. Gunny ran with him, keeping his injured hand above his head, blood streaming down to his elbow. When I saw that he was injured, I started calling around on the radio looking for a Corpsman [Navy medic attached to a Marine unit], since I knew he’d need some sort of medical attention. I was still on the radio when they ran up.
When they stopped next to the truck, out of breath, Gunny sharply snatches his hand back from the Marine officer and looks at him squarely. “You know how goddam gay that looks?”
That man was a Marine’s Marine, and tough as hell. He’s just been yanked out of a firefight, bleeding profusely, and all he’s worried about is looking gay. That guy was awesome.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
It was a long convoy, so we didn’t arrive until well after midnight, and it was winter, so we asked around to see about getting some cots or something.
We finally talked to one Marine who told us he’d have to wake up Gunny. “Wait, don’t do that. We’ll just sleep on the ground or something.” No, he said. He’d ask Gunny what to do about it.
A moment later, this burly, barefoot man stalks out and crosses his arms. He was wearing those little green silky shorts that Marines wear.
“Who are you?” he spits.
“Gunny, we’re the psyops team that’s attached to you guys for a couple weeks. The four of us were looking to find some cots or something to sleep on for the night.”
“Come with me,” he grunts, and storms out the door into the night – still barefoot. It was winter, mind you. He walks across the lot to a trailer they’d converted into a bunk house and steps in, and starts kicking racks.
“You and you. Get up.” A Marine groggily mumbled a “what” and Gunny barked a reply. “Get the hell out of here. Now!” Marines start grabbing sleeping bags and stumbling out into the cold.
“Gunny, they’re going to kill us in the morning.”
“No they won’t. They’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” And he left.
We were out doing an op with them one day, and before long they had a small foot patrol pinned down in the city. A whole lot of us were already outside the wire, so we just diverted from our missions and rushed over there to put more firepower into the fight.
As my humvee crested a hill on the edge of town, we looked down into the city and saw a mosque with a bunch of insurgents firing out of windows and over the courtyard walls. Not far away, there was a small group of Marines huddled behind a low wall trying to return fire. They looked badly outgunned.
As we’re halted up there for a moment, I saw the concussion blast of a grenade right next to the Marines, and then I saw a body fly through the air. One of the Marine officers in a nearby truck recognized the guy, too. It was Gunny – an old friend of his. “Shit! Gunny’s been hit!” he yelled, and he threw open the door of his humvee and hauled ass down the hill towards the firefight.
Completely ignoring that there’s a firefight going on, he runs out there into the middle of everything, hauls Gunny to his feet, grabs his hand, and starts running up the hill with him. Gunny ran with him, keeping his injured hand above his head, blood streaming down to his elbow. When I saw that he was injured, I started calling around on the radio looking for a Corpsman [Navy medic attached to a Marine unit], since I knew he’d need some sort of medical attention. I was still on the radio when they ran up.
When they stopped next to the truck, out of breath, Gunny sharply snatches his hand back from the Marine officer and looks at him squarely. “You know how goddam gay that looks?”
That man was a Marine’s Marine, and tough as hell. He’s just been yanked out of a firefight, bleeding profusely, and all he’s worried about is looking gay. That guy was awesome.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Monday, July 13, 2009
Hot Guns
We conducted a lot of really badass missions on my last tour – things that most people don’t even know we have the capability of doing. One my personal favorites was the seismically activated cameras, which proved invaluable.
There were a few areas in our AO [area of operations] where the insurgents would emplace IEDs repeatedly, so the command set up cameras wired to sensors that activated when somebody started digging. When they did, the imagery was relayed back to base in real time. It was almost comical.
We’d see an image of a guy with a shovel in his hand, breaking ground. Then in the next shot he’d be digging. Then he’d be throwing the dirt. Usually the next photo would be of him looking around, like he’d heard something. Then he’d go back to digging for a couple of frames. Next shot: a huge cloud of dust and smoke. We’d dropped artillery on him.
Our artillery battery was always on standby for those missions. As soon as an insurgent started digging in an IED, the command would relay us the coordinates, and we’d fire a volley of HE [high explosive] rounds on top of him. Best of all, it worked. No more IEDs there. And they had to find new people to replace the ones we blew up.
The whole tour was pretty amazing, actually. When we got there, the arty unit we replaced told us they hardly ever fired any missions. It was pretty quiet. We could expect to just hang out, sleep a lot, and work a little. It sounded good, but it wasn’t true. The very first day we were on that gun line, we fired more than 200 HE rounds for call for fire missions. That isn’t “terrain denial,” but real targets. In fact, we fired so many rounds that we had to put bags of ice on our computers to keep them from overheating. We stayed busy.
As soon as we got on the gun line early one morning, we sustained a direct rocket attack on the guns. Thankfully, the rockets all hit the barriers directly in front of us, but it was obvious that we were the targets. Moments later, we fired a counter battery back at them, which we figured would put a stop to it. But amazingly, it didn’t; they fired again, so we unleashed hell on them and then everything went quiet. I’m pretty sure we got them that time. And that was just the beginning.
Later that day, an infantry company in the city was trying to approach a suspected weapons cache, but every time they moved in, they’d get repulsed by heavy insurgent fire. So, they called us for help. They gave us the coordinates, backed up, and waited for us to do our thing. We did a full fire for effect.
For about six minutes, one high explosive round hit that place every three seconds. There was no way anything there could survive the barrage. Five minutes after we fired our last volley, the infantry moved in, and everything was silent. And sure enough, they found the cache, which actually turned out to be an entire warehouse full of ordnance and weaponry.
The whole tour was like that: productive. When we first got there, we’d get incoming rocket or mortar attacks ten to fifteen times a day. We took care of that immediately. As soon as we’d get hit, we’d fire back with superior firepower. I’m sure they were thinking, “What? That’s not supposed to happen. The last guys didn’t do that.” Well, we did, and it worked well.
Before long, we’d killed most of the teams firing on us, and we went a full five days without a single attack. If I had to guess, they had to recruit entirely new teams – and find them new guns to use. Then they started changing their tactics.
They knew that artillery can’t fire on close range targets, so they’d either lob one round and run, or they’d move closer to the base where they thought we couldn’t hit them. Well, WE couldn’t hit them, but our own mortars could – and did. Those insurgents were taken out quickly, too. Long story short, we took care of the problem, and the whole area has been pretty quiet since.
That was two years ago, though, and Iraq is much different now. We still keep a “hot gun” ready all the time, but there really aren’t any more targets. Between us and the other indirect fire units, the insurgents don’t have a prayer. They’ve either been killed or they’ve given up. Either way, they don’t pose a threat anymore.
We may not have left the base as much as infantry guys did, but when they needed us, we were there, and we took care of them. The funniest part is that in the states, not a week went by when one of our guys didn’t get in a fight with one of the infantry guys. But none of that happened here. We put aside all the squabbling and we got the job done – and we got it done well. We saved the fighting for when we got back home. Out here, we’re on the same team.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
There were a few areas in our AO [area of operations] where the insurgents would emplace IEDs repeatedly, so the command set up cameras wired to sensors that activated when somebody started digging. When they did, the imagery was relayed back to base in real time. It was almost comical.
We’d see an image of a guy with a shovel in his hand, breaking ground. Then in the next shot he’d be digging. Then he’d be throwing the dirt. Usually the next photo would be of him looking around, like he’d heard something. Then he’d go back to digging for a couple of frames. Next shot: a huge cloud of dust and smoke. We’d dropped artillery on him.
Our artillery battery was always on standby for those missions. As soon as an insurgent started digging in an IED, the command would relay us the coordinates, and we’d fire a volley of HE [high explosive] rounds on top of him. Best of all, it worked. No more IEDs there. And they had to find new people to replace the ones we blew up.
The whole tour was pretty amazing, actually. When we got there, the arty unit we replaced told us they hardly ever fired any missions. It was pretty quiet. We could expect to just hang out, sleep a lot, and work a little. It sounded good, but it wasn’t true. The very first day we were on that gun line, we fired more than 200 HE rounds for call for fire missions. That isn’t “terrain denial,” but real targets. In fact, we fired so many rounds that we had to put bags of ice on our computers to keep them from overheating. We stayed busy.
As soon as we got on the gun line early one morning, we sustained a direct rocket attack on the guns. Thankfully, the rockets all hit the barriers directly in front of us, but it was obvious that we were the targets. Moments later, we fired a counter battery back at them, which we figured would put a stop to it. But amazingly, it didn’t; they fired again, so we unleashed hell on them and then everything went quiet. I’m pretty sure we got them that time. And that was just the beginning.
Later that day, an infantry company in the city was trying to approach a suspected weapons cache, but every time they moved in, they’d get repulsed by heavy insurgent fire. So, they called us for help. They gave us the coordinates, backed up, and waited for us to do our thing. We did a full fire for effect.
For about six minutes, one high explosive round hit that place every three seconds. There was no way anything there could survive the barrage. Five minutes after we fired our last volley, the infantry moved in, and everything was silent. And sure enough, they found the cache, which actually turned out to be an entire warehouse full of ordnance and weaponry.
The whole tour was like that: productive. When we first got there, we’d get incoming rocket or mortar attacks ten to fifteen times a day. We took care of that immediately. As soon as we’d get hit, we’d fire back with superior firepower. I’m sure they were thinking, “What? That’s not supposed to happen. The last guys didn’t do that.” Well, we did, and it worked well.
Before long, we’d killed most of the teams firing on us, and we went a full five days without a single attack. If I had to guess, they had to recruit entirely new teams – and find them new guns to use. Then they started changing their tactics.
They knew that artillery can’t fire on close range targets, so they’d either lob one round and run, or they’d move closer to the base where they thought we couldn’t hit them. Well, WE couldn’t hit them, but our own mortars could – and did. Those insurgents were taken out quickly, too. Long story short, we took care of the problem, and the whole area has been pretty quiet since.
That was two years ago, though, and Iraq is much different now. We still keep a “hot gun” ready all the time, but there really aren’t any more targets. Between us and the other indirect fire units, the insurgents don’t have a prayer. They’ve either been killed or they’ve given up. Either way, they don’t pose a threat anymore.
We may not have left the base as much as infantry guys did, but when they needed us, we were there, and we took care of them. The funniest part is that in the states, not a week went by when one of our guys didn’t get in a fight with one of the infantry guys. But none of that happened here. We put aside all the squabbling and we got the job done – and we got it done well. We saved the fighting for when we got back home. Out here, we’re on the same team.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Sunday, July 12, 2009
To Be Elsewhere
*Retold with permission
I’ve spent four birthdays and three Christmases over here so far and I imagine I’ll spend a few more here, too. Since I enlisted in 2003, we’ve been deployed every other year, except for the year they extended us and we stayed out here 16 months. But again, we did a year back, and then left again. You could say that I’ve spent most of my twenties at war. The rest of my twenties I wasn’t here, but I was in the Army.
Iraq changes every time I come here. It used to be absolutely awful, but it’s a little better now – at least in terms of the risks. I’m not with a very good unit this time, though. They don’t take care of their own like they should. I picked up sergeant maybe three years into the Army, but after that everything stalled. I’ve been eligible for E-6 for a long time, but for reasons nobody has ever explained, I’ve never been promoted. They’re supposed to give you annual counseling to tell us our promotion schedule, but they don’t give them to me here. My old unit cared, but this one really doesn’t. I know the company first sergeants hates me personally.
When that first sergeant released the soldiers for R&R, he’d make them wait for a convoy to take them to the airbase, which sometimes took days. But when he went, he made us drive him down there in our own convoy so he wouldn’t have to wait at all. And now he’s not even coming back. He only did six months over here.
When I finally went home on R&R, rather than relax a little, I spent almost half my leave trying to get treatment for injuries I’ve sustained over here in Iraq. They could have done it here, but that would have caused them to reschedule my R&R. Thing is, I was going back to Germany so I could spend my fiancé’s birthday with her (and propose to her).
I was able to get some of the treatment I needed in Germany, but there was one more undiagnosed problem that the doctors wanted more time to observe and examine. But when they asked, the command flat out refused to give me any convalescent leave, even though the request came from medical professionals. No, they wanted me back immediately. I guess it was really important to them that I hurry back here to sit behind a desk all day. So, I came back with stitches still in my hand and only halfway fixed. Now they’ve placed me on light duty until my shoulder injury heals.
I proposed to my fiancé while I was on R&R, but that’s turning out to be a huge disaster. Not the engagement at all, but getting her to the United States. See, I wasn’t supposed to go on this deployment at all, and I've been planning my future with my fiancé. I had orders for recruiting duty back in the states, which meant at least three years without deploying. One night, however, I was pulled over in Germany and accused of drunk driving. But when they tested me, I was far below the legal limit to drive, and the charges were dropped. That’s when the company first sergeant started hating me. He couldn't cancel my orders to recruiting duty, but he did call up the chain and tell them to send me to the worse possible recruiting station they could find. They selected White Sands, New Mexico. I asked if I could extend to stay with the unit in Germany, but they said no. My reasons weren’t good enough.
Well, at some point, they just decided to make me deploy with this unit anyway, to hell with my orders (even though they don’t really need me out here). So this is where the problem arises with my fiancé. I was going to move back to the states with her. But with those recruiting orders nixed, she’s stuck in limbo in Germany, and until we’re actually married, she won’t get command sponsored. And since I don’t have orders anymore, she can’t go stateside. She’s going to be stuck in Germany. At this point, I have no idea when we’ll get married, when she’ll get command sponsorship, or even when we’ll be able to live together. Do they expect her to wait around forever while they try to figure out what to do with me?
I actually have PTSD pretty badly, but until recently I didn’t tell anybody. I was afraid they’d pass me over for promotion and maybe even send me to see the shrinks. They might talk about an open door policy in the Army, but here, any problem like that will make them conclude you’re unfit for leadership and then you never get promoted. It’s not like I’m making up the PTSD, either. There are lots of reasons for it, and they’re real.
During the first tour, I remember we set up a VCP [vehicle checkpoint] just how they told us to, and then we’d search all the cars coming through. Well, an E-7 with us walked up to the driver of one car and when he asked them to step out, they shot him in the face, point blank. We were so surprised at what happened, we didn’t even shoot back at the car until it had sped through the checkpoint. They got away, too.
Another time, we got called out to help recover a Bradley that’d been hit by an IED. The unit was still engaged in a firefight, but they needed that Bradley moved, and the soldier inside needed to be evacuated fast. When the IED went off, it had blown off the guy’s arm completely.
When we pulled up, we bandaged him up, found his arm and put it on ice, and then started dragging the Bradley out of the kill zone. While we were doing this, EOD [explosive ordnance disposal] comes rolling up in their special IED sweeping vehicles, and then we realized that the area wasn’t even cleared yet. There could be more IEDs. Sure enough, right as the Cougar got a little distance in front of us, another IED went off. That blast was the fiercest explosion I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve seen many.
I was in the turret at the time, so when the shock wave hit me, I was pushed backwards until I was looking up into the sky. There, overhead, I saw the torso of the EOD guy flying over me like a ragdoll. I have no idea where his legs went.
Another time, we were manning a checkpoint and when a car pulled up, we ordered the driver to get out, but he refused. As two of my buddies approached it to pull him out, he detonated the car. There wasn’t much to pick up of those two. The young guys talk about how much they want to gear up and go outside the wire, and I keep telling them that they don’t. It’s safer if you don’t. I’ve had enough of war.
I have a hard time sleeping now. I hear voices or have nightmares, and sometimes I just lay awake for hours and can’t fall asleep. Those are the worst times, too, because all you do is think too much. Like a hundred thoughts at once, which is completely overwhelming.
I tried to kill myself four days ago because it got so bad. Between this command, the PTSD, thinking too much about things and not being able to sleep, I was losing it. I couldn’t take it anymore. See that guy over there? He’s my escort. They’re making him follow me everywhere, and they took away my rifle, too. I’m a little better now, I guess. I wasn’t really myself that morning. And if I’d really wanted to kill myself, I guess I still could.
They’re still not sending me home, though. We’re on the way back to the unit right now, and I imagine they’re either going to give me an Article 15 or court-martial me. At this point, I really don’t even care. They can go ahead and kick me out if they feel like it; I just want to go home. I don’t think there’s any other way they’re going to let me out, and I still have almost three years left on my contract.
I’d like a reason to be hopeful, but that’s only going to come if I see changes. Right now though, not a damn thing is happening. As soon as we touchdown on base, they’re putting me right back to work.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
I’ve spent four birthdays and three Christmases over here so far and I imagine I’ll spend a few more here, too. Since I enlisted in 2003, we’ve been deployed every other year, except for the year they extended us and we stayed out here 16 months. But again, we did a year back, and then left again. You could say that I’ve spent most of my twenties at war. The rest of my twenties I wasn’t here, but I was in the Army.
Iraq changes every time I come here. It used to be absolutely awful, but it’s a little better now – at least in terms of the risks. I’m not with a very good unit this time, though. They don’t take care of their own like they should. I picked up sergeant maybe three years into the Army, but after that everything stalled. I’ve been eligible for E-6 for a long time, but for reasons nobody has ever explained, I’ve never been promoted. They’re supposed to give you annual counseling to tell us our promotion schedule, but they don’t give them to me here. My old unit cared, but this one really doesn’t. I know the company first sergeants hates me personally.
When that first sergeant released the soldiers for R&R, he’d make them wait for a convoy to take them to the airbase, which sometimes took days. But when he went, he made us drive him down there in our own convoy so he wouldn’t have to wait at all. And now he’s not even coming back. He only did six months over here.
When I finally went home on R&R, rather than relax a little, I spent almost half my leave trying to get treatment for injuries I’ve sustained over here in Iraq. They could have done it here, but that would have caused them to reschedule my R&R. Thing is, I was going back to Germany so I could spend my fiancé’s birthday with her (and propose to her).
I was able to get some of the treatment I needed in Germany, but there was one more undiagnosed problem that the doctors wanted more time to observe and examine. But when they asked, the command flat out refused to give me any convalescent leave, even though the request came from medical professionals. No, they wanted me back immediately. I guess it was really important to them that I hurry back here to sit behind a desk all day. So, I came back with stitches still in my hand and only halfway fixed. Now they’ve placed me on light duty until my shoulder injury heals.
I proposed to my fiancé while I was on R&R, but that’s turning out to be a huge disaster. Not the engagement at all, but getting her to the United States. See, I wasn’t supposed to go on this deployment at all, and I've been planning my future with my fiancé. I had orders for recruiting duty back in the states, which meant at least three years without deploying. One night, however, I was pulled over in Germany and accused of drunk driving. But when they tested me, I was far below the legal limit to drive, and the charges were dropped. That’s when the company first sergeant started hating me. He couldn't cancel my orders to recruiting duty, but he did call up the chain and tell them to send me to the worse possible recruiting station they could find. They selected White Sands, New Mexico. I asked if I could extend to stay with the unit in Germany, but they said no. My reasons weren’t good enough.
Well, at some point, they just decided to make me deploy with this unit anyway, to hell with my orders (even though they don’t really need me out here). So this is where the problem arises with my fiancé. I was going to move back to the states with her. But with those recruiting orders nixed, she’s stuck in limbo in Germany, and until we’re actually married, she won’t get command sponsored. And since I don’t have orders anymore, she can’t go stateside. She’s going to be stuck in Germany. At this point, I have no idea when we’ll get married, when she’ll get command sponsorship, or even when we’ll be able to live together. Do they expect her to wait around forever while they try to figure out what to do with me?
I actually have PTSD pretty badly, but until recently I didn’t tell anybody. I was afraid they’d pass me over for promotion and maybe even send me to see the shrinks. They might talk about an open door policy in the Army, but here, any problem like that will make them conclude you’re unfit for leadership and then you never get promoted. It’s not like I’m making up the PTSD, either. There are lots of reasons for it, and they’re real.
During the first tour, I remember we set up a VCP [vehicle checkpoint] just how they told us to, and then we’d search all the cars coming through. Well, an E-7 with us walked up to the driver of one car and when he asked them to step out, they shot him in the face, point blank. We were so surprised at what happened, we didn’t even shoot back at the car until it had sped through the checkpoint. They got away, too.
Another time, we got called out to help recover a Bradley that’d been hit by an IED. The unit was still engaged in a firefight, but they needed that Bradley moved, and the soldier inside needed to be evacuated fast. When the IED went off, it had blown off the guy’s arm completely.
When we pulled up, we bandaged him up, found his arm and put it on ice, and then started dragging the Bradley out of the kill zone. While we were doing this, EOD [explosive ordnance disposal] comes rolling up in their special IED sweeping vehicles, and then we realized that the area wasn’t even cleared yet. There could be more IEDs. Sure enough, right as the Cougar got a little distance in front of us, another IED went off. That blast was the fiercest explosion I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve seen many.
I was in the turret at the time, so when the shock wave hit me, I was pushed backwards until I was looking up into the sky. There, overhead, I saw the torso of the EOD guy flying over me like a ragdoll. I have no idea where his legs went.
Another time, we were manning a checkpoint and when a car pulled up, we ordered the driver to get out, but he refused. As two of my buddies approached it to pull him out, he detonated the car. There wasn’t much to pick up of those two. The young guys talk about how much they want to gear up and go outside the wire, and I keep telling them that they don’t. It’s safer if you don’t. I’ve had enough of war.
I have a hard time sleeping now. I hear voices or have nightmares, and sometimes I just lay awake for hours and can’t fall asleep. Those are the worst times, too, because all you do is think too much. Like a hundred thoughts at once, which is completely overwhelming.
I tried to kill myself four days ago because it got so bad. Between this command, the PTSD, thinking too much about things and not being able to sleep, I was losing it. I couldn’t take it anymore. See that guy over there? He’s my escort. They’re making him follow me everywhere, and they took away my rifle, too. I’m a little better now, I guess. I wasn’t really myself that morning. And if I’d really wanted to kill myself, I guess I still could.
They’re still not sending me home, though. We’re on the way back to the unit right now, and I imagine they’re either going to give me an Article 15 or court-martial me. At this point, I really don’t even care. They can go ahead and kick me out if they feel like it; I just want to go home. I don’t think there’s any other way they’re going to let me out, and I still have almost three years left on my contract.
I’d like a reason to be hopeful, but that’s only going to come if I see changes. Right now though, not a damn thing is happening. As soon as we touchdown on base, they’re putting me right back to work.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Friday, July 10, 2009
For Lesser Reasons
I was in Guard MOS [military occupational specialty] training when my mom called me one night, crying. When I asked what was going on, she told me that they’d just lost the house, and they were getting evicted in a matter of days. I had no idea there were any problems.
Even though the economy was faltering, my dad’s construction business’ profit margin was at its best only three months before the bank foreclosed on our house. For some reason, the economy was taking a little longer to catch up with us down there. But then the bottom completely fell out, leaving him, my mother, and my siblings without anywhere to live.
As mom cried on the phone, I asked her where they were going to live now, but she told me she had no idea. I told her I’d see what I could do.
I called around to a few Guard stations in the state, asking them all if there was a unit deploying to Iraq anytime soon. One, a military police unit, said they were. Well, then send me to MP school, I told them. I was volunteering for the tour.
I started checking real estate listings back home, and before long I found a decent, three bedroom house sitting on a fairly large piece of land. With a little work, I bought it, and now there are seven people living in it – all my family.
And that’s actually why I’m over here in Iraq. I volunteered for it because I needed a deployment to help pay for the house. I don’t think it’s a bad reason at all, but not as “good looking” as God, country and patriotism or something. But I have to do this. I may be only twenty years old right now, but I need to take care of my family.
I know a lot of people get over here and complain about how the Army is screwing them over or how morale is really bad, but I can’t complain. I needed this deployment. If it wasn’t for the war, the Army, and this tour, my entire family would be living on the streets right now. There’s just no way to make any money in my hometown. So, I’m thankful. Not exactly for the war, but for the opportunity to help out my family.
People have asked me if I’m going to make a career out of this, but I’m not going to. I’ve loved the time I’ve spent in, I’ve loved that this has helped my family, and I really love the Army, too. I’m proud as hell for serving. Everybody is, even if they get out. And that’s what I intend to do, for a lot of reasons.
Even though I volunteered for this, it takes a toll on you. I’m weary. I miss my family. I miss home. I’ve met somebody too, and it’s tough to maintain a relationship with her when I’m deployed all the time. But more than anything, I have a bigger dream. I want to do what dad did. He got married at 18 to his highschool sweetheart, bought a house, and started raising a family. They’re still married, too. That’s all I want do, and I really can’t if I’m deployed all the time. One of my buddies broke down the other day, and I asked him what was up. He told me it’s hard to watch his little girl grow up on a computer screen. So, I’ll be getting out. I want to find a wife, raise a family and then work to support them. That’s the American dream to me, and what I’m doing here is just helping to get me there.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Even though the economy was faltering, my dad’s construction business’ profit margin was at its best only three months before the bank foreclosed on our house. For some reason, the economy was taking a little longer to catch up with us down there. But then the bottom completely fell out, leaving him, my mother, and my siblings without anywhere to live.
As mom cried on the phone, I asked her where they were going to live now, but she told me she had no idea. I told her I’d see what I could do.
I called around to a few Guard stations in the state, asking them all if there was a unit deploying to Iraq anytime soon. One, a military police unit, said they were. Well, then send me to MP school, I told them. I was volunteering for the tour.
I started checking real estate listings back home, and before long I found a decent, three bedroom house sitting on a fairly large piece of land. With a little work, I bought it, and now there are seven people living in it – all my family.
And that’s actually why I’m over here in Iraq. I volunteered for it because I needed a deployment to help pay for the house. I don’t think it’s a bad reason at all, but not as “good looking” as God, country and patriotism or something. But I have to do this. I may be only twenty years old right now, but I need to take care of my family.
I know a lot of people get over here and complain about how the Army is screwing them over or how morale is really bad, but I can’t complain. I needed this deployment. If it wasn’t for the war, the Army, and this tour, my entire family would be living on the streets right now. There’s just no way to make any money in my hometown. So, I’m thankful. Not exactly for the war, but for the opportunity to help out my family.
People have asked me if I’m going to make a career out of this, but I’m not going to. I’ve loved the time I’ve spent in, I’ve loved that this has helped my family, and I really love the Army, too. I’m proud as hell for serving. Everybody is, even if they get out. And that’s what I intend to do, for a lot of reasons.
Even though I volunteered for this, it takes a toll on you. I’m weary. I miss my family. I miss home. I’ve met somebody too, and it’s tough to maintain a relationship with her when I’m deployed all the time. But more than anything, I have a bigger dream. I want to do what dad did. He got married at 18 to his highschool sweetheart, bought a house, and started raising a family. They’re still married, too. That’s all I want do, and I really can’t if I’m deployed all the time. One of my buddies broke down the other day, and I asked him what was up. He told me it’s hard to watch his little girl grow up on a computer screen. So, I’ll be getting out. I want to find a wife, raise a family and then work to support them. That’s the American dream to me, and what I’m doing here is just helping to get me there.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Monday, July 6, 2009
Smaller Victories
*Retold with permission
As for me, I have broken time, and a lot of years in between. I was a Marine grunt [infantryman] in the late 70s, but then I earned a college degree and came back as an officer. All told, I did eight years: four as a grunt, and four as a lieutenant. After that, I got out.
I was supposed to be at the barracks in Beirut when they were bombed, but there was a last-minute roster change and my best friend went instead, and he was killed. While most Americans may have forgotten about Beirut, I haven’t. I can’t. There were real people over there, and many of them were close friends. All my ghosts have names, and they still haunt me.
After I got out, I found myself doing acting for a time. Although it was certainly fun, it isn’t a steady enough paycheck when you’re married, so I also spent time as a school teacher, ran my own business, and did few other jobs as well.
In the first few days of September, 2001, my son was born, and I remember thinking then that this was the reason I’d been “spared” from Beirut. I was destined to be a father. And then 9-11 happened.
I had considered going into the Army earlier that year, but they’d told me I was too old to be a lieutenant, thought that wasn’t true. They were just too lazy to do all the paperwork that showed I was qualified. And after September 11th, everything changed. I told my wife that I needed to do my part for my country. I could serve, or I could go outside, rip the flag pole from the front lawn, and in a few years tell my son that I was a coward and didn’t want to go. I had to put my money where my mouth was; so I went back to the recruiters.
I was too old to be a lieutenant, they said again, but they’d take me as a sergeant. I didn’t particularly care at that point; I just needed to be in. So, after serving as a Marine Corps officer, I joined the Army nearly 17 years later as a sergeant. My service, I believe, was more important than the rank at which I was serving. Americans think that this is a 19-year olds’ war, but it’s not. There are a bunch of us old guys out here, and the funniest thing is that I’m still keeping up with them. They should be embarrassed. I turned fifty on this deployment.
Victory, to me, is an elusive term. Everybody defines it differently, and it’s easy to get caught up in the complication of big picture at the expense of the immediate. I’m not here to win the war; I’m here to serve my country. None of us can control the course of the war, so I can’t concern myself with it. But, I can certainly do my part to advocate my soldiers.
I’ll go home here soon with more than one victory. In a general sense, I know that the world is a better place without that dictator in power here. That’s obvious to me. But it’s the small scale triumphs hold greater value to me. I’ll go home to my wife and my son, in one piece and alive. I’ve done my part, and my son won’t have to spend his life wondering why his father didn’t serve his country. Nor will I feel I’ve stood idly by while my country went to war.
God willing, we’ll reach the end of this tour and I’ll take home the same 130 soldiers I deployed with several months ago. That will be victory enough for me. I don’t have control over this, I know, but I do have some influence. I thank God we’ve come this far without any losses, and I pray we make it the rest of the way. We don’t have long now.
And you know what else I consider a victory? On July 4th, the US swore in 237 new citizens to this country. They represented more than 50 nations, served honorably in the United States military, and there, in Saddam’s Al Faw Palace ballroom, they became Americans. Some of those boys are my soldiers, and I’m proud of them. This is an enormous victory to me, and I’m going to go home smiling. Jo Biden was there, and I like what he said about it: “That S.O.B. is rolling over in his grave right now.” Good. The world’s better off without him.
And there’s actually one more victory, for me and for the US as a whole. Those kids on MTV aren’t the next generation of heroes in this country, so we needn’t be afraid. It’s the men and women over here. It’s my soldiers. It’s this country’s newest citizens. It’s the people who, rather than sitting at home and complaining about things and wanting rights they’re not willing to defend, took an oath and fought for a country they believed in. They’re the next generation of leaders in America, and they’re going to do great things. How do I know this? Well, they’re already doing great things here. These young men and woman still love their country, and they’re still willing to fight for it. And that is perhaps the greatest victory of all.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
As for me, I have broken time, and a lot of years in between. I was a Marine grunt [infantryman] in the late 70s, but then I earned a college degree and came back as an officer. All told, I did eight years: four as a grunt, and four as a lieutenant. After that, I got out.
I was supposed to be at the barracks in Beirut when they were bombed, but there was a last-minute roster change and my best friend went instead, and he was killed. While most Americans may have forgotten about Beirut, I haven’t. I can’t. There were real people over there, and many of them were close friends. All my ghosts have names, and they still haunt me.
After I got out, I found myself doing acting for a time. Although it was certainly fun, it isn’t a steady enough paycheck when you’re married, so I also spent time as a school teacher, ran my own business, and did few other jobs as well.
In the first few days of September, 2001, my son was born, and I remember thinking then that this was the reason I’d been “spared” from Beirut. I was destined to be a father. And then 9-11 happened.
I had considered going into the Army earlier that year, but they’d told me I was too old to be a lieutenant, thought that wasn’t true. They were just too lazy to do all the paperwork that showed I was qualified. And after September 11th, everything changed. I told my wife that I needed to do my part for my country. I could serve, or I could go outside, rip the flag pole from the front lawn, and in a few years tell my son that I was a coward and didn’t want to go. I had to put my money where my mouth was; so I went back to the recruiters.
I was too old to be a lieutenant, they said again, but they’d take me as a sergeant. I didn’t particularly care at that point; I just needed to be in. So, after serving as a Marine Corps officer, I joined the Army nearly 17 years later as a sergeant. My service, I believe, was more important than the rank at which I was serving. Americans think that this is a 19-year olds’ war, but it’s not. There are a bunch of us old guys out here, and the funniest thing is that I’m still keeping up with them. They should be embarrassed. I turned fifty on this deployment.
Victory, to me, is an elusive term. Everybody defines it differently, and it’s easy to get caught up in the complication of big picture at the expense of the immediate. I’m not here to win the war; I’m here to serve my country. None of us can control the course of the war, so I can’t concern myself with it. But, I can certainly do my part to advocate my soldiers.
I’ll go home here soon with more than one victory. In a general sense, I know that the world is a better place without that dictator in power here. That’s obvious to me. But it’s the small scale triumphs hold greater value to me. I’ll go home to my wife and my son, in one piece and alive. I’ve done my part, and my son won’t have to spend his life wondering why his father didn’t serve his country. Nor will I feel I’ve stood idly by while my country went to war.
God willing, we’ll reach the end of this tour and I’ll take home the same 130 soldiers I deployed with several months ago. That will be victory enough for me. I don’t have control over this, I know, but I do have some influence. I thank God we’ve come this far without any losses, and I pray we make it the rest of the way. We don’t have long now.
And you know what else I consider a victory? On July 4th, the US swore in 237 new citizens to this country. They represented more than 50 nations, served honorably in the United States military, and there, in Saddam’s Al Faw Palace ballroom, they became Americans. Some of those boys are my soldiers, and I’m proud of them. This is an enormous victory to me, and I’m going to go home smiling. Jo Biden was there, and I like what he said about it: “That S.O.B. is rolling over in his grave right now.” Good. The world’s better off without him.
And there’s actually one more victory, for me and for the US as a whole. Those kids on MTV aren’t the next generation of heroes in this country, so we needn’t be afraid. It’s the men and women over here. It’s my soldiers. It’s this country’s newest citizens. It’s the people who, rather than sitting at home and complaining about things and wanting rights they’re not willing to defend, took an oath and fought for a country they believed in. They’re the next generation of leaders in America, and they’re going to do great things. How do I know this? Well, they’re already doing great things here. These young men and woman still love their country, and they’re still willing to fight for it. And that is perhaps the greatest victory of all.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Confinement
*Retold with permission
I’ve never been able to figure out the VA. Ever. Sometimes I get the impression that they’re more concerned with saving money than anything else, but then I talk to a few more of their people and I conclude they genuinely don’t care about anybody at all. I guess it depends on who you ask. I know a few people have had good experiences with the VA, but I’m not one of them. They’ve done little more than multiply my stress.
When I was medically discharged for my gunshot and shrapnel wounds, I spent the bulk of my time just rehabilitating. I could hardly move my arm at first, but with a lot of rehab, just as many painkillers, and a refusal to be totally dependent on others, I can use it a little here and there. Between those injuries, the PTSD, and the panic attacks, I had my hands full. But in time, I moved forward. I was doing much better, my medications were just about perfect, and I was looking forward to going back to finish college. All I had to do was fill out all the VA education paperwork and I’d be sitting in classes again. It would be a new chapter for me, no doubt hard work, but I was ready. Everything was under wraps.
There’s always a “but,” though. In this case, I had to sit down with a VA case manager and tell him precisely my intentions, why I felt I was ready, and what I intended to study. All this just to get cleared for GI Bill benefits. I’ve never heard of anybody having this much trouble with it before. During that meeting, the VA guy asks, “it says here on your record that you went to the doctor two weeks ago. What was her name?”
How the heck was I suppose to know that? I’ve seen doctors for PTSD, for evaluations, for gunshot wounds, rehabilitation, follow-ups, you name it. I remembered that particular doctor’s face and I could tell you exactly what she looked like, but her name? No way. Sorry, I told him. I can’t remember.
“Well, if you can’t even remember your doctor’s name from an appointment two weeks ago, I don’t think you’re recovered sufficiently to be in school. You’re not ready yet.”
Most frustrating, however, was this: the man wasn’t a medical professional, and nor was he acting on the recommendation of some doctor. No, he was just making his own evaluation, and determining that I was unfit to study anything.
I wrote my congressman about it, and he actually sent a letter to the VA, but the VA responded simply by saying that their mental health professionals had deemed me psychologically unsound for college. I contacted several other veteran service organizations, but of all of them, only one followed through, and that was the VFW. I’ve met with their representative and given him all the information about my situation, but he hasn’t done anything about it. And that was all last year. Nobody really seems to care. Never mind that I went through a multi-week recruiting school last year and graduated at the top of my class. They weren’t impressed with the certificate. This, more than anything, has arrested my recovery. Going to school has been what I’ve wanted to do. This is the very thing that’s helping me improve – moving forward with my life and putting the past behind me. Yet, it’s the very thing they’re forbidding me to do.
But there’s more to the story, actually. Much more. Between the frustration of being denied my own GI Bill benefits on account being psychologically “unsound,” being laid off from my job, and more recently wading through mountains of VA paperwork to continue the appeal process, my stress has gone back up. In fact, in May it began to worsen such that my anti-anxiety medication wasn’t working anymore. I was starting to get panic attacks again, so I called the VA one evening to see if they could offer some advice on how to adjust my dosage or prescription.
It was after hours when I called, so they suggested that I go to the local civilian emergency room, tell them my situation, and they’d give me a provisional prescription until the VA was able to schedule an appointment to see me. It sounded fairly simple, so my wife and I drove down to the local ER and waited to be seen.
As usual, they wanted to know my case history, so I went through all the questions about my symptoms, the anxiety, and so on. Then they wanted to know the source of it, which I guess is reasonable. So, I told them. I was a veteran, I was severely wounded in Iraq, stabilized, and returned to the states for medical discharge. I’ve had PTSD and anxiety from my whole experience. I told them the truth.
Next thing you know, they switch gears and give me the whole PTSD questionnaire. Do you have a desire hurt yourself? Do you want to hurt others? The answers to both those was no. Then they asked me the same questions in the past tense: have I, at some point in the past, wanted to hurt others. Well, yes. I was an infantryman. It was my job to kill. I did it in Iraq because I had to, and I never want to do it again. It’s a dark chamber of my heart I have no desire to revisit. That answer freaked them out, though, and they announced they needed to keep me there for further evaluation. It only worsened my anxiety. They were basically holding me captive.
I explained that I was due to take my pain medication and they gave me something, but all it did was severely impair my mental processes. It didn’t really help anything. I was still trapped, so I called the cops and explained my situation. I was being held against my will. I had to go to work the next morning. If I didn’t, I could very well lose my job.
To their credit, the police dispatched two officers who attempted to reason with the hospital staff and get them to reconsider my responses to their questionnaire, but they wouldn’t budge. Their decision was final, so the officers left, leaving just me and my wife in the observation room. My anxiety, coupled with the sensation that I was now totally out of control of my situation, brought on a full panic attack. I was never violent or aggressive. I was direct and assertive, but I was also polite. It didn’t matter. They rushed in some orderlies and injected me with a sedative. After that, my memory is fuzzy. I was too doped to remember anything clearly besides an ambulance to a mental institution.
I remember signing some paperwork and being checked in. I remember hiding my cell phone. I remember them taking my belt, my shoe laces, and any article of clothing with an elastic waistband. I remember being put in a common area full of people who looked like they really NEEDED to be there. At some point, I vaguely remember considering taking out a staffer and trying to escape. Then I dismissed the idea because I’d be labeled a criminal, and that’s one thing I wasn’t. Instead, I just tried the doors.
The staff viewed this as a threat, so they shot me with another sedative and that was the last thing I remember. I woke up about eight hours later in confinement. I was also covered in bruises. Later, they told me I’d acted threatening, whatever that means. I don’t know how I’d get bruises from acting threatening.
I asked them for my pain medication, since it was the only thing keeping my nerve pain in check, but somehow they viewed that as another “threatening gesture” and shot me with sedatives. Again, hours later I awoke in solitary. I also had more bruises. Eventually they found my cell phone and took it from me.
In total, I spent three days locked in that place. I never was allowed to shave, or even take a shower. I was sedated so often that I only ate two meals. When I weighed myself later, I’d lost between five and ten pounds. When I was finally permitted to check out, they told me, “sir, that’ll be a $20 co-pay for your stay.” Unbelievable. They were going to charge me for my own incarceration. The total bill was actually about $1,900. You know who ate that one? The taxpayers. It was a total waste.
I remember when we were guarding some insurgents in Iraq one time. Some of them were injured because they attacked the base and were shot and captured. They’d be in their cells, and they’d ask for something, like Jell-o. We’d go and get it for them. They’d ask for pain medication, so we’d go get that, too. They never heard no. We fed them, protected them, and more or less attended to their every want and desire. When I think about it, they received better care than I did in the states, and those terrorists were the very people I’d taken an oath to fight.
I come from a long line of infantrymen. My great grandfather served in World War I, and my grandfather was in World War II. I had great uncles in Korea, and then my dad was too young to serve in Vietnam. I’ve grown up respecting these men, and I’ve always been impressed with how everybody else respected them, too. They laid aside their lives and fought for us; for this country. Never in a million years did I expect to be treated as I was. I was on the road to recovery once, but that’s since been derailed. I feel like I’m starting over again, right at the beginning. And this time, with the skepticism of the civilian medical community, the apathy of the VA medical staff, and misunderstanding from the public as a whole.
Whenever I go to a civilian doctor now and they see the scars on my arms and shoulder, I tell them it was from a horrible car accident. I don’t even tell them about Iraq, or the infantry, or even that I’m a veteran. If they hear the word “veteran” and “PTSD” come out of my mouth, they’ll panic, and I might be confined again. I’ll sooner die before I go back to that place. If I have a heart attack, I’ll just collapse. I’m not calling 911. I can’t go through that again.
I’ve been shot straight through my body, blown up, hit with shrapnel, and nearly died from injuries. But none of those wounds hurt as much as being treated like I have been here in the US. None of them. So now, I just don’t talk about it with anybody. They’ll just presume I’m a criminal and a killer. When I look at a veteran, I see somebody who takes an oath to his nation and does great things. When people here see a veteran, they either don’t care, or they’re overcome with fear. If I’d know I’d be treated like this, I’m not sure I would have ever joined. It hurts too much.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
www.byshaw.com
www.byshaw.com/blog
I’ve never been able to figure out the VA. Ever. Sometimes I get the impression that they’re more concerned with saving money than anything else, but then I talk to a few more of their people and I conclude they genuinely don’t care about anybody at all. I guess it depends on who you ask. I know a few people have had good experiences with the VA, but I’m not one of them. They’ve done little more than multiply my stress.
When I was medically discharged for my gunshot and shrapnel wounds, I spent the bulk of my time just rehabilitating. I could hardly move my arm at first, but with a lot of rehab, just as many painkillers, and a refusal to be totally dependent on others, I can use it a little here and there. Between those injuries, the PTSD, and the panic attacks, I had my hands full. But in time, I moved forward. I was doing much better, my medications were just about perfect, and I was looking forward to going back to finish college. All I had to do was fill out all the VA education paperwork and I’d be sitting in classes again. It would be a new chapter for me, no doubt hard work, but I was ready. Everything was under wraps.
There’s always a “but,” though. In this case, I had to sit down with a VA case manager and tell him precisely my intentions, why I felt I was ready, and what I intended to study. All this just to get cleared for GI Bill benefits. I’ve never heard of anybody having this much trouble with it before. During that meeting, the VA guy asks, “it says here on your record that you went to the doctor two weeks ago. What was her name?”
How the heck was I suppose to know that? I’ve seen doctors for PTSD, for evaluations, for gunshot wounds, rehabilitation, follow-ups, you name it. I remembered that particular doctor’s face and I could tell you exactly what she looked like, but her name? No way. Sorry, I told him. I can’t remember.
“Well, if you can’t even remember your doctor’s name from an appointment two weeks ago, I don’t think you’re recovered sufficiently to be in school. You’re not ready yet.”
Most frustrating, however, was this: the man wasn’t a medical professional, and nor was he acting on the recommendation of some doctor. No, he was just making his own evaluation, and determining that I was unfit to study anything.
I wrote my congressman about it, and he actually sent a letter to the VA, but the VA responded simply by saying that their mental health professionals had deemed me psychologically unsound for college. I contacted several other veteran service organizations, but of all of them, only one followed through, and that was the VFW. I’ve met with their representative and given him all the information about my situation, but he hasn’t done anything about it. And that was all last year. Nobody really seems to care. Never mind that I went through a multi-week recruiting school last year and graduated at the top of my class. They weren’t impressed with the certificate. This, more than anything, has arrested my recovery. Going to school has been what I’ve wanted to do. This is the very thing that’s helping me improve – moving forward with my life and putting the past behind me. Yet, it’s the very thing they’re forbidding me to do.
But there’s more to the story, actually. Much more. Between the frustration of being denied my own GI Bill benefits on account being psychologically “unsound,” being laid off from my job, and more recently wading through mountains of VA paperwork to continue the appeal process, my stress has gone back up. In fact, in May it began to worsen such that my anti-anxiety medication wasn’t working anymore. I was starting to get panic attacks again, so I called the VA one evening to see if they could offer some advice on how to adjust my dosage or prescription.
It was after hours when I called, so they suggested that I go to the local civilian emergency room, tell them my situation, and they’d give me a provisional prescription until the VA was able to schedule an appointment to see me. It sounded fairly simple, so my wife and I drove down to the local ER and waited to be seen.
As usual, they wanted to know my case history, so I went through all the questions about my symptoms, the anxiety, and so on. Then they wanted to know the source of it, which I guess is reasonable. So, I told them. I was a veteran, I was severely wounded in Iraq, stabilized, and returned to the states for medical discharge. I’ve had PTSD and anxiety from my whole experience. I told them the truth.
Next thing you know, they switch gears and give me the whole PTSD questionnaire. Do you have a desire hurt yourself? Do you want to hurt others? The answers to both those was no. Then they asked me the same questions in the past tense: have I, at some point in the past, wanted to hurt others. Well, yes. I was an infantryman. It was my job to kill. I did it in Iraq because I had to, and I never want to do it again. It’s a dark chamber of my heart I have no desire to revisit. That answer freaked them out, though, and they announced they needed to keep me there for further evaluation. It only worsened my anxiety. They were basically holding me captive.
I explained that I was due to take my pain medication and they gave me something, but all it did was severely impair my mental processes. It didn’t really help anything. I was still trapped, so I called the cops and explained my situation. I was being held against my will. I had to go to work the next morning. If I didn’t, I could very well lose my job.
To their credit, the police dispatched two officers who attempted to reason with the hospital staff and get them to reconsider my responses to their questionnaire, but they wouldn’t budge. Their decision was final, so the officers left, leaving just me and my wife in the observation room. My anxiety, coupled with the sensation that I was now totally out of control of my situation, brought on a full panic attack. I was never violent or aggressive. I was direct and assertive, but I was also polite. It didn’t matter. They rushed in some orderlies and injected me with a sedative. After that, my memory is fuzzy. I was too doped to remember anything clearly besides an ambulance to a mental institution.
I remember signing some paperwork and being checked in. I remember hiding my cell phone. I remember them taking my belt, my shoe laces, and any article of clothing with an elastic waistband. I remember being put in a common area full of people who looked like they really NEEDED to be there. At some point, I vaguely remember considering taking out a staffer and trying to escape. Then I dismissed the idea because I’d be labeled a criminal, and that’s one thing I wasn’t. Instead, I just tried the doors.
The staff viewed this as a threat, so they shot me with another sedative and that was the last thing I remember. I woke up about eight hours later in confinement. I was also covered in bruises. Later, they told me I’d acted threatening, whatever that means. I don’t know how I’d get bruises from acting threatening.
I asked them for my pain medication, since it was the only thing keeping my nerve pain in check, but somehow they viewed that as another “threatening gesture” and shot me with sedatives. Again, hours later I awoke in solitary. I also had more bruises. Eventually they found my cell phone and took it from me.
In total, I spent three days locked in that place. I never was allowed to shave, or even take a shower. I was sedated so often that I only ate two meals. When I weighed myself later, I’d lost between five and ten pounds. When I was finally permitted to check out, they told me, “sir, that’ll be a $20 co-pay for your stay.” Unbelievable. They were going to charge me for my own incarceration. The total bill was actually about $1,900. You know who ate that one? The taxpayers. It was a total waste.
I remember when we were guarding some insurgents in Iraq one time. Some of them were injured because they attacked the base and were shot and captured. They’d be in their cells, and they’d ask for something, like Jell-o. We’d go and get it for them. They’d ask for pain medication, so we’d go get that, too. They never heard no. We fed them, protected them, and more or less attended to their every want and desire. When I think about it, they received better care than I did in the states, and those terrorists were the very people I’d taken an oath to fight.
I come from a long line of infantrymen. My great grandfather served in World War I, and my grandfather was in World War II. I had great uncles in Korea, and then my dad was too young to serve in Vietnam. I’ve grown up respecting these men, and I’ve always been impressed with how everybody else respected them, too. They laid aside their lives and fought for us; for this country. Never in a million years did I expect to be treated as I was. I was on the road to recovery once, but that’s since been derailed. I feel like I’m starting over again, right at the beginning. And this time, with the skepticism of the civilian medical community, the apathy of the VA medical staff, and misunderstanding from the public as a whole.
Whenever I go to a civilian doctor now and they see the scars on my arms and shoulder, I tell them it was from a horrible car accident. I don’t even tell them about Iraq, or the infantry, or even that I’m a veteran. If they hear the word “veteran” and “PTSD” come out of my mouth, they’ll panic, and I might be confined again. I’ll sooner die before I go back to that place. If I have a heart attack, I’ll just collapse. I’m not calling 911. I can’t go through that again.
I’ve been shot straight through my body, blown up, hit with shrapnel, and nearly died from injuries. But none of those wounds hurt as much as being treated like I have been here in the US. None of them. So now, I just don’t talk about it with anybody. They’ll just presume I’m a criminal and a killer. When I look at a veteran, I see somebody who takes an oath to his nation and does great things. When people here see a veteran, they either don’t care, or they’re overcome with fear. If I’d know I’d be treated like this, I’m not sure I would have ever joined. It hurts too much.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw, All Rights Reserved
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