Jaym Gates - War Stories

TO SAY THAT WAR HAS had a large part in the evolution of mankind is not only a vast understatement, it is also, misleading. It implies that war is just one of many factors shaping our past—a piece of a historical puzzle.

That belies the reality, however. War is not simply a portion of historical study—it is what we are. The idea of combat—whether it is between two people, whole armies, or even a man with his own demons—shapes the fabric of humanity to its core. Struggle between ideologies and those who hold them, regardless of the scale, lies at the heart of all we do in this world.

Clausewitz famously stated that “War is nothing but a duel on an extensive scale,” yet this is more profound than we would like to initially admit. The strategic sadly overshadows combat of the personal level. Those who partake in war are often engaged in that very duel with their own mind and body.

Within the minds of those who have experienced war first hand we learn about the battles of not just a physical landscape but of an emotional one, as well. It is the fighter’s mind that gives us the deepest insight into human nature, because they have simultaneously seen both the best and worst mankind has to offer. It is the warrior’s perspective that teaches far greater lessons than simply the taking of land or a victory of one style of government over another.

Yet it is also within the mind of the warrior that we can see the deepest scars and the clearest evidence of the pain inflicted by war. Writings from Homer’s Iliad to Sledge’s With the Old Breed do not transcend time because they explain strategic knowledge in a new light, but rather that they relate the war within one’s self to those who fight their own battles on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, that comes with a cost. Some of those who have seen the most visceral examples of dueling on a larger scale often come away with scars that are not seen by x–ray machines or a CT scan; they are hidden deeper within the mind of those who have been in the teeth of conflict.

One of the biggest misconceptions about Veterans who suffer from mental trauma is that they are broken beyond repair and unable to function as a normal adult. The Veteran who has seen the worst of mankind is not a piece of glass, however. Though many shake their heads and claim to not feel that way, the sentiment is an underlying current in many of today’s societal interactions.

This notion is patently false, but not necessarily for the obvious reasons. Namely, we were already warped and unable to function as “normal adults” long before we went to war.

Those of us who signed up, knowing full well what we were getting ourselves into, know all about not being normal. It’s probably what compelled us to join in the first place. Our twisted senses of humor, which can make light of even the worst situations, would make the average citizen curious about the sanity of most of those who chose to join.

At Ranger Up and on The Rhino Den , we talk frequently of the “.45%.” That is the percentage of American citizens who are currently serving or have served in the current conflicts in the Middle East. That number points specifically to the idea that, no, we are most certainly not normal. We are a very small minority of people who were willing to put ourselves through some pretty ridiculous things in order to wear the same clothes as everyone else and get yelled at a lot.

That’s not normal.

It’s not normal to go out drinking until the wee hours of the morning, only to wake up at 0500 hours, shave, and run five miles while singing songs about jumping out of planes into enemy territory.

It’s not normal to find humor in things exploding. At least not when those things were supposed to be you.

It’s not normal to walk 12 miles with 50 lbs. on your back and then go to work for the day.

And it’s decidedly not normal to be willing to die for men whom you vehemently disagree with on nearly every major topic in life simply because he is a brother in arms.

Yet these are all familiar territory to the Veterans of our military’s combat arms. We understand different sides of ourselves than most people, and we understand that most of what we have done and accomplished is pretty far from normal.

But being abnormal and broken means different things to us than they do to most people. We take terms such as those as a sign of pride—not because we want to stand out and be pitied, but because it has made us better.

It has made us stronger.

Those who have suffered mental trauma in the military are not weaker because of it. They have a depth and fortitude that most will never understand. Theirs is an experience unique to them and it has shaped a reality that is far more resilient as a result.

And those are experiences that we should all learn from.

Veterans are not victims, nor are they individuals who were somehow brainwashed into something they did not want to do. They are men and women who answered a call to serve and, in the process, used their naturally sick senses of humor and abnormal way of looking at things to cope with the often absurd situations they were placed in.

These stories are about—and sometimes by—those abnormal and broken people who are proud to be exactly that. I am proud to have served alongside them.

I HAVE THIS PERSISTENT SLEEP disorder that makes life difficult for me, but still I want to keep it. Boy, do I want to keep it. It goes back twenty years, to Vietnam. To Graves.

Dead bodies turn from bad to worse real fast in the jungle. You’ve got a few hours before rigor mortis makes them hard to handle, hard to stuff in a bag. By that time, they start to turn greenish, if they started out white or yellow, where you can see the skin. It’s mostly bugs by then, usually ants. Then they go to black and start to smell.

They swell up and burst.

You’d think the ants and roaches and beetles and millipedes would make short work of them after that, but they don’t. Just when they get to looking and smelling the worst, the bugs sort of lose interest, get fastidious, send out for pizza. Except for the flies. Laying eggs.

The funny thing is, unless some big animal got to it and tore it up, even after a week or so, you’ve still got something more than a skeleton, even a sort of a face. No eyes, though. Every now and then, we’d get one like that. Not too often, since soldiers usually don’t die alone and sit there for that long, but sometimes. We called them “dry ones.” Still damp underneath, of course, and inside, but kind of like a sunburned mummy otherwise.

You tell people what you do at Graves Registration, “Graves,” and it sounds like about the worst job the army has to offer. It isn’t. You just stand there all day and open body bags, figure out which parts maybe belong to which dog tag—not that it’s usually that important—sew them up more or less with a big needle, account for all the wallets and jewelry, steal the dope out of their pockets, box them up, seal the casket, do the paperwork. When you have enough boxes, you truck them out to the airfield. The first week maybe is pretty bad. But after a hundred or so, after you get used to the smell and the godawful feel of them, you get to thinking that opening a body bag is a lot better than ending up inside one. They put Graves in safe places.

Since I’d had a couple of years of college, pre–med, I got some of the more interesting jobs. Captain French, who was the pathologist actually in charge of the outfit, always took me with him out into the field when he had to examine a corpse in situ , which happened only maybe once a month. I got to wear a .45 in a shoulder holster, tough guy. Never fired it, never got shot at, except the one time.