Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic

by Mark L. Donald

  “Doc, we’ve got you scheduled on a rotator bird for tomorrow morning. You’ve done a hell of a job, but it’s time for you to get to New Mexico to your mom and Tabetha,” Vic chimed in.

  Wow, these men cared more about getting me back for the holidays than I did. During off-duty hours, we’d gather for a movie and talk about our families, so Wil was very familiar with Korrina and Tabetha. He would also hear stories about Korrina and the family from JJ over our secure net. JJ worked at headquarters back in the States and looked in on Korrina and the kids when I was gone. Most of the time he’d stop by her clinic to say hi and scare her staff with his large frame, bald head, goatee, and naturally angry appearance. JJ would act as if he had a cold or joint ache, but he was really there to let her know the community hadn’t forgotten about her. Korrina was incredibly thankful. She, too, trusted and cared for these men and would later spend countless hours of her off time tending to their wounds, but that’s the type of people that make up the spec ops community.

  I tried to get out of their plan to send me back first, but neither of them would let me off the hook. Since arriving, I’d been involved in nearly every one of the firefights, and the whole team felt I should be the first one out and home for the holidays. I finally realized I had no say in the matter and accepted it. Besides, Christmas was just over a week away, and even with JJ working his magic I didn’t have much faith that he’d get me out on time. More than likely we’d all meet up in Kabul and head back on the same plane after the first of the year anyway.

  “We’ve got the logistics covered. Go get yourself packed and say your good-byes. I’ll see you in the morning.” Wil looked and sounded tired. He’d been in Afghanistan longer than anyone else in the group. He had arrived in country soon after 9/11 and returned countless times through the years. He said it was because his wife was also constantly traveling for work, but that wasn’t the real reason. Wil felt obligated to be there. He had seen his share of battles and shouldered the added responsibility of leadership with strength and dignity. I would miss him and the smoke-break conversations he made me take with him. Hell, I would miss all of the guys.

  “Alright, sounds like everything is set.” I smiled as I shook their hands. “See you tomorrow.”

  I walked through the cool night air, then ducked into the barracks and packed my gear. I really didn’t have too much to pack; after all, it was an isolated base in a war zone, and personal effects were essentially a waste of space. I gathered up what geedunk (goodie items) I did have, such as candy bars, magazines, and the coveted flavored coffee creamer necessary to turn army coffee into a tolerable drink, and went out to a makeshift fire pit 10th Mountain had built near the entrance of their mud-hut barracks. A group of seven sat around the fire on ammo crates and Walmart folding stools, listening to a young soldier strum a guitar while another soldier, a wise-ass from the big city, cracked jokes about his “redneck buddies.” It was a scene for the ages, men at war gathered for a moment of peace with their brothers. Except for the modern uniforms, they could have been Vietnam grunts or Colonial Minutemen.

  The soldiers nodded and smiled as I approached but quickly returned to their thoughts as they watched orange embers fly into the night sky. I recognized some of the faces, while others were new to the base. The army also slowly rotated new guys in platoon by platoon to ensure the incoming company felt a sense of familiarity. One of the boys, who looked no more than nineteen years old, was reading a Time magazine article about Firebase Shkin entitled “Battle in the Evilest Place,” written by a reporter who had visited months earlier and drove the spec ops team crazy as they hid out during his stay. It painted a grim picture of the outpost, and with good reason; Shkin was a hellhole on the edge of the earth, and everyone knew it. Even so, it served no good purpose to read a reporter’s opinion of a very complex issue, especially when the “issue” is your day-to-day reality.

  “You don’t need to be reading this,” I told him, “and your family or friends shouldn’t be sending it to you. It really doesn’t matter what’s written in Time or Stars and Stripes. When bullets start flying, none of that is going to matter. All you’ll think about is the guy next to you.” The battle-experienced soldiers nodded in unison, and I realized how much older they looked than when we all first arrived.

  “That’s right, it’s all about your bros. That magazine is elitist bullshit,” said a thirtyish sergeant from the Southwest as he snatched the magazine from the kid’s hands and acted as if he were throwing it into the fire. The young soldier began to protest but sensed the gravitas of the moment and wisely stood down.

  “Doc, I heard you’re leaving tomorrow,” the guitarist said as he stoked the fire with his boot. “Any requests for a song?”

  I handed out the geedunk to the soldiers, who gratefully accepted it.

  “Know any U2?” I asked with great skepticism as I grabbed a crate from the burn pile for a stool.

  “Let me think,” he said as he shifted in his seat. He tuned for a few moments, then launched into “Where the Streets Have No Name,” a favorite of mine I played many times in the camp medical clinic when I’d sit and have coffee with their medics. As he strummed and sang in a low, scratchy voice, we stared into the fire or off at distant stars, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the men around us. Eyes reveal uncertainty, pain, and homesickness, and every man had suffered doses of each.

  I waited for the song to end, then rose and said my good-byes. Troops from all branches form unique bonds with their medics and corpsmen, and each man around the fire that night said farewell with a handshake or a quick bro hug, even if he’d never met me. I then crossed the compound, climbed the guard tower that faced out toward the main road, and gazed out at the medical clinic we’d worked so hard to build. I wondered if the clinic would stay open or end up an abandoned shell like I found it. I wasn’t concerned about the money or the effort put into building it, but I damn well wanted to ensure the ANA and villagers had somewhere to go for treatment after I left. I’d spent months in one of the most dangerous places on earth, fought dozens of battles, and lost friends and colleagues. Yet it was the clinic that weighed heaviest on my heart as I prepared to leave, and as I turned to climb down from the tower I felt a sense of dread that stayed with me through the night.

  The next morning, I rose early and met the team at the comms hooch. We traded contact information and said our see-ya-laters, knowing we’d probably run into each other somewhere down the road; another war, another base. Muscle Tom and I walked to the helo pad and traded small talk as the bird made its approach. As the bird touched down, I shook Tom’s hand and shouted one final request.

  “Keep an eye on the clinic for me!”

  “They’re shutting it down, Doc. No one wanted to tell you last night, but we got orders from the head shed. It’s way above any of us. Be safe, brother!” Tom turned without further comment and low-ran back toward the Alamo. I suddenly felt a hairy arm reach down my throat and squeeze my heart. Was it all in vain? An aircrewman signaled from the bird and snapped me out of the shocked trance, then helped me onto the helo. I sat down and gave a weak thumbs-up to the crew chief, who then gave the pilot the word that we were cleared to lift off. My grip tightened around my weapon as we ascended above the arid desert floor, up and away from the Alamo, and I looked down at the clinic and saw an Afghan woman and small child walking toward it. I felt my heart seize as thoughts of Chief, Chris, and the others who died came rushing in. I questioned why the most powerful country on earth couldn’t keep a clinic open for these villagers after we worked so hard to reach out to them. Then anger, contempt, and anxiety set in. Years later colleagues of mine would determine these missions as the root of my PTSD, but I choose to remember them as the days the enemy wounded my heart and my soul.

  STATESIDE

  Somehow JJ got me back in time to reunite with Korrina and the kids just before Christmas. I was grateful to be home and see the people I loved the most, especially after months of dea
ling with death in the primitive Afghan desert, but my feelings of elation were overwhelmed by anger and shame. I missed the burials of my friends, and it was eating at my heart, preventing me from finding the closure I needed. Chief had sacrificed his life for mine, and I watched Chris do the same for another. Yet somehow I was never able to say good-bye; there simply wasn’t any time before they were flown off to Bagram Air Base, and for some reason I couldn’t compel myself to visit their graves. I would tell myself they were buried too far away and the time it would take to travel to their hometowns would infringe on what little time I had with Korrina and the kids, but it was all lies. I felt their lives were in my hands, and the guilt of being home with my family when they were just a memory for theirs was too much for me to bear. I tried to reason with myself—they each had made their choice to be there, they received mortal wounds in battle and there’s nothing anyone could have done, and so on and so on—but it was to no avail. Every night I would revisit the battlefield and wake full of fear and rage.

  I’d walk the halls in our home and stare out the windows, careful to stay in the shadows, believing anyone who saw me would know what I was thinking. I wanted to speak to my teammates and the families of the fallen, but I was more worried about showing a weakness than I was about receiving help. Night after night I questioned every move that I made on that fateful day in Afghanistan. Why didn’t I pop smoke earlier and go back for Chief after I made it to safety? Was I so concerned with being a warrior that I forgot my reason for being on the team? If so, what kind of warrior was I if I was willing to remove gear that I knew I needed? Not to mention forgetting what I was carrying on me, such as the grenades. Why didn’t I try throwing the grenades when I had the chance? Why didn’t I go forward with the Afghan troops? Tom made it clear my understanding of the enemy’s position and the landscape was critical, but instead of going I let my teammate go in my place. Was I reaching out to a friend or was I subconsciously trying to protect myself at the risk of another? Why, why, why?

  Even today I replay everything that transpired that day, disgusted with what I failed to do. Hell, the only ones who did their job were Vic and Tom, and I was hearing rumors that I was under consideration for an award. I didn’t want a damn award! I just wanted my friends back and would gladly trade places with them if I could. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I only knew I felt worthless and feared someone would pick up on it if I let people get too close, so I locked my feelings away during the day and sequestered myself alone at night. At work everything appeared fine; I smiled, laughed, and on a few occasions could even talk about what happened as long as it focused on the lessons learned or the heroic actions of others. At work I felt safe, maybe because it was in a secure compound, maybe because I was working among the best our country had to offer—maybe, but I doubt it. More than likely it was because once someone stepped through the gates it was all business. We’d still receive outside calls, and televisions would play CNN in the buildings, but everyone came to work for one purpose: to prepare for war or support those out there doing the job. Life was simple at work, but it wasn’t that way at home.

  At home I felt overburdened and insecure. The tidal wave of external input flooding my senses irritated me until I became furious with the world. At first I could control it by limiting the input to the absolute essentials. I would arrive home after work and retreat to an upstairs office I’d turned into my own personal prison cell. Hours upon hours I sat, stood, or paced, looking out a window that afforded me a clear view of anyone approaching our home. When I wasn’t worried about someone invading my pseudo serenity, I would watch mindless television, benign programs that required little thought. I avoided infomercials or news updates, especially if they included a simulated ticker tape flowing on the bottom of the screen; there was just too much input, and I couldn’t process it. I found an odd solace in war movies, especially those that showed realistic depictions of combat.

  Somehow the chaos of battle seemed very black-and-white to me, while the world here at home was full color. In battle, I had clearly defined parameters in which to operate: Defeat the enemy. Stay alive. Treat the injured. Get back in the wire. Repeat. In the world back home there were hundreds of daily mundane stresses; the vivid colors of civilian life were greatly magnified. I found them frustrating and at times overwhelming. Opening mail and answering the phone could trigger an anxiety attack. Driving the kids to an unfamiliar school for day camp might result in a volcanic eruption of road rage. As odd as it sounds, the little things of home life were far more stressful than combat, and I began longing for the black-and-white world that awaited me outside the wire.

  As the weeks went on, my symptoms worsened, at least in private. I was sleeping two hours a night and filled my time between naps by patrolling our home or watching countless hours of battle scenes or simply staring at a snowy, static television screen. I could equally identify with both, a clear-cut struggle between life and death or the constant fuzzy hum that equaled what I heard in my head when the world fell silent.

  As medical officer, I had access to medications and fellow providers willing to write prescriptions for medications out of my purview, and I took advantage of it. I started with one sleeping pill a night and within a month was taking six just to squeeze out four to five hours of restless sleep, and when that failed, I’d supplement the meds with alcohol. Physically the pills had no control over me, but psychologically I felt as if they were my only method for any sleep whatsoever. On my days off I’d sit in my prison cell, groggy from the medication, as I tried to find some peace.

  I tried to revert to faith but couldn’t make it line up internally. At first I would pray; then I began to slowly lose my faith. I applied logic to the spirituality of the church, and none of it made sense anymore.

  Korrina tried to understand my internal battles and support me as I sorted things out, but I gave her nothing to work with. I would sit and stare out the window for hours on end and not say a word. She would rub my shoulder and I would get up and walk away. I needed her in my life; her affectionate touch deserved my reciprocation, but without any real happiness inside I had nothing to give. I didn’t want the responsibility of a relationship or anything else in my life other than work. Yet I didn’t want her to leave me alone; I needed her in the house so I knew I wasn’t abandoned. I needed her to help me deal with all the colors that were flooding into my life, yet I pushed her away when she offered her love. I desperately wanted to turn it all around, and the only way I knew how to calm the inner chaos was to return to the battlefield. That may sound ridiculous, but the anxious feelings I was having disappeared when we ventured outside the wire heading into Mangritay and only returned when I started my trip home to the States.

  In an effort to break out of what I was feeling, I decided to visit a friend who had recently taken a major position at the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery in Washington, D.C. What was supposed to be a pleasant visit only added stress to my reacclimation process.

  Not wanting to deal with the traffic, I decided on trying the Metro, but if I’d known what it would entail I would have chosen differently. I parked at a mall in Pentagon City and jumped on the Metro, positioning myself in the end corner to prevent anyone from gathering behind me but still near the side door exits, and headed toward Foggy Bottom. The underground station at Pentagon City was cool, quiet, and fairly empty, but when the doors opened at the Pentagon people poured into the train like water from a spigot. The fact that the majority were in American uniforms and the ones that weren’t were government employees gave comfort, but as the doors opened at Rosslyn and people were exchanged like cards on a poker table, my senses began to heighten. When the doors opened at my stop I quickly jumped out, trying to get ahead of the crowd that I knew would be rushing to exit the station. What was once routine to me had become overwhelming. People walked within inches of one another, bustling by at speeds reminiscent of someone either running into or away from a firefight. The tunnel atmosphere that was
inconsequential to me before, suddenly made me feel trapped, and I quickly walked the long, steep escalator toward the top, trying to escape the walled environment that encompassed me. When I emerged from the Metro, things weren’t any better. People were moving in all directions, some in pairs, others in groups, but mostly individually. The noise of their activity added to my confusion, and a couple of the homeless lying about brought back memories of corpses on the street after a suicide bomber attack. Knowing where I needed to go, I headed in the direction of the National Mall. I could see the State Department in the distance, giving me some indication of the distance I had to travel, and I felt at ease knowing I’d be right on time. That was the only comfort I’d experience as I walked past the university.

  In combat people didn’t approach you from behind; they walked on the other side of the street or at excessive distances. Only the children violated the unwritten rule of maintaining space as they often swarmed us for candy or other goodies we’d hand out, but even then I felt insecure. Who’s to say they might not unknowingly be used to draw us into the crosshairs of a sniper or have a bomb strapped to their chest. Here people were swarming past me, five to ten of them every few seconds, none of them making eye contact, which made it difficult for me to tell their intent. In combat I would call out and have them stop their approach or move away, and if they didn’t I’d raise my weapon to make sure to get my point across. I couldn’t do any of that here. This was America, where everyone is free to go as you please, but my mind was still tuned in to the militant environment of the battlefield. I did what I could to relieve the uneasiness of the environment. I varied my speed and moved to the outer/street side of the sidewalk and often walked in the gutter trying to keep the crowd from flooding over me, but just when I thought I’d found comfort a taxicab swooped in, nearly hitting me. If I’d had a weapon I would have drawn down on the occupants in a heartbeat; instead I had to remind myself that’s how things are done back home. Although I was anxious, I wasn’t paranoid, sweating bullets, or having a panic attack. Unless someone knew me well there was no outward sign of how uncomfortable I was. Everything seemed foreign to me now. I was accustomed to the feel and formalities of the battlefield, and now all I wanted was to get back to where I was comfortable, to where all this would stop. Rather than seek help, I did what I thought was rational at the time. I found my way back to combat.