Whenever there is threat of snowstorm, ice storm, tornadoes, hurricanes, or any of a number of weather anomalies, I have found that locals all rush to the grocery store and create riots on the bread and milk sections trying to stock up on essentials. I equate it with the same absurdity that a woman in labor will always send a gaggle of others away to boil water. I get the impression it’s just something that you do when there’s a baby being born. Boil water.
My Marine counterparts, however, always approached it from a different perspective. After enduring literally hours of briefs, emergency plans, and activating a small contingent of troops to stand by with humvees, weapons, and fresh water, everybody, as in the civilian world, flocks to the local grocery store or PX. But their purchases are not what one might consider to be appropriate to the threat of calamity. They buy all the beer and liquor they can find. A pre-hurricane civilian grocery store will have an empty bread aisle. A pre-hurricane PX will have a full bread aisle, and not a drop of beer.
Perhaps this is a function of youth – that no natural disaster will be sufficient to cause long-term problems or harm anybody, so it is best to “celebrate” the event by drinking. The only time I can recall seeing such behavior in the civilian world is after Hurricane Katrina: rednecks floating around on inflatable mattresses with a wide assortment of alcohol to help keep them entertained/warm/well fed. Sure.
The result of Marines buying alcohol during base shutdowns on account of potential weather anomalies is rather unfortunate. In the end, they only contribute to the problem – by creating near-riot conditions in the barracks.
During one such lockdown on base, as the weather worsened, the wind picked up and the rain fell harder, orders came down the line that we were forbidden to leave our rooms without wearing a helmet and ballistic goggles. While such a command is fairly intended to keep Marines from being struck with flying objects, it was quickly reduced to use as a crash helmet and hard hat to prevent beer bottles from knocking them flat.
Within a matter of hours, Marines were running around outside with their ponchos – using them as sails and parachutes, jumping from the higher decks, and letting the wind soften their fall. Others preferred to hunch down in large, Rubbermaid tubs and let their windsail/poncho drag them across the field – made all the more hilarious by their sporting a helmet and goggles.
A few couldn’t open their doors on account of the floor being so littered with beer bottles and cans. One room, if I recall correctly, consumed over four cases in a matter of 24 hours. Only two or three people typically occupy a room, by the way.
As the antics outside continued, so did the crowd of onlookers, eventually resulting in well over a hundred young, bored Marines in helmets and goggles lining the rails, cradling beer, and cheering on the idiots slipping around in the mud. Naturally, this egged them on even further, until a few were taking running swan dives into flooded sections of the field. Nobody was hurt, to my knowledge. Perhaps because they were all drunk.
Without fail, sensing that things were quickly devolving into an “incident,” the Officer of the Day (OOD), an armed, on-duty Staff NCO or officer, was summoned to send people back to their rooms and out of sight. Seeing the “enemy,” Marines began winging beer bottles at him and booing. In fear for his safety, he retreated – still armed, by the way. To my knowledge, he never ventured out again. He, and others, simply sent out a plea for base maintenance to QUICKLY restore power. Maybe they’d all go inside and watch TV or something.
That way was the first and last time I stated publicly that I was embarrassed to be a Marine sometimes. This remark followed me indefinitely.
These stateside shenanigans pale, however, to those that were alcohol-induced overseas. During a port visit to Italy, there were countless incidents of public drunkenness, Marines falling down in the streets and others falling on top of them. One Marine found it a good idea to stab the bus seat – and paid through the nose for it. Some picked fights or defended others in fights. A few were lugged home on the backs of their comrades – comatose from alcohol poisoning. One fell and broke her ankle. And of course, several clutched filthy trash cans and toilets and puked up their shoelaces, weeping for assistance and begging for death. Most, though, simply dropped their military ID cards into the water as they staggered up the gangplank onto the ship. They were not permitted to leave the ships again.
I had the personal thrill of having a full 25% of my Marines wind up charged for one thing or another – arriving back on ship late, losing an ID to a hooker in an off-limits establishment, and so forth. That one, by the way, was married.
Even in Iraq some of these incidents persisted. Where there is a will, or perhaps an addiction, there is a way. While I never personally witnessed the following, I was informed of it from a “reliable source.” One Marine, somehow finding alcohol, abandoned his night post (and lone comrade) at a vehicle checkpoint, dropped his gear, and wandered off into the city. Were it not for the fact that an Iraqi National Guardsman followed him, I don’t know if he’d have lived.
Others broke into and stole a car and drove around the city – supposedly beheading a dog and leaving it on an Iraqi’s dining room table. Naturally, they were charged for this.
But my personal favorite is, by far, the best. At another checkpoint in the city, Marines were supposed to man machine guns at either end of their position. When the battalion commander drove up in his convoy, he immediately observed one slumped over his gun – passed out. Another snored in a nearby bunker. In fact, the only two Marines that were awake were standing on the center of the bridge. One hurled water bottles into the air and the other tried to shoot them before they hit the water. When they saw the battalion commander, they invited him to join in their fun. How very courteous.
It is well-known that a number of Marines have drinking problems, but the consequences of their habits are less publicized, with good reason. They’re completely embarrassing. Nevertheless, they are somewhat humorous, if one can set aside total horror about the matter.
Whenever there is another threat of awful weather, I will join the throngs clamoring for bread and milk, because I like bread and milk. The beer aisle I will leave alone. Should you find it empty, there must be Marines in town. In which case, the coming weather is not your greatest concern. Purchase your staples, go home, lock and bar the doors, confine your dogs and send your daughters to their rooms. Then just wait out the storm, with a gun in your hand.
“Lock up your daughter; lock up your wives. Lock all the doors and run for your lives.” – ACDC, “TNT”
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Blame Poorly Cast
Over the last 41 days, there have been numerous posts written on this blog that illustrate examples of supremely poor judgment, erroneous leadership decisions, and the direct (and very indirect) consequences that they bring. In general, the accusers unjustly heap extraordinary blame on a few figures who may be totally undeserving of this burden.
In a perfect war, people will still die – presumably the enemy. But there is still death. Nor is there such thing as a perfect war. The nature of war itself is inherently evil, profoundly tragic, and for many altogether terminal. It is war – the outcome of a total breakdown in diplomacy. Nevertheless, as much as many may not wish to concede it, war still serves a noble purpose.
At best, and even when prosecuted by tactical geniuses and military heroes, war is a collection of imperfect men and women carrying out an imperfect mission with results that will be, without question, also imperfect. In the case of conflict, however, the imperfection is decidedly obvious, disastrous, and awful. People die.
In a volunteer military, I believe that we, as volunteers, cede some of our right to complain about our leaders. While none of us can ever truly anticipate where we will go and what we will do, we are volunteers nevertheless – an unspoken acknowledgment that we recognize that our leaders will be imperfect because humans are also imperfect and that some decisions they make will probably be poor ones. As volunteers who purposefully offered our labor and life to the cause, we must choose to trust our leaders.
Undeniably, a position of military leadership carries with it an untold level of responsibility, and perhaps also the lifelong consequences that a decision we made was a wrong one – potentially resulting in injury and death to others. As warriors, however, we must accept it.
As a buck private with a gun, your job is simple. There is nobody else to order around and nobody else whose life may have been forever altered (or ended) by an order you issued. While we are all mutually responsible for each other, the private is mostly responsible for himself. But that changes with rank. As rank increases, so also does decision-making and responsibility – perhaps exponentially so. Realistically, we will all make mistakes. Some, however, may be more consequential than others.
Culturally, Americans love scapegoats. After 9/11, there was a concerted effort to find one man or woman who was to blame for not “reading the tea leaves.” After Hurricane Katrina, similar blame was cast on a relative few. And in the military, it is convenient, simple, though entirely inappropriate to do the same thing. We blame our leaders.
In truth, we do them a disservice, since we are holding them to a higher standard than we hold ourselves. We accept our own mistakes, but not those of others. This is not to suggest that all their errors are permissible, for many are not. However, anger towards leadership ultimately accomplishes nothing. For all their faults, they cannot be held but so responsible. Foremost, they are human, as are we, and inclined to make poor decisions. Additionally, we give them blame that is best reserved for the enemy.
A commander may have rashly ignored sound advice and sent his troops into harm’s way, but we, as combatants, must accept this situation. We volunteered; and it would do us well to remember our oath of commitment. And it is ultimately not the commander that caused the casualties. It is the enemy. They are the ones who are making the concerted effort to kill, injure, and demoralize us. We and our leaders, attempting to make some order in chaos that THEY created, are left acting on training, inclinations, and ambiguous conjecture. Naturally, mistakes will be made.
The reason it is easy to blame a leader is because we can easily put a face to their names, rather than on the elusive, unknown enemy that continually harasses us. Yet this simplicity is in no way justification. The leaders didn’t kill us; the enemy did.
Accepting a leadership position means also accepting the responsibility, high demands, and consequences of one’s actions. Appropriately, leaders must take ownership of their part in choices that led to the harm or death of others. That is the burden they bear. Nor is it an enviable position. However, we must give them some grace. They, like we, are human.
The greatest blame rests not with them, but with the purveyors of evil who necessitated war in the first place. If we perpetuate the myth that poor leadership killed our comrades, we perpetuate the enemy’s cause, for we have fixated all attention and aggression on our own ranks rather than those of the aggressor. Just as we extend grace to ourselves for our own limitations, so also must we give it to our leaders. We are all created the same: fallible. Until we direct our abhorrence to the original source of evil and tragedy (the enemy), we will be unable to individually make peace with our war.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
In a perfect war, people will still die – presumably the enemy. But there is still death. Nor is there such thing as a perfect war. The nature of war itself is inherently evil, profoundly tragic, and for many altogether terminal. It is war – the outcome of a total breakdown in diplomacy. Nevertheless, as much as many may not wish to concede it, war still serves a noble purpose.
At best, and even when prosecuted by tactical geniuses and military heroes, war is a collection of imperfect men and women carrying out an imperfect mission with results that will be, without question, also imperfect. In the case of conflict, however, the imperfection is decidedly obvious, disastrous, and awful. People die.
In a volunteer military, I believe that we, as volunteers, cede some of our right to complain about our leaders. While none of us can ever truly anticipate where we will go and what we will do, we are volunteers nevertheless – an unspoken acknowledgment that we recognize that our leaders will be imperfect because humans are also imperfect and that some decisions they make will probably be poor ones. As volunteers who purposefully offered our labor and life to the cause, we must choose to trust our leaders.
Undeniably, a position of military leadership carries with it an untold level of responsibility, and perhaps also the lifelong consequences that a decision we made was a wrong one – potentially resulting in injury and death to others. As warriors, however, we must accept it.
As a buck private with a gun, your job is simple. There is nobody else to order around and nobody else whose life may have been forever altered (or ended) by an order you issued. While we are all mutually responsible for each other, the private is mostly responsible for himself. But that changes with rank. As rank increases, so also does decision-making and responsibility – perhaps exponentially so. Realistically, we will all make mistakes. Some, however, may be more consequential than others.
Culturally, Americans love scapegoats. After 9/11, there was a concerted effort to find one man or woman who was to blame for not “reading the tea leaves.” After Hurricane Katrina, similar blame was cast on a relative few. And in the military, it is convenient, simple, though entirely inappropriate to do the same thing. We blame our leaders.
In truth, we do them a disservice, since we are holding them to a higher standard than we hold ourselves. We accept our own mistakes, but not those of others. This is not to suggest that all their errors are permissible, for many are not. However, anger towards leadership ultimately accomplishes nothing. For all their faults, they cannot be held but so responsible. Foremost, they are human, as are we, and inclined to make poor decisions. Additionally, we give them blame that is best reserved for the enemy.
A commander may have rashly ignored sound advice and sent his troops into harm’s way, but we, as combatants, must accept this situation. We volunteered; and it would do us well to remember our oath of commitment. And it is ultimately not the commander that caused the casualties. It is the enemy. They are the ones who are making the concerted effort to kill, injure, and demoralize us. We and our leaders, attempting to make some order in chaos that THEY created, are left acting on training, inclinations, and ambiguous conjecture. Naturally, mistakes will be made.
The reason it is easy to blame a leader is because we can easily put a face to their names, rather than on the elusive, unknown enemy that continually harasses us. Yet this simplicity is in no way justification. The leaders didn’t kill us; the enemy did.
Accepting a leadership position means also accepting the responsibility, high demands, and consequences of one’s actions. Appropriately, leaders must take ownership of their part in choices that led to the harm or death of others. That is the burden they bear. Nor is it an enviable position. However, we must give them some grace. They, like we, are human.
The greatest blame rests not with them, but with the purveyors of evil who necessitated war in the first place. If we perpetuate the myth that poor leadership killed our comrades, we perpetuate the enemy’s cause, for we have fixated all attention and aggression on our own ranks rather than those of the aggressor. Just as we extend grace to ourselves for our own limitations, so also must we give it to our leaders. We are all created the same: fallible. Until we direct our abhorrence to the original source of evil and tragedy (the enemy), we will be unable to individually make peace with our war.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Monday, February 9, 2009
One Star=Three Men
We’d been in the AO for about a month and a half without any major incidents. It was a pretty quite place, except for one platoon in another company that was constantly “finding” themselves engaged by an overwhelming force – the pursuit of whom, incidentally, always necessitated them leaving their scheduled route and venturing into somebody else’s. But then they’d get screamed at – over the radio, actually – and eventually would wander off and sulk. They all thought they were heroes, but everybody else just thought they were idiots.
My LT had actually warned us all to avoid their platoon commander. He was reckless, needlessly endangering his unit, and at least twice engaging civilians for no other purpose than he was utterly convinced they were hostile. They were, of course, not, and my unit ended up going outside the wire on MORE than one occasion to conduct investigations into his “firefights.” His boys had successfully attacked some farmers – and killed them. He was an absolutely retarded, useless as an officer, and his platoon sergeant was just as bad. We stayed as far away from him as possible. I had no doubt that he’d fire on us, too, because he clearly never took the time to properly identify his target. I hope he’s been relieved since then, but I imagine they promoted him. Maybe gave him an entire company to recklessly endanger. He had no business being in the Marines, though. I still remember his name, though I’m not going to say it. If I did, that asshole would probably sue me for defamation of character. I have a hunch that people who are chronically insecure would do that – fueled by the same sort of chronic insecurity that drove him to make up incidents and shoot innocent people just to feel important.
Aside from a couple poorly-placed IEDs and occasional pot shots, the whole AO was pretty darn quiet, though. Only one unit got hit all the time, and none of them ever got hurt. They just broke their LAVs all the time [light armored vehicle from light armored reconnaissance battalion].
One night, though, one of our companies got hit horribly. I wasn’t at the place, so I can’t be certain of the details, but basically, the insurgents had dug a huge hole in the center of the road and packed it with explosives. I’m not sure how they detonated it, but however they did it, the thing went off right under the humvee, completely destroying it. Nobody survived.
I ran into a friend of mine who was first on the scene that night, and what he told me was absolutely awful. The blast was so powerful that it immediately set off a lot of the ammunition inside the truck, which sprayed at least one or two of the guys. One was still alive when they found him, though he was missing most of his face. Somehow, the corpsmen worked on him and got him evacuated. But two of the other guys, they couldn’t even find them at first.
They started searching in the ditches and the sides of the road, and eventually they spotted one lying in a ditch some distance down the road. He was utterly mangled, and dead. The third guy was even harder to find.
I’m not certain, but I think he was the gunner, so he was propelled from the turret to who knows where. Where did they end up finding him? On the roof of a nearby building – and also dead. What bothered me was that when my friend told me about it, he didn’t seem to show much emotion at all. Like none. This was so gruesome I figured he’d at least tell me it was hard. But he didn’t. How do Marines deal with this stuff? I don’t think they do. They just ignore how terrible it was.
Rumor had it that the MEU commander [Marine Expeditionary Unit] was overheard in the COC saying that, “I didn’t take this deployment until these men died.” I don’t know of it’s true, but the number of times I heard it certainly suggested it could be. And I’d spent enough time with him to determine that this was the sort of person that he was – completely self-serving.
The fact is (at least to the best of my knowledge), we weren’t even supposed to BE in Iraq. We were only supposed to sail around in the gulf for awhile, then sail back through the Suez and hang out in the Mediterranean. How do I know this? Because a number of higher-ups told me this. And when sailed into Kuwaiti Naval Base, almost every ship had a high-ranking Kuwaiti general come on board and demand to meet with the captain of the ships – to ask “why are you here in my country?” They all brought a pile of plainclothes goons with them. Huge Arabs with little earpieces rammed in their ears that glared at you if you so much as looked at them funny. They were all acting like their general was the president or something, which was stupid. Who’s going to attack them on a US Naval vessel? Nobody. I’ve seen generals travel with less protection in Iraq. Whatever. Maybe it’s just how they operate – constantly paranoid.
But the whole disorganized and unwelcome way we landed, the way we always struggled for equipment and gear, certainly suggested that we weren’t even meant to be there. It explains why we had no maps, not enough ammo, not even parts to fix the humvees. We had nothing but crappy, outdated trucks that blow to small pieces when they’re hit by IEDs. And three guys paid for the arrogance of our MEU commander.
As a MEU colonel, his next step was to pick up general. If he didn’t, he’d probably be forced to retire. I guess he figured he could earn his star by sending his unit – the entire freaking MEU – into Iraq. Nevermind that meant sending more than 2,000 men and women into harm’s way. He clearly didn’t give a damn.
I was comforted, however, to learn that the commandant choppered into our base one day and met with him personally. And when he left, the MEU colonel was not a general. Rumor, once again, said that the commandant had flown in to tell the idiot personally that he was NOT going to get his star. Good. Men like him, who pursue career success at the total expense of their units, are not men at all. They’re children, and this one cost three men their lives, and countless millions of taxpayer money. Three years later, though, he’s somehow, gotten his star, and he’s still in, too. I want him out. And I’d like to see how he justified putting personal ambition over the interests of the United States Marine Corps. I hope those deaths haunt him forever.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
My LT had actually warned us all to avoid their platoon commander. He was reckless, needlessly endangering his unit, and at least twice engaging civilians for no other purpose than he was utterly convinced they were hostile. They were, of course, not, and my unit ended up going outside the wire on MORE than one occasion to conduct investigations into his “firefights.” His boys had successfully attacked some farmers – and killed them. He was an absolutely retarded, useless as an officer, and his platoon sergeant was just as bad. We stayed as far away from him as possible. I had no doubt that he’d fire on us, too, because he clearly never took the time to properly identify his target. I hope he’s been relieved since then, but I imagine they promoted him. Maybe gave him an entire company to recklessly endanger. He had no business being in the Marines, though. I still remember his name, though I’m not going to say it. If I did, that asshole would probably sue me for defamation of character. I have a hunch that people who are chronically insecure would do that – fueled by the same sort of chronic insecurity that drove him to make up incidents and shoot innocent people just to feel important.
Aside from a couple poorly-placed IEDs and occasional pot shots, the whole AO was pretty darn quiet, though. Only one unit got hit all the time, and none of them ever got hurt. They just broke their LAVs all the time [light armored vehicle from light armored reconnaissance battalion].
One night, though, one of our companies got hit horribly. I wasn’t at the place, so I can’t be certain of the details, but basically, the insurgents had dug a huge hole in the center of the road and packed it with explosives. I’m not sure how they detonated it, but however they did it, the thing went off right under the humvee, completely destroying it. Nobody survived.
I ran into a friend of mine who was first on the scene that night, and what he told me was absolutely awful. The blast was so powerful that it immediately set off a lot of the ammunition inside the truck, which sprayed at least one or two of the guys. One was still alive when they found him, though he was missing most of his face. Somehow, the corpsmen worked on him and got him evacuated. But two of the other guys, they couldn’t even find them at first.
They started searching in the ditches and the sides of the road, and eventually they spotted one lying in a ditch some distance down the road. He was utterly mangled, and dead. The third guy was even harder to find.
I’m not certain, but I think he was the gunner, so he was propelled from the turret to who knows where. Where did they end up finding him? On the roof of a nearby building – and also dead. What bothered me was that when my friend told me about it, he didn’t seem to show much emotion at all. Like none. This was so gruesome I figured he’d at least tell me it was hard. But he didn’t. How do Marines deal with this stuff? I don’t think they do. They just ignore how terrible it was.
Rumor had it that the MEU commander [Marine Expeditionary Unit] was overheard in the COC saying that, “I didn’t take this deployment until these men died.” I don’t know of it’s true, but the number of times I heard it certainly suggested it could be. And I’d spent enough time with him to determine that this was the sort of person that he was – completely self-serving.
The fact is (at least to the best of my knowledge), we weren’t even supposed to BE in Iraq. We were only supposed to sail around in the gulf for awhile, then sail back through the Suez and hang out in the Mediterranean. How do I know this? Because a number of higher-ups told me this. And when sailed into Kuwaiti Naval Base, almost every ship had a high-ranking Kuwaiti general come on board and demand to meet with the captain of the ships – to ask “why are you here in my country?” They all brought a pile of plainclothes goons with them. Huge Arabs with little earpieces rammed in their ears that glared at you if you so much as looked at them funny. They were all acting like their general was the president or something, which was stupid. Who’s going to attack them on a US Naval vessel? Nobody. I’ve seen generals travel with less protection in Iraq. Whatever. Maybe it’s just how they operate – constantly paranoid.
But the whole disorganized and unwelcome way we landed, the way we always struggled for equipment and gear, certainly suggested that we weren’t even meant to be there. It explains why we had no maps, not enough ammo, not even parts to fix the humvees. We had nothing but crappy, outdated trucks that blow to small pieces when they’re hit by IEDs. And three guys paid for the arrogance of our MEU commander.
As a MEU colonel, his next step was to pick up general. If he didn’t, he’d probably be forced to retire. I guess he figured he could earn his star by sending his unit – the entire freaking MEU – into Iraq. Nevermind that meant sending more than 2,000 men and women into harm’s way. He clearly didn’t give a damn.
I was comforted, however, to learn that the commandant choppered into our base one day and met with him personally. And when he left, the MEU colonel was not a general. Rumor, once again, said that the commandant had flown in to tell the idiot personally that he was NOT going to get his star. Good. Men like him, who pursue career success at the total expense of their units, are not men at all. They’re children, and this one cost three men their lives, and countless millions of taxpayer money. Three years later, though, he’s somehow, gotten his star, and he’s still in, too. I want him out. And I’d like to see how he justified putting personal ambition over the interests of the United States Marine Corps. I hope those deaths haunt him forever.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Sunday, February 8, 2009
We Still Kill Ourselves
Just a few days ago, I wrote at great length about the subject of servicemember suicide, speculating some of the multitudinous factors that are contributing to the rise in incidents the military is now seeing. While many will probably lump military and veteran suicides into the same category they are, at least as far as I am concerned, entirely different matters, rooted in remarkably different reasons.
As I have surmised previously, the emotional situation that leads any servicemembers to contemplate ending their own lives often centers around a feeling of total entrapment. They are unable to leave the military (which may be the perceived source of the problem), and also feel unable to change their lot where they are. Perhaps only few try. At any rate, veterans, having now left the military, will no longer subject to any sort of binding oath preventing them from simply walking away from something that bothers them. Therefore, the explanations for their increased suicides must lay elsewhere.
I know from personal experience that the transition from military to civilian life is exceedingly challenging, for a number of reasons. Foremost among them, I was, for the first time in exactly four years and five months, master of my own domain. Nobody was telling me to be any particular place. Nobody was yelling at me. There were no consequences to being late or simply not showing up at all. Finally, I had virtually no responsibility – in stark contrast to Marine life where I was accountable for well over a dozen men and perhaps millions of dollars of equipment. Before me stood great opportunity and lots of doors – perhaps an overwhelming number.
For many, the urgency of finding a job, a house, and settling into a career keeps them sufficiently preoccupied to not dwell on the vast expanse of opportunity before them and struggle to make a decision. For them, even if what they’re slipping into is more of a rut than a groove – it is responsibility, necessity, and routine. That, at least coming from an organization where routine is critical to getting things accomplished, is beneficial. They are avoiding idleness.
My situation was somewhat complicated by the fact that I had no family to support, and only myself to worry about – and I had saved a good chunk of money for just that. In fact, I had no need to work – for a very long time. The best way to look at it is that I was set completely adrift. I could do virtually anything, yet didn’t know where to start.
Another reason the transition from military to civilian is troublesome is physiological. Young Marines (myself included) are accustomed to staying up late, getting up early, burning lots of energy with physical training, yelling and work, and then retreating in the late afternoon to do other things. That’s when we’re stateside. When we’re overseas (I am speaking for combat troops), our days are a constant inundation of high-stress missions, orders, and racing to get things done “yesterday.” Chemically, the adrenalin, endorphins and other hormonal factors become the new norm – though they are quote abnormal. In fact, they could even be described as an addiction. Even our circadian rhythms are adjusted to sleep whenever we can, move with purpose when we must, and find ways to find respite from it, however brief, and give ourselves some rest. Yet as new civilians, still trained to sleep whenever we sit down, and run hard when we must, boredom quickly appear in the absence of responsibility. And then we find ourselves missing the action, so to speak. Combat isn’t addictive. At best, it’s utter chaos and confusion, and at worst it’s tragic. But the hormones and their consequences can certainly be addictive. We pursue other things to entertain ourselves and alleviate the boredom.
Some of us buy motorcycles (I bought two) and keep living life on the edge. Some start spending money (I spent at least $20,000 in eight months), and a few others simply slump into boredom – and start occupying themselves with destructive behavior (I struggled with heavy drinking for a short while).
The reality is that many of our friends now are no longer recognize us for who we once were. Even our spouses, parents and children, for that matter. Our personalities have changed, for one. Additionally, we’re more alert, responsible (sometimes), and less inclined to simply relax, let our guards down, and enjoy a casual social atmosphere. And honestly, we don’t have nearly as much in common with these people as we did at one time. We are decidedly different.
We went away to war, in a manner of speaking, and come back to find them doing the same things they were doing when we left. They don’t exactly know how to view our service, and we don’t know how to tolerate what appears, at least on the outside, to be a profoundly boring existence. Their lives are terribly uninteresting, untraveled, and not in the least bit fraught with difficulty. They’re worried about the performance of their favorite sports team on Monday night. We, at least at one time, were worried if we and our buddies would come back alive from a mission. We have lost our sense of normalcy – or perhaps our toleration of it.
As the realization hits that we are different and not well adapted to “normal” life, an ugly seed of bitterness is given permission to take root – and potentially grow quickly, and destructively, into total isolation.
I have said before, and heard others say it, too, that our civilian peers are out of touch with reality, that they are unconcerned about the world in which they live, that they are apathetic to the daily horrors that many millions face, and are content to simply not think about them and focus on their lives – which to us are terribly small. We, though, having seen the world, are unable to settle for such determined ignorance. It seems counter to reason, justice, and responsible living. Many, and I have done this too, back away from civilian life because we don’t WANT to fit in. It seems boring, apathetic, and insular.
But unless one is surrounded by a cadre of like-minded companions (veterans), such thinking results in little more than a total disassociation from the reality we are supposed to be embracing. Life, they say, is pretty darn dull at times. It’s what you make of it that redeems it. Many refuse to make that concessions, since it would require “shutting off” the parts of our brains and hearts that have been awakened by service overseas, combat, and seeing the plight of those living in fear. Yet now, no longer in the military and supposedly making a difference, we have lost our sense of purpose to resolve these matters. We are truly adrift.
Many veterans are so unable to accept that life is often quite uninteresting, begin drinking simply to escape from it. Either they cannot sleep because their circadian rhythms are so scrambled that an alcohol-induced coma is the only reprieve, or, as they draw away from everybody else, the drink becomes their only remaining friend. But like all addictions, it is indulged in to assist the problem, but in the end considerably worsens it. Alcohol begets more alcohol.
What is created is a scenario where a young man or woman, presumably in the prime of life, is relegated to lonesome contemplation along the lines of, “I don’t fit in here, and nor do I really want to. Everything is stupid, and everyBODY is stupid. I’m bored out of my mind, and don’t know what to do about it.” This self-focused thinking can devolve quickly into total isolation, misery and boredom – especially when veterans convince themselves that there is nobody else like them, that nobody cares about them, and that there will never be anything exciting happening in their lives.
When the standard demons of service are added to this fray, disaster can quickly follow. Most combat vets wish they had done more, seen more action, saved more lives, and taken more of their enemies. Some regret decisions which they are convinced hastened the deaths of friends. Some still see their dead friends faces. Some, in total self-flagellation, wish they, too were dead with them. It appears, at times, more appealing than the survivor’s guilt. In short, it works effectively to further distance veterans from civilians, and solidify their conviction that nobody understands them, that they will never fit in, and that nobody will have any clue how to relate to what they have endured. And, there may be some truth to it. Enough, at least, that many veterans lose the once-natural will to live.
It is here and only here that the explanations for the rise in military and civilian suicides overlap. The conditioning we received in the military worked highly effectively to reduce our value in life. Such things are essential to making successful combat troops. The innate disinclination to take another human life is now damaged, if not destroyed. Companion to that is recognition of the sanctity of one’s own life. This, combined with training that has successfully activated our ability to kill, eases thoughts of death, morbidity, and suicide. The unthinkable is now quite thinkable indeed.
The consequence of the isolation, the boredom, the lack direction/responsibility and the demons leads many to seek their escape in death, convinced that they will never find their place in society. As I have said before, many feel that, in fighting for civilians, they have lost their place among them. There can be no other explanation for the fact that veterans under 29 are twice as likely to take their own lives as their civilian counterparts.
The obvious next question is what can be done about it. Having clearly identified a problem, and hopefully explaining some of its sources, what, realistically, can now be undertaken to help these young men and women so ill-adapted to civilian life? As strange as it may be, though refreshing, MUCH can be done.
For the friends of veterans (especially combat veterans), expect that your companion is going to come back a different person than when they departed. They’ve been through a lot. Much of they have little interest in talking about – mostly because they don’t think you’ll understand, or that you’ll be so horrified or disturbed by it that you’ll never wish to spend time with them again. Be prepared to make a new friend, for the old one is now gone. Rather than delicately skirt the subject of their service, gently encourage them talk about it. This needn’t be so much done by prodding them for information, because such things will be poorly received. What you can do, however, is open the door of communication and invite them to walk through it. The rest, as much as it may frustrate you, is entirely up to them. But talking about things, especially difficult subjects, is a balm to us. Never speaking about the obvious means it is obviously trapped within us. There, it fosters innumerable problems.
Speaking from experience, one of the worst things that a veteran can endure when he or she is freshly returned to civilian life is to be left alone. We do not need our space, despite what people may say. We need our friends, and we need our families. You, collectively, have much to offer us – mostly your friendship and your unconditional love for a bunch of people that are undoubtedly difficult to love.
Do not consider us victims, for victims we may then very well become. We have been through a lot, yes, and often survived quite well, but to assume we are victims will lend credence to whatever victimhood we may already feel. What will follow is bitterness and a sense of entitlement. Neither of which are constructive. It is acceptable to ask questions rooted in curiosity, and you will probably get a very lengthy answer. Be careful, however, not to touch on certain subjects, like horrifying experiences, deaths of friends, or how many the veteran may have killed in combat. These should never be asked. If the subjects are ever mentioned at all, they must be completely volunteered. None of us want to be interrogated.
To help alleviate the boredom, involve your veteran friend/family member in things. Invite them out with you and other friends; include them in your social life, even if they’re radically different from everybody else. Do not let them slip into isolation, self-imposed or otherwise. If you need help with something, ask them for their assistance. Encourage them to go to school, to read the news, to find work, and then keep up with them on it. Discuss it with them. Ask them about their day, their studies, and their jobs. And rather than pretending to care, truly do so.
If the veteran shows a strong propensity to drink and act violent, do not do them the disservice of perpetuating the problem. Avoid excessive drinking, or perhaps drinking altogether. If they don’t like terribly violent movies, don’t watch them in their presence. If they are hellbent on telling you their opinion on a matter, just listen. Argue, but carefully so. The idea is to include them in your life, not do anything that would drive them away. Do not, however, make any moral or character concessions on account of them being troubled veterans. Expect much from them, but in love.
If he or she shows signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD – the new name for an age-old problem), help them. Encourage them to seek help somewhere, preferably from other veterans. While counselors all over the country may feel equipped to address these matters, few “get it” unless they “did it.” Veterans, naturally, make the best counselors for veterans. Rather than look at their struggles as a weakness, focus on the boldness and strength it takes to do something about it. Besides which, having a struggle with killing is not a weakness; it’s natural. NOT having a struggle with it is the bigger problem. As much as the term may be overused and obnoxious, encourage the veteran to “plug in.” Again, it’s isolation that does the most profound damage.
The biggest complaint that a civilian friend or family member has in dealing with “their” veteran is that they have nothing to offer. On the contrary, you have everything. You have yourself. You loved this person before, probably prayed for their safe and quick return, and now you are presented with the opportunity to demonstrate it. They needed your support when they were overseas, and, all the more they need it now. Veterans don’t necessarily need each other; they need you. And so, should they have difficulty fitting in or feel isolated, you, as friends, spouses, family members and Americans, are there to lift them up.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
As I have surmised previously, the emotional situation that leads any servicemembers to contemplate ending their own lives often centers around a feeling of total entrapment. They are unable to leave the military (which may be the perceived source of the problem), and also feel unable to change their lot where they are. Perhaps only few try. At any rate, veterans, having now left the military, will no longer subject to any sort of binding oath preventing them from simply walking away from something that bothers them. Therefore, the explanations for their increased suicides must lay elsewhere.
I know from personal experience that the transition from military to civilian life is exceedingly challenging, for a number of reasons. Foremost among them, I was, for the first time in exactly four years and five months, master of my own domain. Nobody was telling me to be any particular place. Nobody was yelling at me. There were no consequences to being late or simply not showing up at all. Finally, I had virtually no responsibility – in stark contrast to Marine life where I was accountable for well over a dozen men and perhaps millions of dollars of equipment. Before me stood great opportunity and lots of doors – perhaps an overwhelming number.
For many, the urgency of finding a job, a house, and settling into a career keeps them sufficiently preoccupied to not dwell on the vast expanse of opportunity before them and struggle to make a decision. For them, even if what they’re slipping into is more of a rut than a groove – it is responsibility, necessity, and routine. That, at least coming from an organization where routine is critical to getting things accomplished, is beneficial. They are avoiding idleness.
My situation was somewhat complicated by the fact that I had no family to support, and only myself to worry about – and I had saved a good chunk of money for just that. In fact, I had no need to work – for a very long time. The best way to look at it is that I was set completely adrift. I could do virtually anything, yet didn’t know where to start.
Another reason the transition from military to civilian is troublesome is physiological. Young Marines (myself included) are accustomed to staying up late, getting up early, burning lots of energy with physical training, yelling and work, and then retreating in the late afternoon to do other things. That’s when we’re stateside. When we’re overseas (I am speaking for combat troops), our days are a constant inundation of high-stress missions, orders, and racing to get things done “yesterday.” Chemically, the adrenalin, endorphins and other hormonal factors become the new norm – though they are quote abnormal. In fact, they could even be described as an addiction. Even our circadian rhythms are adjusted to sleep whenever we can, move with purpose when we must, and find ways to find respite from it, however brief, and give ourselves some rest. Yet as new civilians, still trained to sleep whenever we sit down, and run hard when we must, boredom quickly appear in the absence of responsibility. And then we find ourselves missing the action, so to speak. Combat isn’t addictive. At best, it’s utter chaos and confusion, and at worst it’s tragic. But the hormones and their consequences can certainly be addictive. We pursue other things to entertain ourselves and alleviate the boredom.
Some of us buy motorcycles (I bought two) and keep living life on the edge. Some start spending money (I spent at least $20,000 in eight months), and a few others simply slump into boredom – and start occupying themselves with destructive behavior (I struggled with heavy drinking for a short while).
The reality is that many of our friends now are no longer recognize us for who we once were. Even our spouses, parents and children, for that matter. Our personalities have changed, for one. Additionally, we’re more alert, responsible (sometimes), and less inclined to simply relax, let our guards down, and enjoy a casual social atmosphere. And honestly, we don’t have nearly as much in common with these people as we did at one time. We are decidedly different.
We went away to war, in a manner of speaking, and come back to find them doing the same things they were doing when we left. They don’t exactly know how to view our service, and we don’t know how to tolerate what appears, at least on the outside, to be a profoundly boring existence. Their lives are terribly uninteresting, untraveled, and not in the least bit fraught with difficulty. They’re worried about the performance of their favorite sports team on Monday night. We, at least at one time, were worried if we and our buddies would come back alive from a mission. We have lost our sense of normalcy – or perhaps our toleration of it.
As the realization hits that we are different and not well adapted to “normal” life, an ugly seed of bitterness is given permission to take root – and potentially grow quickly, and destructively, into total isolation.
I have said before, and heard others say it, too, that our civilian peers are out of touch with reality, that they are unconcerned about the world in which they live, that they are apathetic to the daily horrors that many millions face, and are content to simply not think about them and focus on their lives – which to us are terribly small. We, though, having seen the world, are unable to settle for such determined ignorance. It seems counter to reason, justice, and responsible living. Many, and I have done this too, back away from civilian life because we don’t WANT to fit in. It seems boring, apathetic, and insular.
But unless one is surrounded by a cadre of like-minded companions (veterans), such thinking results in little more than a total disassociation from the reality we are supposed to be embracing. Life, they say, is pretty darn dull at times. It’s what you make of it that redeems it. Many refuse to make that concessions, since it would require “shutting off” the parts of our brains and hearts that have been awakened by service overseas, combat, and seeing the plight of those living in fear. Yet now, no longer in the military and supposedly making a difference, we have lost our sense of purpose to resolve these matters. We are truly adrift.
Many veterans are so unable to accept that life is often quite uninteresting, begin drinking simply to escape from it. Either they cannot sleep because their circadian rhythms are so scrambled that an alcohol-induced coma is the only reprieve, or, as they draw away from everybody else, the drink becomes their only remaining friend. But like all addictions, it is indulged in to assist the problem, but in the end considerably worsens it. Alcohol begets more alcohol.
What is created is a scenario where a young man or woman, presumably in the prime of life, is relegated to lonesome contemplation along the lines of, “I don’t fit in here, and nor do I really want to. Everything is stupid, and everyBODY is stupid. I’m bored out of my mind, and don’t know what to do about it.” This self-focused thinking can devolve quickly into total isolation, misery and boredom – especially when veterans convince themselves that there is nobody else like them, that nobody cares about them, and that there will never be anything exciting happening in their lives.
When the standard demons of service are added to this fray, disaster can quickly follow. Most combat vets wish they had done more, seen more action, saved more lives, and taken more of their enemies. Some regret decisions which they are convinced hastened the deaths of friends. Some still see their dead friends faces. Some, in total self-flagellation, wish they, too were dead with them. It appears, at times, more appealing than the survivor’s guilt. In short, it works effectively to further distance veterans from civilians, and solidify their conviction that nobody understands them, that they will never fit in, and that nobody will have any clue how to relate to what they have endured. And, there may be some truth to it. Enough, at least, that many veterans lose the once-natural will to live.
It is here and only here that the explanations for the rise in military and civilian suicides overlap. The conditioning we received in the military worked highly effectively to reduce our value in life. Such things are essential to making successful combat troops. The innate disinclination to take another human life is now damaged, if not destroyed. Companion to that is recognition of the sanctity of one’s own life. This, combined with training that has successfully activated our ability to kill, eases thoughts of death, morbidity, and suicide. The unthinkable is now quite thinkable indeed.
The consequence of the isolation, the boredom, the lack direction/responsibility and the demons leads many to seek their escape in death, convinced that they will never find their place in society. As I have said before, many feel that, in fighting for civilians, they have lost their place among them. There can be no other explanation for the fact that veterans under 29 are twice as likely to take their own lives as their civilian counterparts.
The obvious next question is what can be done about it. Having clearly identified a problem, and hopefully explaining some of its sources, what, realistically, can now be undertaken to help these young men and women so ill-adapted to civilian life? As strange as it may be, though refreshing, MUCH can be done.
For the friends of veterans (especially combat veterans), expect that your companion is going to come back a different person than when they departed. They’ve been through a lot. Much of they have little interest in talking about – mostly because they don’t think you’ll understand, or that you’ll be so horrified or disturbed by it that you’ll never wish to spend time with them again. Be prepared to make a new friend, for the old one is now gone. Rather than delicately skirt the subject of their service, gently encourage them talk about it. This needn’t be so much done by prodding them for information, because such things will be poorly received. What you can do, however, is open the door of communication and invite them to walk through it. The rest, as much as it may frustrate you, is entirely up to them. But talking about things, especially difficult subjects, is a balm to us. Never speaking about the obvious means it is obviously trapped within us. There, it fosters innumerable problems.
Speaking from experience, one of the worst things that a veteran can endure when he or she is freshly returned to civilian life is to be left alone. We do not need our space, despite what people may say. We need our friends, and we need our families. You, collectively, have much to offer us – mostly your friendship and your unconditional love for a bunch of people that are undoubtedly difficult to love.
Do not consider us victims, for victims we may then very well become. We have been through a lot, yes, and often survived quite well, but to assume we are victims will lend credence to whatever victimhood we may already feel. What will follow is bitterness and a sense of entitlement. Neither of which are constructive. It is acceptable to ask questions rooted in curiosity, and you will probably get a very lengthy answer. Be careful, however, not to touch on certain subjects, like horrifying experiences, deaths of friends, or how many the veteran may have killed in combat. These should never be asked. If the subjects are ever mentioned at all, they must be completely volunteered. None of us want to be interrogated.
To help alleviate the boredom, involve your veteran friend/family member in things. Invite them out with you and other friends; include them in your social life, even if they’re radically different from everybody else. Do not let them slip into isolation, self-imposed or otherwise. If you need help with something, ask them for their assistance. Encourage them to go to school, to read the news, to find work, and then keep up with them on it. Discuss it with them. Ask them about their day, their studies, and their jobs. And rather than pretending to care, truly do so.
If the veteran shows a strong propensity to drink and act violent, do not do them the disservice of perpetuating the problem. Avoid excessive drinking, or perhaps drinking altogether. If they don’t like terribly violent movies, don’t watch them in their presence. If they are hellbent on telling you their opinion on a matter, just listen. Argue, but carefully so. The idea is to include them in your life, not do anything that would drive them away. Do not, however, make any moral or character concessions on account of them being troubled veterans. Expect much from them, but in love.
If he or she shows signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD – the new name for an age-old problem), help them. Encourage them to seek help somewhere, preferably from other veterans. While counselors all over the country may feel equipped to address these matters, few “get it” unless they “did it.” Veterans, naturally, make the best counselors for veterans. Rather than look at their struggles as a weakness, focus on the boldness and strength it takes to do something about it. Besides which, having a struggle with killing is not a weakness; it’s natural. NOT having a struggle with it is the bigger problem. As much as the term may be overused and obnoxious, encourage the veteran to “plug in.” Again, it’s isolation that does the most profound damage.
The biggest complaint that a civilian friend or family member has in dealing with “their” veteran is that they have nothing to offer. On the contrary, you have everything. You have yourself. You loved this person before, probably prayed for their safe and quick return, and now you are presented with the opportunity to demonstrate it. They needed your support when they were overseas, and, all the more they need it now. Veterans don’t necessarily need each other; they need you. And so, should they have difficulty fitting in or feel isolated, you, as friends, spouses, family members and Americans, are there to lift them up.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The Truth is Ugly
Yesterday found me sitting in the Veterans Hospital in Richmond, waiting for a physical therapy appointment for a years-old injury that nobody will concede will probably never go away. Despite the unlikelihood of improvement, I figured I’d give it a try.
When the physical therapist strolled off to print a list of exercises for me, I sat on the king-sized platform in the training area and waited. There were a number of other patients. Three men, specifically, caught my attention.
Their forearm tattoos, bracelets and t-shirts indicated they were all Army Rangers at one time – some of the military’s toughest of the tough, highly trained and highly competent. Yet those times were clearly in the past. The three that sat, wheeled, and crutched before me were anything but tough men. Each bore the sign of long hospital stays. Their skin was pale and vitamin D deficient. Their muscles were badly atrophied from long, bed-ridden recoveries. Thin legs, gaunt faces, unshaven with small, delicate-looking arms that appeared unable to lift even the lightest objects. Severe muscle atrophy left one of these three in a wheelchair.
The therapist was rolling up the man’s pajama pants leg and assisting with fitting him with a lower-leg “cast” that supported otherwise terribly weak limbs. After putting it on his shin and ankle, he strapped it in, gave the soldier two crutches, and helped him stand from his wheelchair. Five minutes and one hundred feet later, he had slumped back in the chair, clutching his lower back in agony. The therapist congratulated him on his performance with the “Canadian Crutches,” and how remarkably upright he was walking – especially considering how weak his legs are. The soldier, regardless of how well he was doing or not, was noticeably interested in improving. He was motivated. He wanted to walk again. Despite his pain, he persisted. He asked good questions, fought through his fatigue, and kept on going.
One of the other men, similarly emaciated, slender, and in pajamas, worked on a weight machine with another physical therapist. He didn’t speak much – if at all. He looked grumpy – and like he badly needed a cigarette. When the physical therapist asked what exercise he wanted to do next, the soldier grumbled, “nothing,” which earned him a frustrated response from the therapist.
“Of course. That’s all you want to do – nothing.”
Their session ended a moment later when the soldier answered his cell phone and wandered off – speaking in an eastern European language I didn’t recognize. The therapist lowered his head and wandered off. I doubt he’s used to argumentative patients.
The third soldier was, by far, the worst. He wore a crash helmet – a glorified bicycle helmet that in the past would have sent me into gales of laughter. This time, however, no. He wear this device out necessity. One more fall, one more jostle to his head, and he would probably suffer irreparable damage – if he had not already.
The man’s parents stood next to him and he sat there – staring out from under his helmet listlessly. As I watched, the physical therapist explained the nature of his condition to the man’s parents – easily in their late fifties and wondering how it is their once-successful soldier son is back in their care. I saw no anger in their faces, though, only deep love and concern for their child.
“He has something called spatial neglect,” explained the therapist. “When I tell him to turn right, he does. But when I tell him to turn left, he just keeps on turning. His brain can’t distinguish how far he’s gone.”
His parents listened in silence. The soldier remained silent, too.
He continued : “But what’s very important to remember is that he’s not doing this on purpose. He can’t distinguish these things yet. So we have to help him.” The man’s parents nodded in agreement. The concern that registered on their faces seemed to exceed the love. They were heartbroken and their adult son set next to them, unspeaking, wearing a crash helmet.
All three of these patients, judging by their behavior, the bald patches on their scalps and the fresh cars, were victims of IEDs and traumatic brain injuries (TBIs). All were now somewhere on the road to whatever recovery medical professionals reasonably expected from them. One was unduly argumentative and disinterested. Another, resolved but still wheelchair bound. The third wore a helmet to prevent any more destructive damage to his brain. ALL three were younger than me – active duty warriors now reduced to weak patients struggling to learn to walk, speak, and even act normally.
I felt that I, having suffered no significant combat-related injury, had no place in this facility. I listened to my therapist, gathered up the paperwork he gave me, and retreated. In the hall, the soldier with the helmet was receiving walking practice with his mother on one arm and the therapist on the other. I carefully edged around them, chastising myself for not being more thankful that I can walk. In the hall, I passed the crippled soldier, wheeling along as he chatted with the grumpy soldier. Around me were other young men – mostly pushed by young doctors or quiet parents. An unmanned, electronic medical cart annoyingly nosed across the corridor. “Warning, crossing hall…”
As I drove home, I thought about my friend Jay from my platoon in Weapons Company. After being blown up and temporarily knocked out a few times on our first tour, he wasn’t doing all that well. He still struggled with his memory. A couple years after his TBIs and the ensuing battery of tests, he confided in me in day:
“Dude, I can’t even remember my own father’s funeral. I know it happened, and I know I was there, but I can’t remember anything about it. When it was, where it was, and what happened. My own freaking father.”
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
When the physical therapist strolled off to print a list of exercises for me, I sat on the king-sized platform in the training area and waited. There were a number of other patients. Three men, specifically, caught my attention.
Their forearm tattoos, bracelets and t-shirts indicated they were all Army Rangers at one time – some of the military’s toughest of the tough, highly trained and highly competent. Yet those times were clearly in the past. The three that sat, wheeled, and crutched before me were anything but tough men. Each bore the sign of long hospital stays. Their skin was pale and vitamin D deficient. Their muscles were badly atrophied from long, bed-ridden recoveries. Thin legs, gaunt faces, unshaven with small, delicate-looking arms that appeared unable to lift even the lightest objects. Severe muscle atrophy left one of these three in a wheelchair.
The therapist was rolling up the man’s pajama pants leg and assisting with fitting him with a lower-leg “cast” that supported otherwise terribly weak limbs. After putting it on his shin and ankle, he strapped it in, gave the soldier two crutches, and helped him stand from his wheelchair. Five minutes and one hundred feet later, he had slumped back in the chair, clutching his lower back in agony. The therapist congratulated him on his performance with the “Canadian Crutches,” and how remarkably upright he was walking – especially considering how weak his legs are. The soldier, regardless of how well he was doing or not, was noticeably interested in improving. He was motivated. He wanted to walk again. Despite his pain, he persisted. He asked good questions, fought through his fatigue, and kept on going.
One of the other men, similarly emaciated, slender, and in pajamas, worked on a weight machine with another physical therapist. He didn’t speak much – if at all. He looked grumpy – and like he badly needed a cigarette. When the physical therapist asked what exercise he wanted to do next, the soldier grumbled, “nothing,” which earned him a frustrated response from the therapist.
“Of course. That’s all you want to do – nothing.”
Their session ended a moment later when the soldier answered his cell phone and wandered off – speaking in an eastern European language I didn’t recognize. The therapist lowered his head and wandered off. I doubt he’s used to argumentative patients.
The third soldier was, by far, the worst. He wore a crash helmet – a glorified bicycle helmet that in the past would have sent me into gales of laughter. This time, however, no. He wear this device out necessity. One more fall, one more jostle to his head, and he would probably suffer irreparable damage – if he had not already.
The man’s parents stood next to him and he sat there – staring out from under his helmet listlessly. As I watched, the physical therapist explained the nature of his condition to the man’s parents – easily in their late fifties and wondering how it is their once-successful soldier son is back in their care. I saw no anger in their faces, though, only deep love and concern for their child.
“He has something called spatial neglect,” explained the therapist. “When I tell him to turn right, he does. But when I tell him to turn left, he just keeps on turning. His brain can’t distinguish how far he’s gone.”
His parents listened in silence. The soldier remained silent, too.
He continued : “But what’s very important to remember is that he’s not doing this on purpose. He can’t distinguish these things yet. So we have to help him.” The man’s parents nodded in agreement. The concern that registered on their faces seemed to exceed the love. They were heartbroken and their adult son set next to them, unspeaking, wearing a crash helmet.
All three of these patients, judging by their behavior, the bald patches on their scalps and the fresh cars, were victims of IEDs and traumatic brain injuries (TBIs). All were now somewhere on the road to whatever recovery medical professionals reasonably expected from them. One was unduly argumentative and disinterested. Another, resolved but still wheelchair bound. The third wore a helmet to prevent any more destructive damage to his brain. ALL three were younger than me – active duty warriors now reduced to weak patients struggling to learn to walk, speak, and even act normally.
I felt that I, having suffered no significant combat-related injury, had no place in this facility. I listened to my therapist, gathered up the paperwork he gave me, and retreated. In the hall, the soldier with the helmet was receiving walking practice with his mother on one arm and the therapist on the other. I carefully edged around them, chastising myself for not being more thankful that I can walk. In the hall, I passed the crippled soldier, wheeling along as he chatted with the grumpy soldier. Around me were other young men – mostly pushed by young doctors or quiet parents. An unmanned, electronic medical cart annoyingly nosed across the corridor. “Warning, crossing hall…”
As I drove home, I thought about my friend Jay from my platoon in Weapons Company. After being blown up and temporarily knocked out a few times on our first tour, he wasn’t doing all that well. He still struggled with his memory. A couple years after his TBIs and the ensuing battery of tests, he confided in me in day:
“Dude, I can’t even remember my own father’s funeral. I know it happened, and I know I was there, but I can’t remember anything about it. When it was, where it was, and what happened. My own freaking father.”
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Friday, February 6, 2009
Update
I am, alas, indisposed for the evening. Tomorrow, however, will come at least two documents. Please stand by, and thank you for your patience...
Thursday, February 5, 2009
We Kill Ourselves
A question was posed to me today that, while I may have discussed issued peripheral to it, I do not recall addressing it directly. The question was this: why are members of the armed forces attempting and succeeding in suicide in such alarming numbers? To be honest, I would presume the reasons are extremely complex, gross generalizations, and certainly unfathomable to the vast majority of the population. As much as people may be depressed, challenged, or enduring difficult life circumstances, few genuinely contemplate ending their own lives. Fewer still make an attempt.
Any explanation that I may conjure will be, at best, speculative, and fail to take into account the personal issues that somehow propel so many of our servicemembers into a self-threatening state of morbidity. Nor am I by any means a psychologist, counselor, or otherwise trained to examine peoples’ heads. Nevertheless, I will make an attempt. While I may no long be a servicemember, and definitely made no attempts on my own life, I did experience some difficult days, weeks and months where contemplation went beyond “I hate this” and devolved quickly into “what, practically, am I going to do about it to escape it?”
There is an aura of mystery that surrounds the military. Several documentaries, while informative, only partially show the stress and exhaustion of our training. Nor have movies done a terribly good job of fairly depicting combat (save for a few notable exceptions , like “Generation Kill”). Typically, the combat itself is either unrealistically aggrandized, or shown in such a way as to demonize servicemembers and paint a scene of wonton destruction at the hands of heartless murders. Both exhibitions are far from the truth. Furthermore, combat itself probably has little bearing on why these men and women are so quick to take their own lives. It is a more complex matter.
Given the contractual nature of military service, it is, at least to many, seen as a prison sentence. While they may have fallen for the initial lure of the military, the attraction of the uniform, the presumed nobility of the fighter, serving their country, etc, the fact is that, like any other organization, the military is replete with problems, frustrations, and a surprising degree of injustice. Whereas a civilian would give the entire show a magnificent middle finger and walk away, few such opportunities present themselves in the military. In fact, it is almost impossible to get discharged prematurely. The only exceptions are heinous crimes – and few have and particular desire to commit them. Besides, committing them while in the military will often get them sent to the worst prisons in the United States – military prisons.
When I first arrived at Camp Geiger, NC to begin School of Infantry training, I expected to immediately “drop” to a training company and get on with things. Due to poor scheduling, lack of instructors, and a general backup, I spent almost a month in a forming platoon – a fancy word for a LOT of young men and women the entire base will use for any stupid project they can find that needs more bodies. We were worker bees, whored out to whomever needed help. I spent many a day painting, pulling weeds, and dragging brush – the only distinction between being a dumb manual laborer and Marine being the fact that I was doing dumb manual labor while wearing a uniform. It was extremely disheartening. Whatever momentum I had gained boot camp to continue a fast-paced training program, learn quickly, and be soon in the fleet Marine force. Instead, I was doing piddly tasks around the base, and hating it. These were the very things that, at least to some degree, I had gone into the military to escape. Camp Geiger is already described as soul death by most Marines, so to be there without any underlying purpose whatsoever was even worse. It was my first experience with awful morale. In some ways, I may have never recovered.
When I finished up there and was assigned to an infantry company on Camp Lejeune, I figured things would improve quickly – yet they did not. As a new guys (boots), we still found ourselves doing the stupidest tasks that anybody could find for us. Every morning, we would slowly pace in a line and pick up all the cigarette butts that senior Marines had tossed over the railings the night before. Knowing that we’d be cleaning it up, they were even less concerned with any sort of cleanliness. They even told us things like, “you’ll clean that up in the morning, dipshit.” More than once I stooped down to pick up cigarette butt or what appeared to be a wad of chewing gum, but found my hand in a lumpy ball of phlegm. More morale killing…
But worse than this was the fact that as “boots,” we were simultaneously hated and exploited. Whenever senior Marines would get drunk, the first place they went was to our rooms – regardless of the hour – and begin banging our door down to come out. Usually they just wanted to make us push or drink with them – sure sign of their own insecurity. During my first six months in the fleet, I hated this so much that I sincerely prayed for a heart attack. A condition that probably wouldn’t kill me, but would at least get me a medical discharge. No heart attack came. And my experiences were better than many others. I’ve known at least two Marines that were beat within an inch of their lives in their own barracks rooms – and then left to die in pools of their own blood. I know many more who weren’t beaten quite as badly. Every few years (especially in the past), one or two would be beaten to death.
Yet barring going AWOL (or UA in the Marine Corps), there seems to be no escape from such treatment besides suicide. An alarming number try it.
So, combine the stress of being a new guy with the total dissatisfaction of being stuck in the military, and the only option that seems to release them is suicide, as foolish, short-sighted, or even selfish as it may be.
In the case of combat deployments, a number of factors contribute to the rise in suicide. When a friend’s unit first entered Kuwait, a few of the Marines were so scared of combat and of “going to war” that they began harming themselves. One shot himself in the port-a-jon just hours after they landed.
Combat itself, though it brings its own share of problems, dysfunction and regrets, I don’t believe to be the root cause of the increased suicide rates. Instead, it is the feeling of being trapped. The food is awful, exhaustion is common (with combat troops), and there seems to be no reasonable alleviation to any of it. And unfortunately, our training conditions us to a familiarity with death. “Born to fight, trained to kill; ready to die, but never will.” It’s in our cadences, in our speeches, our literature, and so forth. We are trained to do it without hesitation or remorse. We are trained to fight, and win wars. Having been thus acquainted with death comes often a reduction in the value of human life. This includes, at least to some, our OWN lives.
A familiarity with death, dying and killing is no doubt essential to fashioning a productive warrior, but such things do not come without their consequences. While we do not necessarily know death, we are familiar with it. It is routine. It happens regularly in a combat zone, and it may just happen to us. Such is war.
When the reality sinks in that the military is, like any other organization, not perfectly run, discontent soon follows. Yet because it is contractual, few see any sort of escape. They cannot share their frustrations and feelings of injustice up the chain of command (within reason) for fear of the consequences – perhaps criminal charges under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) for disrespect, disobedience to orders, etc. Yet nor can they vent down on their subordinates, who will immediately accuse them of hazing. They don’t deal with things. They sit on them and brew.
And so, a familiarity with killing and death, coupled with a devaluation of human life (perhaps to include their own), and every last one of them equipped with the weapons necessary to inflict great personal injury or death, thoughts of escape quickly determine that there isn’t an honorable way out. So they entertain suicide. For many, the contractual obligations of the military are a true prison sentence. They cannot be honorably escaped at all. And prisons, definitely, deal with suicidal tendencies of their own. If they did not, why would all means to harm oneself be removed – belts, shoelaces, etc? Prisoners see death as their only escape. For those who feel the armed forces is their prison, they will think as prisoners do – try to escape at whatever cost.
Politicians and civilians alike often proudly boast that the United States has voluntary military service, and while this may be certainly true, it fails to consider that they volunteered at the front of things –often not at all understanding the level of service, the meaning of a 4-year (or longer) commitment, and totally unaware that they would be doing things they absolutely despised. Yet by the time such things dawn on them, the oath has been taken and they are stuck – or at least feel that way.
While I have never been able to prove it, I have a solid belief that if any given unit were assembled in front of their barracks and asked who wished to stay and who wished to go (and receive an honorable discharge), most would leave immediately. For most of the time I spent in the military, I would have probable left, too. The daily life is absolutely awful. It’s only in retrospect that we find pride, personal honor, and nobility in what we endured and accomplished. When admit it, everything is awful, every order is bullshit, and we all just want to leave. Given the opportunity, most of us would. Some of us have joked that if military units held a formation like the one just illustrated above, there would only be about 17 people in the Marine Corps. The rest of us would immediately pack and run.
But few, for reasons of personal pride, will just abandon their responsibilities. They’re fully aware they took an oath, and they intend to keep it. They’re smart enough to know that they will spend their entire lives regretting it if they simply ran away. Suicide, for some reason, seems a better alternative. Perhaps they consider it less dishonorable than going AWOL. I would argue that it’s all the MORE dishonoring to their families – who will forever struggle to understand why their loved one chose to end his or her life rather than seek help.
The reality is that help doesn’t really exist in the military. Any doubts about our service or revelation that we are truly miserable will quickly be met with, “suck it up.” Or “go see the chaplain and bitch to him.” But neither are terribly productive. In years past, the chaplain was the “safe” officer to whom a young enlisted man or woman could go with spiritual, ethical, or personal problems, but that has since changed. Now, duties from the command element of a unit will keep the chaplain so tied up that he has little time available to foster relationships with the troops. I believe they have lost their primary function. Not because of their own doing, but because of command restructuring, political correctness, and a total misunderstanding of their original purpose – to advocate the troops. Now, it would seem, they simply align with the command element (voluntarily or not), and do not make themselves available to their charges.
A matter which must definitely be addressed is that of family life. It is a known fact that military service is difficult on relationships. Though I cannot confirm it, I have heard that marriage failure rates for first term Marines stands somewhere near 83%. And the numbers for young lieutenants isn’t much better at about 75%. The military schedule can be grueling, and with deployments interrupting the fostering of a good marriage, as astounding as the numbers are, they aren’t terribly surprising. They are, however, tragic. Most Marines have horrible home lives. I observed the marriages of MOST of my associates fail. Not some, but most. A number came home and found out their wives were cheating on them. A few cheated on their wives themselves, and a few just split under mutually agreed bad circumstances.
But this does not even take into consideration the stresses of being overseas whilst a relationship at home dissolves. Troops get “dear John” letters. Troops find out their spouses are pregnant by some other man. Wives learn their husbands went home with another woman on a base in Iraq, or perhaps in a liberty port. The combination of youth, distrust, and frequent absence create a recipe for disaster.
For the servicemember trapped overseas, learning that your spouse has been cheating on you is a total distraction to the already-immense challenge of service in a combat zone. A number believe that while a combat zone isn’t terribly pleasant, they are totally unprepared to return home and face a failed marriage or other relationship. Feeling trapped, they consider death. A friend of mine did just this – and killed himself not four days before he was slotted to fly home. To the best of anybody’s knowledge, it was because he found out his wife was pregnant by another man.
The storybook images of a soldier returning home a hero to a welcoming and overjoyed family are, for the most part, false. Marriages are, at best, extremely difficult. Were this not the case, why are more than 50% ending in divorce? And for second marriages the rates are between 60 and 70%. The challenges of a deployment, the stresses, losses, and guilt troops feel about their service are heaped upon a faltering relationship. To many, it is wholly overwhelming.
The entire situation reasonably distills down to a feeling of being overwhelmed, completely trapped, and impotent to change anything at all. Such hopeless negativity and never finding an outlet or a shoulder to lean on, only worsens. We do not talk to each other about these things. We keep them to ourselves – to the point of total isolation. Any sharing of problems is considered a display of weakness, cowardice, or reduced character. Our attempts to open up to peers are met with harsh criticism, mockery, or the suggestion to just suck it up. And in consequence, many just turn inside themselves and ponder their escape. Given their oath, location, rank, training and conditioning, suicide is an avenue alarmingly easy to entertain. More now than ever before, servicemembers are following through with their contemplation of ending their own lives. As a nation we should be grieving, for it is our collective responsibility to ensure that such things do not happen.
The next question would appropriately be what should be done about it. And, unlike the previous, this is one for which I have no particularly solid solution. I, too, have lost friends to this battle, and wish I had not.
Yet I can think of no practical resolution to this tragic, mounting problem. If the military were permitted to disband when it grew discontent, there would be no military left at all – and the nation would be left entire undefended. The fact is that service to one’s country often entails doing things one sincerely does not want to do – on a day-to-day basis, and also more holistically. While it may be a volunteer military, few, if any, can truly fathom what they will encounter and endure when they first sign up. If they were able to do so, I imagine few would even join at all.
Some units (at the platoon and company level) have made an effort to accommodate married servicemembers, mostly be sending them home as promptly as possible, but this only provides them a few more minutes of time with their spouses than they were otherwise receiving. I highly doubt it is sufficient to save a single marriage.
One thing that could be reasonably changed is to permit chaplains to act more in advocacy of their troops than at the pleasure of the command element. If troops never feel comfortable around the chaplain, they will never see him about any of their concerns or struggles. In order for the chaplain to ear that trust, he must spend his time with the troops. He has to be available. As is, he is not. A fairly simple restructuring of the modern chaplaincy could rectify this.
Training could, I suppose, be changed to reinstate the value of individual and collect human life, but even that would probably come at the sacrifice of a unit’s killing ability – and thus their value as a combat unit is severely diminished. Training has changed over the years – primarily since WWII, and the end result is a deadly, highly-efficient military able to accomplish amazing things wish small numbers. Yet this may have come with a horrible sacrifice – the emotional stability of the warrior. Any one of a number of studies can show the elevated suicide rates since the mid 1940s. Is the sacrifice of combat productivity one that the military is willing to make? And is it even appropriate that they do so?
Ultimately, not all responsibility can rest with the military in this matter. As a society, suicides are on the rise – both in the civilian world and the armed forces. That, probably, is due to the seeming “convenience” of the measure. It is an easy out – made all the more possible by the fact that we all, as a culture, have become very acquainted with killing (in movies, video games, and even the news), but a complete disassociation of the terminal consequences of the act. Life, not as we know it, but completely, is now over. We now no longer slaughter our own meat; we buy it already prepared in the store. People don’t often die at home, either. They die in hospitals and hospices. And if they do die at home, they are quickly whisked away to funeral homes or morgues. They no longer sit in the parlor while loved ones prepare the body for burial. We, as a culture, don’t see death. We just see killing. And we have grown accustomed to it. The consequence is that it has much more allure than it reasonably should.
What the military SHOULD take ownership of is that fact that it is an enormous, inefficient beast that screws up almost everything it undertakes. It is, just like the rest of government, a terrible bureaucracy, inclined towards confusion, disorganization and waste. And they are highly skilled at wasting the troops’ time and eroding their morale. That fact is why I consider the morale of today’s volunteer military to be hovering somewhere close to zero. We may have joined with a genuine nobility and desire to serve our country, but the vast majority of our time is consumed doing truly ridiculous things. Few, if any, have any lasting effect on the unit, us as individuals, and certainly not the nation. If life in the military was wonderful, people would stay in. Most do not. That should indicate something to even the most casual observer. There are reasons for it. No bureaucracy like the military asks so much of its members and gives them so little. I oppose reinstating the draft because of its effect on morale. It would slump further, and I sincerely believe suicides would rise quickly.
The military needs to streamline, frankly, and quit tasking troops with poorly-considered missions and needless busy work. They need to stop wasting everybody’s time. As a culture, we need to be reminded of the consequences of killing. Death. We also need to be reacquainted with the fact that life, individually and as a whole, is extremely precious. Until that happens, suicides, in the military and elsewhere, will definitely continue. And as a nation, we will grieve for their unnecessary, inexplicable loss.
Thank you, Uncle Caesar, for asking good questions and making me think.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
Any explanation that I may conjure will be, at best, speculative, and fail to take into account the personal issues that somehow propel so many of our servicemembers into a self-threatening state of morbidity. Nor am I by any means a psychologist, counselor, or otherwise trained to examine peoples’ heads. Nevertheless, I will make an attempt. While I may no long be a servicemember, and definitely made no attempts on my own life, I did experience some difficult days, weeks and months where contemplation went beyond “I hate this” and devolved quickly into “what, practically, am I going to do about it to escape it?”
There is an aura of mystery that surrounds the military. Several documentaries, while informative, only partially show the stress and exhaustion of our training. Nor have movies done a terribly good job of fairly depicting combat (save for a few notable exceptions , like “Generation Kill”). Typically, the combat itself is either unrealistically aggrandized, or shown in such a way as to demonize servicemembers and paint a scene of wonton destruction at the hands of heartless murders. Both exhibitions are far from the truth. Furthermore, combat itself probably has little bearing on why these men and women are so quick to take their own lives. It is a more complex matter.
Given the contractual nature of military service, it is, at least to many, seen as a prison sentence. While they may have fallen for the initial lure of the military, the attraction of the uniform, the presumed nobility of the fighter, serving their country, etc, the fact is that, like any other organization, the military is replete with problems, frustrations, and a surprising degree of injustice. Whereas a civilian would give the entire show a magnificent middle finger and walk away, few such opportunities present themselves in the military. In fact, it is almost impossible to get discharged prematurely. The only exceptions are heinous crimes – and few have and particular desire to commit them. Besides, committing them while in the military will often get them sent to the worst prisons in the United States – military prisons.
When I first arrived at Camp Geiger, NC to begin School of Infantry training, I expected to immediately “drop” to a training company and get on with things. Due to poor scheduling, lack of instructors, and a general backup, I spent almost a month in a forming platoon – a fancy word for a LOT of young men and women the entire base will use for any stupid project they can find that needs more bodies. We were worker bees, whored out to whomever needed help. I spent many a day painting, pulling weeds, and dragging brush – the only distinction between being a dumb manual laborer and Marine being the fact that I was doing dumb manual labor while wearing a uniform. It was extremely disheartening. Whatever momentum I had gained boot camp to continue a fast-paced training program, learn quickly, and be soon in the fleet Marine force. Instead, I was doing piddly tasks around the base, and hating it. These were the very things that, at least to some degree, I had gone into the military to escape. Camp Geiger is already described as soul death by most Marines, so to be there without any underlying purpose whatsoever was even worse. It was my first experience with awful morale. In some ways, I may have never recovered.
When I finished up there and was assigned to an infantry company on Camp Lejeune, I figured things would improve quickly – yet they did not. As a new guys (boots), we still found ourselves doing the stupidest tasks that anybody could find for us. Every morning, we would slowly pace in a line and pick up all the cigarette butts that senior Marines had tossed over the railings the night before. Knowing that we’d be cleaning it up, they were even less concerned with any sort of cleanliness. They even told us things like, “you’ll clean that up in the morning, dipshit.” More than once I stooped down to pick up cigarette butt or what appeared to be a wad of chewing gum, but found my hand in a lumpy ball of phlegm. More morale killing…
But worse than this was the fact that as “boots,” we were simultaneously hated and exploited. Whenever senior Marines would get drunk, the first place they went was to our rooms – regardless of the hour – and begin banging our door down to come out. Usually they just wanted to make us push or drink with them – sure sign of their own insecurity. During my first six months in the fleet, I hated this so much that I sincerely prayed for a heart attack. A condition that probably wouldn’t kill me, but would at least get me a medical discharge. No heart attack came. And my experiences were better than many others. I’ve known at least two Marines that were beat within an inch of their lives in their own barracks rooms – and then left to die in pools of their own blood. I know many more who weren’t beaten quite as badly. Every few years (especially in the past), one or two would be beaten to death.
Yet barring going AWOL (or UA in the Marine Corps), there seems to be no escape from such treatment besides suicide. An alarming number try it.
So, combine the stress of being a new guy with the total dissatisfaction of being stuck in the military, and the only option that seems to release them is suicide, as foolish, short-sighted, or even selfish as it may be.
In the case of combat deployments, a number of factors contribute to the rise in suicide. When a friend’s unit first entered Kuwait, a few of the Marines were so scared of combat and of “going to war” that they began harming themselves. One shot himself in the port-a-jon just hours after they landed.
Combat itself, though it brings its own share of problems, dysfunction and regrets, I don’t believe to be the root cause of the increased suicide rates. Instead, it is the feeling of being trapped. The food is awful, exhaustion is common (with combat troops), and there seems to be no reasonable alleviation to any of it. And unfortunately, our training conditions us to a familiarity with death. “Born to fight, trained to kill; ready to die, but never will.” It’s in our cadences, in our speeches, our literature, and so forth. We are trained to do it without hesitation or remorse. We are trained to fight, and win wars. Having been thus acquainted with death comes often a reduction in the value of human life. This includes, at least to some, our OWN lives.
A familiarity with death, dying and killing is no doubt essential to fashioning a productive warrior, but such things do not come without their consequences. While we do not necessarily know death, we are familiar with it. It is routine. It happens regularly in a combat zone, and it may just happen to us. Such is war.
When the reality sinks in that the military is, like any other organization, not perfectly run, discontent soon follows. Yet because it is contractual, few see any sort of escape. They cannot share their frustrations and feelings of injustice up the chain of command (within reason) for fear of the consequences – perhaps criminal charges under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice (UCMJ) for disrespect, disobedience to orders, etc. Yet nor can they vent down on their subordinates, who will immediately accuse them of hazing. They don’t deal with things. They sit on them and brew.
And so, a familiarity with killing and death, coupled with a devaluation of human life (perhaps to include their own), and every last one of them equipped with the weapons necessary to inflict great personal injury or death, thoughts of escape quickly determine that there isn’t an honorable way out. So they entertain suicide. For many, the contractual obligations of the military are a true prison sentence. They cannot be honorably escaped at all. And prisons, definitely, deal with suicidal tendencies of their own. If they did not, why would all means to harm oneself be removed – belts, shoelaces, etc? Prisoners see death as their only escape. For those who feel the armed forces is their prison, they will think as prisoners do – try to escape at whatever cost.
Politicians and civilians alike often proudly boast that the United States has voluntary military service, and while this may be certainly true, it fails to consider that they volunteered at the front of things –often not at all understanding the level of service, the meaning of a 4-year (or longer) commitment, and totally unaware that they would be doing things they absolutely despised. Yet by the time such things dawn on them, the oath has been taken and they are stuck – or at least feel that way.
While I have never been able to prove it, I have a solid belief that if any given unit were assembled in front of their barracks and asked who wished to stay and who wished to go (and receive an honorable discharge), most would leave immediately. For most of the time I spent in the military, I would have probable left, too. The daily life is absolutely awful. It’s only in retrospect that we find pride, personal honor, and nobility in what we endured and accomplished. When admit it, everything is awful, every order is bullshit, and we all just want to leave. Given the opportunity, most of us would. Some of us have joked that if military units held a formation like the one just illustrated above, there would only be about 17 people in the Marine Corps. The rest of us would immediately pack and run.
But few, for reasons of personal pride, will just abandon their responsibilities. They’re fully aware they took an oath, and they intend to keep it. They’re smart enough to know that they will spend their entire lives regretting it if they simply ran away. Suicide, for some reason, seems a better alternative. Perhaps they consider it less dishonorable than going AWOL. I would argue that it’s all the MORE dishonoring to their families – who will forever struggle to understand why their loved one chose to end his or her life rather than seek help.
The reality is that help doesn’t really exist in the military. Any doubts about our service or revelation that we are truly miserable will quickly be met with, “suck it up.” Or “go see the chaplain and bitch to him.” But neither are terribly productive. In years past, the chaplain was the “safe” officer to whom a young enlisted man or woman could go with spiritual, ethical, or personal problems, but that has since changed. Now, duties from the command element of a unit will keep the chaplain so tied up that he has little time available to foster relationships with the troops. I believe they have lost their primary function. Not because of their own doing, but because of command restructuring, political correctness, and a total misunderstanding of their original purpose – to advocate the troops. Now, it would seem, they simply align with the command element (voluntarily or not), and do not make themselves available to their charges.
A matter which must definitely be addressed is that of family life. It is a known fact that military service is difficult on relationships. Though I cannot confirm it, I have heard that marriage failure rates for first term Marines stands somewhere near 83%. And the numbers for young lieutenants isn’t much better at about 75%. The military schedule can be grueling, and with deployments interrupting the fostering of a good marriage, as astounding as the numbers are, they aren’t terribly surprising. They are, however, tragic. Most Marines have horrible home lives. I observed the marriages of MOST of my associates fail. Not some, but most. A number came home and found out their wives were cheating on them. A few cheated on their wives themselves, and a few just split under mutually agreed bad circumstances.
But this does not even take into consideration the stresses of being overseas whilst a relationship at home dissolves. Troops get “dear John” letters. Troops find out their spouses are pregnant by some other man. Wives learn their husbands went home with another woman on a base in Iraq, or perhaps in a liberty port. The combination of youth, distrust, and frequent absence create a recipe for disaster.
For the servicemember trapped overseas, learning that your spouse has been cheating on you is a total distraction to the already-immense challenge of service in a combat zone. A number believe that while a combat zone isn’t terribly pleasant, they are totally unprepared to return home and face a failed marriage or other relationship. Feeling trapped, they consider death. A friend of mine did just this – and killed himself not four days before he was slotted to fly home. To the best of anybody’s knowledge, it was because he found out his wife was pregnant by another man.
The storybook images of a soldier returning home a hero to a welcoming and overjoyed family are, for the most part, false. Marriages are, at best, extremely difficult. Were this not the case, why are more than 50% ending in divorce? And for second marriages the rates are between 60 and 70%. The challenges of a deployment, the stresses, losses, and guilt troops feel about their service are heaped upon a faltering relationship. To many, it is wholly overwhelming.
The entire situation reasonably distills down to a feeling of being overwhelmed, completely trapped, and impotent to change anything at all. Such hopeless negativity and never finding an outlet or a shoulder to lean on, only worsens. We do not talk to each other about these things. We keep them to ourselves – to the point of total isolation. Any sharing of problems is considered a display of weakness, cowardice, or reduced character. Our attempts to open up to peers are met with harsh criticism, mockery, or the suggestion to just suck it up. And in consequence, many just turn inside themselves and ponder their escape. Given their oath, location, rank, training and conditioning, suicide is an avenue alarmingly easy to entertain. More now than ever before, servicemembers are following through with their contemplation of ending their own lives. As a nation we should be grieving, for it is our collective responsibility to ensure that such things do not happen.
The next question would appropriately be what should be done about it. And, unlike the previous, this is one for which I have no particularly solid solution. I, too, have lost friends to this battle, and wish I had not.
Yet I can think of no practical resolution to this tragic, mounting problem. If the military were permitted to disband when it grew discontent, there would be no military left at all – and the nation would be left entire undefended. The fact is that service to one’s country often entails doing things one sincerely does not want to do – on a day-to-day basis, and also more holistically. While it may be a volunteer military, few, if any, can truly fathom what they will encounter and endure when they first sign up. If they were able to do so, I imagine few would even join at all.
Some units (at the platoon and company level) have made an effort to accommodate married servicemembers, mostly be sending them home as promptly as possible, but this only provides them a few more minutes of time with their spouses than they were otherwise receiving. I highly doubt it is sufficient to save a single marriage.
One thing that could be reasonably changed is to permit chaplains to act more in advocacy of their troops than at the pleasure of the command element. If troops never feel comfortable around the chaplain, they will never see him about any of their concerns or struggles. In order for the chaplain to ear that trust, he must spend his time with the troops. He has to be available. As is, he is not. A fairly simple restructuring of the modern chaplaincy could rectify this.
Training could, I suppose, be changed to reinstate the value of individual and collect human life, but even that would probably come at the sacrifice of a unit’s killing ability – and thus their value as a combat unit is severely diminished. Training has changed over the years – primarily since WWII, and the end result is a deadly, highly-efficient military able to accomplish amazing things wish small numbers. Yet this may have come with a horrible sacrifice – the emotional stability of the warrior. Any one of a number of studies can show the elevated suicide rates since the mid 1940s. Is the sacrifice of combat productivity one that the military is willing to make? And is it even appropriate that they do so?
Ultimately, not all responsibility can rest with the military in this matter. As a society, suicides are on the rise – both in the civilian world and the armed forces. That, probably, is due to the seeming “convenience” of the measure. It is an easy out – made all the more possible by the fact that we all, as a culture, have become very acquainted with killing (in movies, video games, and even the news), but a complete disassociation of the terminal consequences of the act. Life, not as we know it, but completely, is now over. We now no longer slaughter our own meat; we buy it already prepared in the store. People don’t often die at home, either. They die in hospitals and hospices. And if they do die at home, they are quickly whisked away to funeral homes or morgues. They no longer sit in the parlor while loved ones prepare the body for burial. We, as a culture, don’t see death. We just see killing. And we have grown accustomed to it. The consequence is that it has much more allure than it reasonably should.
What the military SHOULD take ownership of is that fact that it is an enormous, inefficient beast that screws up almost everything it undertakes. It is, just like the rest of government, a terrible bureaucracy, inclined towards confusion, disorganization and waste. And they are highly skilled at wasting the troops’ time and eroding their morale. That fact is why I consider the morale of today’s volunteer military to be hovering somewhere close to zero. We may have joined with a genuine nobility and desire to serve our country, but the vast majority of our time is consumed doing truly ridiculous things. Few, if any, have any lasting effect on the unit, us as individuals, and certainly not the nation. If life in the military was wonderful, people would stay in. Most do not. That should indicate something to even the most casual observer. There are reasons for it. No bureaucracy like the military asks so much of its members and gives them so little. I oppose reinstating the draft because of its effect on morale. It would slump further, and I sincerely believe suicides would rise quickly.
The military needs to streamline, frankly, and quit tasking troops with poorly-considered missions and needless busy work. They need to stop wasting everybody’s time. As a culture, we need to be reminded of the consequences of killing. Death. We also need to be reacquainted with the fact that life, individually and as a whole, is extremely precious. Until that happens, suicides, in the military and elsewhere, will definitely continue. And as a nation, we will grieve for their unnecessary, inexplicable loss.
Thank you, Uncle Caesar, for asking good questions and making me think.
Copyright © 2009, Ben Shaw
All Rights Reserved
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