Land Navigation

Breathe in, breathe out–one step at a time, just like land navigation in boot camp. All one had to do was focus on getting to the next checkpoint, point A to point B. Point B to point C. Don’t overthink things, don’t self-sabotage, look ahead, and keep moving.

“When you are at war, all you want to do is return home. And when you’re home, all you can do is think about the soldiers who took your place and everything they sacrificed. Just because you’re back doesn’t mean you’ve fully left. This creates a lot of confusion.” Ray spoke first. He looked around at the men, none of whom had served with him or experienced exactly what he’d gone through, but all were veterans. They were seated in a loose circle of chairs. Several of them grunted in agreement. One muttered under his breath, “Amen.”

Augie, a narrow, angular Vietnam veteran with tufted titmouse gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, was leading the session. He responded to Ray’s comment with a quick downward motion, straying strands of hair curling on his forehead like a crest. “Welcome to the psychological mindfuck of war.”

“And you can’t stop thinking about the men who died and feel guilty for being here, for surviving.” Elvis, a soft-spoken man in his mid-thirties who looked like he hadn’t slept well in years, gazed down as he spoke, an Iraqi Freedom hat in his lap. Ray dipped his head in agreement. He still could not understand why he, who had no dependents, lived while other soldiers with wives, children, and already established lives had to die. This wasn’t right. There had been times over the past few months, before the wedding, before the disastrous hike, when he was with Leo and found himself laughing or experiencing any emotion that approximated happiness. He would pull himself back and remember. The fact he got to go on seemed like a betrayal to those soldiers who lost their lives.

Since Ray left the Veterans Medical Center in Muskogee over six weeks ago, he’d been attending a local weekly support group composed of veterans. As he got to know them, talking and sharing became easier. And even on those days when words were elusive, when you felt the weight of the world embedded in your bones, often just sitting there and listening, helped. The density you carried somehow found a way to seep out. The heaviness traveled through the ring of men in one direction, then altering its course, would circle back. By the time the session was over, the burden had become something shared and somehow lighter. When you left, you knew that your brothers were carrying some of your load inside of them, too, that they absorbed it, that you were not alone.

Next to Ray, another veteran named Felix haltingly spoke. “I keep reliving the afternoon we were ambushed after an IED disabled our lead vehicle. Two of our men were picked off. I was a gunner. I should’ve seen the attack coming. I should’ve stopped them. I could’ve done more. Maybe they’d be here today if only….”

Augie waited to ensure Felix was finished. “There are all kinds of names for this—survivor guilt, hindsight bias, soldier’s heart. But the label isn’t what's important. The fact is these thoughts and associated feelings are common among veterans.”

Felix jerked up as if on a puppet string and gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles blanching. Augie continued. “But if we don’t put this survivor’s guilt into perspective, the feelings can be incredibly destructive and prevent us from moving forward. Unrealistic thoughts have to be replaced with realistic ones. An ambush after an IED detonation isn’t unusual. Every soldier who served in Iraq and Afghanistan can tell you this.”

Augie stopped talking until Felix looked up, then he stared him dead in the eyes. “Felix, you couldn’t have changed the course of events. No one has that power. Were you the only gunner there that day?” Felix shook his head no. “During the indeterminable time you waited for the recovery team, did you know the exact moment the attack was going to happen? Immediately, ten minutes into the wait, an hour later?” Again, he shook his head. “And how could you predict the direction the ambush would come from, North, South, East, West, from the high-rise apartments, bridge, or bluffs? All these variables make knowing when, or even IF, an attack will occur impossible.”

Felix pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and slumped back into his chair as Augie continued. “None of us are Rambo. No one can take on an organized assault alone. Instead of looking at what we think we did wrong, we must look at what we did right. Think of the men your actions did save.” Augie paused to ascertain no one had questions and to assess if the group was still with him.

He took a drink of his now cool coffee and continued. “I want you all to think about the men you served with and how you would have laid down your lives for any of them at any time. This is the reality. You know it, and they did too. If they were here, sitting in this circle, and you were ten feet under, would you want them to waste their lives in rumination, rage, and regret? What would you tell them from your grave?”

Elvis piped up. “I’d tell them to quit crying, raise a glass to me, then I would tell them to get off their ass and get on with things.” Several of the men laughed, self-consciously.

“Exactly.” Augie looked around the circle, meeting the eyes of the men who looked up. “The last thing they’d want is another casualty from their unit.” Now Augie was on his feet, padding around the collection of men, his voice grounding. “So, what do we do? We replace unrealistic thoughts with realistic ones, remembering all the outside factors beyond our control that led to an event.” He put his hands on Felix’s slumped shoulders. “We allow ourselves to grieve. We lost good, true, honorable men in terrifying situations and horrific ways. Then we allow ourselves to see everything we did right along the way, honor this, respect this. Equally important, though, is to practice self-forgiveness for all our faults, realistic and perceived. Be as forgiving to yourself as you would the man sitting next to you. You all have my contact information, but I want you to buddy up with someone in the group and exchange numbers. This system provides an added layer of support.” With this, Ray’s stomach flip-flopped. Not another battle buddy. He had one. He lost one. Leo.

Not thinking about her was an exercise in futility. He thought about how he botched up their friendship and unintentionally led her on because he couldn’t figure himself out. He simultaneously wanted more from their relationship but was terrified of what this entailed. He was afraid of being so damaged that he would hurt her. In the long run, he felt he couldn’t give her what she needed. He could blame only himself, for who can truly know, or begin to love, a man who does not have access to himself.

Since they became battle buddies, Ray was used to seeing her daily. And even now, a month and a half later, he couldn’t change how he missed her. Thoughts of Leo pervaded; they rose unbidden in pockets of stillness, as well as during times of exertion. They came when he was engaged in conversation or reading. They even stretched into his dreams. There were a cascading number of specifics: her laugh's lilt, the smell of her hair, the sweetness of her kiss, and the glow in her eyes. But when he considered the whole of Leo, he thought of her energy and movements. He reflected on how her presence filled space with lightness and an abiding sense of comfort. When you were with her, there was nowhere else you wanted to be. Her earnest attention to the world around her, whether a mangy dog or a jar of solar tea, made everything seem new and significant. Then Ray thought of her mind, her unique observations, and the surprising things she would say. When she talked to you and focused on you, you felt you were the only one who mattered. Finally, he thought of her heart, her intuitive capacity to care, and how this was her greatest asset and most profound vulnerability. Even after she was bitten or knocked down, she believed.

Augie’s voice broke Ray’s reverie, reluctantly bringing him back to the present. “This week, I also want you to think about ways to do something positive toward helping someone else. Something as simple as opening the door for an older adult, putting a buck in the Salvation Army kettle, or serving soup at the homeless shelter. I have a list of places that could use assistance, and there are quite a few vets around town who could use a hand with their chores. Start small, and if need be, say to yourself, ‘I’m doing this to honor you, Private Getty. What you gave will not be forgotten. Your memory is alive.’ It’s a way to pass the spirit of service on. What else do you have?”

****

Breathe in, breathe out—one step at a time. Don’t overthink things, don’t self-sabotage, just look ahead, and keep moving. As Ray navigated the external world, this became his mantra. He now had an apartment on the edge of town, close enough to help Hope and Gabrielle around the house and with his nephew. Between running, attending classes, studying, his new job working as a medical assistant at the hospital, attending the veteran’s support group, and performing small acts of service through his father’s church or on his own, he was always on the move. His interior landscape, however, was more challenging to navigate. Yet, tenaciously, he remained committed to the process. All you have to do is focus on getting to the next checkpoint, point A to point B. Point B to point C. Look forward, keep moving, observe the contour lines, and never lose your compass.

Over time, as weeks were sponged into months, as Ray and the collection of service members in his group listened to Augie’s experiences and advice, they found the courage to speak their innermost truths. In this protected setting, they descended into the past, dissected memories, and relived the sensations associated with them, mundane and terrifying alike. They bore witness and received affirmation: what happened to you, what you did was neither right nor wrong. It simply was. And still is. You lived through these events; you carry them with you now. Through purgative witness, unspeakable events diminished. Helium balloons sucked into a vast and equitable sky. As pots of coffee were consumed, cigarettes smoked, histories and experiences exhumed, evidence revealed that while no two stories were the same, the collective realities of service, suffering, dissolution, and loss were enough to bind this fragmented collection of military men together. The result was like industrial strength adhesive, a surgical glue initially designed to quickly close battle wounds in the field when sutures were unavailable.