From the BlogDonate Now

Young war veteran shot, killed by police

WAFF-TV: News, Weather and Sports for Huntsville, AL
By WMCActionNews5.com Staffemail

GERMANTOWN, TN -

(WMC) – A young war veteran was shot and killed by Germantown police officers Tuesday night just before 10 p.m.

Justin Neil Davis’ best friend, who asked to be called Val, told WMC Action News 5 that Davis went to Cameron Brown Park in Germantown off Farmington Boulevard, because it is where he had happy memories of his childhood.
Davis was reportedly sitting in his car with a rifle and thoughts of suicide when Germantown police shot and killed him. Wednesday night, family and friends say they still have questions. 

According to police, a “be on the lookout” or BOLO alert was issued for Davis, 24, who was reportedly unstable, armed and dangerous, and possibly suicidal.

Fayette County Sheriff’s Office received a tip on a crisis hotline about Davis. Fayette County deputies went to his house, but he was not there. That’s when Germantown police found Davis in a parked car at Cameron Brown Park armed with a rifle.

“I tried to get him to come out to my parents house … just to meet him somewhere just to talk him out of it,” Val said.
Val says while he texted Davis, law enforcement officers were tracking the Iraqi veteran on his cell phone, but that he was not allowed to talk with his friend.

Officers evacuated the immediate area around the park and established communication with him using the squad car’s PA system.

According to police, the situation escalated, and three Germantown police officers ended up firing their guns at Davis. He was pronounced dead at the park.

Investigators used orange paint to mark where Davis’ car and six police cars sat during the confrontation. The closest police car appears to have been about 20 yards away.

“Why did three cops have to unload their weapon on a single man?” Val said.

Davis’ friends and family say he was a war veteran who had trouble getting a job when he got home. They say he did not deserve to die this way.

“It’s just sad that people have to feel like they can’t help themselves and things go bad that way, you know?” Germantown resident Kelsey Beckum said.

The three GPD officers involved in the shooting are on paid administrative leave pending an investigation. The district attorney’s office asked Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to lead the case; the TBI would eventually turn it back over to the DA’s office.

Copyright 2014 WMC Action News 5. All rights reserved.   

http://www.waff.com/story/26034113/man-shot-killed-by-germantown-police-officers?clienttype=generic&mobilecgbypass&utm_content=bufferf9b50&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer

Marine battled back, yet fell to suicide

Farrell Gilliam was buried in Fresno Jan. 21, carried to his grave by Marine pallbearers and friends. (Courtesy Gilliam family.)

Farrell Gilliam was buried in Fresno Jan. 21, carried to his grave by Marine pallbearers and friends. (Courtesy Gilliam family.)

 

 

By Gretel C. Kovach MARCH 28, 2014

*GRAPHIC LANGUAGE

He rarely spoke of it. Not to his family or best buddies, fellow Marines or medical staff watching over him.

But Cpl. Farrell Gilliam had endured far more by the time he died this year at age 25 than most people could comprehend.

The Camp Pendleton infantryman survived three months of combat in 2010 with the “Darkhorse” 3rd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment in Sangin, Afghanistan — one of the deadliest battlegrounds of the war.

Amid firefights and insurgents’ bombs, Gilliam saw limbs strewn across the ground. He loaded broken, bleeding bodies for medical evacuation, and grieved for the friends they could not save.

Gilliam’s tour ended early when his legs were blown off by an improvised explosive device, or IED. “Farrell’s Fight,” his struggle on the homefront that his big brother helped him chronicle online, included more than 30 surgeries and three years of rehabilitation.

It was a story of triumph over wounds that would have been fatal in earlier conflicts. A story that was coming to an end, but not how anyone who knew him expected.

 

Gilliam was months away from a medical discharge from the Marine Corps and a new life as civilian college student. Physically, he had one surgery left to remove hardware in an arm. Psychologically, he was suffering from invisible wounds he hid behind smiles and upbeat banter.

Or so his family discovered on Jan. 9, when Gilliam committed suicide by shooting himself in the head in his barracks room in San Antonio.

Gilliam finally succumbed to his battle wounds, said Sgt. James Finney, his former squad leader in Afghanistan. It doesn’t matter who pulled the trigger — to him Gilliam was killed in action just like the other 25 from their battalion.

“It was an 8,000-mile sniper shot,” said Finney, 27, now an infantry instructor. “His passing was directly due to a situation because of his wounds received in Afghanistan. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

The suicide rate for active-duty troops spiked in 2012 to nearly one a day, a record during this era of warfare and twice as high as a decade before. At least 350 took their lives that year, more than the number of service members killed in combat. (Final numbers for 2012 and a year-end tally for 2013 are pending, a Pentagon official said.)

Last year, 45 Marines committed suicide and 234 tried to. It was by far the highest number of suicide attempts for the service since at least 2003.

Among veterans of all the armed forces, at least 22 commit suicide daily, according to estimates from the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

Gilliam’s death blindsided his family and friends. Amid their raw first waves of grief, anger and irrational guilt, they pray that sharing his story might inspire others to stop suffering silently. Or spur a family to intervene. Or close a gap in support or education.

“I want no family to have to go through the pain that we are going through. If there’s just one person who gets that help that saves them … then it’s worth it,” said Gilliam’s brother, Daniel Lorente, 30, of Palo Alto, who cared for him full time as his non-medical assistant early in his rehabilitation.

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam and his brother Daniel Lorente in a Palo Alto fire truck in 2011 on the way to Gilliams flying lesson with a cousin. Courtesy photo

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam and his brother Daniel Lorente in a Palo Alto fire truck in 2011 on the way to Gilliams flying lesson with a cousin. Courtesy photo

Combat

As a teenager, Gilliam scored high on tests but was uninterested in school. He was introspective and brash, a gun-lover who wanted more excitement than the Navy had offered his parents. He enlisted with the Marines at age 17 so he could serve his country and “blow s* up.”

“He just wanted to be a grunt,” said his mother, Lisa Gilliam of Fresno.

After a sea tour, Gilliam volunteered for combat. He deployed in October 2010 as an infantryman and designated marksman to Sangin, a Taliban stronghold in southwestern Afghanistan where U.S. Marines were taking over from British forces.

Four Marines died in a bomb strike on the first day. Gilliam served on the quick-reaction force, manning the Mark 19 grenade launcher or .50-caliber gun, pitching in with litter teams after roadside bomb attacks and shootouts.

When he called home Christmas Day, apologizing for upsetting his mother by missing the holiday for the first time, he sounded like a man fighting to survive.

“Is it bad?” Lorente asked. “Are you guys doing OK?”

“We are taking hits. S* is just rough right now,” Gilliam said. “We are doing everything we can.”

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam (right) on a 2010-2011 deployment to Sangin, Afghanistan.

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam (right) on a 2010-2011 deployment to Sangin, Afghanistan.

Gilliam shielded his mother from the worst so she wouldn’t worry. But Lisa Gilliam, a pediatric nurse practitioner specializing in surgery and trauma care, realized after that phone call that her son was going to need help.

“I could tell in his voice,” she said. It was exhausted. Haunted. “I knew he was not going to come home the same as he left.”

A week later, on Jan. 5, 2011, Farrell Gilliam stepped on an IED. The Marines were walking through a desert neighborhood of mud-walled compounds near their base, toward a distant radio tower.

Gilliam, a team leader, was at the back of the patrol. About 10 Marines had trod ahead, marking a narrow path as they went, before he triggered a pressure plate buried in the dirt.

Finney heard the explosion. He looked back and saw a cloud of dust. No one answered him on the radio but he could hear yelling. When he crested the hill, he saw Gilliam inside a bomb crater.

One of Gilliam’s grenades had detonated in the explosion, mangling his side. His feet were blasted away and his right arm broken.

Gilliam was the first from their squad of “Regulators” to be wounded. “I didn’t want to believe it, but at that point we’d kind of gotten used to guys getting hurt,” Finney said.

By then, 24 had been killed with the battalion. Gilliam and the Lima Company quick-reaction force had responded to 18 urgent casualty evacuations, most of them limb amputations.

Navy hospital corpsmen and Marines worked rapidly to stop Gilliam from bleeding to death. They cinched his legs with tourniquets, stuffed his guts back in his belly and injected him with morphine.

One Marine held down Gilliam’s thrashing body while another calmed him, assuring him he would be fine.

On the drive to Forward Operating Base Nolay, a corpsman jammed his fingers in Gilliam’s wounds to keep him awake. To keep him alive until the medevac flight crew finally put him to sleep.

Gilliam was terrified he would die on that helicopter, like a squad leader from his company, Sgt. Ian Tawney.

Lisa Gilliam heard her son speak of it only once. It was after he arrived on Jan. 9, 2011, at Bethesda, Md., and the National Naval Medical Center. He was in the intensive care unit, suffering terrible flashbacks.

“What are you afraid of?” a chaplain asked.

Gilliam recounted every detail. His voice was hoarse from the breathing tube that had just been removed. He was crying.

“I remember putting one of my guys on the medevac. They took off and he died later,” his mother recalled him saying.

Then one day they put him on the helicopter, too. And Gilliam was afraid. So afraid.

“That I was going to die later, too,” he said.

REHAB

Both legs had to be amputated above the knee because of debris rammed into his flesh, trauma from the explosion and infection. Gilliam also lost half of his abdominal muscles, a section of arm bone and portions of his testicles.

On the upside, his brain and face were intact, he kept both arms, and with help from hormone treatment, he could expect to father a child normally.

When Lisa Gilliam’s husband, from whom she was long separated, called saying their son was badly wounded and may not live, she screamed into the phone as if he were dead.

Gilliam’s family members thought he was protected in the war zone by his training and armored Humvees.

“I didn’t know what an IED was. I had to look it up,” Lisa Gilliam said. “What the hell are they out there doing looking for IEDs? I thought they were shooting guns behind bunkers like you see in the World War II movies.”

Her daughter Sarah, 22, just didn’t understand. “I thought she was trying to tell me he was dead. I couldn’t comprehend: he’s lost his legs but he’s alive?” How could that be?

Gen. James Amos, commandant of the Marine Corps, pins on Cpl. Farrell Gilliams Purple Heart medal while the young Marine is in the Intensive Care Unit at Bethesda, Maryland Jan. 28, 2011.Courtesy photo

Gen. James Amos, commandant of the Marine Corps, pins on Cpl. Farrell Gilliams Purple Heart medal while the young Marine is in the Intensive Care Unit at Bethesda, Maryland Jan. 28, 2011.Courtesy photo

The first year of recovery was rough for Gilliam. He was overcome by bouts of anger, fear, depression and frustration, even as he fantasized about returning to combat.

“I remember him saying, ‘We need to hurry up and get me better so I can go back.’ I was like, ‘You are going to kill Mom if you go back!’” his brother Lorente said.

Gilliam responded: “What? This time around if I step on an IED, I’ll just get new (prosthetic) sticks and I’ll be fine!”

Medications clouded his mind and made him vomit regularly for five months straight. He flushed them after one surgery, then had to order more to cope with the pain.

illiam sometimes slipped into what his mother called “black moods.” He would sit, unresponsive, for hours or even days at a time.

“He would just, like, check out. He would be fine and then it would be like turning off a light switch and he would just be somewhere else. You couldn’t reach him. You couldn’t talk to him,” she recalled.

In time, those dark spells grew shorter and less frequent.

These were normal struggles for a young man coming to terms with half his body blown away, according to his father, Mike Gilliam, a civilian defense worker from Ridgecrest, Calif. Family and fellow Marines tried to help him adjust.

“His first sergeant told him, ‘You ain’t got that much to be angry about.’ He knew it. He just had to get over it and get some perspective. And he was,” Mike Gilliam said.

“You’ve got lots of guys out there who lost both their arms and one leg and they just lay in their bed twitching. Or they get their brain rattled and they don’t think straight anymore. They lose their jaw.

“Good grief, he came out pretty good. The politicians, they loved to pose with him. He was a photogenic case,” he said. A handsome young man with dark almond eyes and a mischievous grin whose bedside visitors included the president and the commandant of the Marine Corps.

Gilliam got over his “attitude problem,” his father said, and tried to recover as quickly as possible. Soon he was zipping around corners of the VA Palo Alto on one wheel of his chair, a move immortalized as a “Farrell turn” at the hospital where Gilliam’s portrait still hangs.

“Every time I saw him, he was in good spirits,” said Finney the former squad leader. Even while coming out of physical therapy, which can be tiring and painful. “He always acted like he was going to beat it.”

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam is reunited with his unit for the first time in May 2011 at Camp Pendleton, at a memorial ceremony for 25 killed in action serving in Sangin, Afghanistan with the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. Courtesy photo

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam is reunited with his unit for the first time in May 2011 at Camp Pendleton, at a memorial ceremony for 25 killed in action serving in Sangin, Afghanistan with the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. Courtesy photo

 

TEXAS

In October 2011, Gilliam transferred to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, home to one of the nation’s top rehabilitation programs for the more than 1,500 Iraq or Afghanistan war veterans with an amputated limb.

He would be far from family in California, but they thought the Center for the Intrepid — with its surf tank and other amenities — offered him the best long-term chance of recovery.

Gilliam moved into the wounded warrior barracks at Fort Sam Houston, among its detachment of about two dozen Marines and equal number of staff members.

On Jan. 5, 2012, he celebrated the first anniversary of his “Alive Day,” when Marine amputees mark the moment they cheated death in combat, and toast those who weren’t so lucky. Gilliam wrote on his Facebook page: “One year ago today I got blown the f* up, but I’m here on the river walk in San Antonio getting hammered with my buddies.

“SUCK IT TALIBAN, YOU LOSE,” he wrote.

More than 500 people hit “like” on the post. After a long string of supportive comments, including jabs at Taliban living in caves, Gilliam wrote: “this just made my day.”

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam with his grandmother, Theresa Stavens, brother Daniel Lorente, and mother Lisa Gilliam in Bethesda, Maryland March 2011 on Gilliams first outing from the hospital. Courtesy photo

Cpl. Farrell Gilliam with his grandmother, Theresa Stavens, brother Daniel Lorente, and mother Lisa Gilliam in Bethesda, Maryland March 2011 on Gilliams first outing from the hospital. Courtesy photo

During visits home last year for the holidays, he seemed to be thriving. Independent again, full of life and plans for the future. And more outgoing than before he was wounded.

Gilliam had reconciled himself to a wheelchair because his missing abdominal muscles made it difficult to use prosthetic legs. But he didn’t let that confine him.

He bought a big truck with hand controls and drove it to New Mexico to see a friend. Cruising with his sisters, he would dance in the driver’s seat to anything from Angels & Airwaves rock to classical music.

Gilliam ate only organic food, worked out diligently and adopted the Paleo Diet. On Thanksgiving, he propped his cookbook on the counter and mixed up pumpkin muffins with almond flour.

“I was in awe,” his brother Lorente said. “Whatever they are doing in San Antonio has changed my brother into this young man who was going to be able to take over the world if he wanted to.”

There was a nice young lady in the picture. A part-time job waiting for him and studies toward an English major at Arizona State University, for which he had already started online classes.

Gilliam loved reading — especially Kipling, Wordsworth and Emerson — a pastime he shared with his good friend James McCain. The two were going to be roommates after Gilliam left the Corps.

Gilliam had served with the U.S. senator’s son, a 25-year-old Marine veteran, before deploying to Afghanistan. When they reconnected after Gilliam was wounded, McCain was impressed to find “practically the only other person on the planet” who knew about the philosophy of naturalism.

He was “a really deep young guy I really enjoyed talking to,” McCain said. They spoke almost every day.

“The sweetest guy I ever met really. There wasn’t an angry bone in his body. When I would get pissed off, I would end up calling him. ‘Jim, we’ll be alright,’ he would say. That taught me a lot about life,” McCain said.

Gilliam never mentioned wanting to kill himself, not even in jest, McCain said. But he remembers the one time his friend revealed the burden of his wounds.

They were drinking beers one afternoon about six months ago. Gilliam was on the couch when McCain got in his chair to wheel over some refills. “Man, this is the best beer-getting chair!” McCain joked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty awesome when you don’t have to be stuck in it the rest of your life,” Gilliam said.

McCain and Gilliam celebrated New Year’s with friends in Arizona. After exchanging a pile of books, Gilliam left on Jan. 3 for Texas. “‘Alright man, see you soon,’ he said. And that was it,” McCain said.

“He seemed fine. His normal self.”

TRIGGER

Gilliam told his sister Sarah that he had a great time in Arizona and didn’t want to return to San Antonio. “He didn’t want to sit in his room and wonder when he would see everybody again. It just went downhill from there,” she said.

He sat alone in the barracks drinking a bottle of Scotch, ignoring his sister’s protests.

“It was an overwhelming sense of isolation, from everybody and everything,” Sarah said.

A couple days later, on Jan. 5, on what he now called his “Survival Day,” Gilliam wrote a long post on Facebook. He ruminated over each moment of the IED attack and thanked everyone by name who helped him.

“Three years ago today I won (or lost) a game of hide and seek with an IED in Afghanistan,” he wrote.

“Doc Brown, Doc Gojar, Gutierrez, Griff, and Finney, and countless other surgeons, doctors, nurses and corpsmen helped keep my name off the KIA list.

“Every morning I wake up and realize that I am actually alive, I think about all of you,” he said.

He mentioned his hope that stem cell technology could give him a new pair of legs, then wrote: “I love you guys. I think about you every day and will continue to do so until I can no longer think due to Alzheimer’s, dementia, or death. Thank you.”

On Jan. 9, three years to the day after he returned to the United States from Afghanistan, Gilliam sent a mass text to his closest relatives and friends.

“I love you. Far more than you know,” it said.

Responses filled all of their phone screens: I love you too, brother; Love ya, Gilly …

Sarah was worried. “How ya doing by the way?” she texted.

No response.

“Seriously though are you ok?”

No response.

“IF YOU REALLY LOVED ME YOU WOULDN’T MAKE ME WORRY.”

An hour after that, a barracks resident heard the gunshot.

The family of Camp Pendleton Marine Cpl. Farrell Gilliam, from left, sister Erin Gilliam, brother Daniel Lorente, mother Lisa Gilliam, and sister Sarah Gilliam, at Seaport Village in San Diego on Saturday. Cpl. Gilliam, who was terribly wounded in Afghanistan, recently took his own life. Marines and relatives don't consider it suicide and is petitioning to have his name on a stone memorial with the other 25 members of the battalion killed in action. Hayne Palmour IV

The family of Camp Pendleton Marine Cpl. Farrell Gilliam, from left, sister Erin Gilliam, brother Daniel Lorente, mother Lisa Gilliam, and sister Sarah Gilliam, at Seaport Village in San Diego on Saturday. Cpl. Gilliam, who was terribly wounded in Afghanistan, recently took his own life. Marines and relatives don’t consider it suicide and is petitioning to have his name on a stone memorial with the other 25 members of the battalion killed in action. Hayne Palmour IV

AFTERMATH

Lisa Gilliam saw two Marines at her door and thought they were gathering donations.

They said her son had passed, but she couldn’t believe it. She screamed: “How do you know? How do you know!”

Gilliam didn’t appear to suffer from depression, PTSD or suicidal tendencies. He quit all medications several months earlier, as far as his family knew.

“The universal reaction was, ‘Where did this come from?’” his father said. “No one was under the impression that he was going through any kind of battle in this regard.”

To this day, he can’t accept it. Maybe a brain lesion or seizure was to blame, he wonders, though naval investigators ruled the shooting a suicide.

Lisa Gilliam was disturbed to learn that her son hadn’t received psychological treatment for two years.

He didn’t seem to need it, she agreed. As in the civilian world, the military can’t force personnel into psychological care unless they appear in danger of hurting someone, she was told.

“He put on a great face in the day. But I think nights, alone in the barracks there at San Antonio, were probably hell for him. The Marine Corps and the military in general, they need to look at these different stages. They can’t say just because they aren’t showing signs, that there’s nothing going on upstairs,” she said.

When the troops return home, “the war is not over for them. It rages for them in their heads and their hearts. Farrell’s physical was the least of his problems, apparently. We didn’t think so, but look at where we are at now.

“That’s what PTSD is. It’s like a tumor that you can’t see. If it’s not treated, it’s going to kill you.”

As a family, they have so many questions about Gilliam and other combat veterans.

Why bother to heal their bodies if you can’t heal their minds? Why do wounded Marines have single rooms instead of being forced to buddy up? Why couldn’t Gilliam live with a Jack Russell therapy dog like he wanted? Why is it so easy to sneak a gun into the barracks?

And the most important question of all. The one they know can never be answered: Why did he leave them?

As the Corps grapples with fallout from 13 years of combat, it encourages Marines to look out for each other and for signs of distress. Many are reluctant to ask for help because of the stigma against psychological care, a fear of appearing weak and mistrust of medical providers who haven’t seen combat.

“We are a stubborn breed,” said Capt. Ryan Powell, a spokesman for the Marine Corps Wounded Warrior Regiment.

PETITION

After Gilliam died, Marines who served with him in Sangin started talking about the battalion’s 26th KIA.

Mark Soto, the father of a “Darkhorse” Marine who struggled with suicidal impulses but got help, started a petition. It asks the Corps and Defense Department to add Gilliam’s name to the memorial stone at Camp Pendleton for the 5th Marine Regiment war dead.

It quickly gained more than 1,000 supporters.

Jim Binion, whose stepson Sgt. Matthew Abbate was killed in Sangin, encouraged readers of his “Hella Sick Clothing” blog on Facebook to sign the petition.

When some objected to Gilliam being counted among the KIA, Binion replied: “Farrell woke up to pain every day, and PTSD like you can only think of in nightmares, and one night the demons got him.

“If you have a problem with us pushing for Farrell, feel free to leave the page. But I know what Matt expected from me. He would not leave a brother behind.”

Finney, the former squad leader, said Gilliam deserves respect for being one of the few Americans who volunteered to be a Marine grunt. On top of that, “he goes to a combat zone and receives a Purple Heart. It makes him 1 percent of 1 percent of 1 percent.”

Then he quoted from Henry V. The same words Gilliam used on Memorial Day 2012 when he beseeched the public to “remember our fallen, so they will not die.”

“Our 25, the giants of our generation, who fell in battle against the mighty Taliban, in the far off lands of a place called Afghanistan. A place the rest of us will never leave.”

Then from Shakespeare: “He which hath no stomach to this fight let him depart. But we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! For he today that sheds his blood with me shall always be my brother.”

McCain said he doesn’t understand why one of the strongest people he ever met wanted to end his own life. “We never will,” he said. “He’s just gone and I will always love him.”

Lisa Gilliam is proud of her son, but angry too. “He overcame so much. He was wounded to a horrible degree and yet he, he got through it. He did everything they asked him to do.”

So many surgeries, they stopped counting. All of his physical therapy. Learning to respond gracefully when children pointed and stared.

To kill himself, “sorry for my French, but it’s a big f* you to everybody, to everybody that had a part in his care and helping him come so far,” his mother said.

The family is strong and will persevere, but “it’s devastating,” his brother Lorente said, starting to weep. “It was such a battle on the homefront. It was a battle for us as a family for so long. I hate to see my Mom have to suffer, and my sisters …”

Sarah is angry too, they all are. “But maybe that’s the whole problem — he fought for so long and he just couldn’t anymore,” she said. “It’s easy to think you did this to me. But it wasn’t about any of us. It was about what he was going through.”

Then there’s the guilt. “We wish we could take the pain away. We wish we could have done more,” said his sister Erin, 20.

 

While in treatment during the summer of 2011 at the VA Palo Alto Polytrauma Center, Cpl. Farrell Gilliam stayed up all night building a Lego toy that he donated to a childrens program. Courtesy photo

While in treatment during the summer of 2011 at the VA Palo Alto Polytrauma Center, Cpl. Farrell Gilliam stayed up all night building a Lego toy that he donated to a childrens program. Courtesy photo

Now they mourn him, each in his own way.

Gilliam had a generous and gentle heart, his relatives said. When Sarah needed a kidney transplant in December, he argued with his mother that he should be the one to donate since he was younger.

When Erin admired a $1,500 special edition set of Harry Potter books, he gave them to her at Christmas. “He was very insightful. He took the time to know people,” Erin said.

Gilliam’s father had returned to work immediately after Gilliam was wounded. He didn’t know what else to do. No one knew what to say to him then, and they know even less now.

“You see your son in a box, you find out what you believe,” Mike Gilliam said. For him, it’s the resurrection. “I anticipate seeing him again. … He got a head start on the rest of us. But we will see him.”

What to feel is more difficult.

“Everybody around me is screaming their heads off. I’ve got nothing. I’m just kind of dealing with the situation. I am kind of waiting until the lights are out and everybody is tucked into bed and there is nobody around.

“A parenting thing you know, you deal with the problems after nobody else is around,” he said.

A son dies young, before his father — Mike Gilliam expects he will be dealing with it for years.

“What he was going to be. I miss that” most of all, he said. “What he was gonna be …”

FINAL REST

Strangers and friends. Medical staff from both coasts. Marines who fought with him in Afghanistan. Hundreds and hundreds across the country paid their respects after Gilliam died.

“They came from all over,” his brother Lorente said. “It was really moving how many people’s lives he touched. It was absolutely humbling.”

It started in San Antonio at the airport.

“We have the privilege and the honor today to be escorting a fallen warrior home to his final resting place,” the announcer said. Everyone in the terminal froze and fell silent.

Gilliam was loaded into the cargo hold of the plane under the scrutiny of his staff sergeant. The Marine escorted his body, standing vigil beside him every moment, until he was buried.

When the plane landed in San Jose, firefighters shot two arcs of water over the aircraft in salute. Police stopped Friday afternoon traffic to make way for the hearse and more than 100 Patriot Guard motorcycle riders.

On the drive to Fresno, every overpass was crowded with people. Firefighters standing at attention atop their trucks. A Marine honor guard. Sheriff’s deputies. Forestry workers.

Finney, Gilliam’s former squad leader, was among the Marine pallbearers who carried his coffin draped in red, white and blue.

After a volley of rifle fire in salute and the playing of taps, the Gilliams released a flock of white doves at Beth Israel Cemetery in Fresno, where he was buried Jan. 21 with full military honors.

Gilliam’s sisters tattooed his final text message prominently on their bodies. When she feels sad, Erin Gilliam rubs the flesh of her inner bicep where her brother’s words are inked. Sarah Gilliam has the words on her wrist.

“If anything good comes out of this,” Sarah said, “I just want it to be that somebody gets help that nobody thought they needed.”

Farrell Gilliam in 2008, on a sea tour with 1st Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment.

Farrell Gilliam in 2008, on a sea tour with 1st Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment.

gretel.kovach@utsandiego.com; (619) 293-1293; Twitter @gckovach; Facebook: U-T Military

 

 

 

 

 

Iraq war vet introduces military suicide bill

By Ashley Fantz, CNN

The first Iraq war combat veteran to serve in the U.S. Senate introduced legislation on Thursday aimed at reducing the number of military veterans who commit suicide. No matter the cost of the measures urged in the sweeping bill, “that is the cost of war,” Democratic Sen. John Walsh of Montana told CNN.

Every day, 22 veterans commit suicide.

To Walsh, that is more than a number. From 2004 to 2005, he commanded an infantry battalion of the Montana National Guard in Iraq. When the unit returned home, one of Walsh’s soldiers committed suicide.

When Walsh became adjutant general of the Montana National Guard, a few more guardsmen died by suicide.

“Far too often, we’re leaving our veterans to fight their toughest battles alone,” Walsh said. “Returning home from combat does not erase what happened there, and yet red tape and government dysfunction have blocked access to the care that saves lives. It is our duty to come together for real solutions for our heroes,” Walsh told CNN on Thursday.

The Suicide Prevention for America’s Veterans Act is collaboration between Walsh and the Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America. Founded in 2004, IAVA is the first and largest organization for new veterans and their families, with 270,000 members nationwide.

The next step for Walsh is to get a co-sponsor for the bill. He said he’s already received bipartisan support behind the scenes.

The veterans organization is working on getting a similar bill in the House, said IAVA political director Kate O’Gorman.

What’s in the bill?

Among the bill’s key objectives is to give veterans more time to receive mental health treatment.

Currently, when a service member separates from active duty — whether they are transitioning to being a veteran or becoming a Reservist or a member of the National Guard — they have five years to receive care from the Department of Veterans Affairs, O’Gorman said. Sometimes it can take longer than five years for service members and veterans to realize they’re experiencing the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress and other mental injuries.

About 25% of IAVA’s members, O’Gorman said, have experienced a delayed onset of PTSD after getting out of the service.

Many times, five years is just not long enough for veterans who are dealing with the stigma of mental health issues. It can take many years to emotionally come to grips with the diagnosis alone, and then it takes time to find and receive the right care.

To address that, Walsh’s bill would extend the time to receive mental health treatment from five years to 15 years.

The legislation also seeks to improve the quality of mental health care providers by making their jobs more competitive with the private sector, O’Gorman said. Right now there are more than 1,000 open jobs at the VA for mental health care jobs, including psychiatric nurses, physician assistants and psychiatrists, among others, she said.

The bill will introduce a pilot initiative that would allow a student to have their loans repaid if they work for the VA, O’Gorman said.
It also calls for annual reviews of care programs within the Defense Department and the VA to ensure resources are being used effectively to help service members and vets struggling with mental health issues.

Further, the legislation points out that the VA and the Defense Department use two different computer systems and mandates that those systems be amended so that they speak to each other more seamlessly.

The legislation would also try to streamline the way the Pentagon and the VA prescribe medication. Currently, they use different drug prescription protocols, Walsh and military experts told CNN, and that can create a difficult situation.

For example, a service member overcomes the hurdle of admitting they need care, seeks help from a DOD doctor and, after several tries, gets on a drug that works for him or her.

When that warrior become a veteran, they go to a VA doctor only to be told that the drug the DOD doctor gave them is not available under VA protocols.

The bill was introduced the same week that Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America held its annual Storm the Hill initiative. Teams comprised of four veterans whoses live have been rocked by a fellow warrior’s suicide met with lawmakers in Washington. The veterans shared their stories, and implored those in power to do something substantial to address the problem.

Dollar costs and mental costs

It’s unclear how much it would cost to do everything the bill lays out, according to Andrea Helling, Walsh’s spokeswoman. Walsh is waiting for the Congressional Budget Office to provide a figure, she said.

But the senator stressed that it will cost far more in years to come if changes are not made soon to improve mental health care.

The legislation comes at a time of fierce belt tightening in the armed forces. In February, the Pentagon said it would reduce the size of the Army to pre-Word War II numbers, retire the a popular A-10 “Warhog” attack jet and reduce some benefits for warriors.

“This is a budget that recognizes the reality of the magnitude of our fiscal challenges, the dangerous world we live in, and the American military’s unique and indispensable role in the security of this country and in today’s volatile world,” Secretary of Defense Chuck Hagel said in February.

“There are difficult decisions ahead,” he said. “That is the reality we’re living with.”

Downsizing due to modernization and budget constraints began under Hagel’s predecessor, Robert Gates.

The Iraq and Afghanistan wars are the longest continuous battles the United States has fought.

The Iraq war lasted from 2003 to 2010 and Afghanistan has been raging since soon after the September 11, 2001, terror attacks. President Barack Obama has said that the United States could withdraw all troops from Afghanistan by the end of 2014.

More than 2 million Americans have served in combat in those two wars. Researchers estimate that as many as 300,000 service members may meet criteria for PTSD and between 200,000 and 300,000 have suffered a traumatic brain injury from mild to severe, according to Dr. Stephen Cozza with the Center for the Study of Traumatic Stress.

The nonprofit think-tank RAND Corporation estimates a third of veterans likely have TBI, PTSD or depression, which puts the overall number affected at around 600,000.
A large body of research indicates PTSD is associated with increased likelihood of suicidal behavior.

Beyond the bill

A large body of research indicates PTSD is associated with increased likelihood of suicidal behavior.

Walsh was sworn into the U.S. Senate in January after Montana Gov. Steve Bullock named Walsh, his lieutenant governor, to serve the remainder of Sen. Max Baucus’ term after he became U.S. ambassador to China. Walsh is running for election in November.

Walsh’s legislation, IAVA’s O’Gorman told CNN, has bipartisan support. And the goal is to get it passed by Memorial Day, far before an election is a concern.

Walsh said lawmakers must also address suicides amongst military family members, too.

The Pentagon is currently not tracking the number of suicides among relatives. CNN recently explored the topic and spoke to dozens of relatives who said they had contemplated or attempted killing themselves.

Warrior suicides and military family member suicides are “connected,” Walsh said.

Speaking about a warrior under his command who had been deployed three times whose wife was left to care for triplets, Walsh said he understood that families have been under extreme stress for years.

The relatives have made “enormous sacrifices,” he said.

http://www.cnn.com/2014/03/27/politics/military-suicide-legislation/index.html?c=&page=>

$250K awarded to help Alabama Veterans suffering from PTSD

3337960_G

David Lynch Foundation Announces $250,000 Grant to Teach Transcendental Meditation to Alabama Vets with PTSD.

Birmingham, Alabama, The David Lynch Foundation (DLF) has announced a $250,000 grant to provide Alabama veterans suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Syndrome  (PTSD) an opportunity to learn Transcendental Meditation (TM).

The DLF was established by the film-maker David Lynch in 2005 to fund the implementation of scientifically proven stress-reducing techniques for those in need including, veterans with PTSD and their families;

John Harrod, Executive Director of the Alabama Transcendental Meditation Program and a full-time TM teacher, will host a presentation at the Hoover Library – Main Branch Wednesday evening March 5th at 6:30 P.M. P.M. to introduce the Alabama PTSD project and discuss the tremendous benefits TM brings to veterans with PTSD. Veterans who attend the events will be eligible to learn Transcendental Meditation at no cost.

“”Thousands of veterans with PTSD have already learned TM and it has been transformative” says Harrod.  “The U.S Government now spends between $ 4-6 billion dollars a year trying to help vets, but no treatment has proven widely effective.  Transcendental Meditation is extremely effective, and brings immediate and ongoing relief and benefits.”

A recent study published in the July 2013 issue of Military Magazine found the twice-daily practice of the Transcendental Meditation among vets with PTSD at Fort Gordon, Georgia markedly reduced symptoms of PTSD, some by as much as 50% in the first few weeks.

Last week, the Journal of Traumatic Stress announced the publication of a new scientific study showing that African war refugees who learned Transcendental Meditation experienced an immediate and dramatic reduction in PTS symptoms by as much as 90%.

Significant Reductions in Posttraumatic Stress Symptoms in Congolese Refugees Within 10 days of Transcendental Meditation Practice

And the U.S. Department of Defense and the U.S. Veterans Administration is currently conducting a $2.4 million research study on TM as a treatment. The results of that research will be announced later this year.

“There are thousands of Alabama veterans who suffer with PTSD”, says Harrod. Meditation has come to the forefront as a something that works..  Vets say they get their lives back.  It’s simple to learn and to practice and all any vet has to do learn is to come to this presentation.

Anyone interested or wanting more information can also contact John Harrod at jharrod@tm.org or by phone at 250-979-7073.

Anyone wanting to learn more about TM and PTSD can go to www.tm.org and www.davidlynchfoundation.org

logo_small

The Marlboro Marine: 2004 and Today

marlboroTwo lives blurred together by a photo.

By Luis Sinco, Times Staff Photographer

Times photographer Luis Sinco made James Blake Miller an emblem of the war. The image would change both of their lives and connect them in ways neither imagined.

The young marine lighted a cigarette and let it dangle. White smoke wafted around his helmet. His face was smeared with war paint. Blood trickled from his right ear and the bridge of his nose.

Momentarily deafened by cannon blasts, he didn’t know the shooting had stopped. He stared at the sunrise.

His expression caught my eye. To me, it said: terrified, exhausted and glad just to be alive. I recognized that look because that’s how I felt too.

I raised my camera and snapped a few shots.

With the click of a shutter, Marine Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller, a country boy from Kentucky, became an emblem of the war in Iraq. The resulting image would change two lives — his and mine.

I was embedded with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, as it entered Fallouja, an insurgent stronghold in Iraq’s Sunni Triangle, on Nov. 8, 2004. We encountered heavy fire almost immediately. We were pinned down all night at a traffic circle, where a 6-inch curb offered the only protection.

I hunkered down in the gutter that endless night, praying for daylight, trying hard to make myself small. A cold rain came down. I cursed the Marines’ illumination flares that wafted slowly earthward, making us wait an eternity for darkness to return.

At dawn, the gunfire and explosions subsided. A white phosphorus artillery round burst overhead, showering blazing-hot tendrils. We came across three insurgents lying in the street, two of them dead, their blood mixing with rainwater.

The third, a wiry Arab youth, tried to mouth a few words. All I could think was: “Buddy, you’re already dead.”

We rounded a corner and again came under heavy fire, forcing us to scramble for cover. I ran behind a Marine as we crossed the street, the bullets ricocheting at our feet.

Gunfire poured down, and it seemed incredible that no one was hit. A pair of tanks rumbled down the road to shield us. The Marines kicked open the door of a house, and we all piled in.

Miller and other Marines took positions on the rooftop; I set up my satellite phone to transmit photos. But as I worked downstairs in the kitchen, a deep rumble almost blew the room apart.

Two cannon rounds had slammed into a nearby house. Miller, the platoon’s radioman, had called in the tanks, pinpointed the targets and shouted “Fire!”

I ran to the roof and saw smoldering ruins across a large vacant lot. Beneath a heap of bricks, men lay dead or dying. I sat down and collected my wits. Miller propped himself against a wall and lighted his cigarette. I transmitted the picture that night. Power in Fallouja had been cut in advance of the assault, forcing me to be judicious with my batteries. I considered not even sending Miller’s picture, thinking my editors would prefer images of fierce combat.

The photo of Miller was the last of 11 that I sent that day.

On the second day of the battle, I called my wife by satellite phone to tell her I was OK. She told me my photo had ended up on the front page of more than 150 newspapers. Dan Rather had gushed over it on the evening news. Friends and family had called her to say they had seen the photo — my photo.

Soon, my editors called and asked me to find the “Marlboro Marine” for a follow-up story. Who was this brave young hero? Women wanted to marry him. Mothers wanted to know whether he was their son.

I didn’t even know his name. Shell-shocked and exhausted, I had simply identified Miller as “A Marine” and clicked “send.”

I found Miller four days later in an auditorium after a dangerous dash across an open parade ground in the city’s civic center. Miller’s unit was taking a break, eating military rations.

Clean-shaven and without war paint, Miller, 20, looked much younger than the battle-stressed warrior in the picture — young enough to be my son.

He was cooperative, but he was embarrassed about the photo’s impact back home.

Once our story identified him, the national fascination grew stronger. People shipped care packages, making sure Miller had more than enough smokes. President Bush sent cigars, candy and memorabilia from the White House.

Then Maj. Gen. Richard F. Natonski, head of the 1st Marine Division, made a special trip to see the Marlboro Marine.

I was in the forward command center, which by then featured a large blowup of the photo. “You might want to see this,” an officer said, nudging me to follow.

To talk to Miller, Natonski had to weave between earthen berms, run through bombed-out buildings and make a mad sprint across a wide street to avoid sniper fire before diving into a shattered storefront.

“Miller, get your ass up here,” a first sergeant barked on the radio.

Miller had no idea what was going on as he ran through the rubble. He snapped to attention when he saw the general.

Natonski shook Miller’s hand. Americans had “connected” with his photo, the general said, and nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead.

“We can have you home tomorrow,” he said.

Miller hesitated, then shook his head. He did not want to leave his buddies behind. “It just wasn’t right,” he told me later.

The tall, lanky general towered over the grunt. “Your father raised one hell of a young man,” he said, looking Miller in the eye. They said goodbye, and Natonski scrambled back to the command post.

For his loyalty, Miller was rewarded with horror. The assault on Fallouja raged on, leaving nearly 100 Americans dead and 450 wounded. The bodies of some 1,200 insurgents littered the streets.

As the fighting dragged on for a month, the story fell off the front page. I joined the exodus of journalists heading home or moving to the next story.

More than a year and a half would pass before I saw Miller again.

Back home, I immersed myself in other assignments, trying to put Fallouja behind me. Yet not a day went by that I didn’t think about Miller and what we experienced in Iraq.

National Public Radio interviewed me. Much to my embarrassment, the Los Angeles City Council adopted a resolution in my honor. I became a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Bloggers riffed on the photo’s meaning. Requests for prints kept coming.

In January 2006, I was on assignment along the U.S.-Mexico border when my wife called. “Your boy is on TV. He has PTSD,” she said. “They kicked him out of the Marines.”

I’d spoken with Miller by phone twice, but the conversations were short and superficial. I knew post-traumatic stress disorder was a complicated diagnosis. So once again, I dug up his number. Again, I offered simple words: Life is sweet. We survived. Everything else is gravy.

As the third anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion approached, my editors wanted another follow-up story.

So in spring 2006, I traveled to Miller’s hometown of Jonancy, Ky., in the hollows of Appalachia. I drove east from Lexington along Interstate 64, part of the nationwide Purple Heart Trail honoring dead and wounded veterans, before turning south.

Mobile homes and battered cars dot the rugged ranges. Marijuana is a major cash crop. Addiction to methamphetamine and prescription drugs is rampant.

Kids marry young, and boys go to work mining the black seams of coal. Heavy trucks rumble day and night.

Miller showed me around. At an abandoned mine, he walked carefully around a large, shallow pool of standing water that mirrored the green wilderness and springtime sky. He picked up a chunk of coal.

“Around here, this is what it’s all about,” he said. “Nothing else.

“It was this or the Marines.”

Often brooding and sullen, Miller joked about being “21 going on 70,” the result, he said, of humping heavy armor and gear on a 6-foot, 160-pound frame.

Before he was allowed to leave Iraq, he attended a mandatory “warrior transitioning” session about PTSD and adjusting to home life.

Each Marine received a questionnaire. Were they having trouble sleeping? Did they have thoughts of suicide? Did they feel guilt about their actions?

Everybody knew the drill. Answer yes and be evaluated further. Say no and go home.

Miller said he didn’t want to miss his flight. He answered no to every question.

He returned to Camp Lejeune, N.C. His high school sweetheart, Jessica Holbrooks, joined him there, and they were married in a civil ceremony.

Then came the nightmares and hallucinations. He imagined shadowy figures outside the windows. Faces of the dead haunted his sleep.

Once, while cleaning a shotgun, he blacked out. He regained consciousness when Jessica screamed out his name. Snapping back to reality, he realized he was pointing the gun at her.

He reported the problems to superiors, who promised to get him help.

Then came a single violent episode, which put an end to his days as a Marine.

It happened in the storm-tossed Gulf of Mexico in September 2005. His unit had been sent to New Orleans to assist with Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. Now a second giant storm, Hurricane Rita, was moving in, and the Marines were ordered to seek safety out at sea.

In the claustrophobic innards of a rolling Navy ship, someone whistled. The sound reminded Miller of a rocket- propelled grenade. He attacked the sailor who had whistled. He came to in the boat’s brig. He was medically discharged with a “personality disorder” on Nov. 10, 2005 — exactly one year after his picture made worldwide news.

Back home in Kentucky, the Millers settled into a sparsely furnished second-story apartment. Four small windows afforded little light. The TV was always on.

Miller bought a motorcycle and went for long rides. He and Jessica drank all night and slept all day. He started collecting a monthly disability benefit of about $2,500. The couple spent hours watching movies on DVD, Coronas and bourbon cocktails in hand. Friends and family gave them space.

Miller had hoped to pursue a career in law enforcement. But the PTSD and abrupt discharge killed that dream. No one would trust him with a weapon.

But at least he didn’t have to go back to Iraq. He started to realize he wasn’t the only one traumatized by war.

“There’s a word for it around here,” Jessica said. “It’s called ‘vets.’ ” She talked of Miller’s grandfather, forever changed by the Korean War and dead by age 35. Her Uncle Hargis, a Vietnam veteran, had it too. He experienced mood swings for years.

Sometimes, Miller’s stories about Iraq unnerved his young bride. He sensed it and talked less. Nobody really understands, he said, unless they’ve been there.

On June 3, 2006, the Millers renewed their vows at a hilltop clubhouse overlooking the forests and strip mines. It was a lavish ceremony paid for by donors from across the country who had read about Miller’s travails or seen him on television. Local businesses pitched in as well.

His father and two younger brothers were supposed to be groomsmen but didn’t show up. His estranged mother wasn’t invited.

Miller looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress uniform of dark-blue cloth and red piping. Jessica was lovely in white, her long hair gathered high.

Instead of a honeymoon, the young couple traveled to Washington, D.C., at the invitation of the National Mental Health Assn. The group wanted to honor Miller for his courage in going public about his PTSD. Its leaders also wanted him to visit key lawmakers to share his experience.

As a boy, Miller confided, he had embraced religion, even going so far as to become an ordained minister by mail order. He knew the Bible verses, felt the passion for preaching.

That’s how he found his new mission: to tell people what it was like to come home from war with a broken mind.

Three days after their wedding, I tagged along as the young couple flew to the nation’s capital. Easily distracted by the offer of free drinks for an all-American hero, Miller stayed out until 3 a.m. He was hung over when he met with House members a few hours later.

Miller chatted up GOP Rep. Harold Rogers, the congressman from his district. He smoked and frequently cursed while recounting his combat experiences. I cringed but stayed on the sidelines, snapping photos.

Miller shuffled from one congressional office to the next, passing displays filled with photos of Marines killed in Iraq. As he told his story over and again, the politicians listened politely and thanked Miller for his service. One congressman sent an aide to tell Miller he was too busy to meet. No one promised to take up his cause.

After Miller picked up his award, he took a whirlwind tour past the White House and Lincoln Memorial, but his mind was elsewhere. At a bar the night before, free booze had flowed in honor of the Marlboro Marine. Miller wanted more.

“Let’s get drunk,” he said.

I returned to Los Angeles the next morning, thinking I would catch up with Miller in a couple of months.

A week later, Jessica called. After they got home, Miller’s mood had become volatile. He was OK one minute and in a deep funk the next, she told me. Then he’d disappeared. She hadn’t seen him for days.

Could I come to Kentucky and help?

Why me? I thought. I am not Miller’s brother. Or his father. I could feel the line between journalist and subject blurring. Was I covering the story or becoming part of it?

I traveled all night to get to Pikeville, Ky., and soon found myself with Jessica, making the rounds of all the places Miller might have gone. I wanted to be somewhere else — anywhere else.

Finally, the next morning, Jessica saw her husband driving in the opposite direction. She did a U-turn, hit the gas and caught up with him down the road.

He got out of his truck. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

“Who is that, Blake?” Jessica demanded. “Who is she?”

He said her name was Sherry. They had just met, and he was helping her move. Jessica didn’t believe him.

I thought: Didn’t I attend this young couple’s fairy tale wedding just 10 days ago? Now, here they were, in a gas station parking lot, creating a spectacle.

Jessica grilled Miller. He bobbed and weaved. He appeared sober and sullen. Then he dropped a bomb. He didn’t want her anymore and had filed for divorce.

“You guys might want to go home and talk,” I suggested.

There, the tortured dialogue escalated.

Jessica pleaded with Blake to stop and think. They could quit drinking, she said. They’d get help for him and as a couple. Maybe they could move away — anything to work it out.

Miller slumped on the couch. I sensed his unease and feared he would become violent, so I stayed for a while even though I felt intrusive. But he remained strangely calm, albeit brooding and distant.

I returned the next morning. He called his attorney and put the phone on speaker. If uncontested, the lawyer said, the divorce would become final in 60 days. Jessica went to the fire escape to gather herself.

Miller remained unmoved, chain-smoking. The local newspaper had been calling him about rumors that he was getting divorced. It was a major local story. Finally, he wrote a statement. He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle’s house. He told me that he had come close to committing suicide the night before. He had thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain road.

He showed me the morning newspaper. His divorce was the lead story.

I felt torn. I didn’t want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close the book on Iraq. But if I hadn’t taken Miller’s picture, this very personal drama wouldn’t be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield. It creates a space for me to work — and distance to keep my eyes open and my feelings in check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Fallouja. In the rattle and thunder, brick walls separated me from the world coming to an end. In the tight spaces, we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes.

Above the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: This is the end.

I’ve never felt so completely alone.

I snapped back to the present, and before I knew it, the words spilled out.

“I have to ask you something, Blake,” I said. “If I’d gone down in Fallouja, would you have carried me out?”

“Damn straight,” he said, without hesitation.

“OK then,” I said. “I think you’re wounded pretty badly. I want to help you.”

He looked at me for a moment. “All right,” he said.

luis.sinco@latimes.com

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-marlboroman11nov11-blurb,0,5435312.blurb

10 Actions for Responding to a Veteran in Crisis

1620522_657754587621156_365710197_nFor more than a decade now, our country has been at war in two very different locations, with very different missions. In that time, more than 2.2 million troops have deployed and served in those bloody conflicts. They have endured unimaginable heat, bitter cold, and sand storms that peel the skin off your bones; they’ve missed births of children, weddings of friends, anniversaries of parents, and funerals of fallen brothers; they’ve witnessed the wholesale slaughter of innocents and savage acts of hatred and violence, as well as acts of such immense bravery, honor, and sacrifice as to change forever their version of courage.

But living through all that does something to you.

The civilian world often says with a bewildered shake of its collective heads, “We’ve lost so many young people during these wars.” But in truth, only those who were there, or loved those who were there, have truly suffered the losses. Since only 1% of America puts on a military uniform, the rest of America has remained largely untouched. It is the 2.2 million who bear the greatest burden; most of them lost someone they knew, sometimes right before their eyes. It’s also the 6,500 families who are devastated by the death of their loved one, who welcome home a flag-draped coffin, and who mourn in silence for years afterward.

Living through all that does something to you, too.

Tens of thousands of combat-weary warriors are now being discharged out of the military, often without a game plan as to what they will do next. Many of them entered the military right out of high school, so being a warrior is the only job they’ve ever had. And translating their specific skill set to civilian employment is tricky.

Now, after eight years of service, they take off the uniform that is their identity, turn in the weapon that they feel closer to than their own mother, leave behind a highly structured, mission-driven system with a clear chain of command, and enter into a world that looks utterly insane to them—a place where phenomenally popular “reality TV” is comic book dumb and bears no resemblance to the hard, cold reality they’ve lived.

Many of them are using their GI Bill and entering college, but are quickly learning that school is a different kind of battlefield, fraught with insensitive professors, clueless peers, and (thanks to getting their bell badly rung by an IED or two) new learning difficulties. Most are adapting, growing, and building new lives for themselves that make all of us proud. But some of them are really struggling.

Some don’t know how to handle the disorienting re-entry, not to mention the bad memories that sometimes run in their heads like horror movies they can’t turn off. So they drink, they drug, and they isolate themselves, partly because they are trying to achieve some inner quiet, and partly out of fear that one day they might completely lose control.

If that sad day comes, and the rage gets away from them, they usually rage against the people they love, often because even in their presence, the combat veteran feels misunderstood and very alone. Sometimes they aim their rage at themselves and put a 9mm in their mouths, wanting just to ease the crushing guilt they feel over having survived when their brothers didn’t.

But either way, when a battle-hardened combat veteran is involved, these won’t be your typical 911 calls. These guys are not only trained to kill, they’re desensitized to the sights, sounds, and sensations of killing; the usual hesitation in pulling the trigger has been trained out of them. Imagine your SWAT team being called out twice a day for 365 days in a row. Tactically, that’s the amount of experience you could be up against when you encounter a combat veteran.

These situations will require heightened awareness and additional skills to bring the incident to a positive resolution. The following are guidelines to help you navigate your way through the situation and reach the other side safely.

1. Look for clues that your subject is a veteran. Optimally, your dispatcher should routinely ask callers if they know whether the subject is a veteran. That will give you a leg up. The next obvious cues are things like dog tags, a military tattoo, combat uniform, desert boots, or a distinct military bearing. Also listen to what the subject says. Use of military words or phrases (e.g., “weapon” for gun, “squared away” for things being OK, “Groundhog’s Day” for the sameness of every day, etc.) are hard to stop saying after eight years. If the situation allows you to actually talk with the subject, ask him directly, “Have you ever served in the military?” If yes, see if you can get any additional information from him without escalating him, such as which branch he served in, where he deployed to, and how long ago he got home. The more information you obtain, the more leverage you’ll have to work with.

2. Once you’ve determined the subject is a combat veteran, take extra safety precautions. Most veterans I know carry a weapon on them all the time—usually a knife, sometimes a Ka-Bar. But some of them will also have a firearm in a gym bag or in their vehicle somewhere. Remember: their M4 was their guardian angel for many years. They feel tremendously vulnerable without something to replace it. If you’ve been called to a veteran’s home for a fight, domestic situation, or suicidal gesture, assume there are weapons and ammo in the house.

3. When a veteran decompensates, the situation can become violent very quickly. If at all possible, establish some distance between the subject and everyone else around him. Phrases such as, “Hey, let’s give him some breathing room, folks, give the guy some air,” can clear some people away without insulting the veteran. This type of non-confrontational response will also decrease the veteran’s sense of threat, which is crucial in helping the veteran to feel safe.

4. Keep in mind that the veteran’s actions may be somewhat or completely out of his conscious control at that moment. He’s probably in nine kinds of pain and probably hasn’t gotten the help he deserves. So if it is at all appropriate and feasible, thank him for his service. Even if you have to take him down and handcuff him, try to be as respectful as possible. Do what you can to help the veteran save face. Obviously, in a foot chase, you’re not stopping to make nice. If the guy is threatening you, you’re not thanking him for his sacrifice. But if, for instance, it’s a suicide gesture or the guy is in an argument with someone, thanking him changes the tone of the encounter and builds rapport, which is key to de-escalation and resolution.

5. Combat veterans can have some pretty dramatic responses to being startled. My advice: minimize the surprises. You can’t control noises on the street or what other people do, but if, for instance, you need to pull out a pad and pen, don’t just suddenly reach into your pocket—his warrior brain may kick in and think you’re attacking him. Cue him into what you’re doing by saying, “I’m just going to take some notes.”

6. A corollary to that is to do things that will calm him. For instance, maintain an exterior that looks relaxed and confident. Use supportive language. Control your own voice; he’ll sense anger or disgust in your tone, which he’ll interpret as being disrespectful. If one of his kids is crying or his girlfriend is screaming at him, find a way of separating him from that. Neurologically, he’s torqued up, and additional stressors like that can escalate things unnecessarily.

7. If you have any ties to the military yourself, or if your family member served in Iraq or Afghanistan, mention it. If you have any ties to New York City, tell him something like, “I personally appreciated you going over there and kicking the crap out of Bin Laden.” The more real you can be with him, the less likely his subconscious is to view you as an enemy when it comes time for you to take action and the more likely he is to drop his defensive posture.

8. Let him talk, as long as it is helping him wind down. Validate how tough his situation is (whatever that may be). If he’s ranting about something going on in his life, don’t argue with him, just nod your head and say something non-committal like, “Yeah, that sounds like a tough situation.” Time is your friend in these cases. Sometimes, the guy just needs to have a reason (jail) to regain control.

9. Think of the subject’s behavior as symptoms of an injury, not as a mental illness. I’ve never understood how a soldier witnessing his best friend or battle buddy getting blown apart makes him disordered. Far more empowering (and accurate) is that the soldier has been injured by the experience. An injury requires some care and some time, maybe even some adjustments afterwards, but doesn’t label the person as “broken.” If you approach the subject with the understanding that he is injured vs. emotionally disturbed, he’ll be far more likely to trust and connect with you.

10. If at any point the subject begins saying things that make no sense or are incongruous to the time and place, call the paramedics immediately and clear the area. If he starts shouting something like, “We’re three clicks away and under fire!” or if he starts calling out names of people who are not present, he is most likely experiencing a flashback and is living out a memory. That means he’s unpredictable. He may look straight at your uniform with the U.S. flag on it and, in his state, be absolutely convinced you are a suicide bomber about to detonate. He has no control over this behavior and cannot be “talked out of it,” and attempting to do so may agitate him further. If he appears to be living out a battle scene, create as large of a perimeter for him as possible, let him know that the “medics” are on their way “to help with the wounded” and alert EMS to the situation when they arrive. And remember, be respectful. These are symptoms of a significant injury.

Given what they’ve been through, our veterans deserve our most profound compassion and assistance. Special veteran courts are being established nationwide and are allowing many veterans to receive clinical care instead of getting lost in the legal system. They can, and will, heal, if we as a nation become savvy enough to work toward giving them a leg up instead of a hand out.

Alison Lighthall, RN, BSN, MSN,FIAS is the editor of The American Institute of Stress’s Combat Stress e-magazine. She is also president of Hand2Hand Contact, a veteran-owned and operated training and consulting company that helps civilian organizations to better understand, work with, and care for veterans. She served as a captain in the Army Nurse Corps from 2004–2007, and is a member of the ILEETA trainers organization.

- See more at: http://www.stress.org/10-actions-for-responding-to-a-veteran-in-crisis/#sthash.N2hv8aW3.dpuf

Visit Hidden Wounds’s profile on Pinterest.

Bush hosts summit on helping veterans transition

DALLAS (AP) — Efforts must be made to end the stigma attached to post-traumatic stress disorder, which can hinder military veterans’ transition into civilian life and employment, former President George W. Bush said Wednesday.

Addressing a summit at the George W. Bush Institute in Dallas, Bush said some veterans are reluctant to seek help and that employers often don’t realize the condition can be treated.

“As a result of public misunderstanding, employers sometimes cite it as a reason for not hiring vets,” Bush said.

“As most doctors today will tell you, post-traumatic stress is not a disorder. Post-traumatic stress or PTS is an injury that can result from the experience of war,” he said. “And like other injuries, PTS is treatable.”

Bush said his institute has been working with Syracuse University on a study of the issues affecting veterans who have served since 9/11. Bush said full results of the study will be released this spring and that the information will help employers understand what veterans have to offer, noting that both veterans and employers have a hard time translating military experience.

“You don’t see many job postings that say: ‘Wanted: Experience hunting insurgents and terrorists. Willing to risk life for co-workers,’” Bush said.

“Or what’s a veteran supposed to put down?” he asked. “My last office was a Humvee?”

He said that the institute will also work with higher education officials on how to recruit and retain veterans.

“We recognize that in helping our veterans we can unleash the potential of a generation of resourceful, determined and experienced leaders,” Bush said.

Jill Biden, wife of Vice President Joe Biden, also spoke at the summit that included panel discussions with former military leaders, business people and nonprofit leaders. Jill Biden and first lady Michelle Obama founded the Joining Forces campaign to rally the country around its servicemen and servicewomen.

“Our military families have done so much for our country and each of us can do something in return,” she said.

The summit is part of the institute’s Military Service Initiative, which has also hosted golf tournaments and mountain bike rides for those wounded while serving in the military. The institute is part of Bush’s presidential center on the campus of Southern Methodist University in Dallas.

Associated Press
Posted on February 20, 2014

Powered By: Push Digital