From Baghdad To America (10 page)

Maybe Lava's problem is that he never got to attend a postmission debriefing and therefore never had a chance to vent and share his emotional reactions to the trauma. Yes, even our experiences of being shot at or killing or watching the guy next to us get killed were processed into a precisely packaged military-coordinated routine.

The theory, according to the army, is that these sorts of debriefings will enhance morale and unit cohesion and reduce “battle fatigue.” Even if a soldier behaves like someone suffering from severe stress, the military tries to get him back on that horse, pronto. Proximity—Immediacy—Expectancy—Simplicity (PIES) is put into place: The army addresses the issues (if you can call watching your best buddy's head being blown off by an IED an “issue”) as close to the men's unit and as quickly as possible. Soldiers are told that their feelings are normal and they can expect to return to their unit shortly. The experience of battle and its aftermath is treated like a combination of a really, really bad bout of flu mixed in with having just been mugged. And if you believe what you read in the army brochures, all the soldier needs to do is get plenty of rest, eat, and talk about what happened.

We don't have time for that in the Marine Corps (we're too small and too busy) but the army makes the time for its people. I've gotta give 'em credit: one thing the army does better than the Corps is touchy-feely. (Operation Solace, a program the army developed to help Pentagon personnel and their families cope with the experience and associated trauma of the 9/11 attacks, uses PIES.)

Lava has his own form of PIES that you or I would call “sweating out the demons,” accomplished through intense, hard-core exercise. Lava always seems happiest when he's romping in the park or on a run with my wife. He's focused by the exertion, and his mind doesn't wander or jump to conclusions the way it otherwise might. Certainly exercise has helped me. Whether I'm skiing, surfing, or racing my bicycle, I find that the concentration required helps me block out any distractions or negative thoughts. There is nothing remotely associated with Fallujah or Iraq in my brain when I'm on a wave or skiing a bump run, the cold crisp mountain air filling my lungs. I'm carried away to another place entirely, free at last to drop my pack and forget the demons that chase me in the night.

Paddling out at a favorite surf break with my wife erases all cares, and even if there are fifty other surfers trying to drop on the same wave ... they might as well not exist. I'm thinking about the wave and watching the sets come in and wondering if she's going to catch it, too, when suddenly it's there and I'm on top of it, and that's what matters.

Likewise, when I'm racing my bike and my body and brain are on the brink of oxygen deprivation, it's all I can do to hang on and not crash at thirty-plus miles per hour. The rush is incredible, exhilarating, riding scant inches away from racers to my left and right, front and back. The endorphins kick in, the body tenses, the senses come alive, and I'm performing at the peak of my physical abilities. I don't have time to think about what might have been, had that rocket exploded fifty feet closer. If you think about almost dying in Iraq while you're racing a bicycle at breakneck speed in a Southern California criterium, you're sure to crash and take several of your teammates and opponents with you. It demands your complete attention and respect for the speed of the peloton, the proximity of other racers, and the density of the pavement below you.

Lava may not have the benefit of all these various physical activities, but I'm pretty sure he finds the same rush by “dominating” (read: humping) the neighborhood golden retrievers.

Routine, distraction, avoidance, call it what you want. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work as well as I would like. I can still explode at the slightest provocation, especially when I'm caught off guard. Take what happened the other night. I screwed up big-time. I was unfairly hard on my stepson when he answered a simple yes-or-no question in what I perceived to be a frustrated, impatient, and disrespectful tone of voice. It was probably nothing, and a grown man should be able to overlook these things.

I'd just finished a great indoor training session with a couple of teammates from my bicycle racing team and was feeling really good. But as I was driving up our street (we live on a oneway street) some jackass came barreling down it in the wrong direction. This happens all too frequently, and with so many small children and dogs and cats on the street, it's a serious problem. Kids aren't looking for, or expecting, cars coming the wrong way.

So I blocked his way. The asshole pulled into a driveway. I thought he'd get out of the car to go into the house, at which time I could nicely explain the dangers of coming down our street the wrong way. Instead he waited for me to park and then took off. I tried to get in his way, but he was going too fast, and when I yelled, he blared his horn. That's not a big deal, really, except it was nearly nine o'clock at night, and people don't want that kind of disturbance in an otherwise peaceful neighborhood. I was, of course, completely pissed off now that this guy thought that what he had to do and where he had to go was more important than having the slightest modicum of respect for my street and my neighbors, and the traffic laws that are in place to provide safety for my children and those of my neighbors.

If I'd been holding anything other than my phone, I'd have thrown it at his car.

I was pumped up and pissed off by the time I walked into my house. I knew my stepson had a ton of homework, and the first thing I wanted to know was if he'd been able to get it done.

“Hey, buddy, did you finish your homework?” I asked.

“Ye-eessss,” was the reply.

Now, that is certainly the appropriate word in this case—well, one of the two suitable ones—but it was the tone I couldn't tolerate. I mean, when did the word “yes” become multi-syllabic? I guess I snapped. I lifted his chin with my hand—for emphasis and to make sure he'd be looking me in the eye—and in my best imitation of my father said, “Don't you ever, ever talk that way to me or any other adult again. I've had enough of your disrespectful tone, pal, and it won't be tolerated for even one second in this house. I asked you a simple question that required nothing more than a simple answer. Nothing more. You learn to stow your frustration. You can talk to your friends that way, but not to me, not to your mother, and not to your teacher. Am I clear?”

His reply—crying.

There's nothing more wrenching in the world than seeing your child unhappy. The pain multiplies exponentially when you're the one who caused it. Of course I apologized, but I couldn't shake the sense that I was truly an asshole. He's nine years old. His life should be a party, and there I was doing everything I could to piss on it. Shoot me now.

I can blame it on the Land Rover, I suppose. (Where have you heard that phrase before? Is my life a series of screwups destined to repeat again and again?) But what good would blame do? Would it assuage my guilt? Would it make my stepson feel any better? I gotta tell you, as bad as I felt that night, the next morning was even worse. Because as much of a dick as I was to him, when I woke him for school he was all smiles. It was as if nothing had happened and we were best buddies again. The knife in my heart twisted at least five times.

I have these moments, unfortunately, that I can only describe as outbursts. I don't know when they're going to come, or why, but they do. Fortunately, they're not violent—but they are angry. I don't know exactly what triggers them. I suspect it's due in large part to the lack of respect I have for so many people and the way they excuse certain mistakes they've made and their lack of understanding for the sacrifices my fellow Marines, soldiers, sailors, and airmen have made on behalf of this country. I know that's not 100 percent fair. People can't possibly know that about me, especially when I live in a place like La Jolla. They form opinions (eg. Marines are macho thrill-seekers who can whip anyone in push-ups but haven't picked up a book in years). And in truth, some of the people I truly dislike were the only ones who said “boo” about my service to my country on Veterans' Day this past year. So what is it?

I love my stepson very much and want only the best for him. I know he's had a difficult time since his parents' divorce and I need to cut him some slack. Yet as much as I wish I could prevent my anger from surfacing and try to suppress it, there are times when I can't.

This behavior hurts my stepson; it hurts my wife; and it hurts me to the core to know that I've caused them even a moment's angst. Just as importantly, I know I'm not setting the right example. That is perhaps the most difficult part of this for me. How can I tell my boys that I expect them to behave a certain way when I model a diametrically opposite type of behavior? I worry that my baby, Mattox, will develop the wrong beliefs and ideas about what a man should be. I worry that he's seeing a grown man yell at a small boy. That he'll think it's okay to bully people who are smaller.
It's not okay, Mattox. If you're strong, you can afford to be silent. Are you listening? Do as I say, not as I do, in this instance.

My wife tells me that I am a wonderful person, that I make everyone very happy. But I think I'm just a miserable old man who's incapable of giving back the love my family gives me. I tell her that I'm not worth wasting even an ounce of emotion on because I can't seem to stop my anger from getting the best of me. So what the hell am I to do? I don't want to lose my family, to live without my sons, to give in to the negativity that gnaws at me every day. I really try to be the best that I can be for my family, to keep them safe through the night and provide for them from the moment Lava starts his sunrise
roo-roo-roo
. I make sure that my stepson has a wholesome and healthy breakfast every morning that he's with us (believe it or not, I usually make pancakes, eggs, and orange juice) and I make his lunch every morning, too, all the way to cutting the crust off his PB&J sandwich, just the way he likes it. It's critical that I remind myself that I'm loved and capable of loving before the anger enters my body.

And then there's Lava, and the way he so often just loses it for no apparent reason. When I watch him and try to understand what's happening to him as he wrestles with the demons inside—maybe I can stop myself from losing it. Yet I worry. What if that's not enough? What if the fear I'm so comfortable admitting is actually a substitute for the rage I feel at having lost my innocence and the vehemence with which I want to save my children from? What then?

Dear Mr. Kopelman,

Hello. First off I would like to introduce myself.

My name is Thomas George Martinez, I hail from Denver, Colorado, and am a specialist in the U.S. Army. In order for me to fully express my thoughts on your book I would like to share with you a story of my own.

In March of 2005 I deployed to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom III and was assigned to a unit with the duty of being gun truck escorts. My duty stations included Talil, Scania, and Stryker but in the course of my assignment I managed to escort trucks to every major base in Iraq and have slept in a tent at each one.

Around the month of October, the stress of being in a combat situation was already starting to bear weight on my shoulders. At this time, a portion of our unit was instructed to stop gun truck missions in Talil and move to Scania for the job of gate security.

About my third week at Scania, I noticed a group of Iraqi children (same group I saw on a regular basis) walking through a nearby field with a small motionless puppy dangling from a noose like some sort of bizarre yo-yo.

Thomas Martinez with Uno

I immediately called my interpreter Alex over and had him call those kids over and ask them what the heck they were doing.

It turns out they had no use for the dog at their home so they were taking it out to the field to end its life. I told them to turn the dog over to me and go back home. Much like Lava, Uno (named after the card game that consumed our downtime) was dipped in kerosene for de-ticking, then bathed, groomed, and fed enough MREs to make a wolf pack jealous.

This small, weak, laughable excuse for a dog soon became my most loved companion and one of the best reasons I had to be in a rush to get back to my guard point.

She made me feel more at home and comfortable than most social situations I had encountered in my deployment, and I wanted nothing more than for her to be able to survive and redeploy back with me to the States. I could fill several pages with stories of my misadventures with Uno, and the memory of her still makes me smile.

Unfortunately my story doesn't end as well as yours. One day while I was off duty, Uno was seen by a general and executed on the spot. Shortly after that I rejoined the rest of my unit at Stryker to continue my original mission.

Uno represented everything I missed about being home and whenever she was around I transformed from a soldier at war to just a guy and his dog. In a situation as tense and life changing as war, the distraction that Uno provided for me was precious.

Uno as gun escort

Your story helped remind me of similar struggles and incidents I encountered, but most importantly it reminded me of my experience with my own little yipping partner in crime.

Thank you for succeeding in saving your own little distraction. The fact that someone got to save their dog makes me feel better about my story. Even though we have seen and taken part in horrid things it can take something as simple as a puppy to make us feel most human.

I find myself with only five more days until I become a civilian again and every little piece of closure I get is precious to me. Your story was very good and I wish you and your family all the luck in the future.

Sincerely,

Thomas George Martinez

Specialist, U.S. Army