Upon further diagnosis, I found the problem stemmed from a bit of confusion in my Parietal Lobe regarding which way exactly the letter ‘L’ should be facing. It seemed that the brace should face left, yet something about that didn’t seem to jibe. Remembering my toddler days of the left versus right debate among my stuffed animals, which sometimes spun out of control, I held up both hands in the shape of the letter in question. No good, either might do. I had to find an example on a printed page and, even then, found the answer dubious.
The Parietal Revolt of 2012 continued to build momentum—the N was the next to fall along with the S—until I felt sufficiently concerned to seek medical assistance yet again. Fort Benning had a TBI clinic that was able to squeeze me in within eight weeks, and a few months later I had been diagnosed with a mild traumatic brain injury that had resulted from a mortar round explosion. At least I think so. I have yet to see the results.
While the doctors and assorted scientists were conducting this evaluation, I managed to contact my former roommate and Bradley gun mentor Ben Hayhurst on Facebook. The social networking site had proved useful in finding many of my old comrades. Now that the combat narrative of the book was complete, I endeavored to find as many from red platoon as possible to read the draft and provide feedback. Below follows a transcript of our conversation:
“Ben! What’s up? How are ya?”
“I am re-entering society, I guess you could say,” he wrote.
“What, did you rob a bank or something?”
“No, just was a little messed up for a while. I am back now though.”
“Well, you’re in good company,” I replied. “I think every single person from the platoon has had to deal with things in their own time. I let it go so long that my marriage disintegrated. I’ve been getting help for the past year.” I was going to quit there in adherence to my strict policy of avoiding deep conversations. Then I didn’t. I felt at ease with this man, my brother.
“I still have nightmares but not as often,” I continued. “I still check for snipers EVERY single time I step outside, but hell, no one is going to blindside me. I’ve lived with depression so long it just seems normal now. My drinking is under control...ish. My weight got out of control this last year when I had my spine rebuilt, but I’m on that, too. All in all, I guess we just can’t be killed, beaten, or otherwise destroyed. I finished writing the book about us during my last deployment. It almost killed me. You might not be up to it, but I would like for you to read the draft, if you can.”
“I would love to. I am writing a book right now about how I was kicked out with a personality disorder discharge.”
Intriguing. “Ok, so how do you get chaptered with a personality disorder?”
“I was being treated for PTSD, was told that there was only one way to get help. It turned out it was a chapter for personality disorder. So I got all my benefits taken away, and my bonus taken back. We lost everything. I have been fighting to get it changed now for about four years, but they just blow me off.”
I read what he wrote and felt my blood boil. Sergeant Benjamin Hayhurst took a bullet for his country on April 4, 2004, spent a few months recovering stateside, and then pitched a fit until the doctors allowed him to return to fight at the side of his Army brothers. And in June of the same year, wounded combat veteran Ben Hayhurst was once again ambushed. This time he was the victim of a most unlikely foe: The U.S. Veterans Administration.
Back in Iraq, once again patrolling the mean streets of Sadr City, Ben couldn’t stop thinking about what happened in April. His nightmares haunted what sleep he could find and bled over into his waking hours. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, he could not forget how it felt to lie on top of a dead friend. He had tried to gut it out. He had tried to climb back on the horse that threw him by volunteering to return to his unit in Sadr City. He’d even sought help from Army professional counselors despite the silent contempt he felt from some superiors and fellow soldiers for not just sucking it up and driving on in the storied infantry tradition.
By June, the stress that haunted him became a heavier burden than he could bear and still focus on duty. He requested discharge and began the process of separating from the Army through appeal to a Physical Evaluation Board, a group of medical professionals who would evaluate his condition and aptitude for further active service. Ben’s problem seemed to be a classic case of PTSD, but a counselor told him that a formal diagnosis of that condition would take quite a long time. He was faced with a large battery of tests and exams to determine his disposition and the board’s resources were slammed with a large number of claims from the newly returned Soldiers of 1st Cavalry Division.
On the other hand, Sergeant Ben Hayhurst was told, if he was in a hurry to get out of the Army, things could be expedited if he would pursue an alternate diagnosis of his problem. Ben was told that an Army behavioral specialist could—and would without hesitation—officially diagnose Ben as suffering from Adjustment Disorder (AD), which amounted to the same thing. Or so he was told when he agreed to the deal as an expedited way to get out of the Army. He loved being a soldier, but he found himself thinking about death every time he put on his uniform. The only way out seemed to be no longer wearing that uniform.
What the helpful bureaucrat failed to mention was that although PTSD and Adjustment Disorder share similar symptoms, they differ in the time of onset, and that’s all the difference in the world when it comes to seeking help or compensation. According to the mental health professionals, PTSD is brought on as a reaction to a traumatic event, which in the case of combat veterans is generally something they experience on the battlefield. Adjustment Disorder is often rooted in childhood or later experiences in life before the individual ever sees combat. Such experiences might include abuse, neglect, or other painful byproducts of a dysfunctional rearing. In other words, an individual diagnosed with AD was likely screwed up before he ever entered military service and his problems are considered not necessarily service-related.
Sergeant Ben Hayhurst didn’t understand the nuances and he didn’t much care if the AD diagnosis got him out of the Army and give him some breathing space to deal with the ghosts that haunted him. Like the good soldier he was, Hayhurst trusted those in authority to steer him on a true course getting out of the Army just as they’d done getting him into uniform. He was a long way from thinking about or understanding the realities of the diagnosis he accepted. Only later would he discover the truth: Soldiers discharged with a diagnosis of PTSD get disability payments from the government scaled to the severity of their condition. Those who are discharged with a diagnosis of Adjustment Disorder get zip. They are presumed to be screwed up by life before the Army and the government can’t be held responsible for that.
So haunted combat veteran Sergeant Ben Hayhurst found himself being told by behavioral health experts that his problems had nothing in particular to do with that day in Iraq when his unit was ambushed. No connection whatsoever to being shot. Nothing at all to do with escaping death on the back of a tank in the middle of a firefight. And certainly no connection to laying on the body of his dead buddy. His problems likely stemmed from something earlier and more traumatic—something like his mother slapping his hand when he tried to rob the cookie jar.
The behavioral health experts were not particularly interested in the facts concerning Ben Hayhurst’s service. They didn’t much want to hear about his combat experiences. They didn’t care to know that he was an exemplary soldier, that he had a professional demeanor, and a level head in combat. They didn’t care that he was selected as Noncommissioned Officer of the Month in his unit, or that he was selected to be the platoon leader’s gunner, a position assigned only to the most trusted and reliable NCO. All of that was neither here nor there to the bureaucrats pondering Ben Hayhurst’s official AD diagnosis when he applied for help with the ongoing psychological problems. They could have asked me and I would have reported that Sergeant Hayhurst was one
of the most competent, intelligent, and steady leaders I have ever known. But they didn’t ask me or anyone else about Hayhurst’s combat experiences. They just scammed him out of his just compensation.
After our Iraq rotation, when I found out about what had happened to Sergeant Hayhurst, I began to look into the situation and ran across a quote often mistakenly attributed to George Washington that left me slack-jawed for a while: “The willingness with which our young people are likely to serve in any war, no matter how justified, shall be directly proportional to how they perceive how the veterans of earlier wars were treated and appreciated by their nation."
My research began to challenge the faith I maintained in my government and my service. I ran across an email sent by VA administrator Norma Perez to the staff of the Veterans’ Center in Temple, Texas just a few days after I redeployed from the Middle East. Perez had this to say to the staff of mental health specialists and social workers at the Texas facility: "Given that we are having more and more compensation-seeking veterans, I’d like to suggest that you refrain from giving a diagnosis of PTSD straight out." She recommended as an alternative that they "consider a diagnosis of Adjustment Disorder” since VA staff members "really don’t . . . have time to do the extensive testing that should be done to determine PTSD."
Of course, this could have been just one clueless administrator offering advice in a vacuum, a government drone ordering the worker bees to take short-cuts and never mind the real needs of the vets they serve, but that’s not the case as later events and scandals proved.
Then a chilling thought rattled me. If the VA claimed that Ben Hayhurst—a man who was shot while defending against an ambush conducted by 10,000 socially disturbed bungholes—did not have PTSD, what about the rest of us? I thought back to the few times that I had sought mental health treatment over the years and wondered what had been written about one Captain Fisk.
The next day, I went to the Army hospital and put in for a copy of my medical records. The civilian told me that a doctor must approve to release the files on form such and such. This made no sense as the files were about me, but I submitted the request and waited. The request was lost. I returned to the TBI clinic, obtained the signature on such and such form and walked it over personally to the records department. They advised that I would be called when they were ready for pick up. When a couple of weeks had passed I stopped by only to find that the request had been lost again. This runaround did absolutely nothing to soothe PTSD-related symptoms. After returning to the TBI clinic for anger management counseling and another signature, I received the long-awaited documents.
My jaw clenched as I leafed through the chronological record of treatment. The words Adjustment Disorder jumped off the page. Really? If we could experience what we did in just one battle, let alone the 200 plus combat missions after, and fail the litmus test for PTSD, who exactly fit the profile? How many had been denied proper care simply as a cost-saving measure? Unsettled and angry, I began to reach out to other Black Knight alumni to find out.
Fort Hood, Texas – April 4th, 2014
I haven’t felt such nervousness in exactly ten years. Every eye in the church is watching me as I wait, sweating palms clasped in front of me, for my best friend of 32 years to walk down the aisle and become my wife. My father, an ordained minister who eagerly agreed to marry us, stands at my side. The best man, married to my future bride’s mother, is a Vietnam vet who still won’t talk about his tour. Today is his birthday. Earlier I had asked him how long it took before the nightmares stopped. “It gets better. Takes a good long while, but it gets better,” he said.
A few months ago, while we were planning the wedding, my fiancé and I spoke jovially between shots of Jim Beam chased with Pabst Blue Ribbon. I can’t recall what we were talking about exactly, but thoughts of the wedding had us in high spirits. Then we began to discuss what came next, our happily ever after. I had decided to leave the Army as my body could barely meet the physical demands, but as yet I hadn’t decided on a new career.
Still laughing I asked, and slurring just a little, I asked, “You want to know why I’m getting out? I knew back when I commissioned that my body was getting worse, but I kept pushing and pushing. My boss wanted me to take a PT test before we deployed, but I dodged out of it. I knew I couldn’t it pass it then, you see, because my back was that bad. I was afraid that if I failed it they would make me medically retire.”
Shot. Swig of PBR.
“I knew I had one more chance to go back to Iraq, and I meant to take it. And then I was going to see if those sons-a-bitches could finish what they started back in oh-four.”
Shot. Shot. Lisa moves closer and puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Because how in the hell am I still here? Shot at, shot, more IEDs than I can remember, a mortar round that should have vaporized me, a grenade at my feet that exploded around me. Why am I still here? Why Chen?
“Did you know I was the L-T’s gunner before Eddie? I trained for it at NTC. They moved me when we came back to Texas. My ex-wife’s ex-husband was in our battalion so I asked for a transfer. My platoon sergeant didn’t want the hassle of a squeaky wheel, so he sent me over to the sniper section. They didn’t have time to train me before deployment so they sent me back a month later. By that time they had put Chen in my place. In my place. Why? What am I here for? Why?”
Shot. Lisa pulls my head against her stomach as something unexpected happens. I begin to cry for the first time in well over a decade. It all comes spilling out, and I can’t hold it back.
Getting married on the 4th was Lisa’s idea. For years I had defined myself by one event. I was one of those guys in that alley who had to do nasty things to make it out alive. My vision was fixed in the past on the most horrible day of my life. She said that we could make the 4th of April a day I would remember with joy instead. She knew what she was in for and agreed to join her life to mine anyway. Talk about guts.
Now we stand ready to exchange vows in front of family and close friends. I’ve asked to speak before the ceremony begins so dad gives me the floor.
“I want to thank you all for coming out today as we exchange vows in the sight of God and men.” I stutter a lot at first, but my mind clears and my speech becomes more firm as I continue. “It’s important that I tell you why you’re here on a Friday afternoon instead of a Saturday. Ten years ago today, I had the worst day of my life, and I was sure that I wouldn’t live to see another.”
My voice cracks. I pause for a second and continue, “I thought my life was over. But I’m reminded of God’s promise to Jeremiah, ‘I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to give you a future and a hope…’”
I’m a crumbling dam holding back tears. Many seconds later I have regained enough control to choke out the rest. “…and not for destruction. Today I will marry my buddy in the very church we grew up in, so that when this time of year rolls around I will remember it as something good.”
The ceremony began, and I forgot everything else in the world when I saw my bride coming up the aisle. We read the vows we had written to each other and were married before I knew what had happened. Not a dry eye was to be had.
A couple of hours later, my new bride and I drove to attend another ceremony, this one more somber. Members of Task Force Lancer, Operation Iraqi Freedom II, were assembling in Fort Hood, Texas to remember the fallen and commemorate ten years of life. The organizers had worked for a year to pull everything together, and anticipation ran high. What no one planned on, however, was another shooting in Phantom Warrior territory. The shock was especially great for a former member of Comanche Red Platoon. Former NCO Joshua York was now First Lieutenant (promotable) York of the Medical Services Corps and a member of the unit that had taken casualties. Once again the 20th man, the guy who was left behind and missed the ambush, he drew a lucky hand. Many of his fellow staff officers were injured. Josh left work two minutes before the rampage began.
On the
2nd of April, 2014 a troubled soldier named Ivan Lopez became distraught over the rejection of his leave request and opened fire on everyone who crossed his path. He killed three, wounded 16, and finally turned the gun on himself. Most of his targets were chosen seemingly at random after the initial encounter. Initial reports indicated that he was navigating the process to have himself tested for TBI and PTSD. Very little was forthcoming in the days leading up to our reunion about the gunman’s motives. Some speculated that recent deaths in his family made him snap. Others hypothesized that TBI or war-related stress played a role, even though the Army stated that he saw no combat during his deployments. Whatever his reasons, the Black Knights were not deterred from honoring their fallen even in the midst of such tragic and senseless loss of life.
Several attended the beer-soaked gathering on the 4th but not the ceremony. John Deaver, for one. He still lives on the north side of Fort Hood and spends his days pummeling the young bulls at the local boxing gym.
Justin Rowe was another. He went through a long bout of alcoholism and made it through to the other side a stronger man.
Shane Aguero was also unable to attend the ceremony although he did make it to the informal gathering the night before. He is a major with the Intelligence branch and thoroughly miserable to be so far away from a fight.
The next morning, April 5th, we boarded a bus at the Fort Hood visitor’s center that had been arranged to facilitate our movement past heightened security at the checkpoint. I sat behind a dark-haired man and his family.
Black Knights, Dark Days Page 28
