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.

“Hi. Who were you with?” I asked, unable to place his face.

“I am Hussein. I was General Volesky’s translator.”

God forgive me, but my heart began to race with suspicion. Did he have a bomb? Was he going to sell me out? I slapped my runaway imagination and combat-fueled prejudice. I spoke at length with him about Sadr City and how his life had been after. He had been forced to leave for fear of his safety and now worked at Fort Leavenworth. The more I spoke with him the more embarrassed I felt about fearing this man.

His son was no more than five and bashful. I spoke with the child using all of the Arabic I could remember. In my mind, I couldn’t help but see in him the little Iraqi boy whose foot I had once doctored. He would be a young man now. Did he grow up to hate me for my kindness?

Later, I sat in a fold-up chair holding a red, long-stemmed, thorny rose in my hand and watched the new generation of 2nd of the Fifth Cavalry Regiment soldiers approach the 1st Cavalry Division memorial in perfect lockstep. They are dressed in their best uniforms and look magnificent, young, and proud. Over 400 former Black Knights stand across from them like a mirror to the past, huddled with their families under a cold, steel-gray sky.

Lieutenant (P) York takes the podium wearing his dress uniform and black Stetson hat. Given the events of recent days, I can’t imagine what’s going through his mind. He reads from his speech with an emotion-laded voice that trembles like his hands. He gives the audience a brief rundown of what happened ten years ago and tells everyone how proud his is to call them brothers. I try but fail to hold back tears as he closes with the old motto, “Shoot ʼem in the face.” The thing about unbottling your emotions is that they often won’t fit when you try to put them back.

A couple of the Gold Star family members, those who had lost loved ones in combat, stood to talk about the sacrifice made by the fallen. The names of the honored dead are read. A bugler plays “Taps.” The mournful notes once again make my eyes leak.

At long last, Clay Spicer, former XO for Charlie Company, concludes the ceremony and invites everyone forward to pay their respects. A young soldier hands out a strip of white paper and a bar of graphite to make a rubbing of whatever name we choose. Everyone does. The line is long and moves slow. No one complains.

As I approach the marble wall carved with the names of the men who died while attempting to rescue me, I begin to see more and more of my old comrades. Some have put on weight, like me; others have grown long hair and beards; a few have weathered better, though the age lies hard around their eyes. One by one we join with each other, hug each other, and laugh. The laughter comes unbidden and seems more appropriate in that hallowed place than tears. We reminisce and ask about each other’s lives.

Joe Thompson’s marriage is struggling, but he is optimistic about the future. He was accepted at Texas A&M to pursue his degree.

Aaron Fowler has a regularly recurring role in the hit TV series Revolution. He dotes on his young daughter and has taught her to shoot well. He asks me how to get an Alligator tag in Louisiana so she can kill one. I laugh and say I don’t know.

I see Puppet, good ol’ Rafael Arteaga, and rush through the crowd to hug his neck. He limps a little and smiles a lot. He introduces me to his wife and children. The former juvenile delinquent works as a loss-prevention specialist for Home Depot.

Shane Coleman commissioned as an infantry lieutenant and married a fellow officer. He is the only one of us who hasn’t changed a bit. He gives me Jermaine Tyrell’s number, who was unable to attend. I promptly text him to question his manhood.

Justin Bellamy was there with his wife and young daughter. Still in a baby stroller, she tried to hand me her rose.

Jon Denney introduced me to his family beaming that infectious smile the whole time. He had spent many years with Comanche company after it was re-designated as Bravo Company under the new force structure. He actually went back to Iraq with them, a grizzled NCO able to say to his green soldiers, “You call this an ambush?”

Eric Bourquin still towers over me. He spent last summer after he left the service hiking the Appalachian Trail to raise awareness for PTSD. He came back looking like a mountain man with long hair and a beard. He and Fowler joke about buying land close by in order to start their own cult. At least I think it’s a joke.

Ben Hayhurst stands next to Eric and sports an even longer beard. But he’s smiling broadly. I ask him how he’s doing and he answers, “I’m coming back, roomie. More and more every day.” He tells me how glad he is that he came and how good it is to be around people who get it. Once he said that I suddenly realized that I was completely surrounded by people and yet felt, for the first time in ten years, completely relaxed.

So many soldiers gathered to remember and reconnect and yet not all that could attend were here. Some were simply not able to handle the emotional load and had opted to stay home. How well I recognized that fear.

I found the one guy I had been missing on the outside of group. The guy who had faked his orders so he could return to Afghanistan after being wounded. The warrior who still patrolled his land every day with a loaded M4 just so he could feel normal. Carl Wild toted a back pack and wore an olive drab jacket—1st CAV patch on the right shoulder—against the cold. His companion was a service dog, still a puppy, which was drawing more attention than Wild seemed comfortable with. He still did not like crowds. I spoke with him a while and rode the bus with him to the luncheon at the new 2/5 CAV headquarters. As everyone unloaded, he asked if the driver would take him back to his car off-post. The excitement was getting the better of him.

“Carl, before you go, would you mind taking a picture with me?” I asked.

He agreed and climbed down so my wife could snap a photo. After he turned quickly to get on the bus. I called to him again and he turned slowly, eager to escape.

“I never had a brother until I fought with you,” I said.

He shook my hand and threw the other arm around my neck. “I love you, man,” he said.

I watched him get onto the bus with a lump in my throat, not really knowing what to say. As I watched him go, I reflected on everything that I had tried in the last ten years to reclaim who I was. Hours of counseling with therapists and chaplains, drugs to help me feel happy, drugs to numb my anger, drugs to sharpen my concentration, drugs to help me sleep, Emotion Replacement Therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, biofeedback, and on and on. Normal was out of the question, but I felt that there was at least the prospect of peace. Peace and maybe something more. It was out there. I felt it. It seemed that all of us there were feeling it. You could tell in their smiles, Ben’s laughter, Carl’s arm around my neck like a lifeline. Maybe if healing was out there for us, we would be the ones to find it, stumbling toward wholeness arm in arm with that man to the right and left. My brothers.