AFTER: The Battle Has Just Begun

by R. J. Belle

  It’s a different world over there and not what I expected. I would do it again. I wouldn’t make any changes. Maybe I would do it better, if I could. If I had to go through a whole Groundhog Day, even if no matter what I did it ended up with me with a traumatic injury, I would do it. I would willingly take that loop until I could get the best course for the people in that area.

  I was in Sangin – vacation capital of the world. Despite what people tell you, I don’t think we were ever winning in Sangin. Recon, I guess we did all right. We set a precedent that if you messed with us, we were going to push back hard, but we were also fair. You’ll sometimes hear stories of guys that’d mess with the local nationals, but as far as I know, we never did that. We didn’t want to ruffle feathers and make it even harder for ourselves. We got shot at a lot. It’s weird because sometimes they would just shoot at us out of boredom like it wouldn’t even be an insurgent or anything like that. It would just be a guy that has a gun and pops off a couple of shots.

  I can never actually remember the day of my injury because oddly enough, it’s never been crucial to me. My leg was amputated August 5 of 2011. The injury itself was sometime in July. Even before my actual deployment I sat down with my parents. I told them that I was deploying and when I was going through SOI, I had learned that the causality rate for my position was 90%, the people that were in the area before us – their injuries were double and triple amputees. When I was done with this deployment, chances were, I might be two limbs down or three limbs down. Honestly, the chance of me dying was more likely than me getting out unscathed. That was the conversation that I had with them before my deployment. They didn’t break down in front of me. As it is, it probably wasn’t exactly what they were expecting, but then again, I also had a lot more realistic view of my chances than other people do. I think one of the reasons why a lot of people have PTSD is because they go into a deployment and expect to be Superman. They don’t expect anything bad to happen. I told a lot of jokes during our workup because, almost every training mission we did, I would go down as causality.

  It was the last patrol that day before we were going to head back towards FOB Alcatraz. That seems to happen a lot. That’s going to tell you how much we loved our FOB and how far out in the boonies it was. It was called FOB Alcatraz. We joked because none of us liked Okinawa, and we always called Okinawa Okatraz just because we were stuck there. It was our rock. We went from Okatraz to Alcatraz.

  By that time, I had become unphased at getting shot at. The fact that the shot hit me lets you know how complacent I had become, but I got to be honest. The guy who was shooting at me was a good shot. His first rounds landed ten to fifteen feet from me. I kid you not; I had this moment where I paused mid-step and thought, ‘You know, those were pretty close together.’ I was astonished, almost pleasantly surprised. ‘These guys aren’t a waste of space. This guy knows what he’s doing.’ If you’re going to be shot at, at least, there’s a point of pride at being shot at by a professional. I was looking at the impact zone, like, ‘Oh, no. I should be doing something more important right now.’ I was along side of a wall, so there wasn’t anything for me to drop behind, you drop down to the ground so that you make a smaller target for yourself, but I wasn’t doing that. That moment, I was looking at the rounds, like, ‘Oh, hey. If I look at how the dirt’s curling I can tell where the impacts are coming from.’ I knew the second rounds were going to be coming, and I braced myself to start running. The dude that was behind me slammed into me, and then I heard the second rounds of impacts and everything goes dark real quick. I wake up hitting the ground, and I hear people calling my name. My buddy, who had been holding security position ten meters in front of where I’d been shot, he was calling my name.

  I was disoriented at that time. I wasn’t going to try to respond by firing or anything like that, I just got up and ran to cover and hopped behind a wall. I remember seeing a guy and his son; they were alongside the wall as well. We were chilling out, just relaxing. The kid might have been freaking out; I might not have noticed it considering I’d just gotten shot, but he didn’t appear to be as concerned as the adults. He was standing against the wall, looking down at me, and I was looking over at him. That’s a normal day for him.

  My buddy got a tourniquet on me. The shot hit about three inches above my ankle. It took out the tibia and fibula, shattered them, and took out the nerve cluster that wraps around one of them. That’s probably why l blacked out for a moment; shock. There was one artery and skin holding my foot on. I didn’t know how bad it was. I had gotten up and ran to cover. I didn’t have any basis for how badly I was injured either. I got a feel for it when one of my friends ran over to the sandbags where I had flopped down behind to get me back inside the compound that we had just left. His response as he was turning the corner was, “Holy fuck!”

  My biggest priority was not to make any sounds. I might not have fallen into the whole alpha personality, but I still had pride. We had been in engagements before, one of the insurgents was hit and we had heard him screaming and screaming and screaming. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I didn’t make a sound. As far as I know, I never made a sound. From what other people tell me and from one of my friends afterward when I met up with him, after my rehab, he was saying, “Yeah,” He was saying, “Yeah. That was kind of a life changing moment. I decided if I was ever going to get hurt in the military, I was going to take it like you did.”

  They waited until the sun went down before they extracted me. The guys say I was talking about some science fiction stuff. I was really out of it when they got me out of the firefight. I was dealing with some British nurses. They’re asking me for my Social Security number so they could put me in the system, but I had no idea what it was. I was still out of it. I had morphine in me. They were asking, “What’s your Social Security number?” I’m like, “Really? That’s what you want to ask me? Really?” They’re like, “Don’t worry. We’re only going to buy a house in Mexico. You don’t need to be concerned about it.” I’m like, “Fine. You can buy a house in Mexico. I just have to come with you.” So yeah, I eventually gave it to them.

  They got me into Bastion. They thought I was going to keep my leg because I’d been shot and my leg was still attached which is better than what happens to a lot of guys that get blown up. All the doctors and nurses were telling me I’d be up and walking, and everything was going to be all right. I’d look down at my leg, and it had that metal cage on it to keep all the bones in place. It was an odd sight. While I was in that position, every once in a while, I would look down at my leg, and think, ‘Oh, lefty, you’re still there. Oh, righty! You’re still there. Great.’ I had an easy time of it because I was expecting something much worse.

  One of the things that stuck out in my mind is a nurse. Nurse Emily. She was the first person I talked to when I was coherent. I have a deep and abiding affection for her because she was probably exactly what I needed at the time, kind and soft-spoken. I can still remember what she looks like. I know, probably for the rest of my life, I’m going to have a deep and abiding affection for her. A lot of the little kindnesses started to mean a lot more. When I got moved to Germany, there were two women handing out these little kiss stickers; I’ve kept it with me this entire time because it was one of the first little acts of kindness I got after my injury. It’s something that I decided I wasn’t going to throw away.

  When I arrived at Balboa Naval Medical Center in San Diego, there were people handing out gift bags. It’s little things like that that make me feel badly about how terrible I am with social situations because a lot of people don’t understand how meaningful their actions can be. That’s one of the things I have a hard time conveying to everyone. There’s a lot of people I’ve come across before the military, during, and after that I’m never going to be able to convey how much they mean to me and how much of an impact they’ve had on me just because I’m probably not going to realize that I need to voice it until afterwards – until they’re
no longer part of my life.

  For a long time, I thought I was going to keep my leg. Then, they finally set me up with a doctor. He started doing x-rays and assessing the damage. What finally made me decide that I had to have an amputation was the fact that I only had one artery going to my foot. Even if they fused my ankle and they managed to get rods in, my ankle wouldn’t work right. It wouldn’t be any different from the prosthetic ankle I have now. After a plethora of tests, x-rays and exams I finally agreed to the amputation. I woke up in so much pain after they took off my leg because I guess the block they put into me had come undone or because I moved. I had a lot of bad experiences with pain – phantom pain. I probably don’t get it as often as a lot of people but generally, if I’m getting phantom pain, it feels like I’ve stepped on a nail or someone’s pulling my toenails off. It’s only been painful enough to take me down to my knees once, but there are plenty of times when I pause midstride and have to take a deep breath before I can take my next step. I had an easier time than other single below the knee leg guys because mine was a gunshot. I didn’t have the secondary fragments that people who stepped on IEDs get. Having a knee makes a huge difference. I don’t even know how I compare to other people. It took me three days to be able to walk unassisted.

  I got involved with a lot of activities. I started doing some diving and Paralympic shooting packages. I moved into Freedom Station from Balboa. Once I was living on my own, I had time to reflect on the direction of my life. I had to do a lot of re-prioritizing. One of the things I realized is that I could do a lot more for the world with an engineering degree than by teaching people how to clear a room. It took me a while to figure that out because when I was going to rehab, there’s a little bit of time thinking that, ‘You know, how cool would it be to have a reconnaissance instructor who’s a leg amputee but still keeping up with all these events and rough runs and everything like that? How motivating would that be for these guys?’ For a while, that’s what I was thinking – that I could get back into it. I got sick of the military, especially while I was in the hospital. So many of the guys, they weren’t going to stay in the military because it just wouldn’t be feasible for them. But there were still people on the chain of command that just loved hammering it in. Yes, you’re still a Marine, but you aren’t staying in the military – you’re getting out – so cut the speech. That was one of many reasons why my time at Balboa got me to realize that I needed to get out of the military, out of the Marine Corps, do something with my life.

  One of the reasons why I want to be an engineer is because I learned of an organization called Engineers without Borders. I’m assuming it’s similar to Doctors without Borders. I would like to help build up underdeveloped countries. If sending in a military presence isn’t helping them, maybe sending in a presence of infrastructure, something to build, to help them set up a bare foundation. Maybe that will help.

  The most meaningful thing that Freedom Station did for me was to allow me my privacy because I’m learning how important my privacy has been to me. During my recovery phase, I didn’t even know how it would affect me from a mental standpoint if I didn’t have a place where I could relax, get away from it all and be unsupervised. I got to Freedom Station, and I locked my door. I could turn off all the lights. I could take a nap, get away from it all when I needed to or go out to do all the other activities that were available. I think my first six months at Freedom Station I spent two weeks out of every month out of state and out of the country. Just being able to come back and decompress, for those two weeks, that was huge for me. Freedom Station would do very well if it was multiplied or done again in other cities because there are more people who need it than just injured vets – there’s homeless vets who could use a way to get back into the real world, get their footing back, get a nice base and then move on with their lives. I think this could be a huge benefit for a lot of people.”

  Brian Riley is still living at Freedom Station, focusing on school and physical activities. He is in the process of deciding where he would like to live long term. Although San Diego is beautiful, he says that he misses the snow and the change of seasons in Wisconsin. Brian’s attitude about his injury was fascinating to me. He was extremely matter-of-fact and seems genuinely at ease with the loss of his leg. I believe his drive to further his education with the goal of improving the lives of others will benefit many.

  CHAPTER 17

  Gunny

  For Gunnery Sergeant, Juan Cano, telling his story isn’t easy. He admits to falling into bouts of depression when he talks about his time in service and shies away from situations that put him in the position of telling his story.

  When I began interviewing the men of Freedom Station, they would speak of other guys who had gone through the transition in the cottages, but no name came up more frequently than Gunny’s. After hearing his story, I now realize that he was the first “warrior” to reside there. Even before Freedom Station was an actual transitional facility, Gunny lived in one of its units.

  Being older than the typical Freedom Station resident, Gunny has invaluable insight that he openly shares with the younger men. He has become something of a mentor to many and says his ability to give back is a large part of what keeps him motivated.

  With a quiver in his voice and through many breaks, Juan shared his story with me. One of the things he said during our interview stayed with me long after that day. He said, “If you are still a Marine, after a war, you must love what you do.”

  In Juan’s Words

  “I joined the Marine Corps right out of high school and then became a Chicago Police Officer when I was twenty-five. I had been to Desert Storm and Desert Shield, and then we got mobilized for Iraqi Freedom. My reserve unit was the Second Battalion Twenty-fourth Marines, and we went to Mahmoudiyah, Iraq. It’s in the Sunni triangle also known as the Triangle of Death. Our areas of operation were Mahmoudiyah, which was our home base, Yusufiyah, which was to the west of us, and Ludafiyah to the south of us.

  Our mission in Iraq was to secure the ammo and main supply roadways. The insurgents would put IEDs on the roads, so when the convoys were transporting troops or supplies or anything they would get blown up. It was our job to secure that area of operation. I was part of a team, and our job was to insert and extract the scout snipers. The snipers positioned themselves to take out the insurgents planting the bombs.

  My team was a small convoy consisting of four vehicles, and because we were so small, we were often targets. I experienced several IED hits; three direct hits in a ten-day period, two back-to-back. These weren’t always IED hits; sometimes it was an ambush. With the last IED, my driver was hit in the face, my gunner got hit in the back and calf, and I blew both my eardrums out and was knocked unconscious. That hit earned me a Purple Heart.

  From September of 2004 to March of 2005, we had sixteen Marines killed and a lot of Marines injured in my unit. The unit before us had six killed and less injured. I had a lot of resentment toward my command and the situations they put us in, and obviously, against the enemy because ultimately that is why we were there. I have survivor’s guilt and am being treated for PTSD. It’s tough to call yourself a combat-injured Marine when you are standing next to a guy with amputations, so you don’t say anything. When I realized that I did need help, I went in for an appointment and was asked to fill out a questionnaire. It asked questions about what I had seen and done, and I answered those. It also asked if I thought I needed help; my response was yes. But I didn’t receive any help. I did receive a call from the Marine Corps call center, and I indicated to them also that I needed help. There was no resolution. I ended up getting re-activated without receiving any help.

  After that deployment, I ended up going back to working as a Chicago Police Officer. At the time, I didn’t realize it was PTSD that was affecting my relationships not only at home but also at work. I was angry and had a lot of anxiety. In the Marines, you know what each other is going to do. We practiced it so much before going ov
er there; there was no question about how the guy next to you would react in any situation. But being back on the police force, you know, it’s a dangerous job. When I didn’t feel like another officer was handling a situation correctly, I became angry. I felt my safety was at risk, but you can’t talk to other cops like you talk to Marines. My wife didn’t realize what was going on, and my suffering from the anxiety and getting angry caused us to fight a lot. Although I was justified in feeling the way I felt, it was my actions and my response to certain situations that were unjustified. I knew I needed help, but didn’t know how bad it was.

  My first son was born and shortly after that, in 2007, I was re-mobilized. It was hard to leave that time, and I was devastated. I wanted to be home with my family. Also, I had had a pretty bad falling out with my command on my previous deployment. I had felt like my command was trying to kill me; I know that sounds crazy, but I was convinced they were trying to kill me. I had also raised questions about the way we handled detainees. An Army General took over our area and corrected the way things were done, but it caused some tension between my command and I. After that, I didn’t trust them, and I worried that they were going to retaliate. I fought going back, I shouldn’t have even been going – I was an admin guy. The first time I asked to go but the second time they were trying to force me to go, but that wasn’t my job. My job was to run service record books. In the end, I stayed and did my job at Camp Pendleton. When our unit returned from deployment, I applied to be an administrator for the Wounded Warrior Battalion at Balboa Naval Medical Center. The intention was to help other Marines but also seek help for myself; I knew I needed it and was getting worse over time, not better.

  I deactivated from my unit and went back to the police department in Chicago for a few months. I got approved to get mobilized orders to work for the Wounded Warrior Battalion. So I went back to San Diego. It was great; the Marines were all great. At that time, I felt like shit. I had a ton of problems; my anxiety was getting worse, and the PTSD was as well. Being at the Wounded Warrior Battalion gave me a second chance. I liked the command there, and they were good to me. I started to gain some self-confidence back and felt like I had an opportunity to end my career on a good note. I did well there. During that time, I would take my lunch hour to get help for myself, so I was finally in therapy. Unfortunately, I was at twenty-two years of service, and in the reserves if you don’t pick up Master Sergeant by that time you are forced into retirement. My contract ended in October, but I wasn’t up for promotion until the following February, so I was pushed out. I requested a medical waiver so I could stay and continue to get therapy. There was no way I could go back to the police department at that time. I knew I still needed therapy.