by Bryan Wood
I replied, “I will. I really hope nothing but the best for you, and if I ever need a good fried chicken recipe, I’ll be sure to call you, Colonel Sanders.”
Major Sanders gave me a hug and said, “I’m just glad I was here for you guys.”
“I don’t think you’ll ever know how much you really did for me,” I told him.
Exactly eight days after having that conversation, I was home, and the entire nightmare was finally over. I had been so consumed by the challenges of life in Fort Drum that I didn’t even realize, but I was quickly going see, that the person I was before this all started had somehow changed. The way I saw the world was gone, and I saw things, almost everything, in an entirely different way. It was now time to face this fact, and I needed to adjust to life in an entirely new reality.
Chapter 4 – A New Reality
I am all alone in a desert, wearing my Army uniform with full battle gear. I’m on my knees, with my fingers clasped and my hands behind my head. My pulse is racing, and I’m sweating so profusely that my uniform is soaked. I don’t see or hear anyone else, but I can sense them standing behind me. I can feel that their intentions are frightening, and I begin to panic. I’m instantly laid out on my stomach, with someone’s foot on the back of my neck. My face is being pressed into the hot sand, with the grains scraping like sandpaper. I still cannot see who is there, but I can now hear them. I hear them talking about taking me alive, and a bag is slid over my head. The fear becomes so intense that I can feel myself wanting to vomit. I am powerless and cannot move. I can only think to myself that this cannot be happening; it cannot be real.
The dream suddenly ends, and I instantly jolt out of my sleep. I sit upright and panic, not knowing exactly where I am. It takes me a minute to realize it’s only a dream, at which point I’m dripping in sweat with my heart pounding.
“Are you ok?” I’m asked by my wife.
I unconvincingly respond, “I’m fine, go back to sleep.”
“Ok, just wake me up if you need me,” she said.
She rolled to her side of the bed and went back to sleep. I laid back down, and as I’d done almost every night for as long as I cared to remember, I laid awake, staring at the ceiling once again. I thought repeatedly about my dream and could not escape the fear it produced. All I had at that moment was the thought of that dream racing through my mind.
I began having this same nightmare haunt me almost every night. Even while awake, I was not immune from the images and memories that worked their way into my thoughts. Any time I closed my eyes, I could see the image of a young boy lying dead in a gutter. I could instantly see his starved body, and I could hear his mother’s cry after she was shoved to the ground. I would feel my heart rate climb, and I would have a sinking feeling in my stomach, as if these experiences were really happening again. Before long, I started to become angry at myself for reliving these moments and allowing these memories to dominate my consciousness. It’s my head, I control what goes on inside, and I control what I think. I asked myself constantly, “Why can’t I just stop remembering these things?” The harder I fought to make the memories stop, the more frequently they came, and the more memories they brought with them.
I routinely thought about the death I had seen, but the images of poverty and suffering were killing me inside. The memories of people starving, the look on a dead man’s face capturing the fear and torment he experienced moments before his death, and other vile recollections were constantly there. The worst were the memories of seeing innocent children, as young as four or five years old, being led off to be what I know was raped by an adult man, all while I was forced to watch and do nothing. Knowing that I watched and did nothing was now pure torture – pure and agonizing torture.
These were the thoughts that swarmed through my head at their own will, leaving me with no ability to control them. My thoughts of these memories were beginning to dominate nearly every waking moment of my life.
My first days at home were somewhat strange. Everything was exactly as I had left it, but somehow it no longer felt the same. When I first got back to my tiny, one-bedroom apartment, I found the television was right where I had last watched it, the couch was right where I had last sat on it, and my bed was right where I had last slept on it. Everything was exactly the same, but it felt as though it all belonged to someone else. It seemed as though I was stepping into someone else’s life, and at any moment someone was going to pull the rug out from under me to send me back to some terrible place.
I originally joined the military in 1996, and I got out in 1999. Shortly after September 11, 2001, and once the war in Afghanistan erupted, I learned that the unit in which I had served was being placed at the top of the list for deployment to Afghanistan. I could not help but feel the obligation to my unit, and I felt a duty: if my unit needed to go, then I would need to go with them. I signed a one year contract, essentially agreeing to serve one tour in Afghanistan. What that meant for me, in the end, was once I was released from Fort Drum, I was simply done. I was able to just walk away from the military and return to the life I had prior to signing that one-year contract. I went from the middle of a war to the experience of Fort Drum and then right back home. There was never any buffer between any of them, and I found next to nothing to help me with the transition.
For many soldiers, it was much worse. They were in Afghanistan one day and back in their own living room less than two weeks later. It is so difficult to just turn that “combat mode” off and jump from one extreme to another. Going from war to everyday life turned out to be much more complicated than it was for me to go from everyday life to war. I searched desperately for the metaphorical light switch that would just turn that part of my life off for good, but such a switch simply doesn’t exist.
My very first night at home, my family got together at my parents’ house, and we all had dinner. We decided on Chinese take-out, and we ordered almost everything available on the menu. We sat around the table, enjoying one another and talking over our Lo Mein noodles and fried rice. I found the conversation mostly centered on Afghanistan and what kind of things had happened there. I told my family about Massoud and some of the interesting things I had seen, but I did not want to talk about anything in great detail.
My father and I were never the touchy-feely, “I love you” types, but we have both always had our own way of making sure the other knew exactly how we felt. I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face as he talked with me over dinner that night. He was grinning from ear to ear, and he could not stop smiling.
When I was leaving for Afghanistan, I was preparing to board a bus that was taking my unit to mobilization. This was the last time we could see our families before departing for war. As I prepared to board the bus, my father grabbed me and hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged. As he squeezed, he whispered in my ear, “I love you, and I need you to come home. So you do whatever you have to do over there, but you come home.”
As I looked at my father smiling over his Chinese food, I knew I had done what he asked of me. I could see that he was proud, but more than anything I knew he was relieved beyond words that I had come home. The night drew on, but I still remember how his smile never faded.
The following day, my phone rang, and I answered, “Hello.”
“Woody, you’re home! It’s me, Sean.”
Sean was one of my best friends, and before leaving for Afghanistan, he promised me the time of my life when I came home.
“Tonight, we’re taking you out, dude.” Sean said.
“I don’t know, man. I think I might want a few days to settle in, so I can kind of adjust to everything.”
Sean responded, “Bullshit, you can adjust with a stripper’s tits in your face! We’re picking you up at eight-thirty.”
I wasn’t in the mood to go out yet; I really did want some alone time. I knew though that arguing with Sean would be a fruitless effort, and I conceded to the fact I had to go.
HONK! HONK! HON
K!
I heard the repeated blasting of a horn in front of the house. I looked at my watch and saw it was eight twenty-five. I went down to find Sean and another friend, Steve, waiting in the car for me. I got in the front passenger side, and we drove off into the night.
Sean was driving and he asked, “Are you ready for one hell of a night? I’m not drinking a drop, so it’s all you!”
“Look man, I really want to hang out tonight, but let’s just keep it low key. I’m not up for a crazy night. Let’s just all go somewhere, have a few beers, and shoot the shit.”
Without hesitation Sean said, “You’re the boss tonight.”
Sean drove us to the Blackthorne Tavern, our favorite pub. It was a small Irish style pub with dim lighting, low ceilings, and an enormous selection of beer. Located in Easton, Massachusetts, the Blackthorne was very popular with the local working-class Irish.
Sean brought the first round of beers to our table and we began talking the night away. My friends repeatedly asked me what Afghanistan was like, and I vaguely answered, “It sucked,” or some variation of that, each time. My friends prodded for stories, but that was the last thing I wanted to talk about. Eventually I was able to change the conversation to other topics, and Afghanistan was forgotten, at least for a little while.
Steve unexpectedly stood up and yelled to the pub’s other patrons, “Hey everyone, listen up. My boy here just came back from Afghanistan, and we want to show him a fun night!”
The room clapped and a few people whistled. I told Steve to sit down, because I really didn’t want this. Inevitably people in the bar began bringing me a beer, or a handshake, or a “thank you.” I pretended to be grateful for each, but I really didn’t want them. I didn’t want anything from anyone, and I really just wanted to be left alone. This was something that I really did not want; I did not want this kind of attention.
The three of us sat around our small table, talking and drinking. As I expected it to, the conversation shifted back to Afghanistan.
Steve asked “So come on, tell us. How many of those fucks did you kill over there?”
“What fucks?” I asked.
“Come on, dude. You know, those Afghanistan fucks.”
I was able to successfully stop their earlier attempts at this type of conversation, but this time I was drunk and didn’t have the same perspective. For the first time, I felt like I was beginning to lose control.
“Exactly what ‘fucks’ are you talking about?” I asked with a tone of anger.
Steve said, “Forget it, man. I’m sorry I said that.”
“No. Too late, shithead,” I said. I loudly continued, “You’re going to tell me exactly what ‘fucks’ you’re talking about.”
The area around us quieted, and everyone was looking toward our table. Steve quietly said, “Dude, calm down. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
I slammed the beer bottle in my hand to the table top. I yelled, “No, you wanted to talk about this and here you go. I’ll tell you when you’re fucking done.”
The room came to a dead silence as months of anger came pouring out at that very moment. None of it was Steve’s fault, but it came out on him. I looked around the room, and I saw everyone staring at me.
“Fuck all of you,” I said as I walked away from my table and out of the door. As I reached the parking lot in front of the pub, Steve came out also and walked toward me.
“Bryan, I’m sorry. That was a dick move in there. I never should have asked you something like that. Come back inside, man. Please?”
Steve and I talked for a minute, and I apologized to him for the way I had acted. We made our way back toward the door when Sean came out also.
“They kicked us out.” Sean said. “Your first night back and you already got us kicked out of somewhere. That’s why I love you, man!”
“I’m sorry guys,” I said. I continued, “I’m just not ready for this yet. I just need some time to get used to being back and dealing with everything. This isn’t easy.”
Sean replied, “Hey, better here than yelling at some innocent, impressionable, young stripper.” He continued, “Come on, let’s get you home.”
My friends took me home, and the twenty-minute ride seemed to last all night. We tried making small conversation in the car, but it just felt weird and forced. As Sean was driving, all I could think was that I wished I could hang out with Kevin again. Being friends was so much easier with him. I did not need to explain or describe anything to him, and he did not have to explain anything to me. Kevin and I each had different experiences, and his hurt was different than my hurt, but as I would later learn, hurt is hurt. More than anything else, I missed my friend.
I took the next two weeks off before going back to work. I honestly do not remember how I spent those two weeks, but I do remember eating a lot of pizza and watching a lot of television. I was very eager to get back to my old life, rebuild my old routines, and just get things back to exactly where they used to be.
My first day back at work was basically as I had expected it to be. I worked as the Marketing Manager for a small company, and with only twenty-three employees including myself, they were excited to have me back. I arrived to work a few minutes early, and I found everyone else already there as well. My co-workers were setting up a small party to welcome me back to the office.
One of my bosses, James, approached me and welcomed me back.
“Hey buddy, it’s good to have you back!”
I replied, “Thanks James, it’s good to be back. It’s very good to be back.”
“Listen, take your time and get adjusted before you dive into anything. We have a lot going on and I want to make sure you’re back in the game before we start dumping things on you,” James said reassuringly.
I told James, “No, I don’t want to take any time. The more I sit around, the longer it’s going to take. I just want to get to work.”
“Well alright then, buddy. We have a meeting today at one, and we will get you up to speed and get you assigned to some projects.”
I always enjoyed my job, and I knew my return would be welcoming. The company owner, Adam, invited me to talk in his office.
“Bryan, come in and sit down.” Adam said.
Adam’s office was very large, but always seemed strangely empty. I guess you could say Adam was the typical small business owner in that he was a very nice guy, but he was also very opinionated. Work always had a feeling of Adam’s way or the highway, but after all, it was his company. The easiest way to get along there was to just go with the flow and agree with everything.
“Well, let me start off by saying that I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you’re back, and I’m very glad that you’re back in one piece.”
I said, “Thanks Adam, I really appreciate that.”
Adam asked, “Is it as bad over there as they make it out to be on the news?”
I replied, “It has its days. Some days weren’t so bad, and other days weren’t so good.”
“No shit, I bet.” Adam said. After a pause, Adam continued, “Bunch of god damn animals.”
The conversation was beginning to have the same tone as my night out at the bar. The only difference this time being that this conversation was with my boss. I bit my tongue, and I chose my words with a much greater sense of respect.
“I guess it just depends on how you look at it,” I told Adam.
He asked, “What do you mean?”
“It just depends from which side you look at something. I see things one way, and someone else may see them completely different, even though we’re looking at the same thing. War is just perspective, and it’s only from which angle you’re looking that determines your opinions.”
Adam said, “War is nothing but a battle of will. It is nothing more and nothing less. These animals have no value for life, so how do you defeat that kind of will?”
I said, “I guess you’re right. I have no idea.”
Although I answered wi
th an agreement, I could not help but think how ludicrous this was. Who was he to lecture me about the realities of war? I knew he meant well, and that was all that allowed me to agree with what he was saying. The conversation ended, and I returned to my desk to start getting to work.
James came to my desk and said, “Hey buddy, I think you’ll like this.”
James then handed me a piece of paper. It had a border printed around the edges similar to a design from a diploma or certificate. The title printed across the top read, “Taliban Hunting Permit,” in bold lettering, and the remainder of the print continued with something about killing Taliban and Afghan people. The bottom of the sheet had another bold print which read, “Proudly Presented to Bryan Wood.”
James laughed and said, “I made that for you, man.”
James gave me a pat on the back and walked away. I sat for a minute looking at the paper and simply thinking, “Are you serious?”
I turned my computer on and spent the next few hours poring through the endless backlog of emails I had waiting for me. I started placing personal items back around my desk, and I just worked on getting settled back in. I started looking through the work files placed on a network drive available to all employees, trying to find a purpose to any of them. Strangely, I could not find a single one that seemed to matter. I started thinking, “What was the point to any of this?” It all seemed so irrelevant.
As the day went on, I was eventually in the one o’clock meeting where, thankfully, the conversation was not at all about me. The meeting lasted for nearly three hours, with everyone carrying on about expense reports, spending budgets, quarterly profits, and so on. As each person in the meeting took their turn complaining about whatever issue they were having, I felt more and more cynical about everything. I couldn’t believe the things people were complaining about. I also couldn’t believe the kind of silly bullshit these people thought mattered in life. More than anything else, I couldn’t believe I once thought these same things were important. Now, expense reports were one of the most unimportant things in the world to me. At one point, James said if profits did not increase we could all end up starving on the streets. I do not think James, or anyone else in that room, had the slightest clue what it was like to see someone starving on the street. To them, it was a figure of speech and certainly not something that really happens.
