As our nation celebrates Independence Day, all the soldiers who have died protecting our way of life will be remembered. Respect will also be paid to the living soldiers, who, having been deployed in Afghanistan, Iraq and other locations, are finally able to return home.
We honor these living servicemen and women, with a new and clearer awareness that they too have paid a steep price. What price is that? Twenty-first century warfare is now called persistent conflict, a new term defined as follows: “protracted confrontation among state, nonstate, and individual actors, who use violence to accomplish their political objectives,” (Casey, 2011).
The demands of modern warfare are unprecedented. Soldiers now face the constant threat of death or injury, regardless of where they are. Eating in the mess hall, taking a shower, or driving a Jeep across the base, can suddenly erupt into deadly conflict. Making matters worse, soldiers face longer and longer separations from their families and loved ones, as multiple deployments keep them stationed abroad.
So, the returning servicemen and women are suffering from cumulative stressors: sleep deprivation, strained family relationships, exposure to war trauma and the emotional exhaustion caused by the threat that, at any moment, their lives could be gone.
For the thousands of returning soldiers, the price they have paid is in a currency never recognized: Post-traumatic injuries of the mind; emotional wounds. For the first time in history, the soldier’s brain can receive medical care, just like a leg shot by a bullet, or a body part cut by sharp shrapnel. Now that the emotional wounds of war are being treated, massive new programs — Veteran’s Hospitals and community-based mental health expansions — are in place, to ensure that soldiers and their entire family, receive the best psychiatric care. These programs recognize the hardships upon children and spouses, when a loved one is deployed overseas.
So, what does today’s column mean for us civilians? It means that the following story, a fictional account of when I attended a military academy, can be viewed as a relic of an antiquated age, where mental illness was stigmatized by the false belief that sinful behavior, moral weakness, or cowardice, caused psychiatric illness.
The Academy
When I was 15, I attended a military academy. In April of that year, I went on my first military maneuver. Four hundred cadets, all dressed in combat gear, were issued blank bullets for our M-1 rifles. Base camp — tents, mess hall, latrines — had been set up in an isolated stretch of forest. Each platoon had a military advisor, and ours was 6 ft. 5 inches tall, 240 pounds; we gave him the nickname “Bear.”
Bear was Lt. Brown, an officer who had been severely wounded while serving his second tour of duty in Vietnam.
Using a large map, Lt. Brown briefed us on our mission: “We will follow the river north for two miles, cross the river here and set up an ambush on this small island. Our enemy, the Red Army, is coming down this path, to attack our base camp.” We moved out at sunset, and after two miles, Lt. Brown halted the platoon on the west bank of the river.
He led my squad across the river first, but before we made it to the island, a cadet named Wilson cried out, “Help!” Even though the river was only 2-3 feet deep, Wilson had fallen and gotten soaked. Lt. Brown carried him to the island, where he gently helped him calm down.
We set up positions on the island, but just as Lt. Brown was going back to get the others, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! In a protective reflex, Lt. Brown slammed us down to the ground, using his massive body to shield us.
When Lt. Brown broke the silence, it was as if he had become possessed by another person: his voice was robotic, his eyes scanned back and forth like a father searching for his lost son.
He barked orders, “Stay here. I think it was friendly fire. Listen for my whistle when I return.” Thirty minutes passed, until I heard his whistle. I stood up and saw him wave us over to him. By the time we crossed the river, he had gone back to the platoon.
When we arrived at the platoon, Lt. Brown had all the cadets standing at attention as he inspected each rifle for recent firing. He was shirtless and, using camouflage paint, had smeared his face and torso with green and black diagonal lines. His body bore testimony to the horrors of war: jagged scars and mangled flesh.
As he yelled at each cadet, “Did you fire your weapon?” We were dumfounded. Where had the kind Lt. Brown gone to? What was wrong with him?
Conclusion
Before 1980, there was no such thing as Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. For that reason, all the trauma symptoms Lt. Brown showed — anxiety, depression, flashbacks, startle reactions — were explained as weakness, poor moral fiber or a lack of courage. That is why Lt. Brown adhered to the ancient creed of warriors: Do not speak of the horrors of war.
The content of this article is for educational purposes only and should not be used as a substitute for treatment by a professional. The characters in this story are not real. Names and details have been changed to protect confidentiality.
References: “Comprehensive Soldier Fitness,” Casey, George, American Psychologist, 2011.
Dr. Richard Elghammer contributes his column each week to the Journal Review.
