Transition

I have been told by others who have deployed to the wars that it takes a year to readjust to life at home.  Here are some of my experiences with that transition and the emotions of reintegration.

Recently I was driving alone when I heard the story of Clay Hunt on NPR. He was a marine who was discharged and returned home after three tours in the wars. He had witnessed the death of  friends and fellow marine in IED attacks and been wounded himself by sniper fire. The collective toll left Clay with PTSD that ultimately contributed to his suicide. While listening to Clay's story I was overcome with unexpected sadness that left me weeping. The news of his death triggered a return to the suicidal death of an army major who we treated at FOB Lagman. He had shot himself in the head and arrived at the end of a long day. Suddenly, I was standing at the head of his litter staring at his wounds and then witnessing his ramp ceremony as his body was taken away. I hadn't thought of it many months.

Then, a few weeks ago, on a visit home, my wife was jogging around my parent's neighborhood deep in suburban Midwest where I grew up. She passed a conservative Muslim man and woman, dressed accordingly, out in their driveways. It was a sight that I never remembered seeing while growing up there in the 70's and 80's. Anyhow, rather than the typical friendly wave one usually gets in the neighborhood, she got an intense glare from the man. She felt like her appearance in jogging shorts was deeply offensive to him. Perhaps it was misperceived but the suggestion it infuriated me. Having devoted months to treating what was mostly Afghani-on-Afghani violence and further bending over backwards to accommodate cultural differences, the idea of conservative Islam encroaching on my childhood home was profoundly unsettling to me. I was willing to serve them but I don't want to be them. I am left to wonder if I was being irrational or hypersensitive but there was no denying the feeling.

Finally, my reaction to the news of Bin Laden's death was subdued. I frankly find it hard to rejoice in anyone's death, even an unrepentant mass murderer. Although I witnessed first hand the prolonged destructive conflict that he helped orchestrate and lay blame on his ideology and "inspiration" for so much of the suffering of the people that my team treated, I could not celebrate. While I am hesitant to fault those who did, I still feel that it is all a grand tragedy not a cause for rejoicing. I remember how repulsed I was at the scenes of Muslims celebrating the attacks on 9/11. It brought to my mind a quote from Golda Meir, the former Israeli prime minister, "Peace will come when they love their children more than they hate us." We seem so far from that state of being.

Remarkable Story

I have been remiss at writing. Trying to be a dad again. What's up with life getting in the way of blogging? Where are my priorities?

Here is a remarkable story about a soldier with live RPG ordnance that impaled his abdomen and the team that removed it. This was a situation for which we had contingency plans but fortunately never had to face. Essentially the plan was clear the OR of all unnecessary personnel, strap on that body armor collecting dust in our hooch, and cross your fingers. The surgeon was from the 759th Forward Surgical Team which was one of our predecessors at FOB Lagman deploying there in 2009. The event took place in 2006 so it must have been an earlier deployment for the 759th.


Thanks to my friend Donna for bringing the video to my attention.

(I tried to link the video directly to the post but Blogspot only seems to accept Youtube links.)

How Was It?

The past two weeks have been a period of adjustment. It is good to return to the world of soccer games, yard work, and birthday parties. Even doing the taxes seems to be an oddly pleasant distraction. Soon enough, I will be back at my day job. Eventually normalcy is bound to follow, right?

I continue to be asked the question "How was it?'

It vexes me.

I haven't figured out a good answer. "Fine" is absurd. I have been using "complicated and violent" but that too seems inadequate, not entirely accurate, and maybe too sensational. One person asked me if I "enjoyed" my deployment. That question caught me so off guard that I could only reply that "enjoy" was not a word I would use to describe a war deployment. But perhaps that is not a universal sentiment.

It was both a rewarding experience and one that I am not anxious to repeat soon. Maybe the answer to this question will come with more time and perspective. Perspective is topic that I have yet to post about. I intend on finishing up this blog soon and that will be part of the final chapter. Hopefully, there will be an answer somewhere even if I expect it will evolve down the road.

Reunited

Reunion feels wonderful but it can also be unsettling. I was part of several reunions over the past few days and I wanted to share some of those.

In Germany our flight stops to refuel. Here we are reunited with the concept of having to pay for a bottle of water. This sounds funny but remember for months, our water has arrived boxed on enormous palates. We've become connoisseurs of which strange-sounding brand of bottled water tastes best...Dibba or Hayat or Oasis. Now bottled water costs us $2 from the vending machine. Also, we are also reunited with our first western-clean toilet. Beautiful. I have nothing more to say on that subject.

Volunteers welcoming a service member home.

Our plane touches down at BWI. There is an organization called Operation Welcome Home that welcomes back troops on the transports returning from the middle east. As I pass through the customs inspection they are just around the corner.  I hear the applauding volunteers. I stop.

It is the final stop for our team that came together so many months ago and has been family for that time.  It is the family that has lately been showing some warts. Tempers have been shorter. Politeness is in a more limited supply as we got closer to the end. But it has been family. So I stop there to say goodbye. Once we round that corner, we go our separate ways. I feel sadder than I would have guessed at this moment. I say goodbyes and thank you's and wishes for safe travel and pass along the navy's traditional salutation "fair winds and following seas." It is a small navy but the truth is that most of us will never see each other again.

After this I turn that corner to cheers from the volunteers. I shake their hands as I pass by. If you are ever in the DC area and looking for something to do, maybe consider shaking hands at BWI after a troop transport lands. At the end of the line, I see the first of the family reunions. Dave, our orthopedist, has met his family. The kids are hanging on his legs. He has a large family and many have made it. I stop to enjoy the scene. I will witness other reunions later in the day. Some are similar, others quiet and low key. Some service members return without a reunion, just a ride home to an apartment or barracks room.

Happy reunion

I wander through the airport feeling detached from the proceedings. Throughout the day, strangers in airports shake my hand and thank me for my service. I have not figured out how to reply to this. I appreciate the sentiment but it is awkward, nonetheless. I stop at a sports bar in the airport. Here I am reunited with a beer and a burger. I savor the taste. I wonder if the waitress knows that it is the best beer she has served all day. It tastes like home. Some kind stranger picks up the tab. I wish to thank him but the waitress tells me that the person has requested to remain anonymous. So I will thank him here.

I board one of my connections, a flight that I have just changed to catch. I am sitting in the last open seat. Next to me is a young woman. After take off, she begins to read a lacrosse magazine. The pages give reviews of each of the NCAA title contenders for the upcoming season. There are also stories about the hottest high school prospects from each region. I can tell from the way that she lingers on each page, that she is a true fan of the sport. The situation seems divinely preordained.

I am considerably introverted. I almost never talk to strangers on planes. Yet here I am, just returned from the war, sitting next to a obvious lacrosse fan and all I can hear in my head is 'Brendan Looney', about whom I wrote many months ago. Brendan was a member of what might be the first family of Naval Academy lacrosse. In 2004, Navy reached the NCAA lacrosse finals but lost to Syracuse. Brendan and his two brothers were on that team. I thought that Brendan had been an All-American but, in fact, it was his brother Steve. Knowing his lacrosse association, I am compelled to tell this woman about Brendan.

"Excuse me, are you a lacrosse fan?" opening with the obvious.

"Yes"

"Have you ever heard of Brendan Looney? He played lacrosse for Navy. They went to the finals but lost in 2003 (I get the year wrong). I was told that he was an All-American (I confuse him with his brother)."

She immediately establishes her lacrosse cred by saying "Hmm. 2003. I thought that was Notre Dame and Georgetown but maybe Navy too in the final four. I don't know his name but then I didn't really know the Navy guys so well. I'm from Ohio. Why do you ask?"

I tell her that Brendan was a SEAL and that he was killed in a helicopter crash in September in the province where I was. I tell her that he was well-known in Naval Academy circles but I am curious if he was known in lacrosse circles.

Her reply is simply "That is tragic."

Initially, there is no more said. Maybe that is the final word on the subject anyhow. Perhaps it is to harsh a thought for polite conversation. But then after awhile, she starts to ask me questions about where I've been and what I've done. She is pleasant company and it feels right to tell her some of it.  We talk for a while about the war and life choices. It is a good conversation. But mostly I just wanted her to know Brendan's name.

If You Don't Decompress, You Might Get Bent (Out Of Shape)

At least they had the sense to not say "Welcome Home."

Kuwait is the place for in- and out-processing from the US Central Command. We have to complete something called WTP in order to get our tickets home. WTP, or Warrior Transition Program, is the navy's answer to stressed out sailors returning from combat deployments. In a few days, God and navy willing, we expect to board planes for Germany and the US. 

WTP Sign

Our mission here is something called decompression. The navy's idea of decompression involves more living in open bay tents confined to a military base in a desert country with communal latrines. Feeling that stress relief? Now, we've been living in open bay tents confined to military bases in desert countries since being relieved two weeks ago but that is just quibbling. The good news is that they have some fast food chains and a bigger exchange and the weather is rather pleasant in Kuwait at this time of year.

Springle plaque from the memorial wall.

There is a nice tent that was erected in honor of CDR Charles Springle, a social worker attached to the 55th Medical Brigade, who was killed in 2009 by a soldier returning from Iraq. The tent has pergo flooring, an internet cafe, leather couches, and a large video game room with lots of realistic, multi-player war games (no joke) if you wish.

Springle Center

Decompression might be a first person shooter combat game, say XBOX HALO 3. Comfy chair is naturally the key.

We have some suggestions for the WTP. First that we skip it altogether. (Denied.) Or that it be moved from a desert military base to Italy or Germany for some real R&R. (Not going to happen.) Or finally that they change the name to WTF (By that I mean the Warrior Transition Funstop. What did you think I meant?). Funny how no one listens to us.


One last sad note. I bought a fold-up camping chair eight long months ago while in pre-deployment training at Ft. Dix. Possibly the best $10 I ever spent. It has been with me through Ft. Dix, Kuwait, Kandahar, FOB Lagman, and back to Kuwait. Alas, its journey must come to an end. Regretfully I leave it behind. In honor of my chair, I present the three pillars of deployment: chair, cigar, dirt.

Iconic pose.

Disturbing News

For the most part we have mentally left the FOB behind, but we are still watching the news especially while in theater. Two soldiers from the Second Stryker Cavalry Regiment, one of the main units that we supported at FOB Lagman, were killed by a member of one of the Afghani security groups who either switched allegiance or was a plant. Given that an Afghan security group took over base security on FOB Lagman about three months ago, while we were there, the immediacy of this incident is apparent. Additionally, the memorial wall at the navy compound in Kuwait has a plaque for LT Florence Choe, who was part of the navy medicine community and killed in 2009 in similar fashion. It could have been any one of us.

A Rocket Can Ruin Your Day

We finally made it to Kuwait which is where I wanted us to be before posting this entry. Hopefully this will prevent any excessive worry for our friends and family.

We were fortunate to never take indirect fire or sniper fire on FOB Lagman during our time there. Perhaps it is lack of cover in the surrounding country-side or perhaps the difficulty targeting a small base with crude guidance systems, but there was never a mortar or rocket attack. I don't think anyone harbors any illusions that the lack of attack was due to better acceptance of locals in our province. The closest that the FOB came to any attack during our stay was the discovery of an IED a few hundred feet from the front gate which was disarmed without injury.

KAF, however, is a different story. The air field undergoes fairly regular attacks. Insurgents usually set the rockets for remote launch, often with a cellphone, so that they will be gone once the location is discovered. As an aside, in Iraq insurgents were known to use blocks of ice as primitive timing mechanisms, as they would melt to allow something heavy to push the launch button. Anyhow, the rockets rarely hit anything of value but occasionally the insurgents get lucky. In December at least one person was killed and another wounded in a single salvo.

Sample rocket tube wired to launching device at training range.

On the day we arrived, during one of our out-briefs, the speaker assured us that, while there had been rocket attacks in the past, they had stopped. This pronouncement pretty much doomed us. The speaker happened to be a chaplain. Not sure where he gets his information.

Predictably around noon one of the days during our stay, the air raid siren sounded and a very deliberate female voice with a oriental-accent, think robotic Geisha girl, announced "rocket attack, rocket attack" over the loud speaker. Several of us happened to be hanging in our transient-stay tent, so we grabbed our body armor and helmets, and headed to the nearest bunker. We did this because, being transients, we apparently don't know any better. Many, many passerby's simply ignored the announcement and went about their business. I guess that says something about the frequency and accuracy of these attacks. Still, we were on our way home and were not looking for any extra risk.

Bunker party. Who brought the beer?

After a few minutes the "all clear" was passed and we emerged from our bunker as newly hardened combat veterans. (Wink).