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THE THING THEY WILL ALWAYS CARRY
-
THE WHY'S
Marc Levy
VA Shrink: Were you
in
VA Shrink: When were you there?
I’m kneeling. Tears streak my face, drip down, fall to
earth. It’s only my second time in combat. Soon I’ll be different. Soon revenge
for our dead and wounded will meld with fear and I will help with the killing
and the killing will help me. We’re just regular grunts: We make too much
noise, we have no special skills, we’re not elite. But
after a time we get the hang of this war, the rhythm of it. Wait. Engage.
Disengage. We call it contact or movement. We psych ourselves up.
“Time to kick ass and take names,” we say. And between contact and
kicking ass or having our asses kicked there is tension that starts small, then
builds and builds until we secretly pray it will happen. That we walk into them
or them into us, or we mortar them or they rocket us, then the tension explodes
like perfect sex, and afterwards... we’re spent. There are days, weeks
nothing happens, then terror, instant and deep, then relief, like paradise,
since the killing is done and we have buried away the wounded and dead. Until it starts all over again.
That was thirty seven years ago. Or was
it last night? A day, a year, twenty years home from war you may begin to
act strange. The shrinks, social workers, group therapists, clinical
researchers, each has a different take on what causes PTSD. “It’s neurolingustic. It’s cognitive. It’s
biochemical,” they chime and chatter. Who
cares? Just stop the pain. Just stop it. But where does that pain
come from? What’s going down? Here is what I know: What you learn
in combat you do not easily forget. You drop at the first hint of an ambush
falling so fast your helmet still spins in the air. You shoot first and ask
questions later. The enemy is an unfeeling slippery bug to be stomped out. You
live like an animal. You learn to like killing. Learn to fear and
hate the enemy. Hate civilians. Can’t trust the
bastards. You hate taking prisoners. You’d rather kill them. Why? Because
the enemy wants to fuck you up. Kill you, your pals, some new guy doesn’t
know jack shit, wants to waste your Lieutenant, the whole damn platoon.
After a time you learn what war is: the fish
like iridescent gleam inside a brainless head; the
sleek white caterpillar of pulsing human gut; the grotesque tableau of charred
bodies frozen stiff; the impossible music made by voices howling beyond human
form; pure white bones piercing ruby ripped flesh; the strange oily feel of
blood; the sudden slump of the man next to you. The
business of flies on the mouths of the dead.
After a time, to a supernatural degree you
learn to live with terror, rage, struck down sorrow, blocked out guilt or dumb
struck grief. Yes, the supernatural threat of catastrophe and the ways to
survive it become preternaturally normal, second nature, a fully formed part of
you.
Then one day you get shot, or if you are
lucky, complete the tour, return home intact. But for those who have seen their
share the equation might go like this: Johnny got his gun + Johnny marches home
= HEEEREE’S JOHNNNNY!!!!
And the good soldier John or the good troop
Jane, who under fire never once thought of your civil rights, your silly flag,
your doofus politics, Good Johnny or Jane, I say,
feel and act a tad differently when the locked down feelings, bottled up
memories, instinctive behaviors of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder fervently,
unexpectedly kick in. The symptoms of PTSD, in
plain bloody English, are as follows:
Flashbacks: seeing and feeling a combat event as if it
were happening right now.
Hyper vigilance: being always on guard, always looking
for where the next shot, next grenade, next rocket, ambush or IED will come
next.
Survivor guilt: feeling bad, feeling real shitty for
having survived, where other’s in the platoon or squad
didn’t.
Moral Guilt: wrestling with actions one did or did not
take on one or more than one occasions.
Startle Reflex: dropping, flinching, turning fast at a sudden
noise or unexpected touch.
Suicidal Ideation: thinking of killing one’s self.
Homicidal Ideation: thinking of killing people. Friends or complete strangers.
Homicidal Rage: anger way out of proportion to an everyday
event. It comes quick, down and dirty.
Sadness, depression, anxiety, crying
spells. Staring into space, saying nothing.
Nightmares: violent dreams related to combat.
Sometimes it’s the same dream. Some vets make strange noises. Thrash in
bed. Wake up scared, or sweaty.
Ritual Behavior: at night, checking the lights, locking the
doors, maybe keeping a weapon at hand.
Alienation: a vet feels as if no one understands him,
doesn’t fit in, feels as if he or she should have
never returned.
Panic Attacks: For a short time the combat vet becomes
suddenly and intensely afraid. He or she sweats, breathe hard, has a pounding
heart, might get dizzy, choke.
Social Isolation: staying alone for long periods of
time. Or in public saying very little. To the point of being noticeably very quiet.
Drug and alcohol abuse: whatever works to dull the pain
glowing inside one’s head.
Fear of Emotional Intimacy: combats often won’t let anyone
get close to them. If someone gets too
close, the vet backs off or will push them away.
Employment: A lot of vets can’t keep a job. Every
couple of months quit or get fired.
Psychic Numbing: Not have the ability to feel emotions. Vets
talk about feeling hollow, blank, empty.
Denial: Problems? What problem? I don’t
have a fuckin’ problem.
High Risk Behavior: Doing daredevil stuff to re-live the
rush of combat.
These symptoms are normal responses to
extraordinary events outside the range of normal human experience. Most
civilians are clueless about combat and its aftermath.
Some types of treatment: The talking cure: a
vet talks to a therapist who is skilled in treating war stress and is not a
paid bull shitter. Group therapy: seven to ten vets
meet once a week for an hour or two. A good group leader is essential. That
person knows when to talk, when to listen, how to keep the vets focused.
Otherwise group therapy can get lame fast. EMDR: a form of hypnosis in which
the vet is fully awake. Exercise. Meditation. Meds. A friend who will just listen. An
artistic endeavor. One other thing.
This is real important: A lot of vets fear talking about war. They fear losing
control. Breaking down. Crying.
My advice to those who have seen combat: face yourself. Chances are good
you will learn to live less in the past, more in the present, but you will
never be the same. WWII,
Originally
published in CounterPunch
Marc Levy served with Delta Company
1/7 First Cavalry as an infantry medic in
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