



I told Doc that I had some minor issues with communicating with other people. Normally, especially at parties and gatherings, when you get to meet new people, you start talking a little bit about your past and experiences you had. I found out that I was almost ashamed of talking about my military career. The stereotype of us being a bunch of PTSD afflicted sociopaths really had me keeping my mouth shut for the most time. Even when people asked what my job was, I told them it was our job to hunt down other humans, except in nicer terms. After I told them that, people would usually respond with, "oh." And that was that. The awkward silence followed up, making many of my conversations about as long as it takes for you to flip on your TV. The experience relation was just too different from civilian work talk. While John Doe was submitting his resume' for the Microsoft Corporation, I was sitting in a dirty foxhole trying to kill people. I felt really out of place with many civilian people.



At this point (12 beers deep), Doc admitted he was tired of the bureaucracy of the military. What most recruiters don't tell you, is that the military works off of a hierarchy system. The most senior guy tells the men below him what to do. I know, it sounds like a regular job. However, in the infinite wisdom of whoever made the system, the senior guy usually has the least job experience pertaining to leadership and common sense. Couple that with them making decisions that could have the consequence of life or death and you got a bad combo. This wasn't a fucking game of Chess and Checkers. You don't get to sweep the pieces back into the box after you lose and start over. The consequences for losing was dismemberment and death. Even from there, the hurt wouldn't stop. The families and friends of the lost man would continue to suffer. "Maybe we have PTSD," said Doc. "Fuck that," I said, trying to put on a hard face. Except for the occasional nightmare, I was supposed to be a tough killer. We scoffed at guys who went to sick call for their injuries. We scoffed at guys who went to counselors for mental help. We were trained to push through anything, no matter how adverse it was. Getting help was a sign of weakness. At least that was how we were brought up.



The motto for many senior leaders was work 'harder not smarter.' Then you had senior leadership who wanted to ride all the way to the top, so they took many unnecessary opportunities, some of which got men hurt. But hey, it was all good, because they picked up 1 more rank higher. Of course, I will give credit where credit is due. Some of the leaders I worked with were natural professionals. Fluent at a balanced leadership and quick to make decisive decisions while under fire earned them great shining reputations. They led well and recognized bullshit when they saw/heard of it. Unfortunetly, even for them, many of the events were above their rank. The military runs off that hierarchy system. Once you sign the contract, you negate your abilities to question orders and commands. One of my friends started to talk of one time where we were given an order to fire on potential spotters. One was just a kid. I wasn't even 100% sure he was spotting, but orders are orders. I remember me and my friend reported to one of our superiors about the possible spotters and he ordered to fire on them. All of this occurred while we were getting lit up from a valley and one of our guys got hit. So, tension was running a bit high, and possible spotters were very likely. I aimed a little down and purposely missed the shots until he ducked down. I hope my judgment was right that day and he was just some innocent kid peeking, even though the Taliban constantly used kids to spot for them due to our reluctance to engage kids. Point is, I did disobey an order, but it was a very gray area with many factors. Can you imagine being a 21 year old having to make these decisions deciding whether people live or die? It's very drastic compared to your average 21 year old.



Me and Doc, (16 beers deep) by ourselves due to my other friends going chasing after a bunch of girls at the bar, started discussing ways to adjust back to the real world. I told him for me it took time, but for many counseling is a good choice as well. At this point, I told Doc of something that had been eating away at me since I got out. Guilt. It was from one incident where one of my buddies named McG and I, were leading a patrol sweeping at the front with a metal detector to detect IEDs. We were all tired after a several day patrol and almost back to our base. So, McG and I decided to take a shortcut through a very suspicious alley. All the indicators for an IED were there: Lines of rocks, abandoned compounds, rubble strewn everywhere. I let the lazyness get the better of me. I mentioned to McG, "Hey man, this doesn't look good." McG responded, "Nah, fuck it man, were almost home. Just need to cross here and we are on the main road. No IEDs on the main road." I nodded in agreement. I had this feeling that this was not good at all, but 'fuck it, we are almost there.' We were all tired and just a few hundred feet from our base. We swept the alley slowly and carefully. I tripped on a pile of gray cinder blocks, and fell on my back at one point. McG helped me up and we pushed through to the other side and made it to the main road. Almost the whole squad made it through. Then it happened. All I remember was a loud boom and looking at the last team. My team leader, named Monty, stepped on an IED. The IED was placed right under the pile of gray cinderblocks; right where I fell on my back. It defies logic: We all stepped on it. Call it fate or whatever, but it almost seemed to select only him.



Even till this day, I feel guilty. Guilty, because I made the call to push through that shady alley. Guilty because I fell on the gray cinderblocks first- It should have been me that got hit. Instead, someone else got hit. Several months later when we got back to the US, I apologized to him. A short shitty paragraph expressing my guilt and regret of making that stupid fucking decision that cost Monty his legs. Monty, being a tough son of a bitch, brushed it off. Monty said, "Don't feel sorry for me. I don't want you to fucking feel sorry for me. Just continue to push on."



Sitting at the bar (Beer limit unknown due to inebriation) with Doc, I still felt guilty and regretful. Doc, told me to push on. Don't live in the past. Keep on trucking. It's then I realized that even though the nation may not seem to care of our service from over a decade of warfare, to keep on moving. To many in the nation, it may have just been another number on the screen indicating one more injured or KIA soldier/Marine, but to us who were there, we have the memories; We know what we did. The world moves on with or without you. Why not go along for the fucking ride? We tried to the best of our ability, but sometimes things don't work out. Don't dwell on them. As they say, success is measured by how well you fail and then bounce back up. Doc said, "Duuudde, fuck it man... You got a whole new chapter in your life braaahh. Starting with school." 'Yeah.......,' I replied. '1 more beer?'

Just the other day, I finally got to reconnect with a few guys from my old platoon. They stopped by while sailing on one of the numerous Navy ships en-route to San Diego.My feelings were ecstatic, to say the least; as soon as we saw each other, I gave them a hug and slapped them on the back. Even though it had been 2 years since I had last seen them, it felt as if we picked up right where we left off. One of my friends, who goes by the name of 'Doc,' because he was our medic in the squad, went on to explain how things have changed drastically in the military. The military is a constant rotation of personnel. Sort of like a giant manufacturing machine. You enlist, serve your time, then get out. After that, a new set of fresh men replace your old spot. All your old gear, weapons, living space, etc. goes to the new rotation of men. The only thing you get to keep when you get out, is a few sets of Cammies (Camoflauge Uniforms), the Dress Uniform, and a stack of paperwork as thick as a magazine certifying your official discharge.Doc insisted we go out and have a beer or twelve. We started talking about all the old memories. The good, bad, and ugly. It was like a time machine-the memories came flooding back. We all talked about how that one time we all were miserable digging fox holes with a 4 hours of sleep every night for a week. We talked about that one time when a bullet ricocheted into one guy's rifle stock. We talked about a bullet that hit 5 inches away from Doc's head-we all heard him shout and thought he got hit. Turns out Doc was just venting a string of cuss words of being 5 inches away from dying. We talked about the all the times we cooked from makeshift supplies. We talked about this one black guy we always used to make racist remarks to and he would dish it right back with a grin. We talked about one particular squad leader who freaked out, because he saw a heat signature in the thermals and emptied over 100 rounds into a dirt wall. We talked about taking shits in the middle of fields. We talked about some of the cool kids we met. We talked about the lack of sleep, filling sandbags, the constant cold and heat that sapped your body. We laughed about crashing the vehicle mine roller into gates. We talked about how the near death experiences makes life immediately feel so glorious-everything from the sounds to the colors to the faces is amplified. How life seemed so fragile, in the wake of a stray bullet, just inches away from extinguishing our life. How nice the country seemed at times. It's like you almost seemed to forget you were in a warzone;how could people be killing each other in such a beautiful place. The adrenaline was intense. Hands shaking, body racing, mind honed to follow training almost instinctively. We joked about that one time that I cut off a dead Taliban's foot with my KA-BAR Bayonet for forensics. We talked about our wounded buddies. The friends who did not make it. How one of the guys in our platoon just days before getting hit, claimed that if he lost his legs, he would not want to live anymore. This guy, when he lost both legs, unconsciously fought our medics to let him bleed out on the dry dirt in some dirty shit hole field. He passed away a day before Christmas. Another one of our squad mates got shot in the head in the gun turret of a truck. Doc praised me of one time where one of our guys got blown up and I raced back and strapped on tourniquets and we all med-evaced him. To lighten the mood, the wounded man said, "Man, it feels weird; I have no legs, but it feels like I have them!" To which I replied, "Damn man, even without your legs, your fucking heavy as shit. You gotta lay off the twinkies, you fat ass." Dark humor to take our minds off of the sick brutal reality of things happening to young men that no one in this whole world should ever have to experience.About 8 beers deep (fairly light), he asked me how I was doing adjusting back to the 'real world.' At first I didn't know how to respond. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing my thoughts, but the answer wasn't a simple one. I admitted to him at first, it was difficult. My mind was still in that mind set of survival. Loud noises made me jump. Conditioned from months of finely tuned reflexes in Afghanistan that would help you survive. These reflexes were of little help out in the real world. I would be driving and unconsciously stare at piles of trash on the side of the road; sometimes even swerving a little thinking it was a road side IED. I admitted to Doc that I used to triple lock my doors at night. I would hear people walking outside of my apartment, and watch them through a little crack in my window for suspicious activity. How I felt very vulnerable without a gun by my side. I told Doc how the civilian world seemed frivolous and dull. There seemed to be little motivation from most people. In the military, if you did not work together, you all could die together. There seemed to be not much driving force behind most civilians. Most seemed concerned about themselves, just trying to inch forward in their careers, even if it meant screwing over other people. The constant complaints over small petty things such as traffic or some workplace drama.