Why do I still carry so much pain from that war? I have been told over 100 times: “Put it behind you and move on with your life.” But Vietnam hangs onto my innermost thoughts like a newborn to its mother’s warmth.

The friends I left behind wouldn’t want me to be in this bad state of mind. They would want me to cherish life. Sometimes I think: Why didn’t I die with them? They are the lucky ones. They are at peace now. I wonder if I will ever know what it is like to be truly at peace.

The clinical name for what I’m struggling with is post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), an anxiety disorder where the “fight-or-flight” responses triggered by a terrifying event can’t be turned off.

PTSD reminds me of an evil thief who tries to steal everything from you—your life, your family, and your mind. It won’t let you get close to people. It eats you alive from the inside out. PTSD has no mercy and its only goal is to devour your mind, body, and spirit. It’s a beast that never sleeps.

The first 13 years after I returned from the war were tough. My first wife left me after we lost our second child to miscarriage; I think the miscarriages might have been related to my exposure to Agent Orange. I remarried four years later. My second wife and I had two beautiful children together, but she left me when they were 4 and 6. I wanted love and yet, I pushed it away. It was hard for me to show my emotions. My heart couldn’t take losing anymore, so I built a wall around my feelings.

I could go on and on about the things that went wrong after I came back from Vietnam, but that was nothing compared to what happened over Memorial Day in 1983. That is always a hard time for me, and in 1983—after years of just barely holding it together—I snapped. I was back in Vietnam. I could smell gunpowder and blood.

Every day when I wake up, the PTSD monster says, Just stay in bed. Don’t get up. I finally listened to the monster. I could not get out of bed. I became dead to the world. I shut down.
My schedule for nine months was: Wake up at 7:30 a.m. Take a hot shower for my crippling arthritis. Make a bowl of ramen soup and eat it. I was back in bed by 9:00 a.m., and I’d stay there until 7:30 a.m. the following morning, only to repeat the routine once again.

At the end of the ninth month, my brother knocked on my bedroom door. I had just finished my soup, and was back in bed and about to nod off. He insisted on taking me to the Veterans Affairs hospital in West Los Angeles. The next day, I was admitted to the VA hospital for severe PTSD.

Growing up in the Antelope Valley north of L.A., I wanted to be a priest. But at 17, I decided instead to serve my country. I joined the Marine Corps. In December 1968, I went to boot camp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. The drill instructors really knew how to make men out of boys! Every day, we did hundreds of brutal squat thrusts, sit-ups, chin-ups, and pull-ups. There was lots of running, going through the obstacle course, and marching in formation.

The drill instructors called us “maggots” “pukes,” “scum bags,” “slimy worms.” And they always put motherf—– in front of everything. The verbal abuse was at full volume, from the time we woke up until we went to sleep.

Next I went through intense combat training at Camp Pendleton, California. That’s where they teach you tactical field maneuvers, weapons training, how to kill, how to survive, and—you guessed it—more running, physical training, marching in formation, and of course, verbal abuse.

They transformed us into “lean, mean fighting machines.” I became part of a polished, synchronized team. Your life depends on what they teach you in the classroom and out in the field. We were trained in a replica Vietnamese “village” with about six or seven palm huts, a fenced animal pen, a water well, an ox cart, and large woven baskets that contained rice and/or weapons. We were made aware of the areas of possible booby-traps and the fact that the enemy lurked on the perimeter of the “village.” They actually had us in Vietnam before we even left the States.

At the end of our training, we were told that we were prepared to enter the battlefield. That some of us might not come back—and that some of us might come back and wish we hadn’t.

When we landed in Vietnam and the stewardess opened the door of the plane, I was blasted with the largest dose of high-humidity heat that I have ever experienced in my life!

Rick Martinez, 18, in Vietnam (1969)

By the time I hit the tarmac, I was drenched in sweat. I smelt a new smell, like nothing I had ever smelled before. It was a combination of campfires, diesel fuel, jet fuel, sweaty Marines, the stewardess’ perfume, a jungle smell, gunpowder, and burning rubber … Rubber? My boots? The concrete tarmac at that hour was about 130 degrees. Enough to literally fry an egg! I thought: This is going to be my home for the next 365 days?

After I had finished my Marine Corp training, I thought I was prepared for the Vietnam War. Looking back on that experience now, nothing could have prepared me for the death and destruction of that insane war. I saw more death than I could have ever imagined.

I saw a young boy, about 12 years old, on a bike toss a grenade into a moving jeep, killing a young officer and his driver. It happened right in front of my truck, but I could not stop. I was transporting ammunition, and the attack could have been an ambush for my cargo.

I lost a friend who died in my arms. We were in a firefight, and I was praying for him to live. But then the flares went off overhead, and I saw blood coming out of his eyes, nose, and ears. I saw where his skull was cracked. I realized if he lived, he would be a vegetable … And I found myself praying for him to die.

Of all the painful things I had to deal with in therapy, watching my friend die is up there at the top of the list. The camaraderie in a combat zone is stronger than even blood ties.

Once, while on a search-and-destroy mission, we had unknowingly set up our camp right on top of a Viet Cong underground tunnel complex. The enemy kept popping up in the middle of the night shooting AK-47 rounds into our camp and bunkers. After meticulously searching the area for two days, we finally found the trap doors that led down into the tunnel complex.

Someone had to go in and take care of business and I was small enough to fit into the two-foot wide trap doors. I became a “tunnel rat,” with a flashlight in my left hand, and a .45 in my right. My goal was to search and destroy, and to clear the tunnel.

Those tunnel complexes were heavily booby-trapped and designed to take out intruders. For every 10 military dogs that got sent into the tunnels, an average of only two survived. It was a low survival rate for soldiers, also.

When I went in, my movements were very slow. My eyes were trying to adjust to the darkness; my ears seemed to be able to hear the sand move under my body. My hearing seemed to stretch out into the darkness. I could hear myself breathing and thought, I’m too loud. As I moved forward, feeling with my hands the sides, the top, and the floor, I thought, Stay calm, careful. Be ready for anything. God, please help me.

There were trip wires and little grass mats covered by sand to conceal bunches of sharp bamboo sticks that had been dipped in poison. But they didn’t get me—I made it out.

I felt hands patting me on the back as we knelt down to examine the treasures I had brought up—some old, worn maps; three Chicom grenades; a M1 carbine rifle. After that day, everyone (including the officers) called me “Snake.”

It was the third tunnel I entered later that would haunt me the most. It had enemy inside. The three Viet Cong decided to escape through another exit and perish at the hands of my fellow Marines instead of confronting me—why they chose to do this is a question I can never answer. I acknowledge it as Divine Intervention.

It is a miracle that I made it out of that insane war.

When I was at the VA hospital in 1984, part of my treatment was exposure therapy where you relive a painful experience to get control over your feelings about the trauma. In “flooding,” you talk about a lot of bad memories at once. It’s called flooding for a reason: the tears.

Therapy triggered so many memories and opened up my mind like a river. The sight of dead Viet Cong soldiers, especially the children and elderly, kept coming back to me. The Viet Cong child soldiers (some as young as 12) and the grandma and grandpa soldiers made it really hard for me to put the Vietnam War behind me. How can you really justify war? It was a no-win war for them and for us. They fought for a cause that they thought was right, and so did we. They fought with courage and tenacity, just like us.

Talking about what happened in Vietnam took me right back there. The adrenaline would kick in, and I’d go into combat mode. I felt locked up with anxiety and all these emotions. Then, instead of sleeping around the clock, I hardly ever slept.

Slowly, I started to talk with other patients, the therapists, and nurses. I was discharged from the hospital after three months of treatment.

But Vietnam remained at the surface. Once I was on the outside again, I was really afraid. Now all my issues weren’t buried and repressed. The flashbacks were just as intense as the experience itself. I was alone in a world that did not seem to care about or understand me as a Vietnam veteran.

I still had a hard time sleeping. I still felt extremely anxious in crowds. I had zero tolerance for listening to people talk—whatever they said seemed so unnecessary and unimportant. I completely shut myself off from my family, my (few) friends, and society. I was out of sync with everyone. Thoughts of suicide began to whirl about in my mind. I had no hope of ever living a productive life again.

On my way back to the States, I saw a jacket—I think it was in a shop at the Da Nang Airport. On the back of the jacket was a map of Vietnam and it said: “When I die, I am surely going to heaven because I served my time in hell.” I bought the jacket.

Vietnam was hell, but it turned out I had to fight in another war. In 1984, I headed into the war within.

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The military trains and employs more young Americans than any other single institution. They receive rigorous training from a very selective institution that only three out of 10 young Americans are even eligible to join, and they served their country under difficult circumstances that required adaptability, perseverance, teamwork, and maturity. What more could an employer want?

It would seem a lot more. Despite the many veteran employment initiatives out there—put forward by the White House, mayors’ offices, corporations, and nonprofit organizations—it’s still difficult for veterans to find work, let alone jobs that use them well. The current generation of veterans faces a higher rate of unemployment than those who have not served in the military, yet those with jobs earn more than non-veterans. The Syracuse University Institute for Veterans and Military Families offers one explanation for this paradox that applies to me and other veterans I’ve talked to: many veterans take work that is a poor fit for their knowledge, skills, ability, and experience. This leads to dissatisfaction, lower performance, and job-hopping.

If you were a helicopter mechanic in the military, then it makes sense to seek work fixing helicopters as a civilian. It’s harder for veterans whose primary military job skills don’t directly translate to the civilian workforce. As an infantry officer for the Army (who left before the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan started), my work covered a wide range of experiences. I did everything from manage a fleet of armored vehicles to supervise the purification and distribution of water in Honduras to serve as the executive assistant of a State Department official in Bosnia-Herzegovina. I also worked on getting the first-ever emergency services agreement written and approved between my Army installation and its neighboring city in Georgia. When I completed the coursework for my doctorate degree in public health, I started applying for emergency management and disaster services positions. .

I wasn’t even getting called for job interviews, though. Rather, I’d get letters saying that I met the education and skill requirements, but didn’t have the “right” experience for a job. They were looking for specific junior job titles on my resume that I would never have unless I was to start at the lowest rung of the career ladder at 41 years old. They seemed to disregard not just applicable experience, but also my demonstrated ability to adapt and learn quickly.

I was rejected from about a dozen jobs in three months. It really stung to see that my Army experience wasn’t translating. Even after working with mentors in the field to fine tune my resume and consulting with guides to help veterans find civilian work, it was hard to figure out how to present my skills and experience. The “skills translator” at www.military.com said that in civilian-speak I was trained in “message processing procedures.” Seriously? What job announcement has ever asked for that skill?

Ironically, I got my next two jobs precisely because I am a veteran. (I can’t get into too many specifics because I’m still working part-time at both of these places.) The first job dropped into my lap out of the blue from a job sector I had never considered. My employer emailed a job announcement to a group of veterans in the Los Angeles area because he had a contract with the Army and needed someone who could “speak Army.” I quickly discovered that my real role was to be a linguistic and cultural interpreter, and I became highly prized for my ability to produce PowerPoint slides and “decision-support matrices” according to Army norms.

I got my second job when a mentor introduced me to an organization that serves veterans and their families. They created a position just for me and I joined just two other veterans on staff (neither of whom was part of the leadership). The problem was they didn’t know what to do with me. During the first three months, I felt like I was in purgatory. I sat at a desk right next to the office refrigerator and microwave, and I worked on occasional tasks but had no clear sense of my role. Other employees would ask what my job was, and I found myself unable to answer that basic question because I didn’t have an official job description or direct supervisor.

Everyone in the Army has a clear task and purpose and is part of a team that requires each individual to contribute. There’s constant interaction and feedback with superiors, subordinates, and peers. Morale and cohesion matter. No one is on an island, as I felt here.

It was up to me to find or make a purpose at this job. Things finally changed for the better after I explained that I needed a project and accountability. I wanted to add value to the organization, and I didn’t have enough to do. By pressing the issue, I carved out a role for myself.

Michael Poyma, an employment specialist for the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) in Michigan, told me he has heard many stories similar to mine. He also shared that the only time he was ever really scared in the Army was the day he left it. He now helps other veterans get hired.

Some of the most common approaches to matching veteran job seekers and employers need to be rethought, Poyma said. For example, both job seekers and employers have told Poyma that many job fairs are a waste of time for all involved. While some people find jobs this way, it’s a drop in the bucket. They also create high-pressure, high-expectation situations that can magnify disappointment.

Poyma and others have also noted that veterans gravitate in disproportionate numbers towards certain fields: government service, law enforcement, government contracting, work with veterans. These jobs allow veterans to continue working in a familiar environment related to public service. Public-sector hiring programs also build in “points” and other incentives for military service, encouraging this.

It’s easy to understand why people who come from an environment emphasizing camaraderie would want to stick together afterward. Some veterans have expressed that they feel prejudged in the civilian world due to negative stereotypes and stigmas associated with veterans, such as assumptions about widespread PTSD. They also don’t want to deal with the hassle of civilians who don’t “get” them. They also don’t feel like explaining themselves to the 99.5 percent of Americans not in uniform.

Isolation can just entrench the misunderstanding, though. It deepens the civil-military divide. This is why Chris Marvin of Got Your 6, and previously, The Mission Continues, has embarked on projects to help veterans integrate fully into the civilian world that they have rejoined. The Mission Continues puts veterans to work painting houses, tending community gardens, or mentoring kids at a wide range of community and nonprofit organizations. Got Your 6 works with the entertainment industry, corporations, and nonprofits to dispel common myths by highlighting stories where veterans are working with partners in the community (holding training sessions with teachers who have kids from military families in their classrooms, for example). Marvin and colleagues know the benefits of applying veterans’ skills and leadership experience, creating meaningful bonds, and helping veterans extend their service to the nation in news ways.

Poyma and other VA representatives have also been working to bridge the cultural gap between veterans and civilian employers in new ways. In a series of pilot seminars they are about to start, Poyma will seat potential employers and veterans on opposite sides of the room, separated by an aisle that he calls the “demilitarized zone.” He will conduct exercises to dismantle the demilitarized zone by discussing systemic barriers to employment (some of which I’ve already talked about, but others such as the cost of retraining for civilian licenses) and the negative stigmas that follow veterans. They’ll do some basic exercises highlighting their different lexicons of acronyms and jargon. They’ll also talk about shared workplace experiences to which people on both sides of the aisle can relate.

In the end, he hopes to demonstrate that veterans’ skills don’t always fit neatly into a resume or pop off the page, and his goal is to change the perceptions of employers. There is hidden value in a veteran’s resume if employers will only take the time to look.

The post Out of the Army—and Out of a Job appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

War’s a joke for me and you,
While we know such dreams are true.
–Siegfried Sassoon

Out there, we’ve walked quite friendly up to Death,–
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,–
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We’ve sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,–
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn’t writhe.
He’s spat at us with bullets and he’s coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier’s paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed,–knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.

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I’ve been trying to write about the two of them and that moment that day at that bench, but everything keeps sliding out of focus. Nothing holds still long enough for me to capture it.

One hundred thousand passengers and 700 trains passed through Union Station every day during the war—1 million people every 10 days, 3 million a month, 36 million a year. So many arrivals and departures. So many lives headed in so many directions. So many little stories and moments like my parents’.

The waiting room is enormous. It seems to have been built to house Chicago’s early-20th-century ego.

Standing there, looking around, any true child of Chicago is left to marvel not just at the city’s big brash ego but at the killing whoever sold the builders all that marble and glass must have made (not to mention the big brash bribes he had to pay to get the marble and glass contracts in the first place).

They razed half the station years ago, but the scale of the designer’s vision endures. Even now, with daily arrivals and departures down to a trickle, Union Station will soar for you, if you sit there and let it.

Most of the ticket windows and virtually all of the concession areas and alcoves have been sealed off, but, 125 feet overhead, the original skylight still produces a suffused, all-day twilight. The glass is a bit more pigeon-spattered, and the new, taller buildings nearby steal more of the sunlight. Still, sitting there, looking up, you get the idea. You sense the grandeur.

Ninety years of foot traffic have worn swales into the white marble stairs that descend from street level to the waiting-room floor. And there are the benches, including my mother’s, rank upon rank of them—long, solid, empty, waiting for the glory days to return.

It’s a good place to sit and contemplate your enigmas. You can sense generations of ghosts bustling by, perpetually arriving and departing in that twilight. You can feel their energy still roiling. This is a place you can conjure with.

My mother had a complex, rational, and extremely precise mind. She put herself through teacher’s college by the time she was 18 and the University of Chicago by the time she was 24.

She self-consciously dismissed her trips to their bench as “sentimental journeys.” I think she was embarrassed to give in to something as simple and maudlin as her love for that moment in August of 1944 when, gaunt, war-weary, and wounded, the young man she’d been waiting almost three years to marry was suddenly, safely, and finally there.

He’d spent nearly two years as an infantry scout in the jungles of New Guinea. He’d seen combat. A lot of combat. He’d contracted dengue and malaria. Like every other man in his outfit, he’d expected to die fighting. In May of 1944, he was wounded severely enough to get shipped home and discharged.

Standing there at Union Station three months later, looking at the love of his life, he’d weighed less than 100 pounds and counted himself the luckiest man in the world.

She made her journeys alone well into her eighties, but last year, on the 66th anniversary of the day, my sons and I went with her. She was 92.

I don’t think it was an especially successful trip. Her feelings about the man, their moment, and the place were far too private and subtle for her to express to the phalanx of hulking, less-than-subtle, testosterone-addled descendants who’d accompanied her.

So we sat there on her bench. The enormous room, empty and quiet, echoed the way empty enormous rooms always do. Their small moment was still there, just out of her reach. After a while, we took a cab across the Loop, had lunch, then cabbed back to Union Station and caught the train home. It was to be her last sentimental journey. She died in February.

When the weather turned nice in early May, we buried her ashes with his. This time he’d had to wait for her. The first few returning birds attended. A quarter-mile to the east, truck tires sang on the Tri-State. The cemetery crew waited nearby. Everyone who had something to say had an opportunity to say it. When we were finished, we hugged one another and left.

I haven’t visited her bench since she died, and that’s probably for the best. I would just be intruding. It was her journey, and their moment—just one among millions that have taken place in that room. So I’ll leave them there and leave the story at that before everything slips out of focus again.

Yes. Probably for the best. And besides—I’ve acquired a few small moments and sentimental journeys of my own.

Peter Smith is a Minneapolis-based writer and radio commentator, and author of two books, A Porch Sofa Almanac and A Cavalcade of Lesser Horrors.

Buy A Calvacade of Lesser Horrors: Amazon, Skylight, Powell’s

*Photo courtesy of Peter Smith.

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