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My father had shared with me over the years, and I had asked him, what he did in the war- World War II. He told me of his experience as an infantryman carrying a 40 lbs radio all over Europe, fighting at the Battle of the Bulge and being wounded. But I never had any idea that he had entered a Nazi concentration camp as a liberator and bore witness to its horrors. He never mentioned that he had helped to liberate Buchenwald, and how could I have thought to ask him that question?
But now that I know I have the ability to understand him better than I ever have. He now speaks more openly of the war than I can ever remember him doing, although this takes him right back there and he becomes choked up by his thoughts.
But it is remarkable that so many years after his experiences in Europe my father has finally found his voice, 60 years after the fact. Although it is painful for him, I think it is good and may help quiet those images that still reside within him.
I am the daughter of a Vietnam Vet. I was diagnosed with secondary PTSD about 20 years ago. My parents wanted to believe that I was just a difficult child and they couldn’t claim any responsibility for who I was. My psychiatrist was ahead of the times to say the least. My parents never tried to treat me or get me further help when I was a child. Unfortunately I grew into an adult who abused drugs and was very self destructive. In my late 20′s I decided I didn’t want to live anymore and attempted suicide. I was unsuccessful, obviously, but I did end up in a psych hospital where I finally got the help I needed so badly.
I can function now, without destroying myself. I had to accept that my dad would never apologize for all of the abuse. I had to accept responsibility for my life. I have to take a few pills everyday in order to appear “normal” but that’s okay, too.
I’m grateful that people may start to pay attention to the issues that families of vets face. My dad was turned into a killer at the age of 18 and then when he tried to re-up he was discharged because of “psychiatric issues”. So he raised a family instead of fighting in Vietnam, like he wanted.
I love my dad. I’ve heard stories about him before he went to ‘Nam and he sounds like he was a very gentle man. I wish I knew him then. The dad I love is a very damaged shell of a man who flinches every time a car backfires.
Help the families. I don’t want to see other kids of vets end up suicidal and self destructive like me.
God bless all of our men and women who put their lives on the line everyday to protect our freedom. Happy Vets Day!
My father came back from WWII in 1946. He was a broken and twisted alcoholic. He was a victim of war. They called it shell shock. Today we call it PTSD. He would line up the empty beer bottles and call them dead soldiers. As the line got longer he would begin to weep. Later, he would become a dangerous and violent warrior. Everyone became his enemy. That is when I fled from the house.
The pain of war ripples through the generations. He passed his wounds on to his family. In his wounded mind, he blamed us for abandoning him. His disease drove him to push away those who loved him. I was ten years old when he left us. As a child, I felt it was somehow my fault. His abuse was shameless. As an adult I had to forgive him. He was a victim of war. Otherwise, my soul would rot.
Through my childhood, my father moved our family many times. I went to over 20 grade schools. He was always restless. He would leave for months on end. My mother carried myself and my brother and sister. At one point my mother had to move to the city and work as a live in maid. My 14 year old sister had to look after my brother and I. When my father came home, we lived in terror. It was like living in a war Zone. Only for much longer than most wars.
I didn’t see him again until I was in my late 30′s. By then I was aware of my own PTSD. The first insight into my PTSD came when I watched a documentary about Vietnam vets and found myself weeping. I could see some of my symptoms in my father when we talked. He was like someone with a loose switch in his head. For awhile he was this normal intelligent person, and then, he would change. A few months later, obviously in one of his PTSD moods, he sent me a vitriolic letter. It really hurt at the time. I wrote a collection of poems as part of my recovery. I have learned to manage my symptoms. I have never been able to find any formal therapy for long term chronic PTSD. Here is one of those poems.
My father lived on skid row for 20 years, somehow surviving. Veterans Affairs finally provided him with an apartment in his old age. I have only found stability in my life in the last 20 years. In am 62. I pray the current children of war vets do not go through what I did.
Ken
TRAGEDY of WAR
The Families
Your letter arrived today
A precious little concoction
A slow growing creation
Steeped for months
In your vitriolic tea
Fermenting anger over those
Long, long years
Each portion
A seething heritage
Of hatred
Carefully brewed to a perfect
Stinging bouquet
Moiling anger over those
Long, long years
With its conferment
You reach out to me
With your visions and illusions
Gradually, slowly incubated
Into a lonely vinegar
Corked
Unable to tremble free
Smoldering anger over those
Long, long years
Wretched spores
Cast about to defile my essence
The unfailing resentment
Surges up in my throat
Gagging over a life of mistakes
In my eyes my tears weep
For a sweet baptism
Sweet wine of absolution
Coursing in my heart
Smoldering beatitudes over those
Long, long years
Very moving website. You should be very proud of yourself for creating this.
Leila,
Your story brought tears to my eyes. Though my own father fought in another war–Vietnam–the effects that he endured were so similar. My symptoms of generational PTSD paralleled yours as well. You said it so eloquently when you state that “these wounds leave imprints in our spirits.” I can also relate to what you said about being more comfortable with distance than intimacy. It feels like a burden has been lifted just to be able to share that with someone who understands.
Leila,
Just checking in and seeing how your Thanksgiving went. Mine was a quiet one and that’s just fine with me. Looking forward to Christmas and spending some time with my husband, this will be our first holiday together in 4 years since he always has to work on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Hope you have a nice holiday season.
- Jodi
These are amazing comments from people who have been affected by your website Leila – you should be very proud. I am.
I am a viet nam vet. I was in a intellegence gathering job. This stuff was so classified that we were forbidden to speak about at all. I was involved with the “secret war”.in Laos and cambodia. I held this in for 40 years until 1997 when some ot it was declassified. I finally realized I had a problem in 2007. I got help in the VA system and am somewhat ok now.
My daughter was 6 when I left. After I returned life was never the same again. She was scared to be around me for all her teen years into adult years. Since I realized I did in fact have a problem and began to deal with it we as close as a father and daughter could ever be. She is now being treated for the same symptoms of depression.
Long story short, we understand each other, but I will never in a life timebe able to make amends for the heart ache and fright I put her through. But I’m sure going to work on it. Her and I have lost what could have been 30 wonderful years. I am so glad that we can sit and talk things out now. She is my life… Thank heaven I got finally got myself together. I am very very lucky to finally have this time with her.
Thanks for bearing with me.. Children of vets are the real heros.
Virgil
It is sad and comforting to read other peoples stories. None of my friends had vets for parents and none of my friends could comprehend my anxiety when my house could appear so “normal” when they were there. My brother and I both suffer from our fathers PTSD and my mother died for it. I take pills everyday to maintain “normalcy” and my brother struggles in his own ways. Now that we have somewhere to acknowledge the trauma that we have lived, as children of vietnam vets, where do we go? Is the VA going to help us heal the wounds on our souls?
Hi, Marie,
The pain you express is all to familiar to me. My mother was also a victim to my father’s PTSD. I lost her when I was five, and myfather could never even explain what happened to her. And I have 2 brothers who also suffer.
Where do you live? This summer there will be a retreat for all family members of vets in northern Colorado and there’s one in Feb in Georgia. I want to start a support group for children here in Denver. The more we speak our pain the better a chance there will be of healing. But know you are not alone.
My best,
Leila
My father also liberated one of the concentration camps. He would not tell us any details, only that he had been there. He could NEVER bring himself to watch any of the movies made about the holocaust. He had a drinking problem when I was growing up, but I never thought of attributing it to his concentration camp experience until I read an article about Leila’s work. He also seemed somewhat emotionally distant from me and also as described by Leila after her interviews–did not have faith—he considered himself an agnostic even though our family was Jewish. Perhaps what he saw affected him on an additional level because he was a Jewish American Soldier….
Leila,
I live near Buffalo. The idea of a retreat is a great one and I hope it can happen closer to my home at some point. It is so hard when the only one who understands is a sibling you are not close to because neither of you know how to be “family” to each other. To know that others understand the strain of appearing “normal” and having a big pink elephant following you around life is comforting.
marie
I am the daughter of a Vietnam Vet. I cannot begin to express the torment, anguish, pain and emotional instability and turmoil I endured while growing up. My father and I are estranged and haven’t spoken in four years. What’s funny is that I don’t even really know why we don’t speak. My father was a very abusive, controlling, angry and deficient parent who wanted no part of wanting to get to know me or what I was about. My father was just a paycheck and my mom was the one who raised us (I have a 40 year old brother.) I can tell you my father’s PTSD has significantly affected me and my ability to relate to or maintain connections with people, and that unfortunately includes my marriage.
Growing up I always felt different and isolated from other “kids” and if truth be told, I still feel that way as an adult. It is only until recently I have found I am not alone and there are hundreds of thousands of “us” out there. I find comfort in the fact that I can express how I feel and not be judged or told, “It happened a long time ago, move on with your life.” Thank you for allowing me to tell my story. There is strength in numbers and it’s about time the “children” start telling their stories and make an attempt at beginning to heal.
I am submitting this article on behalf of my Uncle Danny Aragon Ulibarri who writes about his dad, my grandfather, Maximiliano (Max) Ulibarri. It has been just over a week that his beloved wife and my grandma Carmelita Aragon Ulibarri went to join him. She was left at home with four small children during the war awaiting his return. They are now forever united.
Leila thank you for this lovely forum.
Peace,
Sabrina
War and Fathers Day
Daniel Aragon Ulibarri, Santa Fe New Mexican, Sunday, May 26, 2002
I remember how he was drafted with four children while working in a national defense industry. He was told that either of these two facts would exempt him from the draft. Nevertheless, he was drafted like thousands of other young men in the 1940′s. The church continued to help him and assured him it was only a matter of time.
He went through boot camp cooperating and paying attention only enough to keep out of trouble. He didn’t need war training. He only needed to wait for the call that would return him to his family.
Soon, he found himself on a ship forging its way across the Pacific Ocean towards Hawaii. He was just one of a multitude of American youth who took turns sleeping in bunks and cots, eating, exercising and showering.
He listened to others brag about what they were going to do. They were sure they would be heroes. Perhaps they would or perhaps they were just kidding themselves to hide their fear.
The trip was hell for so many—the war was being waged in their minds. Each night they relived future battles with the fear of dishonor. It was hard to discern which was the greater danger, cowardice or death.
Yet, he felt secure in the knowledge that his salvation would surely come in Hawaii. He comforted himself in the knowledge that there had been a mistake and he would return home. At the same time he felt guilty. The boys, perhaps only a year or two older than him and even those his own youthful age were innocent. Which ones would survive? Which ones would become warriors? And, which one’s would freeze like a deer caught in a headlight, or worse, run like a scared rabbit.
The ship finally lumbered into the island paradise. The men rushed to view their destination. Lush, green foliage greeted their eyes. It wasn’t just green. It was dense, thick, and it was every shade of green. Plants, flowers, vegetation everywhere, occasionally spotted by rich dark soil, brown huts, white concrete and tin buildings.
Suddenly the reality and metallic-gore of Pearl Harbor came into view. Quiet stillness took even the cockiest soldier by surprise. Men tried to hold back their emotions, their tears, and the heavy burden that perhaps it would not be as glorious as thought.
He was still, alone in himself, observing. Partly thankful and partly ashamed that he would escape this great war.
Later, he found himself in yet another training camp where GIs were prepared to do battle in the great South Pacific. But this one was real a jungle with sandy landing beaches.
It was only a week into the wet, sweaty jungle maneuvers when he realized that his savior wasn’t coming. Despite what everyone told him, he was going to war and he had better take his training seriously if wanted to survive.
He had come all the way from Las Vegas, New Mexico to spend two years of his life in bloody, combat where there was no collateral damage because you saw who was killing and who was being killed. He learned that making friends was a dangerous and painful habit.
He was a brown-skinned soldier who really fought for the American Dream—in deeds, not political rhetoric. He survived this hell called war, though it scarred his memory and his soul. He is my father and we should all take time to ponder Fathers Day, and the consequences of war for all fathers and husbands. He fought for nothing less.
I am the first son of a Korean vet. My dad always told us he was a clerk at “Headquarters” and never saw combat. After he drank himself to death, I learned that wasn’t true. My uncle told me he had been a ground pounder on the front lines. They had slept in 3 man tents, and my dad happened to be in the middle one morning… when he awoke to find his tent mates had had their throats cut during the night. My uncle said he was never the same after that.
He married my mom after the war – and I came along less than 9 months later. He couldn’t stand to hear me cry and shoveled abuse upon my mom until I was 4 months old…then he started in on me too. When I cried I got hit, spanked, and yelled at until finally, he would leave. By the time I was one, I could spell my name and count 10 pennies; because if I didn’t get it right, I’d get slapped. He was determined to make me “tough” – and “smart” – “even if it kills him”. The first thoughts I can recall from my childhood was that I wanted to die. Infractions or weakness were beaten out me then until I was 12, but I’d learned at 9 they were shorter if I didn’t cry, so I stopped. My mom left him when I was 12 too, however the consequences didn’t leave, they were a part of me.
I was 18 the first time I attempted suicide, and attempted many more times in the next 13 years, until I quit drinking myself and started to make amends. I had become him. In therapy, I learned that I acted out the survivor’s suicidal rage he had manifest as violence directed outward in his denial, yet he finally attained the unconscious, denied goal, of self destruction when his liver stopped working. He never allowed himself to know his demons.
I still struggle with depression at 55, and relationships are a challenge for me as I sometimes slip back into my old mindset when I’m under stress. I’m convinced I developed fibromyalgia from a lifetime of muscle tension that attacked the nerves in my myofacia, and I am further disabled from losing my right arm in my last attempt in 2004.
I’m encouraged to have found this website, and see an organized effort to help all of the wounded souls cut by wars and social misunderstanding of the consequences. Perhaps humanity will finally decide the cost of war is too great to bear any longer, and those of us with the unseen disease will stop passing on the sins of our fathers.
Hello again, Leila,
Some time ago, you referred me to Veteran’s Heart Georgia, and we corresponded a little. Sorry, I don’t think I wrote back after your last note, however, I may have some good news. Having sent a copy of my blog entry to my Senator, Jon Tester, (MT) his office has contacted me and wants ideas about how we as a society can help those who still struggle because of a parent’s war experience. Acknowledgement of the problem, referral to possible new 12 step groups, and opening up the VA system to children of vets even if they are not a vet or the parent is unable or unwilling to seek treatment are the three suggestions I have initially given them, I’m sure there are many more and better suggestions from you and others you know. Perhaps I am over reacting to this response from Sen. Tester – you may have many such experiences cataloged. Still, this may be an opportunity to help many others who till suffer.
Thanks,
Rod
Listening to Leila just now in a radio interview brought me to tears – again.
My dad was a WWII fighter pilot over Germany) with many many missions to his credit. Growing up with him was difficult, dark, depressing. I had absolutely no idea why our family life was so miserable until very recently when I connected just by chance with Sgt. Brandi (www.SgtBrandi.com), read his book and listened to him and other people locally in a collaborative mission to help mostly Iraq & Afghanistan vets with PTSD: http://www.HorsesForHeroes.org.
Listening to Leila was a riveting 1/2 hour for me just now.
I have had experiences in my life similar to what I read above here.
Leila: thank you so much for your work!
Bob
My father, Lieutenant Commander David Robinson, was a fighter pilot in the Pacific aboard the carrier Essex during World War II. Robbie, as he was known to his shipmates, felt it was his duty to serve his country and he was proud of his service. The men (and boys) he served with remained his lifelong friends. However, along with so many others, the death and destruction he witnessed had a profound impact on his life.
As I grew up, my father operated Robinson’s family shoe store and volunteered as an ambulance driver for the First Aid Squad. He was on the Board of Education and active in local politics and the Boy Scouts. Everyone knew and respected Dave.
In November 1973, I arrived home on a visit from college to learn that my father had been hospitalized due to depression. Visiting him the next day, I was dumbfounded to see the man who had always been there for me reduced to a confused, helpless patient. No doubt here were multiple factors that contributed to his mental breakdown, among them financial matters and the recent outbreak of violence in the Middle East. I know from personal experience that one of my father’s concerns was the posssibility that I or either of my brothers might have to experience firsthand the horrors of war as he had.
My father made a gradual recovery with ongoing professional help and the unflinching support of his wife Fredda. He went on to live a full life in her company along with their three sons and daughters-in-law and six grandchildren. My father died five years ago over Memorial Day weekend, two months shy of his 88th birthday.
I am looking forward to reading “Gated Grief” and learning from Leila’s telling of her experiences and research into the legacy of PTSD. I am sure that I will gain insight and discover ways to continue to resolve issues that stem from the complex relationship that I had with my father. And I hope that in some way I can honor my father’s memory as Leila is honoring hers.
my dad was a ww11 vet. i found him to be quiet, never saying awhole lot to me growing up. when he got upset with us he yelled as a matter of fact he was crabby alot of the time. he always seemed to be on edge .He was a functioning alcoholic i think about it now and i believe he was depressed
The story of MY life began 10 years before I was born when my then 21 year old father joined the Marine Corps in January of 1942.
My grandfather had served in WWI and was master gunsmith, so my father (and I) grew up handling weapons from an early age and he had no trouble qualifying as a scout/sniper.
From the stories I heard as a child, I know the worst fighting he saw was on the island of Tarawa, where, after the battle which lasted a total of 76 hours, he was one of three men left alive out of a company of 180 men who’d landed 3 days prior!
The records are harder and harder to track down, but, with the help of a congressman, was able to get a copy of his Military Service Records, and although
I was born in 1951, and by then, my father had already become an alcoholic. I believe that not being able to talk to anyone about what he’d been through in the Pacific caused his drinking to start right after he was discharged from the San Diego Naval Hospital. I’ve been told by my grandparents that he came home “a different person” than the boy who’d left for war and glory in the Marine Corps.When I recently asked my uncle, who’d worked daily for over a decade,side-by-side with my father after the war, what he ever said about the war, my uncle replied that he’d never said a single word about what he’d gone through.
Some of my earliest memories are of listening to my father telling me his gory war stories as he got drunk and then after more alcohol, a beating was sure to follow.I was scared to death of him every day when he got home from work and started drinking. I would stay outside until dark, hide in my closet, go next door…anything to stay out of his way. But nothing I could do was enough to prevent the constant beatings. By the time I was 6 years old, I was having nightmares of my own of being in combat! The insomnia that started at that time continues to this day and I seldom ever sleep for more than 2-3 hours a night, even with medication and smoking pot to help me to try falling asleep.
As I grew older, the beatings continued and there were numerous broken bones ( including a fractured skull ) and several hospitalizations. One “game” he liked to play was hide and seek. He would crawl around on his stomach, in his old cammies and his MC K-bar knife in his teeth. The sooner he found me, the worse the beating would be. One winter night I had the bright idea to hide outside in a brick BBQ we had in the backyard and I nearly froze to death by the time I was found
This was all back in the mid-fifties and nobody thought twice about him bringing me to the bars when he went drinking. I would sit for hours as he got drunk, tried picking up women, and getting into brawls. One afternoon I was splattered with blood when he broke a beer bottle across some poor guys face after some perceived insult against him. Of course he thought nothing of driving drunk and we were in several accidents.
Things got worse as his drinking became a daily occurance, and sort of came to a head one night after a particularlly severe beating in the basement, he was holding my hand as we climbed the stairs, which opened into the kitchen. As the basement door swung open, I heard a “click”, at which point my father froze in place and squeezed my hand so hard it broke one finger. There stood my mother and she had put the barrel of his Colt .45 seviceweapon against his temple and said “if you lay another hand on him, I will blow your brains all over this room”…and we both knew she was fully capable of doing just that. A few days later,after my father had gone to work with my uncle, my mother took his station wagon and put everything he owned in it, changed the locks, and sat in the living room with one of my grandfathers’ shotguns on her lap, waiting for him to read the note she’d put on the door telling him to hit the road. I was 9 by that time, but the damage
had been done and for the next 45 years I lived with undiagnosed Complex PTSD
I became a bitter, mean bully of an SOB,full of rage and an attitude a mile wide. I dropped out of the 8th grade and hit the streets at 15. Having grown up with guns all over the house and having years of boxing and karate lessons ( mom thought it would help “channel” my anger ) I decided that I could make a good living robbing dope dealers because, hell, they’re not going to call the cops, right? I felt that I had nothing to lose and nowhere to go but up and I LOVED the “game” of the streets, getting over on people, stealing and robbing my way up the food chain of the streets.I learned very quickly that you can never show fear, never back down, never give an inch on the streets.You had to be either a hammer or an anvil, and I made it very clear which I was.
Then one night while a few of us were drinking down by the river in the city where I lived, my life changed once more when another kid fell in the river and couldn’t swim. Like an idiot,even though I was pretty toasted myself, I jumped in and pulled him out. He and I hit it off immeadiately and two days later he took me home bacause he said his uncle wanted to thank me for fishing ” T.J.” out of the river. I almost fell over when we walked in his uncles house and I recognized him as the head of the Mafia in our city! He was one of the old “Moustach Petes” who had been born in Sicily and came over on a boat as a teenager.His name was known nationally and he was one of the members of the 10 man ruling “commision” that ran the whole country. Every FBI agent in the country had spent decades trying to put him in jail, but he was never arrested ( he was eventually murdered though ) I was soon working for TJ’s uncle doing a variety of illegal and dangerous
jobs and making more money than I could spend. I was 17 years old. I met many made members of the Mafia in my city and others up and down the East Coast.
I used some of those connections and moved to NYC to start selling pot, which I was getting from a member of one of the 5 NY families and staked out a corner for myself in Harlem to sell pot. The very first day I was there, a car pulled up, 2 black guys jumped out and threw me against the steps of a brownstone.Then a third guy gets out, walks up and sticks a 9MM in my face and says ” give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot your white ass right here and now”…and I said “I’ll give you three”, and proceeded to rattle off the names of 3 members of the Luccheses family I had been dealing with.The next thing he says is “well,who the fuck are you?” and a I explained my story well enough he decided not to kill me, at least not yet anyway. It turned out he was soon to be the biggest herion dealer in Harlem and his name was Nicky Barnes.Years later, he would wind up on the cover of Time and was one reason Nixon started the “war on drugs”! I agreed to give him all
the pot he wanted and he agreed not to kill me! While I can’t watch violent movies anymore, Nicky was portrayed in the movie “American Gangster” by Cuba Gooding Jr. ( or so I’ve been told )
After that, I was in, and I held onto my corner by force and finesse, going to “work” every day with a sawed-off pump shotgun up my coat sleeve, a 9MM Barreta tucked in my waistband, a .38 revolver in an ankle holster,a necklace with two throwing daggers hanging down the back of my neck, a switchblade and a roll of quarters in my pocket! Between 17 and 19, I was stabbed twice, suffered 2 more skull fractures,was shot once and was beat so bad one night I was left for dead. Then things went from bad to much worse, worse than even I could have imagined.
TJ and I were hanging out one hot Friday night when these two older guys we knew came by and suggested we go out to eat. On the way to eat,they said they had to make a quick stop, as we pulled up in front of a record shop in a bad part of town. We followed them in and were checking out the 45′s when the 2 black men running the store started argueing with the two guys we were with. In a blink of an eye, guns came out and the two black men were dead on the floor, one cut in half by a double-barrell shotgun blast and the other with his head half blown off. They just turned and said let’s go, as if nothing at all had happened.I could feel this pink mist of blood on my face as we walked out, got in the car,
and proceeded to go to dinner!! I was in a state of shock and had no idea of what was coming or how to cope with what I’d just witnessed.
After dinner, they dropped us back at TJ’s and I spent the night there.In the morning, I got up and as I left TJ’s apartment, I heard a car coming down the street and when I turned, I saw one of the two killers driving towards me as the other one fired 7 or 8 shots at me. I started running and as I dove behind a dumpster, I was hit behind my kneecap and the bullet hit my femor and ran up inside my leg until it came out through my inner thigh. They had decided that I couldn’t be trusted, and as the only other witness, felt they had to eliminate me.
I woke up in the hospital and the surgeon said if it had taken five more minutes to get me onto the table, I would have bled out, since my femeral artery had been “nicked”. Also there were two police detectives who told me they knew everything that had happened the night before and I could either be charged as an accessory to murder or I could testify against the two men who had committed the two murders and also tried to kill me.
Since my adopted “family” had just tried to kill me, it was a pretty easy decision as to what to do and I said I would tell them everything I knew.As soon as I could be transferred, I was turned over to the U.S. Marshals and taken to Washington,D.C., where I spent the next six months recouperating from my wounds and being prepped to testify at their Grand Jury hearing.Once I was brought back and testified, the two men pleaded guilty ( to avoid the death penalty ) and were sentanced to 25 to
life for the two murders and my attempted murder. From the courtroom, I was taken by the Marshals Service to an airport out the area, given a wallet with $500.00 and a new identity, and was told by the Marshals that ” if you know whats good for you, don’t ever come back here again” and they watched as I got on the plane. It was like they said “thanks for playing, see you around” an d I couldn’t believe how I was dumped!
That over 40 years ago and it was before the Witness Protection Program was even in existence. I was then 19 years old.
This is probably a good place to stop. Another time I will write about the next 40 years I spent in hiding, having zero contact as most of my family members died off, always being on edge and hypervigilent, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, after I turned 50 and got very sick, the delayed-onset symptoms of my PTSD came roaring back and I nearly killed myself. That is when I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD and have now spent the past six years with a wonderful trauma therapist. Today, a month before I turn 60, I am feeling like I am finally figuring out who I am and am in touch with my”self”.
Peace and Hope,
Jeffery
In August 2004 I was activated from reserve to active duty, my company was sent to California to attach with CSSG-15; 1st force service support group. Shortly After I was deployed to Camp Taquadm Iraq In west Fallujah. My experience there was short, but unforgettable. On Base there was frequent incoming mortar rounds, the area around our position had been jeopardized. One Marine was fatally wounded, the other lost several limbs. I began to realize that my life was threatened and I was in serious danger.
However the experience that changed my life forever came one month after serving in West Fallujah. I was ordered to attach to 3rd battalion 5th marines. I was a field radio operator serving with a special operation company. On November 2nd during the first week of operation “Al Fajar” I conducted land navigation in the lead vehicle in multiple mission-critical resupply convoys ensuring that the battalion remained fully supplied. As I was driving through the city streets my vehicle was shot at, I encountered many dead bodies (young & old), some riddled with bullets, there were dogs eating human bodies and guarding them because the dogs were starving, so we had to put some dogs down.
My most terrifying experience on foreign soil was on November 12th, when I was critical to the defense of the Al Haidra Mosque. We were attacked by insurgents, as we were ambushed five men held off heavy machine gun fire from several insurgents. As we were holding our ground for about 15 min, three of the five of us were shot and wounded. The only men returning fire was I and the turret gunner who weren’t hit. Upon completion of majority of the hostilities, I ran outside of cover to grab my boss to assist him into the badly damaged humV. As I put the vehicle into drive with three wounded men, we were still being shot at until I drove out of the hostile zone.
Since my days in Iraq the thoughts of fire upon an unknown enemy always come back to me. Not exactly knowing if I killed a boy or man. I feel like I want to be around my family more, but I distant myself from my friends and activities that used to be important to me. My sleep is disturbed during the night; I wake up almost every night after 3-4 hours of sleep. I have had anxiety, sleep disorder, lost of interest, numbness in my relationship, and thoughts of seeing dead people since my days being home.
My husband serves in the US Navy currently and my grandfather served in the war. I heard about this site on today on CNN and I had to share my story: My husband is my soul mate I love him dearly he serve in Afghanistan less than 4 years ago and has a medal. I believe this legacy is for present and past Veterans. Being I’m a survivor of molestation & child abuse I know somewhat of what silent pain and holding trauma inside can feel like. So for me it’s easy to see something that is familiar; I see in my husband an emotion, pain and attitude though its different inward; it’s so familiar on the surface. In my opinion the pain of the trauma causes the inwardness to reflect an attitude about life and in turn affects those that they love. My husband is spiritual, loveable, fun, has a beautiful smile and is proud of his achievements & time served; yes he is currently in the military; but when there should be a “emotion” he has none! I mean none! I lost three family members no emotion, a new home no emotion but when it involves the Navy or his navy personnel/sailor HE HAS AN EMOTION. I found myself jealous of this emotion of what others were getting, now I understand!! Please understand my husband loves me unconditionally and he makes that known… I sense he has a safe/treasure within his self; yet he has thrown away the key. It breaks my heart that he’s in bondage of feeling like he has to hold this personal experience of what happen in Afghanistan less than 4 years ago with only the crew that was with him know the true story.. Some type of secret society a world of their own; which is so sad to me that they believe that can’t express this pain. HE DID NOT THINK ANYTHING WAS WRONG WITH HIM!! As his wife I feel sometimes stuck & brokenhearted because he will not let the story out to the fullness just bits of pieces as if he was ordered to not share this experience. I want to help but I’m limited to what I can do I was and I’m concerned and I would tell him, lately he’s hearing others tell him my exact words “no emotions”. I think he’s starting to see his wife is not crazy or being judgmental.
I really feel that all branches of the Armed Forces should set up programs that all Military serving now or in the past can get help and their families. This “Gated Grief” is the root of most of the problems that military families face in the 21 Century like fallen marriage, communication in relationships, divorces and suicide. What can any of us do when our spouses are holding on to a pain that we know nothing about; it has to be released somehow and somewhere. It’s very hard to communicate with a person that has no emotions or is busy within trying to deal with their pain. To every military person reading this please: understand that though your pain is hidden in silence, the true reflection of the hidden pain is not truly hidden because as your spouses or family members we are the one’s closet to you; we deal with the real you. We know when something is wrong or going on; when we ask a question it’s not because we are being nosey it’s because we love you guys; we appreciate all you have done for us and risking your life serving our country. I can only pray to God that he will touch each of you and my husband opening your hearts to receive counseling allowing your stories and personal testimony to be heard by using this site. I must share I about two weeks ago my husband stated “he was going to counseling”. Maybe now that this site is available he will share his story. Thank Mrs. Leila Levinson for obeying God in this vision; it feels so good to share this story & to know one person cares makes a lot of difference. You have truly inspired me to continue with my own personal Vision and I pray that I will have an impact in the lives of others as you have. God bless you with favor, excellent health, prosperity and that your vision is everlasting forever upon this earth!! If you every need help in anyway send me and email.
My father Reuben D. Fernandez was a with the 45th Infantry Division F Company and once mentioned to me that as a point man he had encountered a camp that he believed to be a TB Sanitarium. He was with a patrol and there orders were to keep scouting and report back to the main unit. He mentioned that the people they encountered in the camp appeared to be the “walking dead”. As a 19 year old soldier with no understanding or knowledge of the concentration camps he assumed that these were TB patients. When they attempted to hug him he raised his M! for fear of being contaminated with TB. I don’t know if this was Dachau or another major camp or if it was one of the smaller slave labor camps which dotted the German countryside. My father past away in mid 2009 so I have to no further information. I am very interested in any information that might shed some light on his experience.
In honor of the thousands of Americans still missing in Southeast Asia and the men and women of JPAC who are still out there searching, I have dedicated my first novel, “Missing in Action: A Family Saga” (ISBN: 193330071X). Although this story is fiction, I did research JPAC and it’s predecessor, Joint Task Force – Full Accounting, in writing this story. I am a third generation veteran. My grandfather was a doughboy during WWI, my father served in Operation Arc Light during Vietnam, and I served in Operation Iraqi Freedom; so military service is a legacy in my family. My book is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
I am the 60ish child of a truly forgotten minority from WWII–the U.S. intelligence community in South America. My father, Paul Chalmers, was a paymaster for the SIS who were chasing Naziis and money in Argentina and Chile during the war. I will never know what happened to him there, but my father came back from the war with my Chilean mother and a host of psychological problems that led to his death when I was 16.
He never once talked about his experiences in South America, except in reference to my mother’s family (my mother had been his secretary in Chile). My mother kept a stricter silence than he did, and even at the end of her life, when we knew she was dying, would not speak about the war. A military researcher I spoke with once told me that some in the intelligence community took their oath of silence too seriously. So it was with my parents.
My father’s world must have been a terrible one, because he was a violent, abusive alcoholic all the years I knew him. We all suffered from it, but we never talked about the causes, one of which was whatever he saw during the war, whatever he knew, whatever he took to heart. I know that he trusted no one and was incapable of living what we consider a normal life. He was, in the worst sense of the word, a shell of a man.
We were always poor because my father could never find a decent job–how can you be hired when you can’t tell anyone what you did for many years?–except during the Korean War, when the government found him a job overseeing elderly security guards in a shipyard. Ultimately his alcoholism kept him from working, and I think for some years we survived on the kindness of a few men who knew something of my father’s story and pitied us. The rest of the time we were on puble welfare.
All I have left of my father are a handful of photos, including one with the group of intelligence officers he supported; his copy, ironically enough, of Mein Kampf; and the legacy of our unhappy family, which followed me for so many years. It is safe to say that as a child I hated him. In later life I have learned to forgive and to be sad for him, because I know he suffered, though I don’t know the details. I wish I did, not just for myself but because he, too, fought the war in his own way, and he was nevered remembered or honored for his service.
As far as I know, everyone associated with that group of intelligence officers is dead now. They took their secrets with them to the grave, it seems, and that to me is a tragedy.
Thanks for listening.
Very interesting post. Sort of makes me wonder more about my own father and the impact his army intelligence work in Austria post WWII into the early 50s had on the development of the PTSD which had already germinated from his service as a paratrooper in the war.
My father was in Vietnam when I was born. By all accounts, he came back a changed man. He became a violent alcoholic and could not find his place in the world. Eventually, in 1981, when I was 11, he killed himself. I have lived with that ever since. I battle depression and many of the same demons he faced. The war in Vietnam will never be over for me. I hope to go there someday and honor my dad’s memory. I wish for peace for all so that no children on any side should have to suffer.
My father was a Ranger, 6th Ranger Battalion, CIB, Bronze Star, and very much the hero. Like most of his generation he made no claim for such being his lot. Reading his diary, on one day’s entry, it read, “Shot a Jap” and the remainder of the pages were largely blank. Never mind that later he was one who went on the Great Raid and rescued POWs. You couple this mental-emotional trauma with the early death of his mother, an alcoholic father, and what else is there to say?
Not only did I share his name but also his legacy of mental-emotional pain. My mother said he suffered from guilt over the death of the enemy soldier–very likely it was more than that. It is one thing to see the death of strangers by the score but to see your fellow war fighters dying, to see the results of the inhumane treatment by the enemy of those he liberated took their toll.
Yes, he was a man of faith, provided materially for his family, served small congregations as pastor, and did much, much more but as some of you will know, inside the walls of our home there was another life lived–a life of fear, of outbursts, of reacting instead of interacting, etc.
One expression of his pain was when I, in the USAF, deployed for Desert Storm, I flew through a city less then 40 from where he was and he would not come to see me. Little did I understand that the hero was in his own eyes, not a hero but in fact a broken soldier. Now older and more introspective, I do.
You see there were two elephants in our family that were allowed to roam freely. First was the alcoholism (he did not drink but was an ACOA). The first set the stage for the disastrous effects of the second. Number two was battle fatigue.
My commitment, as late as it is since our children are grown and gone, is that both of those elephants will not longer be allowed to roam freely in the relationships of our family. My commitment is that both be killed in my generation! Though as a previous post said, “The war…will never be over for me” my prayer and hope is that it will be for our children.
My name is Sandra and my father fought in Korea and Vietnam. I was also an army brat and lived from birth to 12 in military bases. My last one, back in the early 70′s,was at Fort Ord, now closed, in California. Though I am now 51 years old, I have been totally oblivious to the Military Brat sub culture. I really don’t know what to say. Until just recently I had no idea that there were groups and organizations out there that could help explain and relate to my same pain. I am so sorry that anyone else grew up like me, I am so sorry!!! But, now that I know that you are out there, I’m glad I have someone else to talk to, and the same for you.
Thanks
Sandra
My father served in Germany during WWII. He has never really wanted to talk about it but not long ago I found out some shocking news. I have 2 half brothers by 2 different mothers.
I am ashamed that my father would not take responsibility for these children. Children that would now be in their mid 60′s. I can not imagine how they felt or what they must have gone through. Not only were they denied knowing their father I was denied two brothers.
Now I don’t know if I should make any attempt to find them or if I should just let it go.
I have read all of the comments but did not see any that pertain to the children of veterans who had parents that were both affected by World War II. As a former Army brat, I find that my closest friends are the children of military fathers who fought in WWII who married our mothers in Germany, England, or Australia. Our mothers may not have been military veterans but they were young adults who hid in bomb shelters and suffered too. In my family, my father never talked about the war even though he was at Pearl Harbor and found the Japanese in the jungles of the Pacific. The memories were too painful to share.
The military receives emotional support now but there was none for the soldiers or their families after World War II. The ones who stayed in the service had to suffer in silence because their careers were at stake if they drank or showed signs of emotional stress.
After watching the movie We Were Soldiers, I was inspired to write my own personal experience with the men that have been in war. Lt. Gen. Hal Moore gave a lot of input into the movie We Were Soldiers. He said, “”Hate the War but love the American Soldier”". I believe that is something that we should do in every war. Including the one going on at the moment in Iraq.
My father and his pain will always be with me. His anger, desperation, and love will also remain deep in my heart. Growing up with a veteran of Viet Nam was never easy. Even at thirty-two I struggle with his pain. The military taught soldiers strength and told them to protect their brothers and so they did. Some died trying and some lived without really knowing if they helped their brothers. My dad protects his brothers even today. Those that were lost to the war from his squad are engraved in his flesh, to always be remember and will never be forgotten.
As a child I didn’t understand why my daddy never cried. When he lost family members, he never cried. I now believe it was the strength the military taught him that makes him so solid. The war and protecting his brothers are truly what taught him this strength. Growing up with such a rock solid man was tough. I didn’t understand why he didn’t cry. He has two sides that he shows. One side seems hard and cold. The other side shows there are deep hidden scars that no human can mend and he covers them up with his great sense of humor.
Viet Nam Veteran came home to a very cold country. One they loved. Today after being at war we welcome our soldiers home with tears of joy, new babies in the arms of their mother’s, parades, music, we tie ribbons on trees, we watch the children run to see their parent that has come home, and there are great overwhelming emotions that overflow when they return. You see it wasn’t like that in Viet Nam. The soldiers knew what they had to do but no one taught the America people how to respond when they returned. I know this because my dad came home and was out with some friends in on a date, I believe, and because he had been to Viet Nam people looked him in a way that would humiliate any person but these soldiers had to keep moving forward because America was not waiting for them. People even today shun these men.
How do you move forward when at night in the stillness you can still hear the screams of your brothers? How do you move forward knowing you were behind the gun and choose someone else’s fate? How do you move forward when Viet Nam took such a chunk of your life away and is still holding it in it’s cold hard grips? One thing the military was good at teaching was to keep going. There was no time for emotions. When bullets are coming at you, when your brothers were being killed. Keep going and show nothing and so today they keep going but the weight of that will always be with them. It won’t only stay with them but it will remain in the minds of their children and grandchildren and many generations to come.
People want to know now what went on and how it must have felt but we are a little to late, don’t you think? The damage is already there. War happens and people are screaming for peace. They hold signs of hate up but want peace. I am reminded of my dad when I see these signs. The hippies wanted peace but didn’t show to much love to the Viet Nam Soldier. At least not in my mind. They didn’t wait at the airports or bases showing love or support for anyone. So I say if you still hate Viet Nam ,that is OK, but don’t pretend it didn’t happen because then I have to pretend my dad is O.K.. It will never be OK for my dad. His thoughts are always there about what he did or didn’t do. These are his secrets and he will carry them beyond his grave.
The American people back then didn’t practice forgiveness but wanted our Viet Nam Veterans to forgive. The government covered many things up and are still trying to hide the side effects of war but the side effects will be carried on for many years. Many of these men hide their tears in bottles of whiskey or other kinds of drugs. This is their armor so they can move forward but pieces of their souls will remain open and scared in the war the war zone of Viet Nam.
My dads soul was scared there. Sometimes the wound seems to healing but then the screams in the night open them back up. The pictures that flash before them flood their mind with the hell they lived and died in. So many of these men have fallen through the cracks of America and then I’m angered at the men who want to use Viet Nam to gain a position in government. As though they were hero’s of a war that had many but were treated as scum. It’s wrong because the ones lost in this war gain no position because they are still there. I remember my dad’s fiftieth birthday. The party was great and we celebrated his life but when the party was over and the music could be heard, the celebration was over. He went back to the hell he lived in. That hell where a part of him will always be. I won’t ever forget that night. The tape in the radio played music that took you back twenty years or more. The burn barrel was lit and so was my dad. He had a piece of cane pole and be the side of the barrel yelling things in Vietnamese. My stepbrother said to me, you can go. I told him no, of course because this was my dad and I would stand in this small period of hell with him. That is a picture that will remain with me forever. An event I had no control over and it would pain me for a lifetime.
Their words will never come close to taking us to this hell they lived in or the hell they brought back home. No one , maybe not even them can describe what causes such pain. Do I feel sorry for my dad? No, never! I feel sorry for the American people who didn’t support him, who walked on him and who treated him as though he was to blame. Even though he lives in this hell he brought back, he still went forward. He brought two children into the world and he used his combat skills to raise us. People didn’t understand why a person could be so strict, but today I know he just remained in combat mode and protected us as he had protected his brothers and his country that would now treat him more like the enemy than a hero.
As a child you want to be everything to your parents and my dad made us feel like we were everything. I’m sure people thought he needed to loosen up but I’m glad he didn’t because I wouldn’t be the person I am today, had my dad been any other way. You see if my dad put down his gun in the war, he would have been killed and when he left the war that cold hard shell had to remain. It protects him, like a security blanket does a child. Without the blanket a child might go insane. Well trust me from my point that is why the soldier is covering up with his own blanket. The difference is though that these men do not get comfort from their blanket. What they would give to be a child again and gain that comfort you get from a blanket.
There are soldiers that walk around in this world that we turn our noses up at. That people pull their children in close because they are scared of them. Don’t pull your children ,have them reach out and say thank you. As a young girl, my dad became a member of a Viet Nam Veteran motorcycle club. There were many stories there, ones that no person could ever write about because the nightmares would keep you awake for the rest of your life. There are many of these stories floating around the world. Nothing makes them any different than these. They protected each other and each others secrets. These were fathers and brothers, men that never cried. They new how to reach out though and protect those they cared for. Their love and shoulders are very strong. Although their hearts are weak and brittle. I am saddened that there are so many of these men walking around our country. Then there are those men that walk around and seem to be OK. Maybe their belief in the Lord helps them. Maybe they put a block on this area of their brain. One person can’t say why or how. But I understand and that is what most soldiers are looking for. Not a bunch of what happened over there, tell me now kind of thing. Some men consider it to be a weakness to cry. Some men can’t cry. The American Soldier chooses not to cry. So when you watch a movie that describes how bad things were and you shed a tear, make that one for the American Soldier who chooses not to cry. When your paths cross with one of these great men, please say thank you and have your children smile. They fought not only for their country, not only with their brothers but they fought for you and me. Thanks Dad!!!
Your a casualty of something with great meaning
Your wives and children are casualties to because they
lost a part of you
You signed you name on the dotted line, without a second thought
Something as American’s we should all respect
You’ve seen darkness that many of us will never comprehend
We forget that you are there in the dark, protecting us from evil
Some gave their all and laid down their lives for our freedom and safety,
those we will never forget
We can buy all the yellow ribbons, stickers for our cars to show we
support you.
But listening is more of what we should do.
Even if sometimes it is listening to just your silence as you walk
a past memory that haunts you.
From the bottom of my heart I thank you for your service and I
pray for that part of you, that you gave up for me.
Daddy,
I’ve watched you for a hundred years,
reap the saddness of the pain you feel,
I’ve stood in the dark corners of the room,
longing to hold you and go back in time,
I was only 5, or 8, or 10 or 15,
but I saw worlds beyond this one,
all clinging to your shoulders and back,
keeping you small as though you didn’t belong,
as though you were permanently stuck
trying to make something right,
and i know, i know, i know what you saw,
left behind on orders,
when your brothers fell from the sky
and then where were they?
where was your family in the jungle?
suddenly you were naked and alone,
the blood draining from your face
as you received the news,
the only remaining member of a team,
we were a fucking team weren’t we?
where the fuck did you go? why was i spared?
and now, fourty years later,
i see you looking off past my eyes,
remembering for a moment the pain
that no one was there to help you hold,
you a fucking boy,
you demanding to be a fucking man,
and here’s your wake up call bobby,
now get cracking, this is war.
me alone on my mountain,
fighting the ghosts of my self loathing,
you, nearby, fingers curved around a rifle,
and your footsteps,
silent in the jungle…