There will be a flood of stories such as this, and one theme will be a betrayal of trust.
Alone and in clusters, collars up to block the rain, thousands of people lined the streets on a gray October day in 2005 to welcome their warriors home. For 13 miles, they rose to wave, a few to salute, as the buses rolled slowly past. More than one tough Marine, homeward bound after a brutal tour in Iraq, shed a tear.
When they reached solid ground, still wearing their desert camouflage, the Marines embraced their families and embarked on the most jarring of transitions. They would discover in the following year that seven months in Iraq had changed them more than they could have imagined, guiding and afflicting them in ways they are still struggling to understand.
The stories will have data about post traumatic stress disorder.
George Wentworth, a Navy Reserve medic known universally as “Doc,” is the person Lima’s Marines call when the walls are closing in. At 11 at night, at 3 in the morning, in the darkness just before dawn, they dial his number. Once when he tried to squeeze in a long weekend with his wife, he felt he never got off the telephone.
Within days of Lima’s return, he abandoned his early goals of seeing no divorces and no domestic violence. He was not surprised: “You come back and, literally, you’re lost.”
Col. Charles W. Hoge, chief psychiatrist at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research, recently told Congress that 10 to 15 percent of soldiers returning from Iraq have post-traumatic stress disorder and a similar number have symptoms of PTSD, depression or anxiety. The rates are higher for reservists, a distinction that appears to emerge months after troops return home.
Wentworth, who has taken calls from panicked wives and distraught Marines, said: “There’s no timeline for anybody to get over this. You look at Vietnam vets — some of these guys didn’t have problems until they retired from their civilian careers. And all of a sudden 20, 30 years later, it all came back to haunt them.”
The stories will have questions about the purpose of it all.
The next morning, Maj. Gen. Douglas O’Dell, commander of the 4th Marine Division, addressed the company and awarded medals to the families of the fallen. At 58, he keeps his gray hair short and his handshake firm, but tears ran down his cheeks as he faced the young widows, the parents and the children too young to understand.
Speaking later, O’Dell said that consoling those grieving a loss from Iraq was his toughest duty in his 38 years as a Marine. “Every one of them I have felt very personally. They’re like my kid brothers,” said O’Dell, a father of five whose own brother died at 17.
O’Dell believes Lima Company performed admirably, with guts and restraint, but was asked to do too much. That is as far as he will go. “These are not decisions I agreed with,” he said, “so I will not be on the record until I retire.”
And the stories will be about loss.
Staff Sgt. Steve Hooper tells of Marines swerving suddenly on suburban Ohio roads after spotting what in Iraq would be likely hiding places for bombs, and of Marines on an Indiana training mission refusing beef jerky because it reminded them of seared flesh.
When he is with his girlfriend, he does not discuss combat.
“I don’t tell her a thing. I don’t want her knowing a lot of things I did over there,” said Hooper, a quiet Bronze Star winner who talks often with fellow Marines. “Some people are proud of it. Some people wonder if God will forgive them for what they did.”
Hooper’s sharpest pain is the death of Cpl. Andre Williams, 23, his second-in-command and closest friend. Williams died while hunting insurgents not long after videotaping a message for his daughter’s sixth birthday. Hooper keeps reaching, asking himself if he could have done something, anything, to keep him alive.
These stories have been written before, about Vietnam. But they are as real this time as that time. Just ask the soldiers and Marines coming back.