I shake sometimes. I have an illness that affects my central nervous system and my spine, plus I have post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD.) My head shakes so fast, it gives me migraines from the muscles firing 10,000 times a day.
I pushed it to the back of my skull for 15 years. I never sought out treatment because I had a bunch of near misses. I never had to have a blood transfusion to save a team member from bleeding out. I never had to scrape brains off my face when my buddy sitting/standing next to me got sniped. I never had to carry my best friend’s stump of a leg back to the aid station to get it sewn back on.
I kept telling myself, I never, I never… and that I wasn’t worthy to walk the halls of the PTSD psych ward.
I finally decided I couldn't continue that way. My hands and head shake like Parkinson's. It’s from stress related to trauma. I’m lucky to have never killed someone in my life, but I almost wasn’t. I came just two inch pounds of pressure away from juicing an Iraqi man and his friend in March 2003.
That night on the highway outside of Irbil is etched into my mind like yesterday. I have flashbacks of that night to this day.
We were about six weeks into the second Iraq War. I was driving in a two vehicle convoy to get parts for my helicopters. I was riding in the passenger seat of the SUV we bought with a bag of cash driving from Bashur to Irbil, Iraq, on a supply run.
We got a flat tire about six miles outside the city on a major highway. We didn’t have a spare.
A Kurdish family driving a station wagon full of kids stopped to help. The father spoke English and said he’d take our tire into the city to get it fixed. Our coworkers in the operational vehicle went with them, leaving me and a female second lieutenant I’ll call “Jen” on the side of the highway.
We decided not to abandon our vehicle so we could get back to Bashur with the supplies and team members.
The hours dragged on. Cars were whizzing past us. I felt like everyone was staring at the #$%@ing Americans. The day turned to night. We weren’t issued night vision goggles (NVGs) and there were no lights except the those from the cars and trucks that passed us.
I don’t think I can fully explain what it’s like to be in a war zone in an exposed position for hours on end. It felt like the longest 6 hours of my life.
Then it got worse.
Out of nowhere - the bushes maybe - two guys approached us to about 20 yards away and stopped. I propped open the door of the broken SUV as if that would stop a bullet or RPG.
I yelled at them to show me their hands. I’m not sure if they understood, knowing they didn't speak English, and I didn't speak Farsi or Peshmerga, or whatever language they spoke.
I told the second lieutenant to charge her weapon. We didn’t work together often, and she didn’t read the urgency in my voice. Instead, she asked, “Why?”
“I can't see their hands, Ma'am, charge your #$%@ing weapon.” I switched my M-16 from safe to semi/fire.
I was still yelling at them as if they understood me when the dude closest to us reached into his black robes. My heart was pounding out of my chest. (My hands are shaking as I type.)
I screamed, “Don't make me shoot you, mother#$%@er!”
He pulled out a cigarette lighter and blinded me with the flash.
I didn't shoot. But if he or his friend wanted to kill us, they could’ve done it from the darkness. Then they disappeared into the shadows as quickly as they first appeared.
For the next few hours until our convoy returned, I was terrified they would come back with a bigger force, kill me, rape her, and take her hostage.
All that time, I had no idea who had eyes on us from what distance, and what kinds of weapons they had trained on us. I was on high alert for hours. I had never been so scared in my whole life. We were sitting ducks in pitch blackness. In a surreal moment, a little old man brought us Chai tea from a house in the distance. I was grateful, but I still couldn’t let down my guard.
Our comrades finally returned with the spare. When it was installed, I asked, if we were going into the city to get to the Forward Operating Base (FOB) to sleep “inside the wire.”
The resource officer said, “No, it’s too hot. We’re going back to Bashur.”
Instead, we had to drive over a 4,000 - 5,000 foot mountain range in the pitch dark. There were no guard rails, and cliffs drop straight down 600 feet. We were driving an unmarked vehicle, and the AC-130 gunships flying overhead could’ve mistaken us for the enemy and taken us out. Somehow we made the hour and a half journey with no problems. I came through it feeling unbelievably lucky.
Being under such extreme stress for a long time changed me forever. The night is no longer my friend. I'm terrified if I hear sounds in the dark that I can't see. I know there's nobody there gonna get me, but I can't ever forget that night on the highway outside of Irbil.
I have PTSD. I suffer from recurring nightmares, flashbacks, vivid dreams, and hypervigilance. My mind is on guard all the time.
In a restaurant, I can’t sit still and enjoy coffee and conversation with the person in front of me. Instead, I’m scanning the room around me, mapping out exits, and watching for aggressive acts by fellow patrons which could turn into a fight. There are too many mass shootings in public places these days.
I'm in therapy, but it's gonna be a lifetime of therapy.
I thank God I never had to kill anybody, and I hope I never do. I'm trained to put three rounds in the center of mass. You think it's easy until you actually have to do it, and then it's hell for the rest of your life regretting taking that life. Until I was faced with that choice, I thought, “F%$# that! It's them or me.” But in reality it's not easy to pull the 2-6 pounds of pressure to squeeze off that three-round burst.
PTSD knows no rank, rate, income level, political affiliation. It eats at my soul every day. I can't talk about it without shaking, crying, or throwing up.
Now I know why my Dad never talked about WWII. He was an infantry soldier in the 36th Division, 142nd Infantry Regiment, Company L. He was a Technical Sergeant, with a green bar below his chevrons. They are now called a Sergeant First Class.
My dad got a battlefield promotion to second Lieutenant by Major General Omar Bradley. The general asked, “Where is your Company Commander?” My dad said, “Dead, sir.” The general asked, “Where’s your Platoon Leader? My dad answered, “Dead, sir.” The general asked, “Who’s been leading these men, Sergeant?” My dad said, “I have, sir.” The general responded, “You’re out of uniform... pin these on”.
By the time that paperwork reached HQ Army, the war in Germany was over. They said he had to go to OCS to keep the lieutenant bars and after that, go to the Pacific to continue to fight. He had enough points to go home. He had been wounded twice and seen his share of death. So he passed on the opportunity to attend Officer Candidate School (OCS) at Fort Benning.
He pinned his Tech Sergeant stripes back on and took a ship from Europe back to the States. One thing he did miss about Fort Benning was Jane Russell. She was married to a captain in the Army at the time. They were neighbors. She would sunbathe in the backyard. She was a pin up girl. “Vava vavoom,” he'd say.