Healing Combat Trauma

Prevention Talk and Prescriptions Apparently Not Doing It: Army and Marine Suicides Both Up

"The grand essentials of happiness," Allan Chalmers wrote, "are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for." Those words echoed in my mind yesterday when I met a remarkable woman vet in Seattle, who ten years ago was homeless, suffering from MST and PTSD. (Today she's a vital, contributing member of her community, solving problems for herself and other veterans in need, on a large scale.) 

We were talking about suicide prevention, a cause close to her heart, because she'd lost a daughter to suicide, and recently a friend as well (Orrin McClellan, who we wrote about recently on this site.) We were talking about suicide, and how Army and Marine numbers are still up, despite prevention strategies. She said, pointedly, that she'd learned that veterans (and others) who are struggling with suicide need "three things" in their lives to keep from killing themselves. What they need are: "a reason to live, a way to live, and a purpose to live for."

Salon magazine had an excellent but gut-wrenching article earlier this week by Mark Benjamin called "A Predictable Suicide at Camp Lejeune," subtitled, "A doctor warned that mental health care for violent, disturbed Marines was inadequate. Sgt. Tom Bagosy proved it." The story profiled the violent death of Marine Sgt. Tom Bagosy, 25, on the way out of the Deployment Health Center. (Bagosy leaves a wife and two children.) Less than a year ago, Salon had run another article by Mark Benjamin about a Marine Corps psychiatrist, Dr. Kernan Manion, and his specific, whistle-blowing warnings about the inadequacy of mental health care at Camp Lejeune -- warnings he took all the way to the president, and seemingly for which he was fired a few days after voicing them. (Here's the link to that earlier article, including his warnings.)

Marines initiated a new suicide prevention program last year; but suicides have only increased. They lead the services at this point. Army numbers are up as well. According to a report released Thursday, and carried on CNN, 32 soldiers killed themselves in June, "the highest number in a single month" since Vietnam. Twenty-one of of the soldiers were active duty, 11 were inactive Guard or Reserve; and seven of them killed themselves while deployed. A quote from the article, "Army officials admit they still haven't answered the question of why troops are committing suicide at a record rate."

While Marines sometimes mock the Army's slogan of an "Army of One" -- preferring instead to focus on the group -- the reality is, both branches are seeing heavy combat and neither one is excelling at helping troops not commit suicide. New programs get trotted out, new initiatives, new videos. But none of them are getting the job done: not alone, not together. Troubled troops and veterans are simply not listening; or not hearing what they need to hear. And what would that be?

Well, Mass. General Hospital is having their second annual conference right now on the "Complexities and Challenges of PTSD and TBI," and they're doing a great job "Tweeting" the speakers' points in real time. Here are a few excerpts of note, starting with a crucial one: "Only 30% of troops self-identify as needing help before committing suicide -- despite all the proactive intervention points." And again: Only 42% of troops who screened positive for mental health problem actually sought help from doc or spiritual advisor." PTSD is initially difficult to distinguish in troops because upon their return home, "initial relief and euphoria" at being back can mask it. But over time,"After 8-10 weeks and adjusting to a different life schedule at home, symptoms start to present."

This fits right in with the stories you hear from people coming back, that they don't want to talk about it or think about it (PTSD); they just want to get on with their lives, and fit right back in to where they were before. It's later on, when this adjustment doesn't work, that things get more stressful. High unemployment can't help: veterans' unemployment is significantly higher, in the recession, even that the national average. And troops have gone from being highly focused on the battlefield and engaged in their warrior purpose to losing that and perhaps not being able to replace it immediately with another. They've also gone from a high level of camaraderie with their buddies often to being quite geographically separated from those they were close to when deployed. Marriages and family life can be rocky as well. The relationship they were dying to get back to on the battlefield may have evaporated by the time they got home; or not make the adjustment intact. Again from the MGH conference: "78% of marriages end in divorce for first-time deployment troops."

Against all these backdrops of difficulty -- and an awareness that the "gold standard" of treatment is still talk therapy and psychopharmaceuticals -- the problem persists, compounded by sleeping pills that can be dangerous, and the ever-present self-medication strategies of alcohol and street drugs. It's hard to get the formula right for the correct medication(s) at the correct dosage(s), and until that happens, veterans frequently talk about feeling numb, in a stupor, not feeling like themselves, etc. Vets don't necessarily want to talk about what they've been through -- except perhaps with one another, and even then, not that much -- and ignorant questioning about how many people they've killed while they were over there, etc., just exacerbates the problem. So enough of the bad news...of which there is plenty...what can vets possibly do to increase their chances of surviving and adjusting? Because I highly doubt it's gonna be another prevention video or poster that does the trick, however well-meaning.

If everyone wants an easy answer, maybe they won't like this. But it seems to be that it's time to return to replacing one purpose (warrior) with another (warrior on the homefront), and putting some time and thought, effort and resources into what that will be. One veteran who made the transition from serving to the fire department, felt he literally replaced his one purpose, and one set of buddies with another; and that "substitution of purpose," as it were, was what helped him survive. But not every vet will be so lucky, or have or make that opportunity. 

If we take a look back at the Chalmers quote that opened this discussion, what are the three "grand essentials" for happiness (i.e., well-adjustment) that he cites? Something to do, love and hope for. And what are the three things that help a vet prevent suicide, according to the suicide counselor vet? Three very similar things: a reason to live, a way to live, and a purpose to live for. Veterans are warriors...and cast aside from their purpose, without an effective way to replace that immediately, it's possible they flounder. As a society, as those who "support" our troops -- whether professionally or personally -- what can we do to make sure that they have all three? With a little reflection, we can see where they had them in combat. Something to do (be a warrior); something to love (family, country, buddies, the mission); and something to hope for (winning; getting back home alive; reuniting with family and friends; keeping your buddies alive). What I suspect, sadly, is that from those adrenaline-charged heights, life on the home front, potentially unemployed, over-medicated, and disconnected from family and friends, there can become a time when there's not enough "reason" to live; there's not enough way to live; and there's definitely a loss of purpose to live for.

A better use of resources than more videos, etc., though would be: focusing on what would it take to give veterans their purpose back? And not entirely how could be do it for them, but how could they join in that mission themselves? Every veteran affects the lives of 50 other people, minimum; so whatever happens with them back on the home front is a ripple effect. Let's focus some energy on the topic of continuing life with a purpose; versus watching on with sadness and despair the continuing tragedy of young vets (and older) taking their own lives. They've given too much; and they deserve so much better. So while pep talks on prevention and prescription pharmaceuticals don't seem to be doing the total job when it comes to suicide prevention, maybe it's time to bring back talk about purpose -- and how to continue that successfully, after the deployment is over and the uniform is hung up for the time being.

In a related side note, apparently mental health plummets when distressed individuals can't "do" to solve their situations with personal effort. There's been talk in the news lately about mental health issues soaring in the Gulf states after the BP eco-disaster, and that money needs to be set aside to help with those; but in that, there's also discussion of what happened after Hurricane Katrina. Apparently, after the hurricane hit, those affected started immediately to do what they could to restore their lives. (Think of all the news footage we've seen of residents after large-scale disasters, sawing up downed trees, hauling lumber to shore up makeshift housing, etc.) What's now surfacing anecdotally are stories about while this busy-ness after the disaster was therapeutic for people -- helped them to get their minds off the tragedy by putting themselves back to work -- when FEMA came through and made everything grind to a halt while they inventoried the situation -- people's grief and despair rose up in waves, with nothing to "do" to distract them.

Much is made of the "adrenaline rush" of combat, and how it's very hard (hmmn, likely impossible) to match that in civilian life -- but at the same time, there's also definite "purpose" -- of getting the job done, of keeping your buddies alive, etc. After combat...it's suddenly very quiet, and boring by comparison. "War is hell, but peace is boring!" some veterans joke. Cast adrift without the shared common and energizing purpose of combat, in their early 20s, veterans need quickly to find something to "do" that matters to them -- something they can live for, love and enjoy, that satisfies them and makes life worth living. Sadly, far too many people are checking out when they can no longer find a reason to live, and in tragic stories like that of Marine Sgt. Tom Bagosy, or Orrin McClellan, you get the impression they don't feel like they had any other choice. Tragic. Not just for them, but for the people they left behind, whose lives will also forever be marked by this experience. Such a tremendous loss...and possibly, preventable: If not for them, at least for some others. Let's try.

Anatomy of a PTSD Suicide: Orrin McClellan Was "Only Halfway Home" from War

"Happy families are all alike," wrote Leo Tolstoy, the famous Russian novelist (and combat veteran), in the opening lines of "Anna Karenina," adding, "every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." And certainly few families are unhappier than those who've lost someone they love deeply to suicide, as Orrin McClellan's parents have, who've recently lost their Airborne soldier son to the aftermath of PTSD.

We wrote about Orrin McCllelan yesterday, the 25-year-old OEF veteran who took his own life in May of this year. The article, "Anatomy of a Suicide: OEF Veteran Orrin McClellan, RIP from PTSD," is linked here. The underlying Seattle Times article, also from yesterday's paper, is very good, and combines multimedia with the telling the story of McClellan's all-too-short life and struggle. It also documents the pain and suffering McClellan's parents are going through.

There is no "purple heart" for PTSD. There is no "war memorial" that lists those who died by suicide from PTSD, even when combat was the most likely explanation. And maybe there should be... But in the meantime, all we can do is try to reconstruct what we can find about who Orrin McClellan was in the 25 short years he was here.

Digging around on the Web, we can find out much about who McClellan was. The exercise becomes less macabre, or voyeuristic, than the assembling of an online shrine to the memory of someone we never knew, who's now too soon gone. There are the two online journals that McClellan kept, at MySpace and LiveJournal. There is his photo stream on Flickr. There is an obituary by a caring friend, who attended his memorial service. There is McClellan's listing at an online dating service, "Hot or Not," which he set up when he was in Afghanistan, and elsewhere pans with the single word, "whatever." There are some videos that a friend shot of him, who mourns his passing and wishes he had captured a few more shots of McClellan while he was still alive. There are the photos and the poems that his family shared with the Seattle Times, that are part of the original article. And there is a truly beautiful video about his deployment to Afghanistan, called "They Carry," that McClellan himself pieced together, shown on YouTube, and set to music: not heavy metal, but classical...He uploaded it in late September, 2007, after he got back from Afghanistan, and it carries the interesting descriptor: "this generation's wars from eyes on the ground...the faces and names are placeholders. those who were there remember. the rest can only watch." WELL worth viewing...

His interests, as he discloses them on one of the two online journals he kept, are nothing out of the ordinary: places he's been, music he likes, hobbies: "airborne, american beauty, army, dave barry, death cab for cutie, flickr, glen phillips, haruki murakami, italy, langley, lava lamps, led zeppelin, military, muse, orbital, photography, pink floyd, quentin tarantino, seattle, the big lebowski, toad the wet sprocket, vicenza, washington, whidbey island."

There's his brief description of the key dates and places in his short life, again from an online journal:

"Born in Milwaukee, WI. But home is between the Cascades and Olympics on the Puget Sound. Grew up in Langley, on Whidbey Island, Washington. Enlisted in the Army in late '03, started Basic in Feb '04, Airborne School that June, got to Italy that July, and to Afghanistan Mar '05. Getting out Feb '07."

(In September of 2007, he uploaded the excellent video, "They Carry," of his time in Afghanistan.")

And then there are the news items about him, focusing on an arrest, locally. And what look like three court cases: in July of 2008, January of 2009, and September of 2009, listed on King County Superior Court's website.

In July of 2008, he was in the local paper, for assaulting some cops at a concert, allegedly threatening to kill them, gouging one of their eyes, and basically asking for them to shoot him. In October of 2008, he's back in the news locally, after being acquitted of assaulting and threatening police officers in the earlier event. He spent time as an inpatient at the VA for PTSD. He also lived too far away to make regular treatment a likelihood, and getting there, via a ferry trip and highway driving on I-5, was triggering.

His parents, who describe themselves as self-employed and dedicated (i.e., more available than most) seem to be doing everything in their power to help him, but he is melting down. The previous article, yesterday, describes some of the symptoms of his raging PTSD. The two articles in the local papers also detail the attempts his family made to get him help.

In one of the articles, his mother is quoted as saying, "We must not stop with research and development of the healing of visible wounds and helping the veterans become whole with prostheses for severed arms and legs. We have a responsibility to get just as expert at healing the inner wounds of the body, mind, emotions and spirit.”

She also goes right to the heart of the matter when she says, also quoting from those articles, "Our military is well-versed at training our sons and daughters to be experts in weapons, combat and killing, and distrust of the other, but they fail to complete their warrior training of our troops by failing to train them in the skills of regulating the emotional responses of the body, mind and spirit after experiencing the traumatic horrors and terrors of war, and in the skill of reintegrating into families and communities.” 

When she talks about her son's difficulties, she is very clear: "Our son, only halfway, came home from the war; half of him is still fighting over there, within his body, mind, heart and soul,” Gorman said. “Every day, all the time.”

Unfortunately, on May 18, 2010, Orrin McClellan lost that fight. And his family, and everyone concerned about combat veterans and PTSD in America, grieves with them.

Anatomy of a Suicide: OEF Veteran Orrin McClellan, RIP from PTSD

The Seattle Times has an article in yesterday's paper about a young Whidbey Island OEF veteran who unfortunately killed himself in May of this year. Orrin Gorman McClellan served with the 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team in Afghanistan in 2005-2006. He took a lot of photos of his experience in Afghanistan, and he also wrote, poignantly, about his experiences as a soldier in an online journal, where he wrote every day. (The article doesn't reveal the location of that journal.) In what's known in the journalism biz as a "package," the article also has two multimedia presentations included with it: a video of his parents leafing through a book they're putting together of poems Orrin wrote, linked here, and a video narrated by his parents of some of his photography from Afghanistan, linked here. "I've become numb," McClellan writes, "but not comfortably so."

It's wrenching watching his parents in the videos sit side-by-side on the couch, in a tableau no doubt repeated across America, as the parents of the approximately 18 veterans a day who kill themselves must do, trying to make sense of why Orrin had to go, and still actively grieving, trying to come to terms with their own loss. In Orrin's case, his mother is a social worker, who the article says specializes "in the treatment of traumatized individuals." Of course, not even a mother with this background can necessarily save her son, which only adds to the tragedy. It says his mother even "took a counseling job with the Whidbey Island NAS and helped her son navigate through the VA system." He was retired with a 100% disability due to PTSD. The article quotes the mom as saying that as a community, we all need to listen better to our vets. And practice "deep listening" to their stories of what they've gone through.

What makes the article good, from this reader's perspective, is that it positions Orrin McClellan's death against the backdrop of the statistics of veterans suicides across the country, and then projects how those statistics affect Washington state, where the Seattle Times is based, and where Orrin lived. Eighteen deaths of veterans a day, the number of suicides approximating deaths in combat this year -- these are shocking statistics, but like so many others, we become numb to them over time. Bringing it closer to home, those same statistics mean of the almost 36,000 OIF and OEF veterans from Washington state, a dozen would be lost to suicide. In 2010, Orrin McClellan was sadly one of that number.

(Army veteran Chris Loverro, who served with the Stryker brigade from Fort Lewis, Washington, did a poignant video of his own about PTSD and suicide in the life of a veteran. We've shown it in a recent article, linked here.)

McClellan's mother, Judith Gorman, says that her son never really came all the way back home, because of his PTSD. Retired Army General Eric Shinseki, now head of the VA, is also quoted in the article, as ruminating -- perhaps not about McClellan's death in particular but about veterans' suicides in general -- that he often asks himself, "Why do we know so much about suicides, but so little about how to prevent them?" That's a fabulous quote, but it's also quite a profound question.

Edwin Shneidman, the so-called "father of suicidology" -- who ironically got his start leafing through files at the VA, reading suicide notes of veterans -- is someone we've written about a fair amount on this site. He's also known as the originator of the concept of a "psychological autopsy," where someone, reasoning backwards from the fact of the a person's death, tries to reconstruct the extent and timing of the stressors in that person's life, to determine how and why it became too much for them (the "when" having already been determined.)

I'm not sure, but I would hazard a guess that, other than the families of veterans who commit suicide, who are directly involved, there isn't much of an effort made on a larger level to reconstruct what stressors became unbearable in the lives of those who kill themselves, during or after military service. Perhaps a broader study into this, a la Shneidman's methods, would produce important or helpful conclusions.

McClellan's story is in many ways all too typical...except for the social worker mother, and the wonderful legacy he left behind in the poems he wrote and photographs he took. He struggled, as many veterans with PTSD do, with drugs and alcohol, with trying to fit back into his life, with impulse control, with hypervigilance, with nightmares, with combining alcohol with prescription medications, with grief and perhaps blaming himself over the deaths of two close friends. And he struggled with long drives to the VA, which was located quite a distance from his home.

His parents sound like amazing people, who tried so hard. They even established a Veterans Resource Center, on the island where they lived, "to offer referrals, networking and other assistance," to help other veterans in addition to their son. In the wake of his son's death, they may also publish a book of his writings, to raise awareness about PTSD.

Digging around on the Web, especially within social media, it wasn't hard to find some of McClellan's thoughts. He had two journals where he kept his writings, one on MySpace and one on LiveJournal. I've chosen not to link to them, to protect his privacy in case that's an issue. But in one he quotes from T.S. Eliot's famous poem, "The Hollow Men," which closes with the memorable lines about "this is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper."

It also contains an entry from September of 2008, while McClellan was actively struggling with PTSD, but a full year and a half before he ended his life. In an entry called "What the hell happened to me?" he writes:

"I read some entries in my journal from two years ago" 

[2006, the end of his Afghanistan deployment and beyond]

I love who I was.

Why did I do this to myself?

Was it war?

Did I implode from all the shit I saw?

Or was it something else?"

Questions really with no answer. He goes on for a bit more, and then concludes with the poignant question:

Why did I let myself

Get so lost?

RIP Orrin McClellan, gone too soon, and comfort to your family and your friends.

Editor's note: The photo is of a point on Whidbey Island, a thoroughly beautiful place in Washington state.

Kind Words from a Mentor and Friend about "Healing Combat Trauma"

Unsolicited feedback can be encouraging, especially when it's positive. Had a very nice surprise of that kind this past this past week when I received a lovely and unexpected email from Arthur Egendorf, Ph.D., a dear mentor and friend, whose own work with war veterans recovering from trauma gave me practical hope that good, heartfelt work could be done in this area.

(Egendorf is a Vietnam veteran [Army intelligence] with a Ph.D. in psychology from Harvard, and a lifelong interest in therapeutic healing modalities, beginning with talk therapy and branching out from there. He was one of the originators, in the 1970s, of the "rap groups," that allowed returning Vietnam veterans to have someplace to go and peers to talk with, when they weren't willing to take part in the services offered by the V.A. In any history of the Vietnam era that focuses on PTSD and veterans, such as Gerard Nicosia's encyclopedic "Home to War: A History of the Vietnam Veterans' Movement," Egendorf is one of a handful of experts from the time whose name keeps coming up.) 

I'll write more later in the month, as a certain anniversary date rolls around, about how much his award-winning book "Healing from the War: Trauma and Transformation after Vietnam," (sadly, now out of print) was put to constructive use with one veteran, whose life it helped to change. It's fair to say that my copy of his book is fairly well completely yellow from highlighting key passages, thoughts and inspirations, so it was especially gratifying to receive these unsolicited kind words from him.

Dear Lily,

In dedicating so much of yourself to the men and women who risk and give their lives for duty, honor, country you do all of us, this mostly sleep-walking America, a great service.  As tireless, fearless, noisy (when necessary) and deeply caring witness you give our soldiers and veterans what they deserve from this entire country but get from only very few.  As one who knows a bit of what it takes to love and care for bloodied and pained survivors who've fought for all of us and then have been mostly ignored, I salute and cheer you on to keep waking us up.  Keep shaking us, Lily.  Keeping making us see how much those who've served have given to us, and how much we owe our thanks, respect and unending care.  You go girl.  

Artie Egendorf 

Editor's note: For more of an introduction to Egendorf's work, here are a few posts that mention him, linked here, here, here (this one in particular, called "A Hand Across the Abyss: How Openness Helps Heal"), and here, among others.

Paying Tribute at "The Tribute Wall..."

One of the most remarkable experiences, at last week's third annual "The Brain at War" conference in San Francisco, was visiting the Marines' Memorial Club & Hotel in Union Square, where the conference was held.

Unbeknownst to me and many of the other conferences' participants, the Marines' Memorial is both swoon-worthily fantastic as a venue AND happens to house a one-of-a-kind tribute to OIF and OEF veterans who have been killed in action. The so-called "Tribute Wall" is on the 10th floor, mezzanine, and Major General J. Michael Myatt, USMC (Ret.) encouraged us all, during the conference, to take some time and pay honor to those servicemembers who had given the   ultimate sacrifice. 

True to my nonexistent personal GPS, I first mistakenly went to the wrong floor -- the library, on the 11th (which was cool, but not the same) -- and finally found my way to where I was supposed to be. The polished black plaques, listing fallen warriors by name, branch, and date of death, cover the four walls of the memorial room, and then stretch out beyond it, covering a "fifth" wall completely in the adjoining room, and continuing to advance.

If you know when a friend or loved one died in combat, you're able to find the plaque's general location by scanning the wall to find the correct year, then reading vertically to find the approximate location of the date.

If you know only a name, but not the date, it's safest to look up the name of the servicemember in the frequently-updated list kept in a binder in the center of the room, again listing by name, branch of service, and date of death.

In my case, I went to a section of the wall to find those who died on a certain tour of Marines in the Sunni Triangle, back in '05/'06, then went back to find the names of friends of friends and take photos for them of their loved ones' plaques.

There are some surprises. One is, see photo at left, that two "major league" departed heroes, among all the rest of the great departed heroes, Pat Tillman (Army) and Jason Dunham (Marines) died on the same day. Until I saw their plaques resting above each other on the "Tribute Wall," I can't say that I realized that. 

There's also a guest book which people can sign, to leave their memories and condolences; and there's a flag display of the flags of all the branches in the center of the room. There's also a framed photograph of Marine General James T. Conway, (at this writing, current Commandant of the Marine Corps) from the front cover of a Marine magazine, visiting the wall; and another framed "thank you" note he wrote, expressing his appreciation to the Gold Star families for the exhibit.

I found myself returning to this generation's "Wall" time and time again during the conference, sneaking away from the (great) presenters to put myself back in touch with the very great losses of these wars, in terms of men and women who were dearly and deeply loved by those they left behind. I racked my brain and texted friends for the names of friends they had lost on their tours, to make sure I got photos of their loved one's plaques.

In numerous trips to the Tribute Wall ("Room" is more like it, since the plaques cover at least five walls by now), I rarely saw another visitor. Only one couple, the wife or girlfriend tagging behind the husband or boyfriend, who looked like a veteran, searching out key names on the wall. I heard that a number of conference participants also went to pay their respects. I didn't run into them, which doesn't mean they weren't there. What the hushed and reverent silence in the room did mean, though, and the literally thousands of plaques, each representing a servicemember important and loved to many friends and family, is how little we typically recognize the ultimate sacrifice of those who   gave their lives. I feel blessed and honored and frankly, grateful, that I got to pay my respects at the Tribute Wall for those who gave so much.

If you're ever in San Francisco, and you can handle seeing the sheer enormity of OIF and OEF deaths honored in one single "room," you owe it to yourself -- nay, them -- to go by the Marines' Memorial Club & Hotel, head to the 10th floor, Mezzanine, and pay your respects, so that their sacrifice is not in vain.

Editor's note: Servicemembers who were KIA from all branches of the Armed Forces are represented on "the wall," not just Marines.

An American Veteran -- Eddie Writes a Moving Letter about Four of His Other Shell-Shocked WWII Veterans

Eddie Livingston was a teenage paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne who participated in five European campaigns, was a Prisoner of War for a year in Germany, and returned home with a slew of medals, honors...and a lifetime wracked by PTSD and abject poverty. Read more about him in the  "An American Veteran" series we've been bringing to light, here. In this very interesting letter, Eddie takes on the persona of a friend, "Willie," to write to a battle buddy named "Ben," about his own fears and concerns; but also, so importantly, about the bravery of the other, equally "unknown" soldiers who have succumbed to PTSD. With writing that's plain-spoken, deeply emotional, and straight from the heart, the unschooled Eddie Livingston is a match for any of the war writers out there, whose names are far more famous than his. Read on:

"Dear Ben:

Tomorrow is the big day. The day they open the old bean. And what they don't find, will probably worry them more than anything they do find. Ben, I would be the biggest liar in the world if I said I wasn't scared. It started -- the fear did -- the minute I said, "Yes, you can operate." The doctors leave the decision up to you. And that's what makes it so hard, Ben. And scary. And so different from Venafro. Or the other places. It hit me all at once, Ben, that I would be ALONE for this one. Completely, utterly alone.

Ben, I wrote you a letter a while back, and in trying to be funny, I may have left you with some wrong impressions about a wonderful bunch of people. I am speaking of the psychiatrists and related personall -- from ward boy right on up to specialist. These people are rendering incalculable service, Ben.

Because in the case of our mentally and emotionally disturbed veterans, Ben, psychiatry is their best bet, the only bet for many. The tragedy, Ben, in too many cases, that I have aseen is that "My world and your world" is lost to them. Irretrievably lost. Modern medicine with its miracle drugs can relieve their physical suffering. The psychiatrist can snatch one back -- briefly -- from that netherworld. But all too often, Ben, there is simply nothing that can be done, for too many of them.

I do not understand the problem. Nor do I know what needs to be done, or what can be done, even. But, Ben, I do know that we cannot afford the disgrace of apathy. For no group of Americans ever served our country more valiantly, and at greater cost to themselves, than did these men.

Let me tell you about four of them. Their stories are probably typical of most.

Just across from my bunk is a young fellow. Except for his eyes, which remind you of dark windows in an empty house, he looks no different than you or I, Ben. But on that shell-torn purgatory called Anzio, something went wrong with this kid, and he will never be right again. The guns of that inferno blaze and thunder in his mind, today, just as real and vividly, as on those terrifying days when the beachhead was active. Ben, this kid will never know even the make-believe peace of the Cold War.

Right down the aisle from this kid is another young fellow. His eyes are sky-blue, but there is no sunshine in them. There never will be again. The life has burned out of them, leaving two employ blue holes. He was a farmer. He was a farmer until 1940, when he joined the Army. He still had the dreams and visions of a farmer, Ben, until one bleak morning in June '44. It happened at Normandy. On Omaha Beach. The Germans swept in on the unprotected right flank of his outfit, and wiped them out, killing them all, except for him. He doesn't remember green fields. The harvest. Not even his dog, Bozo. But you should see his eyes when he tells you, 'I kept telling them the right flank was open! I kept telling them! I kept telling them!'" When you look into those empty blue holes, Ben, you have a feeling that freedom's right flank is now securet. That, because of the price he paid, the right flank is now secure -- perhaps forever. Thanks to the price he paid -- we can't forget.

The third kid is a youngster you will never forget. He's always in a rush, Ben. If you to stop to chat with him, even for a minute, he is fidgety. Pretty soon he will say, 'Please come back later. I am expecting my wife and two sons.' He will tell you that they come every single day. And, although he expects them momentarily, he will take time to show you their picture.

The picture, Ben, is just a landscape on a postcard. A winding country road and a sunny sky, by some forgotten artist. There are no people in the picture. Oh, yes, he had a wife and two sons. HE HAD THEM RIGHT UP TO IWO JIMA.

The last fellow is one you would understand, Ben. He was in North Africa, at Kassarine Pass. He was with Patton in Sicliy. With Mark Clark at Salerno and Anzio. He was with the first wave in Normandy. He helped to liberate Saint Lo and Paris. He marched clear across France. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge. He knew war long enough and well enough to write a book about it. And Ben, that's what he's done, he tells everybody. WROTE A BOOK ABOUT WAR.

He smiles shyly when he shows you his book. He tells you he is very sorry that he can't offer you a copy. But he has only ONE COPY at present.

"Here!" he hands you the book. "Look at it! Read a page! Like it?" he smiles.

"S-U-R-E," he will promise, eyes aglow with pleasure. "An autographed copy -- just for you! And very soon, now, too!"

The book, Ben, that he clutches to him so desperately, the book he shows you with such eager pride, is just an ordinary copy of the Bible. One a Red Cross lady gave to him a long time ago. So it's really a little more tattered and worn than most Bibles.

Ben, perhaps he did, well, help to write HIS BOOK. It doesn't seem at all impossible when you look into his eyes. Eyes a world from your own. Eyes that are always looking back ONE WAR. Eyes that are a world, a war, from your own, and always will be. Eyes that make you feel strongly that maybe he did at least help to write HIS BOOK.

Perhaps he researched HIS BOOK at Kassarine, amid the despair of defeat. Then wrought a first draft from the fury that was Sicily. Edited this for feeling in the agony of Salerno. Rewrote for effect in the fear that was Anzio. Illustrated for clarity -- and hope -- in the early dawn that was Normandy. Dedicated it to show the futility of war in the Battle of the Bulge. And prays now that all of us will join him in a rededication to end the need for war, in the Halls of Peace at the United Nations, and in our hearts.

Pray for me, Ben. And with warmest regards and best wishes, I am, your friend and buddy, Willie."

A Corrective to Believing PTSD is Responsible for Everything

I found this line last night on a blog. It's jagged and funny because, really, people do blame too much on PTSD, when it's sometimes not PTSD's fault at all.  Here's one veteran's barbed but humorous take on it:

"As to PTSD, I know some veterans have been emotionally devastated by their service experience. In no way do I not respect their experiences. The majority are, I believe, like me. I was an asshole when I went into the Army. The Army didn’t cause that. When I got out I was the same, only with some stress added."--- Anonymous

An American Veteran -- "The Only Happiness I Have Ever Known"

It's undeniable what a hard life Eddie Livingston had: 30 years of living in squalor, without electricity or running water, despite being an American hero, a seven-time Purple Heart winner, and a former P.O.W. in a brutal German camp. We've been reading about his life lately in the "An American Veteran" series, linked here. And we're so grateful to Eddie's niece, Pam Baker, for sharing Eddie's writings with a larger audience. He lives on in what he wrote so plainly from his large and broken  heart. And yet there is real wisdom, too, and surprisingly -- though not surprisingly for veterans, who sometimes truly brim over with it -- there is true compassion for others, and sage thinking about how we can interact together in the world, for the benefit of all.

In lines that could have come straight from Max Ehrmann's 1952 masterpiece, "Desiderata," reminiscent of sayings like "You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here," we find simple, plain yet profound truths in what Eddie wrote. And deep love for his fellow human being, despite all he personally had been through:

"The strong help the weak, the rich help the poor, the well help the sick, the intelligent help the ignorant, the good help the bad, the fortunate help the unfortunate.

Our nation is rich and strong, therefore we have a great responsibility to help those less blessed than ourselves.

It is not necessary that those people thank us or even appreciate our help. Let our reward be the good satisfaction that comes from helping others.

We cannot limit ourselves to helping those who we deem deserving of our help. We would run into controversy trying to decide who deserves our help, but all of us can see and define need.

A young enemy girl gave her life to save mine in POW Stalag. She did not even know my name, she only knew I needed help.

The only happiness I have ever known is the satisfaction that comes from helping another human being." -- Eddie Livingston, 1966.

An American Veteran -- Who Eddie Livingston Was, a Decorated War Hero with PTSD

Finally, a newspaper documents Eddie Livingston's struggle on its editorial pages. They write, giving him his due but was it too little, too late?

"Eddie's life must spur change."

If people noticed Eddie Livingston, they saw a small, shabby man with a white beard wearing tattered clothes and a soiled bucket hat. They may have smelled him before they saw him, as Eddie's clothing was always in need of a good washing. They wouldn't know that Eddie and his wife lived in a decaying house without water or electricity.

They wouldn't know that by anyone's definition, Eddie Livingston was one of our nation's most esteemed war heroes. They only saw a man who appeared as a vagrant, who shunned other people, who trusted no one, and stuttered badly on the rare occasions when he would talk with others.

They wouldn't know that Eddie Livingston had been among our nation's bravest soldiers in World War II, that he was a teenaged paratrooper dropped into Normandy as part of an advance team for an initiative that would become known as D-Day, that he was captured by the Germans on that mission and held in a prison camp for almost a year, that he was awarded seven Purple Hearts, three Bronze Stars, a Distinguished Service Cross, and two Presidential Unit citations.

People he encountered may have never guessed that the harrowing experience of war, particularly life as a prisoner of war, was what took a psychological toll on Eddie. They could not have known.

But plenty of people in the network of services our nation provides for veterans knew. Eddie struggled for years to get his benefits, then lived with his wife in heartrending surroundings that suggest he felt unfit for the world.

A story featured in the May 31 Eagle chronicles Eddie Livingston's tormented post-war life, particularly how he never received the help he needed for his post-traumatic stress disorder.

The system failed this decorated war hero and, in doing so, fails every American. Our nation must do a better job of supporting the men and women who have contributed their time, their sanity, their health, and their lives to the service of their country." 

An American Veteran -- A Sad and Painful Homecoming: "Loneliness and Peace Was Breaking My Heart into Little Pieces."

There are a lot of disappointing homecomings that veterans talk about. I remember reading Claude Anshin Thomas' in "At Hell's Gate: A Soldier's Journey from War to Peace," about how uneventful and dissatisfying and not like he thought it would be, when he came back injured from Vietnam. Then I remember reading Pat, the protagonist here of "Eyewitness to Combat" share about his in the same way, in the piece called "Winners Go to Harvard, Losers Go to Vietnam," linked here. But Eddie's is the one that currently rips my heart out. Listen to the plainness and the plaintiveness of his language, and think about a man who went from being a teenage paratrooper from Alabama, jumping with the 82nd Airborne, to being a veteran with an astounding seven Purple Hearts, three Bronze Stars, a Distinguished Service Cross, and two Presidential Unit citations after his five European campaigns and year as a prisoner of war. Read his remarkable retelling of his own homecoming. Sad to say, it only got worse.

---

"My homecoming was understandably sad. All the real friends I ever had were the Jokers; all dead now at Anzio, and dozens of other bloody battlefields.

My first night in the states I was in Washington, D.C. It was a rainy night. The rain was a thick mist really, with just enough breeze to give it life and the myriad of lights did many beautiful things to the mist. If Washington had ever looked prettier it must have been very long ago.

The unaccustomed lights dazzled me with an awesome foreboding. I was sure the bombers would come. I thought peace was all a gigantic hoax! And that war like some evil spirit was lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce on me again. I walked the streets with a sad loneliness that was as absolute as creation's first dawn. Loneliness and peace was breaking my heart into little pieces. I had not the capability to cope with my loneliness, nor the ability to cope with or comprehend peace -- an incredible, awesome thing to me.

As I walked I instinctively surveyed my surroundings with the practical curiosity of the combat infantryman. Manholes became foxholes, unobstructed streets would afford good fields of fire, car parks became tank parks, etc.

As I walked, lonely and broken-hearted for my comrades forever lost to me, every awesome noise of war just echoed, reechoed in my mind and heart. I cried, wept. Every once in a while I would lift my head and catch a full face of rain to hid the fact that I was crying." -- Eddie Livingston, decorated war hero, World War II veteran, former P.O.W. The illustration is by his niece, Pam Baker, with whom he went to live, shortly before he died.