The Origin and Reality of My P.T.S.D.

                                 by: Carlos L. Arce

                                  March 25, 2015

 

This essay will be of value to the more than two million Vietnam War veterans. What I write is a true story that I must share for the benefit of fellow old veterans and young ones. As a 100% service-connected, disabled veteran, I have a special interest in urging other veterans to seek the help many of them need but are not requesting.

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                There are many ways to describe a war, probably as many as there are combat veterans; each of us carries unique memories.  Some of us faced the enemy up close, while most never had contact.  Yet, we were all part of an irrational killing machine and the pressure and sadness of war.  I was drafted in 1968 and sent to Vietnam to serve as an Army infantryman with the First Cavalry Division, Airmobile, along the Cambodian border in Tay Ninh Province.  My distinctive story and my vivid and undying memories are also unique.

                Within days after landing at Tan Son Nhut Air Force Base near the capital city of Saigon, I was assigned and transported to a small "Landing Zone" a few miles from the border with Cambodia; it was an area known as the "Parrot's Beak," where Cambodian territory protrudes into Vietnam.  It served as a base, rest area, and infiltration route for the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong; it was the last stop of the infamous Ho Chi Minh/Sihanouk Trail.  Landing zones were small clearings in a sea of green jungle; they were formed naturally or created by super bombs called "Daisy Cutters" or by ground demolition teams with special military ordinance.  They were the size of a small shopping center and were occupied and defended by some 200 soldiers.  These LZs served as supply storage, artillery pits to support patrols in the "bush" when they made contact with the enemy, and helicopter landing pads to move men and equipment around.  All the same, they also served as a lure for enemy troops to come out of their holes in the ground to kill a few of us and to leave a score of their dead behind in the process.  It allowed both sides to maintain their desired weekly body count.

                The firefights were horrendous in the landing zones.  Exploding shells rained on both sides for hours while the suicidal enemy tried to penetrate the small enclaves, both with human wave attacks and with half-naked, nearly invisible night crawlers called "sappers." Rarely would enemy soldiers overrun an American base, but they often came close.  Face-to-face shootouts and hand-to-hand combats were numerous.  What we, as deep-jungle fighters, experienced in the Vietnam War was as brutal, gruesome, and horrifying as soldiers in any other war in history.  Fear, total and absolute fear, is what I endured and what I imagined all others in that situation did.  That level of fear is hard to describe; it consumes all of your being.  The worst part for me is that it lasted for very long periods of time.  It was there during every attack, and it was there even on the days that we had none, waiting for the probable attack, being afraid to be so afraid again.    It was a real shock to the spirit, but it was our job to defend that water hole, the LZ.  I like to think I was patriotic, but perhaps I wouldn't have stayed had I been given a choice at the time. 

                Nightmarish fear for infantrymen at an LZ also came in the form of "Listening Post (LP)" duty.  It consisted of an assignment that would have three or four men walk out of the LZ at dusk and find a place to hide nearby in the jungle to listen for the enemy advance towards the LZ and radio-signal the command post.  The terrifying moments when one would hear the enemy walk by an LP, to hear them talking close to your makeshift-concealed location, were pure agony.  My heart pounded faster and faster as the battle began, and friendly fire exploded all around us with deafening sounds; rays of light from the illumination flares broke through the dense jungle canopy like laser beams, increasing visibility and our risk of detection.  The ground shook with every friendly fire explosion nearby; it seemed that one would land on us any moment.  We had all heard stories about miscalculations by an artillery commander or by a pilot on a bombing run.  Perhaps they forgot your location, perhaps the map plotter missed the mark with the colored pin, or perhaps it was us in the LP team who failed to find the exact assigned spot in the jungle by reading the wrong direction in the compass or by counting the wrong number of steps in the dark jungle.  We had also heard stories of LP teams that never came back, that disappeared into thin air because they were found out and taken, or because one of our super bombs had pulverized them.  The joy of returning to the LZ at first light is hard to express.  Ironically, climbing over the dirt "berm" that surrounds the LZ was liberating.  I learned to enjoy the comforts of home inside the LZ, even as we expected the next attack; it was not until the next LP rotation a few days later that the particular terror returned.

                Comparably frightening was a strategy of jungle-clearing hopping used by body-count-hungry commanders in the LZs.  It used one or two Huey helicopters and ten to twenty men to swoop into small clearings in the jungle, combat-assault, rifles blazing style, seeking to draw enemy fire, while killer Cobra helicopters hovered nearby.  Once in a while, it would surprise enemy units and achieve the desired result, with inevitable casualties for us.  This strategy, if overused, could give enemy commanders the opportunity for a juicy ambush.  To my comrades and I, it was playing a nerve-racking Russian roulette, with a touch of back-breaking jumps from above-ground hovering choppers.    

                Guilt is an undeniable source of PTSD for many veterans.  Some committed war crimes that haunt them forever, but for most, it stems from ugly things that accidentally involved them or that they couldn't stop or prevent.  For me, the strong feelings of guilt relate first to an incident when I obeyed orders to move around in the jungle during an "in-place ceasefire" and then to shoot down a couple of enemy soldiers for doing the same; they relate to doing nothing when a few American soldiers insulted and frightened civilians, or when South Vietnamese troops mistreated civilians and publicly thrashed enemy prisoners.  It pained me to know that some of the artillery "fire-missions" during jungle contact with the enemy near civilian villages had dreadful collateral damage. =B It twisted my stomach every time I had to gather body parts from the field, at times some mixture of friend and foe.  Guilt was augmented in me upon my return to "The World," as I felt the public rejection, condemnation by anti-war activists, and embarrassing public perception of Vietnam veterans; it was wounding, it was heartrending.

                Shameful abandonment is an undeniable description of our society's treatment of returning Vietnam War veterans.  The country's remorse over our stupidity in the aftermath of the war, a wounded national pride over our unprecedented military defeat, and national shame over the atrocities of that war seemed to have precluded concern for the returning wounded souls on the part of our silent majority.  When combined with outright hostility from our loud, revolting youth against their brothers who served, American Vietnam War veterans were men without a country.

                Anger and internal rage affected all of us in Vietnam, and there was so much to rail against.  Fighting an invisible enemy was beyond frustrating; it was exasperating.  There was anguish in witnessing the massive environmental destruction caused by the use of the chemical defoliant Agent Orange; it was not only used to provide clear visibility in the jungle, but it has been suggested that it was also used to destroy crops in the countryside and force peasants into government-controlled cities.  Pleasure turned into pain and then into anger with the addiction to drugs that so many suffered or got close to suffering.  Yet, the greatest complaint by far of those fighting there was our failure to fight to win.  Allowing the enemy to use hit-and-run tactics from sanctuaries across borders, respected only by our side, was incomprehensible and infuriating.  That cumulative rage, which I had fermenting in me during my year tour "in the country," followed me into civilian life, and it took some time to bring it under reasonable control.

         What is my reality of P.T.S.D.?  I'm not sure I fully comprehend it; I can only perceive the obvious.  Depression and hyper-vigilance are probably what most of us in this malady would tend to feel, but guilt, anger, insecurity, worthlessness, nightmares, and emotional fluctuations are significant side effects.  My first recollection back at home was that of seclusion, isolation, a let-me-be sentiment; it lingered for a few years.  As I emerged from my darkness and back into my social being, I found myself indulging in workaholic behavior and daily, minor, end-of-day drinking, as well as a recurring fear of suffering physical harm.  The fear of dark or lonely places, of strangers, of unusual sounds...had me compulsively looking over my shoulder and all around.  I struggled to hide my living fear from everyone; it was my tender secret.  Years later, the drinking and smoking increased to where it alarmed me.  I quit them both cold turkey decades ago.  The workaholic lifestyle followed me into retirement when I turned to feverish sculpturing and writing.  I still look over my shoulder and wait for the garage door to reach the floor, but I have learned to intellectually acknowledge it.  To this day, occasional nightmares, feelings of anger, hyper-vigilance, depression, and guilt have been hard to expunge; they have been lifelong companions.  Fortunately, so has been my belief and faith in God, which I know saved my sanity then and now.       

                Like many others, I did not ask for help from The Veterans Administration, as it was called before President Ronald Reagan elevated it to a cabinet-level department and renamed it the Department of Veterans Affairs, for disturbing emotional feelings or even for basic medical care.  Many years transpired before I first sought help from the VA; it was in the late 1990s at a local clinic in South Florida.  I quickly received the good news that a VA psychiatrist would provide me with treatment, but it became greatly disappointing when the first visit turned out to be a cursory session lasting only a few minutes, and the next one was scheduled for months later.  After the third session I concluded it was pointless to continue trying; I remained enduring my silent suffering.

                The American people had already forgotten the Vietnam War and its veterans when the grim reminder of 9-11 awakened the nation to an obvious reality; we need young men to serve in the military, and we need to use them to provide for national security.  This time, being a veteran is quite different; the nation views them as the heroes that they are, and politicians rush to identify with them, allocate abundant funding, and begin the process of reforming the VA.  However, it is all being done while asking our soldiers, in a small volunteer force, to serve multiple tours in combat.  I watch with mixed emotions the new glorification of veterans and the afterthought of repentance over the treatment of veterans from the unpopular war.  It is good news for old veterans like me; we can now piggyback into proper care and treatment from the VA.  Nevertheless, what happens to the decades of neglect, belittling and denigration of Vietnam veterans, who will make up for that?

                The confidence of many of us, previously disaffected Vietnam veterans, has been reclaimed by the VA with a number of new initiatives and their broad promotion.  Even in the midst of recent scandals about the forging of "waiting lists," I, for one, do believe that our government is truly extending a hand of gratitude to veterans of the Vietnam War.  Every president since Gerald Ford has voiced a sincere expression of contrition about the unjust treatment of Vietnam veterans, but it is recently that words have sufficiently turned into substantive action.  I was attracted by the promotion of new VA initiatives and returned to ask for help.  Unfortunately for me, I learned more than what I wanted to know about my health.

                When I identified myself as a Vietnam, jungle-based, combat-infantry veteran, the assumption of Agent Orange contamination emerged.  Of the many illnesses that veterans exposed to Agent Orange are presumed to be at a much higher risk of contracting, I was diagnosed with service-connected diabetes and cancer; also, with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (C.O.P.D) and high blood pressure, which have not yet been added to the decades-long, growing Agent Orange list.  I was also diagnosed with compression of the spine, which is also deemed to be service-connected with brutal and excessive jumps from helicopters in Vietnam.  There was more anger in me, more depression, more ... I was also, of course, classified as suffering from serious PTSD and registered into a sophisticated treatment program.

                My impression of the Miami VA Health System, upon becoming a frequent visitor, is that of a crowded, understaffed, and grossly unsecured facility, albeit modern and well-equipped.  For someone experiencing hyper-vigilance and being over-concerned with security, it is shocking to be able to walk into the building, frequently unchallenged by the elderly volunteers at the counter, carrying a large briefcase with my computer and paperwork.  There are hundreds of visiting veterans filling the hallways, offices, and elevators, as well as many bedridden hospitalized patients every day; all of them sitting ducks for a terrorist attack, all of them American ex-military people.  To this day, I am concerned that somewhere, there is a plot being discussed to strike a blow against our heroes in their most vulnerable state.  I have written to the Secretary of the Department of Veterans Affairs and to my congressional delegation about my concern, with no response.  Meanwhile, I walk through the VA facility, looking at everyone as if I could perhaps be able to sound the alarm if I spot the bad guys.   

                The mental health clinic is designated the "Charlie Team," and I was admitted for treatment following an initial interview with one of their doctors, who was pleasant and reassuring.  He asked many questions and listened patiently to my detailed descriptions.  He entered into the computer everything I told him, and I felt a great sense of deliverance sharing my innermost secrets; I was no longer alone in my journey.  My wife, who has accompanied me for 25 years, has been loving, supportive, and understanding about my struggle all along, but there is no substitute for professional help.  I was later interviewed by two more mental health professionals before a treatment program was designed for me.  I wondered if the treatment was mostly a boilerplate routine used as a one-size-fits-all bureaucratic make-work; my previous experience with the VA had made me skeptical.  I soon realized that something very positive was happening to the VA; a full team of P.T.S.D. treatment specialists was reviewing every file and offering a number of different programs for the veterans.  In essence, a two-prone approach is being used in the treatment: a medication regime and a series of group therapy programs. 

                A medication control specialist was assigned to review all the medication I had been taking, which was a lot, made substitutions added new ones to ease the symptoms of P.T.S.D.  It has been a lengthy trial and error process, where some medications seemed not to have the desired effect or where they produced negative side effects.  Eventually, some balance is found and although continuous monitoring is wisely provided, there is some noticeable alleviation of my P.T.S.D. discomfort.

                The first group therapy session was held early one morning in a Miami VA satellite clinic.  Eleven veterans, 10 men, and one woman, took part in it.  I looked around at my fellow veterans, expecting to see visible signs of emotional distress; it was a pleasant group of mostly friendly and smiling people.  There were only four young veterans from the post 9-11 wars, the rest of us men were veterans of the Vietnam War.  A young, well-dressed woman entered the room and identified herself as our group leader and a doctor in psychology.  She was accompanied by another young woman, who was identified as a student assistant.  We were all l asked to identify ourselves by name, branch of service and place of service.  The doctor quickly began a class in basic psychology and the workings of the human mind.  It was all delivered in simple elementary terms and always referring to the symptoms of P.T.S.D.  As the class progressed, veterans were asked to express their feelings about the topics presented.  It was then that I saw P.T.S.D. in action.  Every description of experiences by a veteran was echoed by others, and a crescendo of emotion ultimately derailed the teaching agenda; it became a back-and-forth among the veterans, culminating in a young veteran breaking into tears and rushing out of the room.  An old Vietnam veteran followed the grieving young man and, after a while, brought him back to the room.  The one thing I discovered is how much I need the VA support.  For me, the short group learning course was followed by another longer group therapy session, which lasted several months, and I continued beyond that into a year-long group therapy program.  I could not be more satisfied and grateful to the mental health team at the VA.  The people working there have been caring, encouraging, professional, and diligent.  It has been a great feeling of comfort to feel their sincere support.                                               

                Is the VA doing enough?  Absolutely not; it has a long way to go.  The many reports of homelessness and suicide among veterans, however embellished they may be, point to a serious disregard by our government.  Veterans are special citizens who need to be treated with the utmost care by our society; above all, those who served in combat and those who returned disabled.  Unemployment is the predominant gateway towards despair and suicide among those already debilitated by PTSD.  Meaningful employment for all our veterans must be more than wishful thinking by the VA; it must be a government mandate.  In the public sector, veterans’ preference is being given less than full support by federal, state, and local governments.  Even disabled veterans are not granted their full consideration for employment and contracts for disabled-veterans-owned businesses, regardless of the fanfare accorded the many government programs that purport to be succeeding in that endeavor.  We are at war right now.  Some of our young soldiers will continue to die for the foreseeable future and many more will return home affected by their dreadful experiences, let's not forget who they are and what they have done for us.

                To my fellow veterans, I can only say that although we cannot completely say goodbye to the haunting war memories from Vietnam, we must forgive ourselves and the society that so callously disappointed us.  We must also take responsibility for fighting back against the damaging memories that, at times, consume us and reduce our joy of living.  There are emotional tools that can help all of us move those memories to their proper place.   Reach out to the VA without delay or hesitation, the help is there waiting for you.  Thank you for your service, and God bless you all.