The round, sad Asian American face of the 26-year-old single Soldier sitting uncomfortably in front of me could not have been more disheartened. Large black eyes, from which tears flowed endlessly, told me more about his sadness than his own few carefully chosen words. “Bataan” (his nickname) stood no taller than 5 feet 7 inches. His thick black hair was a crew cut, short. By military standards, he might be judged somewhat overweight, but not disqualifying.
A combat medic, he did not want to recall his combat traumas, distracting himself by staying busy, avoiding reminders of combat, and preferring emotional numbness to all other human emotions. He was intelligent, articulate, and very sensitive when the iron doors hiding his feelings were even slightly parted.
A month earlier, Bataan had been hospitalized for severe depression. He had suicidal thoughts and had a detailed plan to end his life. He was released from the psychiatric hospital the day before I saw him. His anxiety was worse. His depression had not lifted. He still had suicidal thoughts, but he no longer had a plan to take his life.
“Every time I try to relax, my mind cannot erase my thoughts. I feel overwhelmed. I don’t see how I can go on like this.”
Reassuringly, I asked, “What is the ‘this’ you just referred to?”
To my great shock and approval, Bataan said, “Do you want to hear my story?”
By this time, I had been treating Bataan for three months. He had mostly talked about pain caused by stress fractures in his shins. Until today, he has had no interest in talking about the inexpressible pain caused by his combat trauma.
Bataan: Jack was my best friend. He was 17 and I was 18. We met at Fort Gordon, our first duty station. We were both combat medics. We became good friends. I don’t know why. We were very different people. We came from very different backgrounds. Our friendship started with teasing. I always teased him about his lack of money. He never had any money, even on paydays. What do I do when I’m broke? I call my mother and dad. “What are you doing for your birthday, Jack?” He was doing nothing because he had no money. “I have money. It will be my treat.” We went out for dinner. We had a very nice time. I picked up the tab. Then we went bowling. We had a lot of fun. I picked up the tab.
That evening, Bataan learned why Jack had no money, even on paydays. Each payday, Jack sent his entire paycheck to his disabled parents, who had four other children at home. He continued:
Bataan: At the end of that evening, Jack said, “Bataan. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in 15 years. Thank you.” That’s when our friendship really started. From then on, each time we met, we hugged and said, “I love you, Brother.”
Jack was the youngest combat medic to win a Combat Action Badge. You only get that award if you have been engaged in a shooting war. Jack was a medic for Bravo Company, and I was a medic for Alpha Company. Both companies were deployed to Iraq. Bravo Company went out on a night mission. I went to bed.
I was awakened in the middle of the night by a knock on my door. It was my Platoon Sergeant. He said, “I don’t know how to tell you, Bataan, but Bravo Company was hit pretty bad. There were scores of injuries. There were three deaths. Jack is dead.”
I didn’t believe him. It must be a sick joke, but this was no joke. I fell to my knees. My hands covered my face. I started throwing things around and yelling, “I hate this place.” My God, he was so young! I was furious. I still wanted to believe it was a joke. I kept expecting him to knock on my door. I kept expecting Jack to say, “Hey, let’s go eat.”
My platoon Sergeant needed me as a medic to rush to the scene of the attack. I had to triage everybody to see who could be saved. One soldier had disfiguring burns. We had to set up a perimeter to make sure no more attacks would take place.
I felt like a robot, mechanically picking up anything resembling parts of a human being.
A long, silent pause filled my office. We could have been in a Funeral Home. Bataan was staring into space, and then he continued:
Fifty yards away, I spotted a soldier. There was a name taped on the flak vest over an ACU (Army Combat Uniform).
I rushed over to it. It was Jack’s name tape. It was Jack’s body. Thankfully and mercifully, he died instantly for his country.
I remember in training telling Jack I was afraid that I would fail as a medic. Jack said, “What you wouldn’t think of! You will do fine. If I can do it, you can do it, Brother.
I put Jack’s body into a body bag. With help, I put the bag into the truck. I cried. I got into the truck and held Jack’s remains all the way back to the FOB (Forward Operating Base). I cried hysterically at his memorial service when they did the roll call. I cried the entire night. I cried the rest of the deployment. When I got home, I hoped they would send me right back to combat. He was such a good person to die. Every time I feel happy, I feel guilty.
Two years after Jack’s death, I visited his grave. I saw Jack’s mother afterwards. We hugged for 5 minutes without a word. I spoke on the phone to his mother. I said I love you. She said I love you.
RSB: It took courage to tell your story today, and I’m honored by you to hear it. What meaning does the story have for you?”
Bataan: I never thought about its meaning.
RSB: (softly) It’s the meaning we give to our experiences that determines their influence on us. You helped Jack celebrate his birthday for the first time in 15 years. What can you celebrate now?
Bataan: (after a long pause) I always call his mom. I send gifts to his siblings on their birthdays. I was a bratty kid. I was given everything as a kid.
RSB: What else can you celebrate?
Bataan: I never thought about it. I can and will celebrate Jack’s life, but I miss him so much.
RSB: Jack is here in so many ways.
Bataan looked up as if startled.
RSB: Jack is here in you. Jack is here in his mother, his father, and his four siblings. Jack was killed taking care of Soldiers. You picked up his remains on sacred ground. All of us need to celebrate Jack’s life. Our nation needs to know the Jack you knew. Our nation needs to celebrate Jack’s life. Jack showed you how to live. ”If I can do it,” Jack said, “You can do it, Brother!” That priceless encouragement came from Jack’s heart.
Do not let death hold you captive. You were sent to Jack as a messenger, bringing him and his family good cheer. You brought celebration where poverty and disability held Jack and his family captive from his third birthday on. Do not let Jack’s death for his country keep you from fully appreciating his life. You have the spirit of generosity. I will never forget Jack. I know him because you knew him. Jack’s family will never forget you.
Sitting quietly, our stares of recognition of the truth comforted each other.
Taken from “Truth, Meaning, and Attachment in Healing Combat Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Robert S. Brown, Sr. and Charles L. McLafferty, Jr., Logotherapy and Existential Analysis, edited by McLafferty and J.I. Levinson, 2024.
COL (Ret.) Brown served 24 years in the USAR and 11 years as a DOD Contract Psychiatrist Subject Matter Expert in PTSD.
Robert S. Brown, MD, PHD a retired Psychiatrist, Col (Ret) U.S. Army Medical Corps devoted the last decade of his career to treating soldiers at Fort Lee redeploying from combat. He was a Clinical Professor of Psychiatry and Professor of Education at UVA. His renowned Mental Health course taught the value of exercise for a sound mind.
