Post Military Advice: Special Types of Compensation: CRSC – Part 2

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In the previous post on Combat-Related Special Compensation (CRSC), we discussed the first part of qualifying for CRSC: the criteria for Military Retirement. In this post, we will talk about the second part: what qualifies as “combat-related”.

 Dual Criteria for Eligibility for CRSC

In order to qualify for CRSC, the veteran has to prove that his/her case satisfies two requirements:

• The veteran has to meet the Military Retirement criteria

• The veteran’s disability has to be both VA service-connected and considered to be “Combat-Related”

It is important to stress that CRSC Board (which is responsible for determining and awarding CRSC) will only consider disabilities that have already been service-connected by the VA at a 10% minimum rating. This means that if a veteran has been awarded service-connected for a disability, but at 0% (which does happen), the veteran would not be eligible for CRSC until the VA awards a higher rating for that disability.

Combat-Related Disabilities

For the purposes of CRSC, the Department of Defense (DOD) has determined that combat-related disabilities may have occurred in the following instances:

• Direct result of armed conflict

• Instrumentality of war

• Performance of duty under conditions simulating war

• Engaged in hazardous service

• Purple Heart disability

In addition to the five categories above, the DOD has identified two other instances where disabilities could be considered for CRSC purposes:

• Presumptive conditions

• Secondary conditions

While the DOD gives multiple instances in which disabilities can qualify as combat-related, it is important to note the CRSC Board only needs to conclude that the disability falls within one of the categories of combat-related disabilities. Proving that a disability satisfies more than one category has no impact on the CRSC Board.

 Disabilities Incurred as Direct Result of Armed Conflict

According to the DOD, “armed conflict” includes any action in which service members are engaged with hostile forces. “Armed conflict” may also include any period of time during which a service member:

• Was a prisoner of war

• Detained against their will in the custody of a hostile or belligerent force

• Escaping, or attempting to escape from such confinement.

Disabilities Incurred Through an Instrumentality of War

An instrumentality of war is a vehicle, weapon or device designed primarily for military service and intended for use in such service at the time of the occurrence or injury. Such disabilities could include wounds, injuries or illnesses caused by:

• Military weapons

• Combat vehicles

• Fumes & gases

• Explosions of military ordnance, vehicles, or material

An instrumentality of war can also be an object, device, vehicle, etc. that is not specifically designed for military purposes, but that is situationally being used to simulate war activities. An example of this would using a broomstick instead of a pugil stick for hand-to-hand combat training.

 Disabilities Incurred in the Performance of Duty under Conditions Simulating War

This combat-related category includes disabilities that result from military combat training. Examples of this include:

• War games

• Practice alerts

• Tactical Exercises

• Airborne operations

• Leadership reaction courses

• Grenade and live fire weapons practice

• Bayonet training

• Hand-to-hand combat training

• Rappelling

• Negotiation of combat confidence and obstacle courses

Note: For the purposes of CRSC, military training does not include physical training activities such as calisthenics, jogging, formation running, or supervised sport activities.

Disabilities Incurred While Engaged in Hazardous Service

According to the DOD CRSC Guidance Program, hazardous service includes, but is not limited to:

• Aerial flight

• Parachute duty

• Demolition duty

• Experimental stress duty

• Diving duty

Purple Heart Disabilities

In order to obtain CRSC for Purple Heart disabilities, two things are required:

• The disability must be service-connected by the VA

• The disability must the result of an injury for which the veteran was awarded the Purple Heart

Verification that the Purple Heart was awarded can be found in various military documents, including:

• DD 214

• Purple Heart Certificate

• Military orders for the award of a Purple Heart

 Note: The award of a Purple Heart does not by itself prove that a particular VA service-connected disability qualifies as “combat-related”. The veteran still needs to provide proof that the disability for which he/she is seeking CRSC was the result of the injury for which the veteran was awarded the Purple Heart. Such proof might include service medical records describing the incident, or the Purple Heart certificate itself if it describes the incident with sufficient clarity.

Contact: Time Measured in Seconds

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Contact. What is it? It’s a radio-call; it’s an event; it’s something you receive, not something you get to give (there are other words for that); it is what you train for. What is contact? I realized that contact means a little something different to everybody who receives it, because we all have different jobs, functions, and reactions to contact. I figured I would explain to you what contact was like for me as a lieutenant.

You are on a dismounted patrol, doing what it is you do with the Strykers not too far off nearby. And even though you have been at this racket for what seems like forever, reality intrudes in a violent way. Close-in AK fire erupts from somewhere; it echoes from the alleyways and buildings, initially throwing you off slightly.’That is close’ you think. “Audible” someone calls. You crane your neck as everyone else looks around a bit. In a second you start to mentally assess where the entirety of your patrol is – my immediate thoughts are 1) validate cognizant understanding of where all of my men are; 2) identify where that fire occurred, to and from what direction; 3) assess the situation to see if this is something that needs relayed higher, or is an isolated incident.

I grab the mic to my MBITR dismounted radio. I call what is left of my mounted platoon trailing somewhere behind us; “Blue, this is Blue One – audible, are there eyes on?”

Snap, pop. It’s not a breakfast cereal. The crackle of the rounds over your head; you expected it, you recognize it. You never forget it. Already-hurried processes now increase. I didn’t even get the rest of my radio call out, but now I am ducking and throwing myself against some courtyard wall, somewhere, on some street, in some shit town, Iraq. How the mental checklist goes as time rapidly unfolds across an eternity:

‘Shit that was close. Where did that come from?’ You look around, seeing your men sprawled out in different positions all along the street. ‘What do you see?’  There is a pop or two, someone just firing off rounds not really answering back the enemy, but sounding like they meant to.

“Contact!”

Time slows down for a second, even though you’ve been through this retarded time-machine before, each time is new. “Who has eyes on?” I yell out. All in unison there are random shouts from here and there of what people see, know, or think they know. ‘Where is Bravo section?’ I can’t immediately see them; where are they, do they have enough cover? Where are the Strykers? I crane my neck out some. I assess the situation; the men ahead of me are doing the same. We are displacing; I eye a nice patch of wall just across the alley where I would rather be.

Courage; it isn’t given a second thought, it is just what you and everyone else needs to do. “Moving!” I heave myself up and dash across the alleyway, quick like a bunny. I find a real nice ditch at the outside of someone’s courtyard. This is mine now. You own that plot of land and by hell you’ll fight for it square inch by square inch. ‘Better call this in.’ All part of the larger picture. My NCO’s are taking care of the real business, I flip the switch and radio to the tactical operations center, Rattlesnake Main.

“Rattlesnake Main, Charger Blue One – Contact, small arms fire vicinity intersection, Route’s Bell Air and Chevelle, Al Qadasiya neighborhood, dismounted and developing the situation, over.”

I have just opened the Pandora’s box of necessary evils, as I am expected to call in, yet every second of radio silence from this moment on will be met with frantic radio calls from Rattlesnake Main for situation reports. ‘Shit, where are these assholes?’ I crane my neck out near the corner; the fire erupts once more, as chips of concrete from walls, concrete block, and pavement flake around me. Self-preservation. ‘Okay – don’t do that again.’

An engine whines in the background; the Strykers approach as boots beat pavement, taking up positions on the opposite side of the street- Bravo has advanced to the sound of the gunfire. ‘I guess we need to action-on, and advance.’

“Someone get some high-ground! Alpha, on me! Bravo, covering fire!” and with that heave up, deserting this patch of land I had recently claimed via imminent domain; I want it no more. The M240 belches out a roar down the street as we advance, carbines raised to the backdrop of some neighborhood, in some town, Iraq. No one around and no one seen. Just empty windows and closed metal doors concealed a dozen buildings or more. Something stupid always pops into my head.

I think it is the stimuli of combat; must be all of the synapses firing in the brain. Inevitably I remember some random inane fact or thing I had been trying to recall last month. As I dash down the alley with the men,’oh, I had an H.R. Pufnstuf lunchbox in third grade. What ever happened to that?’

We find new patches of ground to call ours. The radio continues to echo in my ear, Rattlesnake Main repeatedly calling for a sitrep – ‘Well, give me some time to develop the damn situation, will you… My eyes dart about. I am seeing where we are; where the men are; I call to one of my Strykers and ask it to advance (it was partly doing so anyways). The .50 decides to rip into some poor bastard’s top floor. Communicate. Coordinate. Move. Shoot.

‘Do I even have time to shoot? Do I even have a shot??’  Hell, did I turn my EO Tech optic on? I check – yes, yes I did.

There is relative silence as we continue to advance. Fire echoes from down some other alleyway. We continue this leapfrog, my mind darting from the men; the situation; the reporting; the cover and concealment; the war; the invisible enemy we face.  The streets calm as the insurgents have peeled-off back into the scene. We mount a concerted counter offensive, yet never regain contact.  We question the poor few souls who came outside on this day. There is a whisper down the road we trod.

Calm returns. The patrol continues. Radio reports are relayed. And all of this a normal part of an average day.

“Spooky:” or, “The Making of the Swiss-Cheese House”

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Rimming the northern tip of Tal’Afar, along route Sante Fe, between checkpoint 101 and checkpoint 201 was a slight slope, or incline in the terrain that was steep enough that you couldn’t quite see up and over the hill. As you approached its apex, the rest of the route easily became visible; it was at that very pinnacle that there was a concrete house on the corner of a small road that jutted out nearly to the road. The entire right-hand side (or south side of the road, as it would be) was a long series of Tal’Afar neighborhood homes, but this one seemed to have been built extremely close to the road. We called it “the shoot house.” We called it that because it was abandoned, but due to its popular location almost at the top of the grade of the hill, and on the corner of that narrow street, it was the perfect place to shoot at American convoys going up and down route Sante Fe.

A very grainy photo of ‘the shoot house’ circa December, 2004

You easily could initiate a small arms ambush, or trigger an IED and then skulk away into the back alleys and courtyards of the neighborhood. And often times that is exactly what happened. It was the location of a coordinated ambush that hit my platoon one night when we were tasked with escorting an engineer company out of town; the IED and corresponding small arms fire disabled the Stryker in front of me, my lead vehicle, forcing us to drift to a halt right in the middle of ‘the kill box.’ Thankfully we had superior firepower as compared to the RPG’s and small arms of the insurgents, and my men were only lightly wounded.

But it was for this reason that when given the chance at an opportunity, our Squadron was more than happy to oblige. As a whole, the Squadron had its fill of the shoot house being used for nefarious purposes. One sunny day in Iraq, word came down that we could have use of an Air Force asset that had been relocated to the AOR for two weeks: The AC-130 Spectre gunship, or “Spooky.” As there were rules of war, we couldn’t just shoot any-old-thing around Tal’Afar, so the shoot house was put forward as one nomination for a target package. At the end of the day, the shoot house won out.

AC-130 ‘Spectre’ Gunship on display at the U.S. Air Force museum, Dayton, OH.

But, as there were laws of war and what have you, we were required to attempt to locate any legitimate owner of that home; we already knew that the shoot house and its surrounding five homes were all dilapidated and abandoned, but still had to at least make it look like we were making an effort. And then we had to ensure that no Iraqi civilians were going to be in or around the premises the night the operation was scheduled to take place. So Civil Affairs devised some IO fliers that essentially said “it is dangerous at night so don’t go near this house on Tuesday night” (or something to that effect). They also came up with some pretty cool ones in the line of “There’s a red-eyed dragon in the skies at night. Obey curfew of it might spit its fire at you.” I thought that was pretty cool, but in order for the IO to be successful, you had to show them that there was actually a dragon.

And on the night in question, Spooky did just that. It had been circling Tal’Afar all week late in the evening, or early hours of the morning, looking for blatant targets of opportunity (or if there were U.S. troops in contact). But the night had finally arrived for the show of force. I wasn’t sure how people were to see it, unless they could do so from the courtyard or roofs, once they heard the commotion and if they dared emerge from their homes.

Spooky rained-down precision fire on the shoot house, spitting red tracers from its cannons and guns. Anyone who would’ve seen that display of power surely would have given serious thought about violating curfew – even if they were just going to a neighbor’s house for tea, and not running around town planting IEDs.

After that day we stared calling it the Swiss-Cheese house. You’d get occasional activity, but no one really was able to use it as trigger or ambush points again. Funny how some stuff sticks.

“Oh, you want to go to the Housaniya neighborhood? Well, go up Sante Fe to the Swiss-Cheese house, then turn right…can’t miss it.”

The Only Thing Now is War

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Home.

It’s a foreign word. Invisible. Home; almost like it does not exist. You remember it, you may see pictures of it, receive emails from it – but in the head it is as distant and imaginary a land as any child may dream up on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Unreachable. When the ‘Groundhog Day’ effect seeps into every portion of your existence- making every day the same over, and over, and over again.

And over. Such distinct dreams and thoughts of home become clouded in the veil of uncertainty that is this place, this time. The only thing real is now. And the only thing now is war.

The war is real now. It was before but is more-so now when it is devouring you; unknowingly at first, but as each day passes you sink deeper and deeper into the mouth of the beast that is war. There is nothing else. Dream if you want, but do so on your own time .

There’s work to be done and we’ve no time for that nonsense now. You’d best erase whatever notions of the life you had once because even though there may be eleven, nine, or six months left on this tour – eleven months is an eternity. Nine months the same. And six just a tease to make you think eternity ends. Time is irrelevant here. Seasons pass, measurements taken in the form of casualties lost, detainees taken, weapons found – but though tomorrow may be your last, any day may very well be your last.

Put your humanity on the shelf; pack it away and hope if you make it out alive it still remains where you have left it. ‘Out of here’. Laughable.

There is no way out of here, once you’re in here, you sir are in for good. The ultimate double-down, playing for keeps. No sir, if you wish to survive this eternity, best erase this pretend notion of this ‘home’ you so speak of.

Treatise penned in my notebook during during lulls in the Surge. Often time men dreamed of home and loved ones to keep motivated and going. For others, accepting that life was now war, and that the only thing now is war, was the only way to keep sharp and remain sane. The desert does strange things to your mind. It is best to do what is necessary to survive. 

 

War Journal: This is like ‘Black Hawk Down’ or something-Battle of Diwaniya

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Author’s Note

This is a work of non-fiction. The events, actions and experiences were written during 2006-2007 15 month combat tour. Nothing has been added or changed. I have minimized harsh words from text because I intend this to be used broader viewing.

The annoying sound of a cow alarm clock going off a couple of rooms down awakes me out of my sound sleep. I toss over in my bed, putting a pillow over my head trying to drown out the ringing. “Crap, is it that time already?” I clear the bird poop out of my eyes and glance at my faithful watch; it blares 5:50 a.m. I languorously roll out of bed. Unexpectedly Bill, who lives on the top bunk, already has gotten a jump on the day. It’s the day that everyone has been waiting for: our progressive offensive move into a city that we know little about. The one thing that is guaranteed: They know we are coming; they always do.

It’s similar to a high school scenario. A kid gets into a fight on the other side of the school, and before you know it, friends have shown up, and the fight now has an audience. The world of technology in this region has improved just enough to make things difficult for our surprises or an offensive or whatever it may be.

I had packed my gear the previous day, so all I had to do was grab my assault bag and make my way to the trucks. As I made my way upstairs to the rest room, I looked at the guys walking around. Some walked with purpose, others seemingly like drones. Regardless of the way they walked, they all had a similar look on their face — focused. We took all of our gear down to the truck and loaded it as planned. Before you knew it, Staff Sergeant Rine gave us the word to mount the truck. As the ramp went up making an awful creaking sound, silence came over the truck. It was a very eerie moment.

We made our way out of the gate and back into the world of unpredictability and sacrifice.

Our first stop before our push into the fight was midpoint camp. We settled in and started the planning and prepping. The good thing about Camp Kelso is it doesn’t get hit a lot by mortars or rockets, but since the whole world had just witnessed the task force making its way in during the middle of the day, we all knew that where the circus goes so do the clowns. Back in a tent, just like when we were at FOB Falcon. The first night, as we sat in the tent and relaxed, what sounded like a whistle going off was heard. Everyone was silent. I looked over at Staff Sergeant Pearson. The look on his face gave me the impression that something was up. He looked around and said, “That didn’t sound right.” Booooom. The ground moved like an earthquake. Everyone jumped up and made their way to the bunker. Booooom. I didn’t have socks on, so as I made my way to the bunker, I found myself with sharp rocks pricking at my feet. We huddled in the bunker, and everyone was talking about how close the rockets sounded and what they were doing when it went down.

After we got the clear, we all made our way to the tent. The rest of the night was silent. I didn’t sleep too well that night, but that was also because I was thinking heavily about what we were going into. The days at the camp went by rather slowly, but it really didn’t matter because everyone knew that the more time down meant more time to get rest and to relax.

The last night before our offensive the tent started to get rowdy. I think it was nerves. To loosen everything up, guys started playing practical jokes on each other, such as taking guys’ blankets and hiding them as well as taking their gear and placing it where they couldn’t reach it unless they jumped on someone else’s shoulders. I took some video; it was so funny. The night ended with rockets or mortars coming down on us again. This time I was sound asleep, so I heard only the end of it. Once again, it was close. Specialist Schuette, who was sleeping in the bed next to me, woke me up. If he hadn’t I would have slept through the whole thing thanks to NyQuil.

D-Day

O’ dark 30 the lights came on, and the men started making their movements around the tent. Once again no one talked. It was silent except for the shuffle of the feet tiredly going across the floor. I gathered up all of my gear and cleaned my area and then quickly made my way to the trucks. As I walked out to the motor pool, I saw the vehicle crews prepping their trucks and squads packing their trucks. I continued to make my way through the pitch dark and heard someone yell, “It’s game day, baby. Let’s get’er done.” This was the time everyone had been waiting for, the time to go into battle and show who’s the boss, and show who really runs the show. I have always separated myself from the emotional aspects of going into a fight, examining the characters around to see the true emotions of American fighters. After we loaded our gear on the truck and prepped everything we waited for the word to load the truck and make our way to the fight. As we stood by the trucks, there was little talk, but mostly, men were drinking energy drinks and smoking cigarettes. I just sat on the ramp and stared at the ground, thinking about home. I often ask guys, “Do you think our loved ones really know what it takes do this and all the crap we go through?” Usually the answer is: “They have no idea.”

The words came over the radio: “Get recon one.”

I heard some voices in the dark whooping and hollering. We loaded the

truck and raised the ramp. It was game time.

After driving for a while, we stopped to get some fuel and to get out and stretch. This was the last stop, and you could tell by the energy of the guys it was time to wake up and get focused.

As I sat down in the troop compartment, I looked up and saw that the sun was out and the temperature was increasing. The traffic on the radio was blaring; I could tell the momentum was building. I was curious what the squad thought was going to happen when the ramp dropped. I took out my camera and flipped it to movie and started recording. “So, Schuette, what do you think is going to happen today?” He looked at me and said, “Nothing.” I turned to Specialist Lance Tafa and asked the same question. He replied, “Nothing.” I finished off with John. John concurred with a laugh and then smiled, “Nothing.” I flipped it around to me and finished it off. “Well, we all think nothing is going to happen. We’ll see.” The truck stopped, and Staff Sergeant Rine started to take off his headset and made his way down from the hatch. He looked to the rear at Sergeant Sanders. “Are you ready?” Bill was trying to close the hatch and take off the headset at the same time, so he got tangled up a little.

That little pause may have saved us. SWISH…….Booooom. “What the hell was that?” Staff Sergeant Rine said. “Get the hell off the truck.”

It was like someone had taken the pause off of a war television show. Hell was unleashed. Booooom…… The ramp dropped. What we would go into would be something far worse than anything we had encountered yet, but we had been told over the weeks what to expect. I hit the ground, and the first thing I saw was Specialist Obe with a SAW shooting down the road. After I adjusted my eyes, I finally saw what he was shooting at — an insurgent lying on the ground who had just shot an RPG. Our squad hit the corner. To say the least, that insurgent wasn’t going to be doing that anymore.

Imagine being at a Fourth of July fireworks show and the end comes and the explosions of the lights in the sky captivate you. Well, in this case, the only lights we were seeing were explosions from RPGS followed by the sparks of small arms fire. We fought our way to the corner house scanning like we had never before, everyone at the ready, and made our way upstairs. We reached the roof, and from there is when I realized that the fight that we had just been in was going on all around. Booom. Bang. Bang. SWISH. Explosions rocked everywhere, and the smoke was rising in the air like a house was on fire. The trucks started to get engaged, and they fought back with the brilliance of 50 Cal accompanied by Mark 19. All around you could hear men holding their ground. Someone commented as we went around the corner, “This is like ‘Black Hawk Down’ or something.” Everywhere you turned there were either shots being fired or explosions from mortars.

As I was on the roof pulling over-watch, I noticed one of our trucks making its way down the road in front me. As they were coming down, I raised my hand identifying our position. The guy in the front hatch raised his hand acknowledging us, and then in one blink the truck was engulfed in an explosion. “Holy crap, the truck just got hit by an IED or something.” Staff Sergeant Rine came over and looked. The Stryker driver put it in reverse, backing out of the blast site. The 50 Cal on top turned down the road and unleashed hell. As we over-watched the fighting, the call for company mortars came in. This was a site to behold. For once there was silence. THUMP — the sound of the hand-held mortars getting fired. BOOOOOM. Smoke arose from the city — a perfect shot. The insurgents didn’t see it coming. I looked in the sky, and Apaches were flying aggressively and low to the ground. You could see the pilots’ white teeth and smiles. It was time to make our move. As we made our way downstairs, I knew when we hit that street we all had to be on the same page.

We made our way to a school and tactically cleared it. At that point my whole body was drenched in sweat. After clearing the house, we got word that we were going to cross the road. “Oh great, time to dip, duck and dodge from the crazy snipers,” I said laughing as I made my way out the door.

Lance,Sergeant Smith and I made our way to the wall for cover fire so that Alpha Team could make their way across. Once Alpha Team made it across and secured the courtyard, it was our turn. I looked both ways like I was looking for traffic. I noticed that this was all in sync with the platoon farther down the road, because as I took my breath and started to run, I noticed another solider making his way across the road. I was now on the way to the school across the street. It felt effortless, but that had a lot to do with the adrenaline and all of the shooting going on around us. As I made my way to the door, I picked up the pace and grunted my teeth and went flying into the door. Crash — the door split open and went crashing to the ground. Unfortunately, the force and energy that I put into the kick made me fall through the door. I was supposed to wait for the team that was trailing a little behind to enter, but I ended up on my knees. It did look like I had done it on purpose, though, because when I hit the floor my tactical light came on, and I was pulling security down the hall.

After we cleared the building, Staff Sergeant Rine talked to me to about going into a building without the whole team. He was right; there could have been the Mongolian horde in there. I took it and pushed on. By the end of the first day, we had put it to the insurgents. I know they will regroup and come at us again; it’s guaranteed.

All around AK-47 and RPG fire rung throughout the day. As the day progressed, we continued to clear the area. After things calmed down, we had time to put everything together. The day wasn’t over, though. We drove to the FOB to refit and come back out for the second part. After getting fuel and water, the saga continued. From 1:30 a.m. to 8:30 a.m. the following day the fight raged. At night the insurgents shot RPGS and small arms.

The men around me were so tired some thought they were seeing things. When you’re crammed in a truck and you have been up for 30 plus hours your sanity is always on the edge. I always wonder how the hell do we do this. The answer: There is something deep down that pushes us to the limit allowing us to exercise discipline that is necessary to win the fight: pride and the person next to you.

For those family members of C Company, 5-20, you would have been in awe at how your men did their jobs. The confidence and the courage under fire. These are the days that you may never hear about because these men are humble. Sometimes I think what would happen if you could turn on the television and flip it to us and see what we do and go through. I think a lot of people would turn it off. This crap is real, and the blood and sweat that hits the ground everyday is all worth coming home to a loving embrace.

This new AO should bring many some interesting days. The men are tired but ever willing to continue the fight. This is what we have waited for and trained for. The following weeks will show why the American Infantry solider will never lose in battle — only adapt and overcome.

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The Battle of Diwaniya took place in Diwaniyah, 180 kilometers south of Baghdad, on 28 August 2006 between the Mahdi Army and the Iraqi Army.

The fighting erupted after coalition troops arrested a Sadr militia leader. The militia engaged in heavy street fighting with Iraqi soldiers which lasted late into the night. Militia fighters were entrenched in residential areas during the fighting. The Iraqi Army claims that most of its casualties occurred when Mahdi militiamen captured and executed a group of soldiers who had run out of ammunition.[1] By next morning a ceasefire was in place with 23 Iraqi soldiers, 20 militiamen and 7 civilians killed.

About a month and a half later on 9 October 2006 another battle broke out in the city, this time between the militia and the U.S. Army. Thirty militiamen were killed and a U.S. military tank was severely damaged.

 

Veteran Resiliency: What Did You Get ‘Used To’?

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Earlier this week my better-half and I were walking into work and she made an offhand comment to me that made me think. “No matter how many times I see it, I just never get used to it” she said. She was referencing the armed police officers at our facility. Without going into too much detail, it being a government facility, our federal police are occasionally more armed than normal. To go from seeing a uniformed officer saying hello on Thursday to having two officers clad in body armor sporting H&K rifles on Friday is a normal occurrence.

Well, for me I suppose…

You see my better-half is Australian, and they have an entirely different society when it comes to guns, and a different culture when it comes to force protection. Without turning this into a debate on guns or cultures, I want to focus more on the comment that she made.

She just had a difficult time getting used to seeing this. I think I replied back that you would be amazed what you can get used to. I think as veterans, we have a solid and intimate understanding of that.

 

 My first night ever in Iraq, FOB Marez was mortared as I was walking to take a shower. I think I had been boots on the ground all of two hours. The whistle overhead of the passing rounds and rapid-succession Ka-Woomph! Ka-Woomph! Ka-Woomph! scared the hell out of me. It was a stark reminder that the local Mosul homeowners association had sent a welcoming committee. But after a few weeks, you begin to become acclimatized to that fact that you were getting mortared roughly four to five times per day. And inside of a few months you were so used to it, that it neither phased or bothered you. When once you were scrambling for a bunker while the guys from the unit you were sent to replace looked at you funny, now you looked at the new guys weird as you kept on walking (because you knew by the sound of the explosions the mortars were too far off to bother with).

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But what the human body and mind can become accustomed to goes far beyond growing used to being mortared. On mounted or foot patrols daily you grow accustomed to the fact that death surrounds you. At any point in time death may exercise his right to claim you, and you just accept that and move on. Accepting death is a key part of staying alive during deployment – it gives you the edge enough to be vigilant, alert, and poised – without the fear, nearsightedness, and jitters associated with constantly being afraid to die.

As soldiers we get used to being far away from home for long periods of time; we get used to long hours at work; endless hours of boredom; living in filthy conditions (or holes in the dirt); we get used to pissing in bottles; we get used to going places to get shot at when the reason why makes little or no sense.

At some point everything that has an air of absurdity about it becomes normal. Accepted. Expected.

As humans, we get used to seeing famine and starvation; we get used to living in corruption; we get used to living in a system or society where for us there is no justice; we get used to dictatorships; and we get used to seeing people executed in public to prove a point.

I guess what I am trying to say is as veterans, combat and servitude have taught us resiliency. We get used to things that an entire other generation of people could never comprehend or imagine. And with that resiliency we can prevail in our reintegration to society (and frankly make it better, I believe).

You got used to walking with death daily – you can get used to all the BS of ‘back here’, too.

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The Breaking Point: Crisis 11

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Baghdad: 14 November, 2007.  I was walking to the chow hall to grab my morning bagel and head into the tactical operations center (TOC) when I heard the low, resounding ‘ka-whoooomph’- the unmistakable sound of a VBIED or large IED. For a moment I was taken back to that day in Mosul in ’04 when the command post windows shuddered and the dust fell from the ceiling- the day a VBIED struck the 1-14 Cav patrol during RIP-TOA. Two men died that day; several lost limbs.

‘That’s a big one’ I mumbled to myself as I continued my walk but now with a faster pace. I swing through the TOC and the kid from intel asks me to help him plot a grid; Pale Horse Troop’s Mortar Platoon had struck an IED just 75 meters outside of ECP2, just outside of the Green Zone, and they wanted to see if where it was – because that couldn’t possibly be true. Report on casualties, 1 walking, 1 litter.

My thoughts immediately went to the boys in Pale – for they were the old Charger Troop of yesteryear where I grew up, did all my platoon leader time, and flew the banner under which I fought in OIF III; My brethren, my kin. Most of my men are still there.  My men.  Well, someone else’s men now – but always in my heart and mind – they will be my men.  At least their new platoon leader is a good kid.

Sergeant Major strolled into my office clad in all of his gear. He walked around the shop- only myself, my Lieutenant, and the Navy guy who loaded all of our counter-IED equipment were present. He closed the door. “Ya’ll hear about Pale Horse.” It was more of a statement than a question. We answered yes. He shook his head and turned to leave. I asked if there was any change to the status of casualties. He turned around, looked around one more time. “Ah, shit Sir you’ll hear it soon anyways. We had a KIA. The new Lieutenant got hit”.

The new Lieutenant.  His name was 2LT Pete Burks and I had dinner with him last night, and we talked about Iraq and the Iraqis.  See, he was down on the line now – when he arrived to the Squadron about a month ago he was attached to me (along with my other current Lieutenant, also new) to get a little air under his wings; get the lay of the land, try and ripen a bit in the sun.  I was now on what we call ‘special staff’ working civil-military operations.  I had two civil affairs teams attached to me, a Stryker, a Humvee, and the CBRN-Stryker platoon from our military intelligence company at my disposal (chemical, biological, radiogical and nuclear).  I was to groom these young men for the line.

I couldn’t concentrate right then. My hands were shaky, my eyes almost seem like they were having difficulty focusing. The air in there felt warmer. Shock.

He was assigned to Pale Horse two weeks ago; I hadn’t seen him since, and at dinner he came over and asked for a seat.  ‘Naturally,’ I said.  He had a platoon; he was going out in sector; he wanted some advice on how to perceive the local nationals.  He had a heartfelt sympathy towards them and the situation they were in.  “Pete” I said, “You remind me a lot of how I entered into this back in 2004.  Let me save you the burden of some mistakes: these people will lie to you, they will steal from you, they will be your friend when it suits them and then they will turn around and stab you in the back.”  Says the jaded, disgruntled, embittered Captain.

Now he was dead.  First mission, or some shit.  Literally had got the platoon from the other guy, handed off, and he was out being a leader.  And now he joins the ranks with the other guys I lost back when I was in Pale (then Charger).  Brothers in name, in service – and now in death.  Like some scene from a fucking movie.  I couldn’t help but think, the last advice I gave him seemed to dull his good and pure sense of servitude towards helping the Iraqi populous.  I shudder to think that he died with despair in his heart, perhaps not thinking exactly as fondly of being able to help them as he had, based on our conversation at dinner.  That ate at me (it still does).

At the 1000 Squadron Commander’s Sync, we sat down and listened to the commander give the staff a small speech about Pete, and it being OK to take an hour or so to talk a walk, and think about things – and that he didn’t mean to “be crass”, but “this is our job and this is what we deal with as a result of being soldiers”. Then he said it.

“Now the other Squadron’s will see that we’re in the fight, too.”  Boom.  Your beef with the infantry?? Prove scouts are just as good? Really, you are bringing this up now?? All in all, his attitude, delivery, and smug perceived sense of self-validation had me thinking to myself that deep down somewhere inside Pete’s death to him wasn’t just something that soldiers experience, nor was it a loss for him as a commander – it was more of a validation of him as a commander – that he is now on par with his peers across the Regiment in that he too was contributing to the fight.

You want that shirt? I’ll spare you the time, effort, and more importantly the lives of the guy’s you’ll get killed – Here; have my shirt. Been there, done that.  Trust me, not worth the trip.

I have little recollection of what happened next.  But the meeting ended.  I left the meeting bitter over the speech to prepare my Humvee for my noontime patrol. It had been in the boneyard for several weeks now to have the power-assist on the gunners turret, and an oil leak repaired.  We were going into a tight section of town, so we were leaving the larger Strykers behind, and taking out the civil affairs teams in their Humvee’s. We were short-manned that day, so I decided to drive myself, and I was going to take my new Lieutenant, and poach a dismount from the civil affairs folks as a gunner.  Like a good Soldier, I got my Humvee, drew my M-240B machine gun, loaded up my radios, and prepped my vehicle.

My Lieutenant commanded the vehicle from the passenger’s seat and I got a young kid named “Shue” to gun.  We went out in sector.  All during the mission pre-briefing I was flippant.  I was irate, not directing my anger and hostilities at any one person in general but clearly vocalizing to anyone who knew me that something was wrong.  On any given day I myself can handle about ten crises. There is a breaking point for many leaders and good ones tend to know where that is. For me, my capacity was ten. When you add in one more – that being the straw that breaks the camel’s back – I go from calm to enraged instantaneously. There is no middle ground; there is nothing except ‘Off’, and ‘Rage’.

On our way out of the Green Zone into sector the radio call came to go red-direct, and turn on our DUKES and Rhino systems. I was driving the Humvee – something I don’t really do as a matter of routine – but we needed to run the patrol light today (exactly what you want to do, right? Go out in sector undermanned). I reached to my right for my M4 to load it and lay it back down on the console when I was stricken with a very odd sense of panic and urgency: Where the hell is my M4?

It wasn’t there;  did I leave it in the motor pool? No- you didn’t leave it there – think, think! Did I leave it on the hood? The back deck of the Humvee?  Fuck I probably drove over it when we pulled out. Did I somehow get confused and put it in the Stryker?  Panic. Steer the wheel, go through the serpentine – weapon, weapon – I must have misplaced my weapon. I had to have driven over it and broke it. Think!!! No…You did none of those things – because you left it handing on the wall in your office. Fucking Jackass.

My Lieutenant asked me if I was OK.  “I think so.”

I was mortified. I had just exited the wire into Baghdad on a combat patrol, driving my own Humvee – and I had neglected to bring my rifle. Basic-fucking tenets of soldiering! What scared me more was that I got calm, and then said to myself ‘Well you have your pistol…’ I was OK with it – I had committed the mortal sin of a soldier – left my weapon behind, and I was OK with it. I loaded my pistol and we rolled on. I was now in a cloudy fog.

Dammit man, how the hell did you get here? You’re slipping! Do you have it in you anymore?? I like to think that I do, but come on – I left my rifle in my office. That is basic fucking pre-combat check material there. But, I had slipped. What else do I slip on, I wonder? What if we take fire, or take casualties and I need to fend back or repel an attack? With a Beretta 9mm and 15 rounds of 9-mil ball ammunition? But its ok, you’re just going to a few places in Khark, its safe there. Right?

Safe. That’s such a loose concept when you think about it. Safe. The perception of safety -that’s all we’re selling here. We’re paying in blood for perception. Pete thought that the entry-control point at the main fucking gate was safe – it’s controlled by the US Army and  the outer approach monitored by the Iraqi Police.

Safe.

And he paid for the perception of safety with his blood. His crew paid for it in their blood too as one sat in a medically induced coma in Landsthul, and another undergoes surgery on his arm and bicep. And we now know through these men’s blood that it is certainly not safe – that nothing is safe. It’s only as safe as it seems.  Look kids, the blast walls by the markets have nice Iraqi Flags painted on them – the walls near the schools have friendly images of children and doves and Iraqi Flags. The streets are clean, well sort of – there is less trash and shit all over the place but it is still a sty. The buildings are being freshly painted. Paint right up to the top floor where the rest is blown away from the fierce fight in the spring and summer.  Don’t paint that big pile of rubble that used to be a building, though’ we can bulldoze that into a pile and replace it with a soccer field. And it all looks very nice, and very safe.

But inside it isn’t.  And there I sat, in the parking lot of the Syrian Apartments, in my Humvee, (waiting the two hours for civil affairs to finish screening Iraqi security guard applicants – task one of this patrol) with my pistol, and an engine that is spurting oil out of the undercarriage, AGAIN. But its OK, it will be safe, because I have turned the engine off (because the oil only shoots our when the engine is on I’ve found – but not soon enough to prevent me from rolling out of the wire in it, without my fucking rifle).

I decided we had to cut my part of the patrol short. I had specific atmospherics to take that I could hand off to civil affairs; I gave all two of my passengers away to the other civil affairs Humvee’s, and I did a battle hand-off with the Major that led the civil affairs teams. I re-worked the route right there on the spot, and had the patrol swing back toward the center of Baghdad and drop me off so they could continue on the rest of their patrol and finish their objectives. I went back home alone – stupid, against protocol, and without any other crew (and without a rifle). It was half mile or less, but I wasn’t thinking.  Or was I thinking?

What was I trying to do here? What was I looking for? I didn’t know, but I made my way to the gate – not before driving right by the spot where that EPF had been that killed Pete, and seeing the blast-seat myself, and seeing for myself how it sat directly next to the Iraqi Police building and watch tower. No fucking way you don’t know a part of your curb is replaced with an explosively formed penetrater array – no fucking way.  More anger.

The guys at the front gate looked at me real funny as I rolled in alone. I have a feeling they wanted me to stop, or were really confused as to why one vehicle with seemingly no one in it just rolled in – but I had no time for them.

By the time I had got back and parked the Humvee in the boneyard (berating the civilian-contracted mechanics), I was spent.  I did a quick post-trip check of the vehicle, grabbed my M-240B to take back to the arms room, and locked it up. I then went to my office.

I sat down in my chair, spent. Emotionally and physically spent. Crisis number eleven had set me off, causing all of this that had drained me.  Caused me to lose it – to momentarily descend into madness and neglect the basic duties a leader performs in himself as an example to his men.  My rifle was hanging there, right where I left it. I was second-guessing myself.

When leaders second-guess themselves, people die.  I second-guessed myself once, and one of my men paid the price with his life.  I made a decision right quick to snap the fuck out of it, right then and there.  I was losing enough people – I refuse to lose any more.  I’ve got thirteen more months in this tour and I can’t handle more crisis eleven’s…

Veteran Pride: Finding Your ‘Happy Place’

“Why are you doing that?!! I thought you hated Iraq?!” my ex-wife said. I was sitting on the floor of the spare room, sorting through a cigar box that I had kept different unit crests, badges, and insignia in.  I had some of the medals I had been awarded laying out on the carpet because I had been contemplating making a shadow box from my time in active Army service. She stood there, harping over this. She wasn’t my ex back then, however.

It was early 2010 and I had been off of active duty for almost a year.  I was in my final semester of grad school at the University of Pittsburgh and enjoying my new career as a guardsman with the Pennsylvania Army National Guard. And much like I was learning about different aspects of public administration and public policy with my graduate program, I was starting to learn about coming to terms with the totality of my military service, and my two deployments in Iraq. In a way my ex-wife was right; I had a lot of negative impressions and memories from my two combat deployments and was struggling to come to terms with that meant to me, to be a recently separated veteran. I felt that as a veteran, there was some semblance of pride there but I was still struggling to feel proud.

I felt that I had made a lot of mistakes as a platoon leader – anything that results in seeing your men wounded and killed was, at the time for me, a huge failure in leadership. I had not fully grasped that in war, regardless of how much one can train or prepare, things are going to happen that are beyond your control. And as I was wrestling with these memories and demons, I was slowly learning to accept my failures and faults as a military officer. I was also learning to understand and accept that I also had been a good leader. That lesson wasn’t coming along as well as the lesson on identifying my faults and failures, however.

I stopped what I had been doing – my ex was extremely critical of me. We had not been married while I was in the military, and she was someone whom I met after I got off of active duty. In my struggles with PTSD and self-worth, I quickly attempted to compensate by getting involved in a relationship. I soon realized that it was a toxic, unhealthy relationship but I felt that for some karmatic reason, I deserved to be punished for all of my Iraq-related sins. She understood nothing of the Army or war, and in fact actually hated them both. She did not understand why we held ceremonies for our fallen comrades. There was a lot she did not understand.

“You’re such a hypocrite.”

“I mean, if you’re an Army person, you job is to get killed. So why is anyone making a big deal out of it? Why do you want to arrange you precious little medals to remind of you of something you claim to have hated?”  I kind of wanted to vomit when she said things like that. All of this was lost on her, and as we began to argue about my wanting to put together a shadow box, I felt a wave of heat roll over me and I got lightheaded. In anger, I screamed out ‘FINE’ and that she ‘was right.’  I grabbed the scissors that I had been using to cut and trim things and stabbed the shadow box right through the glass. I swept my hand across the floor, pushing all of my various accouterments into a pile to throw back into the cigar box. I tossed it into a cardboard box in the basement.  There was no pride to be found here.

Fast forward two years.

We were on the brink of divorce.  Well, I was anyways; surprise surprise, the relationship was failing because I was tired of being a verbal and physical punching bag for someone with her own emotional and inferiority issues. But, I was keeping this to myself, as I felt I needed to orchestrate a good exit strategy. Which was why I was surprised when she said to me one day after I came home from work “I think you should build a shadow box.”

We were living just outside of the beltway in DC, having moved there for my new job. She had met our immediate neighbors in the apartment complex (Miranda*, a stay at home mom with two masters degrees in forensics, who had a newborn and was married to an Army scientist, Ralph*).  Those are not their real names. They had become ‘friends’ but I could see that the neighbor woman was a hot mess, with daddy issues and body image issues of her own. When she learned my ex-wife was in the final year of earning a psychology PhD, she decided to make my ex her own personal therapist. Being unable to stand up to anyone on any issue, my ex generally saved her pent-up anger at life and others for me. Which is where this shadow box came in.

Initially, I thought that perhaps she was trying to actually build me and my wounded-soul up. So, feeling positive about this I obliged, ordered a display case and rooted through our storage cage to find my cigar box. I felt that I could start to revisit this ‘pride’ lesson that I had quit so readily, two years earlier. Well, the point of the story is that the woman and her Army scientist husband were snobs. He was a direct commission Army Captain. He worked in a laboratory and had no concept of the Army or service at all, really. His Army was drastically different to my Army.  He had stories from his direct-commission, scientist-basic course program. So imagine my surprise when she invites these two over for dinner one night. And there, on the wall by the dinner table is my recently-finished shadow box.

“Wow, are those all Mat’s?” the neighbor woman asked. Before I could say anything, my ex-wife was answering for me.

“Yes – he’s basically a war hero. Look, he has two Purple Hearts. See that there? What do you think about that, Miranda?” I was a little shocked, and the attitude at the dinner table was getting awkward. She continued “I mean, obviously he isn’t as smart as you are Ralph – you’re a scientist and he was just a foot soldier. How long have you been in the Army, again, Ralph? Two years?? Do you have a medal?” The night was awkward from there on, and after dinner the couple eventually went back next door to relieve the babysitter early.  The sense of smug self-satisfaction on my ex-wife’s face lit the room.

We got into a huge fight. She was’t proud of me, nor did she want me to feel pride in myself. She wanted to flaunt my service in Miranda and Ralph’s faces as a way to sort of ‘stick it to their up-tight and elitist asses.’ Who was she to try and claim my service to rub in someones face? Especially after she always put me down over it?

All of that made me mad for a number of reasons; she did not earn any of my awards or accolades, nor did she even comprehend (or care) about what toll those awards and service took, nor what they meant.  Yet she wanted to use them as her own way to inflate her own belittled and impoverished ego. And I was certainly NOT a war hero. I personally don’t buy into the whole “everyone who serves is a hero” tagline.  In an era where less than one-half of one percent serve their country, all service members and veterans deserve to be recognized for taking the oath and choosing to serve. But we indeed are servants, defenders of freedom and executors of foreign policy by force. Fighting and winning is our job. I earned no valor awards, and I was paid to get shot at, so consider that all part of the job – not being a hero.

Which brings me all back to the veteran pride issue.  We divorced not long after, and as I began to try to get my life back on track, I again began the process of seeking out what about my service I could, and should be proud about.  I started with the shadow box.  I spent some time really choosing what to put in it that had meaning to me, what the layout should be, and I tweaked it several times before hanging it on my wall.  It spent two years on the floor, leaning against the wall before I actually put it up there. I would look at it, at the unit patches in there, the ribbons and badges; I would try and recall what those things meant to me when I was a teenager before I enlisted, and then what they meant to me as I earned them. And I tried to think about what they meant to me now.

 

There was insane helmet-cam videos and GoPro stuff coming out of Afghanistan. I watched these videos on YouTube and I was instantly taken back to Tal’Afar and Mosul. Everything I saw in those videos I recalled from my own tour. And then these guys fought on, in the mountains, for hours. My longest two-way sustained firefight lasted about eighteen minutes, not eighteen hours against hundreds of trained and disciplined Taliban. Yet, I still stood my ground. And when the call came, I answered. I had to find pride in that.

 

I have a few very-best, close friends of mine who also served.  One served with me in the same Brigade, and another with the PA Guard (his unit being the unit I later joined when I got off of active duty). Neither of them had any type of military paraphernalia in their homes.  None.  I asked them why, because all of us from our childhoods wanted to be in the Army They both had said that they essentially wanted to forget all about their time in the Army.  And, having sort of gone through that same process and mentality myself, over time I began to question them on that.  Why? What did they see that I didn’t? And was I being vein?

When I was struggling to come to terms about my combat experiences, no one else wanted to talk about it. I had to respect that, but I didn’t understand why.  If you can’t talk to fellow combat vets about your experiences, who are you supposed to talk to? Or was my talking about it somehow making them feel lesser, or worse? I didn’t know.

 

When they visited my home, I think they saw my shadow box and it made them feel uncomfortable – not that my shadow box is anything special, nor am I some hero or super-soldier. But I had taken stuff I had collected from the various units and when I bought my first home, I made the ‘I love me’ room.  it’s modest and tasteful, but it clearly was something that they did not want for themselves.

And this was something I was finding with a lot of the veterans I encountered in my new job. People may have a photo or two of them in uniform, but by and large, people seemed to want to distance themselves from their time in service. I think that for some, they saw and did horrible things and they did not feel any sense of pride in that whatsoever.  And for others I think that they experienced the exact opposite; they did not see or experience the types of things that their buddies saw, or that they felt that they would see.  And i think that’s there the line between veteran and combat-veteran begins to get drawn for some people.  And that was the case for my two best friends, they felt that they just did not “do” what they thought they ought to have, or might encounter in Iraq or Afghanistan. It is the invisible and immeasurable line that we all try and compare ourselves to. We know other veterans had it tougher, saw more, did more, lost more.

One actually called me on evening, while he was sitting at the bar. I was on the back porch grilling dinner for my girlfriend and I.

“Dude. I’ve been thinking – I see all of these kids walking around with no combat patch, and I sort of judge them. And my therapist at the VA tells me that I can do that, but it isn’t their fault that we deployed and they didn’t.  Which makes me wonder, if I judge them, do you judge me?”

‘Judge you? What do you mean?’

“Like, I dunno. I judge these kids for never doing one tour, when here I did one but you did two. You have a Purple Heart. You did all this stuff – I must seem like a joke to you.”

I sat on the porch and silently cried. He just didn’t get it.  Though I was touched that he was trying to compare himself to me, I was more moved that he might have been ignoring his own Army experiences by comparing them to mine. We had fought in the same unit, though he ETS’d years before I did.

‘Dude – what do you mean only one tour? You were an infantry platoon leader in Mosul, in Iraq’s most dangerous city at that time in the war, and you think that people might look down on you for that?’ I think he just needed someone to explain it that way to him.

We all expected something before we deployed for that first time.  Everyone does.  I personally joined the Army because I wanted to serve and do something greater, but I also did so in order to prove things to myself. Why do I tell you all of this?

I am doing so because I want to reach those other veterans in a similar boat. As a veteran that struggled to understand and make sense of the feelings, the PTSD, and losing a sense of myself – I want to share with other veterans what I’ve learned. It has taken me over a decade of soul-searching, introspective insight, and wrestling with a lot of demons:

• Everyone’s tour is different. It doesn’t matter if you were an infantryman who never fired a shot in anger, a cook who never left the wire, or a mechanic who turned wrenches; every deployment is different. It’s all a roll of the dice. We don’t get to plan our deployments or how the insurgents are going to treat us. Some people caught months and years of pure-hell. Others had quiet, but still important deployments – this was all part of our war. You don’t get to choose what kind of deployment you get – it just is what it is. No one judges you based on what the war did or did not throw at you at the time.  And once you learn and accept that, seeing some pride in everything that you actually did experience gets a little easier.

• We all react differently to stress. We are all trained to the same standard, but regardless of your MOS, each of us react to things differently. And given that combat is a roll of the dice, we reacted to anything and everything we saw in the only way we knew how to at that time. Right, wrong, or indifferent – we can’t change our past, so we have to accept it, even if we did not like it. Acceptance makes moving on with life much easier than living in denial, or living in a perpetual state of replaying your decisions and actions.

• Look at the bigger picture. Everything you did played a part in the larger scheme. If you feel cheated, or dissatisfied with your service, those are your feelings and you earned them. No one can take that away from you, but I will offer you this aspect of it – bombs got put on target because men and women kept those jets maintained, fueled, and armed; soldiers that got their mail and packages delivered to them had their morale lifted, and it brightened their day; intelligence planned raids that took out terrorists and insurgents one at a time; radios that worked right and transmitted every time someone keyed the net kept critical information flowing. Not everyone needed to kick in a door and shoot bad guys. Enabling the part of the force that does that is every bit as important.

• Not everyone needs to be a hero. Sure, I think inside everyone wants to feel like they were a hero, or a bad-ass. But real war isn’t a Hollywood movie. It is boring, it can draw out, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were very unfair and unconventional; this really weighs on the minds and souls of those who had to wage those wars because they were not easy. So, do not think that you needed to fast-rope from a Blackhawk into a target building in order to have been successful in your military service.  Think about the old block; remember where you came from, and think about your choice to serve compared to all of the kids in the neighborhood who didn’t. Think about the challenges and adversities that you saw and overcame, be it in basic training or tech-school, handling the stress of desert logistics, long nights and intense heat, time away from loved ones, or having that one really hard-ass jerk of an NCO who always picked your work apart. Try and put it in perspective of You, and what You have overcome.  Think about the totality of your service and everything that you did in those three, five, or seven years – whatever it was.

Even if you never stepped foot in theater, think about what it was that you learned from, or took from your time in service that has had a positive impact on you and your life, right now. What about it made you a better person? There is always something, and oftentimes they are the little things like being punctual; being prepared; coming up with solid plans; or a sense of being taken care of, and being responsible for taking care of others. Those little things learned from service can make little daily improvements in your post-service lives. There is pride in all of that.

So when I look back, I recognize that I am proud to have served with the Stryker Brigade. I am proud to have been in the company of some tremendous soldiers and cavalry scouts. I am proud to have rose to the challenges I faced; conversely, I am proud that I also kept my head held high, learning from when I made mistakes, and taking my ass-chewing’s when I screwed up. Most of all, I am proud to know that I did my part – my small part – and that I join a long gray line with the rest of you – Veterans.

I eventually built shadow boxes for my two best friends, and I am happy to report that, when faced with the totality of their service displayed for them in one convenient, walnut box, they both have since began to feel proud of what they had done. They hang proudly on their walls in their homes.

We are our own worst critic – sometimes it takes someone else holding up the mirror before we can truly appreciate seeing who we are, and what we were. You served – take pride in that!

Those We Left Behind

We took them in, leery and a bit skeptical at first, but we soon let them into our most inner-circles. And before long, they were part of our team. We gave them desert uniforms. When every other soldier had received level IV SAPI plates for their body armor, we took any extras and made sure they were protected, too.  We paid them what we considered peanuts but in reality was a small fortune. We forced them to choose sides during a time when doing so could (and in some cases did) cost them or their family their lives. We became their brothers, their friends, and part of their extended families. Sometimes we lured them into the false sense of hope that we would take them home with us.

And when our tour was up – we left. We went home. We kissed our wives and kids. We did our best to go on about our ‘normal’ lives. And yet, they remained.

They were the linguists.  More commonly, they were our interpreters: our ‘Terps. And for every squad, platoon, or company war-story out there is a corresponding story about a phenomenal ‘Terp. And often times, over the years when I returned from Iraq I would meet people who would be surprised that we employed Iraqi’s; they would wonder if we “felt safe with them terrorists working beside ya.” When I met these people, I kindly told them to fuck-off. They had no clue.  This was not an ‘us versus them‘ war.  I met some of the greatest folks I have known in Iraq: Iraqi citizens. They are people, just like you and me – we just had the good luck to have been born in the United States. They were born into an oppressive regime, navigated that life, and then managed to land themselves a job with U.S. and Coalition forces post-invasion.

A lot were opportunists. Some were visionaries. But they all wanted to do one thing – do their part to make Iraq better.

I spend a lot of time thinking about these guys.  Some I still keep in touch with through Facebook. Others, I don’t even know if they are alive anymore. One more forgotten casualty in Iraq’s ever-growing debacle. So, as I believe that as long as there is breath in my lungs their stories will get told, least they be forgotten – I want to honor those that we left behind. Memorial Day is to honor our fallen. Veterans Day is for us. And I want to make today unofficially “Interpreter Day.”

Faris Saleh

This is Fairs.  Faris was my first ‘Terp.  We got him when we arrived in Tal’Afar; he had been working for 3rd Brigade, 2nd ID already so when we assumed the battle-space from them, we got their ‘Terps, too.  Faris was 22, I think.  He was a Yazidi from a small town just on the backside of Mount Sinjar. He was dedicated to the American forces, as a non-Muslim Arab, ethnic Kurd from that in-between zone in northern Iraq that could have been Iraq, or could have been Kurdistan.  More simply, he was a Sinjari. To the Yazidi’s, the town of Sinjar meant something, and they defined themselves with it. In OIF III, all of our ‘Terps were from Sinjar. It said something about the character of the Yazidi people.

Faris had decent English, but needed help on some words and concepts (like a lot of interpreters). But he was a good kid. I say kid, hell he was only two or three years younger than me at the time.  But, for as much as I was charged with the burden of leading a scout platoon, Faris was right there along side of me when I hit the ground on an objective; my dismount was my right-hand man on the ground, and Faris was my left.

Faris validated his mettle on 17 February, 2005; if it wasn’t enough that he had been with me through all of our engagements and battles, on that day Faris huddled in the belly of the Stryker amid the din of battle, holding a pressure bandage across the area where my gunner’s throat had just been, while my medic worked feverishly to get an IV started and get a breathing tube past the wound and into his lungs. They both worked hard, but there was no hope. My gunner bled out almost instantly. Faris only stopped applying pressure after we had arrived at the FOB Aid Station and handed off the litter to the medical staff there.

I kept in touch with Faris for a while via email. I last heard from him sometime in 2007 when I deployed to Baghdad for the Surge.  Today, I have no idea where he is. ISIL / Daesh have done a lot of ‘cleansing’ in and around Sinjar. My only hopes are that Faris and his family managed to escape north to Kurdistan.

Thamer al Faisal 

Thamer was the cousin of one of our Troop’s ‘Terps, Hader.  He lived in the border town of Rabiah.  When we operated in Rabiah and on the Syrian border, Thamer was our trusted confidant. He was a local, so he brought an aura of legitimacy and street-cred to us. He had cronies whom he would send across the border into Syria to get us huge meals. By sending people into Syria, there was less likelihood that someone would mess with the food order – because what Americans are ordering take-out from Syria?!? Thamer had a gregarious laugh and a great sense of humor. He was a realist, and if you needed something he could procure it.  I broke my wrist-watch once during combat – I loved that watch – and in Rabiah Thamer arranged for it to be sent to Baghdad and repaired. I gave him the watch and $10 USD; two weeks later when my platoon rotated back to the border town, Thamer had my watch; the broken glass was replaced and the movement fixed.

Thamer and Fairs with a meal purchased for the platoon

Thamer did a lot of negotiating and coordinating for us when we were up on the border for extended periods. He helped us secure some furniture for our ramshackle building that we turned into a combat outpost. He also secured us Tuborg beer from Syria when we wanted to celebrate our last rotation to the Syrian border. The men really appreciated that. Indeed, Thamer was a solid dude whom I lost contact with after 2005.  I still have a 500 dinar note with his name, phone number, and email address scribbled on it. It also said “don’t spend it!”  I still have it Thamer – wherever you are.

 

Me, my hippie-hair, and General Ali 

Baghdad: The Surge.

Tasked with rebuilding central Baghdad after the clearing operations that tore it up, the U.S. Army partnered with the State Department and USAID. But, we lacked the quantity of Civil Affairs personnel to really have the impact we were looking for, so guys like me got cross-trained on ‘hearts and minds.’ And handed cash – gobs and gobs of cash. And I am a dummy, so when they told me that I would be making sure roads got paved and schools for built, I told them that I needed specialized help. That help came in the form of General Ali.

General Ali was a retired Iraqi Air Force General (which probably meant in reality, he was a major or colonel, because post-invasion everyone magically had a promotion or two when it came time to be hired by the Americans).  He had to be somewhat legit though, as he owned a house in the Green Zone that had been deeded to him by the Saddam regime in his retirement for his faithful career. He was an engineer, and he was really the one who made sure that when we farmed out contracts to pave roads and build schools, the scope of work was written appropriately. And he was the one who did quality control to make sure the work was done right, and within the scope we had set forth.

General Ali was kind. He noticed that I worked a lot, and did not have much time to eat. Every day when he arrived to my building, where I had set him up with a desk to do all of is work, he would bring me food that his wife had prepared that morning for me.  For the six moths that I had General Ali working for me I was never one to want for breakfast or lunch. He was a gentle creature, sympathetic to the American forces, but also loyal to his fellow Iraqi’s. It was this loyalty that always saw him steer clear of the local politics, yet focus on our work in a way that put the people of Iraq first. And this was evident in the projects that he helped us undertake and oversee.

I have dined at his house in the Green Zone with him and his wife numerous times. As far as I know, he still is alive and lives there.  He and I had a special bond, and he was almost grandfatherly, in a way. I hope time and life has treated him well.

“Jason”

Jason.  My brother.  My ‘Terp.  And the one guy that I know is still alive and well. He still lives in Iraq, and due to the nature of his situation – the enemies that he made, and the real threats that still exists there from ISIL / Daesh – I will keep identifying information about him redacted. Jason was smart, very street-wise, had a wicked sense of humor, and a heart of gold.

Jason was the ‘Terp that we actually gave an AK-47 to, because on the ground Jason wasn’t just another ‘Terp – he was one more rifleman. This guy was hands-down one of the best interpreters and people that I ever had the pleasure to meet in Iraq. Jason was there with me on the ground all over central Baghdad; he was also the only person who stood by my side on January 2nd, 2008. During an ambush in Yarmouk, an Iraqi Army soldier was shot in the head. We had been in narrow parts of Baghdad that day and we took our HMMWV’ instead of Strykers.  Unable to fit the litter with this Iraqi soldier inside of the HMMWV, we secured an Iraqi Police pick-up truck.

We loaded the litter into the bed of the truck. I was unwilling to leave the patient in there alone, as I was the one who had applied the pressure bandages and started the IV. Refusing to leave me, Jason climbed into the open bed of that pick-up truck.  My hands were busy squeezing IV bags into the young Jundi, and holding pressure on his head wound; my M4 was dangling to my side, attached to my body armor.  Jason was there, his AK at the ready as we drove back through Khark, Baghdad.  We were completely exposed to the world, with no armor, no counted-IED systems – nothing.  We were one juicy and ripe target. He literally had my back.

Thankfully, we got to the Combat Surgical Hospital without incident. Jason had my back every single day, and I always felt like I had his.  When we left Baghdad, I did my best to keep in touch with him. I was a sponsoring official on his application for a special dispensation visa. The State Department denied his application since he had been jailed during the Saddam regime as a political dissident.  “Moral Turpitude.” Man, did the system really screw up there.

There were a lot of others, too. Some made it to the U.S. as immigrants with special visas. I am sure they live full and productive lives here now as permanent residents.

I feel guilty to this day that Jason is still there, and I am here.  Knowing he is alive and well brings me joy, but not as much joy as if he were stateside, sharing a beer with me. But, alas. On behalf of America, I am sorry.  So until that day, I raise a frosty cold one to him – and to all of the ‘Terps that we hired, afforded protection to, and then ultimately abandoned: You have not been forgotten! Until we are reunited once more… We Thank You!

Part 4: Rating PTSD

Once a veteran’s PTSD has been service-connected, a disability rating will be assigned by the VA. A disability rating is the average impairment in earning capacity resulting from diseases, injuries, or their residual conditions. It is important to note that C&P examiners do not rate claims; exam results go to a VA adjudicator to apply the rating formula and provide a rating for the veteran’s PTSD.

When the VA is evaluating a claim for PTSD, it will look to both the rating formula and the DSM-V. This is one of the only times that the VA is authorized to look to factors outside of the rating criteria that are listed in the Code of Federal Regulations (see below). However, the symptoms in the DSM-V are not meant to replace, but rather supplement, the criteria listed in the rating formula for PTSD. In addition, the factors listed in the rating formula for PTSD are examples of conditions and are not meant to be an exhaustive list.

The VA rating formula goes from zero percent to 100 percent, in increments of 10, but not every disability includes each rating percentage. For example, a veteran’s PTSD can be rated at 0, 10, 30, 50, 70, or 100 percent debilitating. A zero percent rating means that “a mental condition has been formally diagnosed, but symptoms are not severe enough either to interfere with occupational and social functioning or to require continuous medication.” A 100 percent rating is warranted when there is “total occupational and social impairment” due to specified symptoms. Most veterans fall somewhere in the middle.

Note that VA regulations state that “where there is a question as to which of two evaluations shall be applied; the higher evaluation will be assigned if the disability picture more nearly approximates the criteria for that rating. Otherwise the lower rating will be assigned.” This means that if a veteran fits in both the 50 percent and 70 percent box, the argument should be made that the 70 percent rating more accurately encompasses his or her symptoms.

As you can see in the chart above, symptoms that the VA considers when rating PTSD include, but are not limited to: impairment in thought processes or communication, grossly inappropriate behavior, persistent danger of hurting self or others, suicidal ideation, intermittent inability to perform activities of daily living (including maintenance of minimal personal hygiene), memory loss, panic or depression affecting the ability to function, impaired impulse control, chronic sleep impairment, and decreased work efficiency.

During its evaluation, the rating activity must consider the frequency, severity, and duration of psychiatric symptoms; the length of remissions; and the veteran’s capacity for adjustment during periods of remission. The rating should be assigned based on all evidence in the record which relates to a veteran’s occupational and social impairment, but a rating cannot be assigned based solely on social impairment. Remember that the purpose of VA disability benefits is to compensate veterans for impairment in earning capacity. Therefore, it is important to emphasize how a veteran’s PTSD symptoms have impaired his or her ability work and maintain gainful employment. If a veteran is unable to work due to his or her PTSD, he or she may be eligible for total disability based on individual unemployability (TDIU). TDIU is another way to get to a 100 percent disability rating if a veteran’s PTSD does not warrant a 100 percent schedular rating but he or she is still unable to obtain and maintain substantially gainful employment.

Next in Part 5: Learn about how to receive a 100 percent rating for total disability based on individual unemployability (TDIU).