"Your wife will remember who you are"
Maj. Baldwin and I had been called back to the patrol base early due to an incident that resulted in the deaths of several soldiers. We conducted a critical-event debriefing for the four soldiers who extricated the remains and recovered the vehicle. The details are really too much to share. The way in which these men died cast a shadow and a chill over us all.
Command at the patrol base set Maj. Baldwin and I up in a vacant room off the chow hall. Soldiers trickled in periodically as they heard the news that combat stress was available.
As the major and I sat in metal folding chairs at the edge of the room, with its peeling paint and fallen ceiling tiles, Chaplain Thomas tapped on the door and leaned in.
"Hey guys," he said, smiling.
"Come on in chaplain," I said, smiling back.
"How are you guys?" he asked as he walked across the room toward us.
"Have a seat man," I said, grabbing a metal folding chair by its back and turning it to face the major and me.
Chaplain Thomas sat down in the chair and nodded at Maj. Baldwin. "How are you, sir?" he said.
"Good, good, captain," Maj. Baldwin replied.
"Wow, man, you look so much better than the last time I saw you," I said, looking at the chaplain and nodding my head.
"You think so? I feel a lot better," Chaplain Thomas replied, still nodding and smiling. "Yeah, the battalion commander just walked up to me at the BUB (battle update brief) one day and said, 'Chaplain, you look like shit.' So since then, they try and keep me back here for at least one week a month to rest up. It's been working out pretty good."
"That's great," I said. "You needed that."
"Yeah, I think so," the chaplain said. "I was just going out too much and the whole Sgt. Eaton thing messed me up."
"So you've been feeling a little more like yourself lately?" I asked.
"Actually, not really. I've been feeling very angry lately. I have to be honest. I don't feel anything for these people. They steal from us and lie. You can't trust any of them. We get blown up right by their checkpoints."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. Our convoy got blown up the other day right in front of an Iraqi checkpoint. When we questioned the IA soldiers, they said they did watch the insurgent set up the IED and run the command wire the night before," I said.
"Are you kidding me, man?" Chaplain Thomas said in disbelief.
"Nope. They said the batteries in their radio were dead so they couldn't warn us."
"I hate these people," Chaplain Thomas said, shaking his head and looking down at the floor.
"Well, they aren't like us, and we will never make them into American soldiers, will we?"
The chaplain just shook his head no, and we didn't speak for a moment. Chaplain Thomas' comment seemed to sit dead in the air until he said, "I know I shouldn't want people dead, but I just feel so much hate. Our guys are dying over here for these people." The chaplain shook his head and then gazed down at the floor.
"You feel like because you are a chaplain, you are not supposed to feel that way, huh?"
Chaplain Thomas looked up at me nodding his head.
"Well, how could you feel any other way about people who killed your friends and try to kill you every day?"
Chaplain Thomas nodded and looked back down to the floor between his feet.
"It seems like a normal reaction to me," I added.
"You think so?" Chaplain Thomas asked and then added, "It's not just the Iraqis though. It's all those officers up at Liberty and Stryker writing themselves up for bronze stars." He shook his head and then looked at the major and then me again. "I mean, these guys have never even left the wire!" he said, still shaking his head.
"Well, that's why awards are meaningless," I said.
The chaplain sniffed and nodded, looking away toward the side of the room.
"People who deserve them don't get them and other people get all kinds. That's nothing new. I'm sure every war has been the same," I added.
"I worry that I am going to take all this out on my wife, though, you know? All this anger. It's not like me," Chaplain Thomas said.
"Don't you go out on your leave soon?" I asked.
"Yeah, in like a week," he answered.
"Good timing. It will do you good." We both nodded and looked off somewhere, lost in thoughts of home. "Hey, you know what I thought was interesting about leave?"
"What?" he replied.
"How quickly I felt like myself again," I said, and nodded, looking at him. "The first week it was like you could fly. It was awesome. But somewhere in the second week I just couldn't believe how much I felt like myself again."
"Really?" Chaplain Thomas's eyes brightened.
"Totally, man," I said, nodding and widening my eyes.
"Wow," Chaplain Thomas said, and looked away smiling, imagining.
"Your wife remembers who you are, man, even if you don't."
The chaplain was looking at the floor but raised his eyes to mine quickly as I said this.
"Your wife will remember who you are," I repeated and nodded, smiling.
"You really think so? God, I hope so."
"Trust me, man, she'll help you remember who you are."
"God, I hope you're right."
Comments
The stresses of combat, whether you're involved directly as a grunt, or indirectly as support personnel, exacts a terrible toll. I've read that the Army used to have group counseling of dependents to explain these facts to them, and to teach them how to help the service members to re-acclimate when they come home.
I wonder whether those counselors are still active, given the Army's slashing of so many programs not directly involved in combat?
Posted by: Lurch | March 25, 2007 8:04 PM