Lying to Tell the Truth
“Soldier, you don’t have the choice of being right or wrong! In the field of combat you damn well better be right!”
Those are the words that echo in my head tonight as I write. It is a glimpse into a world very, very few know. While those words are applicable to the low-ranking “grunt” in hell’s kitchen, the words mean even more so in the world where literally lying to tell the truth is the method of operation and the means to gain ground. Gaining ground can be just as in all wars, the obtaining of an inch of soil, or, in this case, the gaining of popular vote for a wartime decision. The point where you know in your heart and your head that you are right on this call and, even if it means lying, you will do it to get to the truth. You know that lying to tell the truth is better than dying to tell the truth.
Yes, I said “lying to tell the truth.” Especially when the men in your charge are going to be saved or sacrificed by your words. Just like that good old feeling you have in your gut when something comes your way and you say to yourself, your friend, your spouse, your co-worker: “I am dying to tell the truth.” Well, do I lie or tell the truth?
Just this past week I met up with some veteran brothers. The first, at the gym where I try to stay as fit as possible at my age of 43 years. Ten days from “Dust” this soldier and I talked. I put aside my workout regimen to do what only vets can do, listen. I asked the soft questions first, “where were you ? Where did you serve? What do you think? On and on. When it came down to the bottom of things, he stated clearly, “I have a problem.”
His problem was his own. Unique to himself. Particularly, it was driving. Yes, driving. Here at home, driving was not like driving in Iraq. He explained that he recently had a “simple” driving routine day, when something happened that he could barely explain it. All he knew was that he had to pull to the side and wait. Then, he let his wife drive while he sat in silence. Back to his own world of thoughts and back to where he had to tell himself the truth rather than lie: “Things are not normal for me anymore.” He told me how he felt from it all in the simplest terms; he recognized that he has PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.) One of the most common illnesses to not only affect soldiers but also firemen, EMT’s, Paramedics and Police Officers, of course, the list goes on.
Then came Andrew. Another soldier I met while leaving the VA clinic we both attend. In the parking lot, our motorcycles practically nose-to-nose, he noticed the old and young Vet in me, caught in between time. We talked for nearly half an hour. Sitting on our bikes we looked at each other as if we were each other.
Our words and worlds collided. We were in “our place.” The place where only guys like us can go. It is heaven sometimes for the laughter of times remembered and hell for times of reality. Andrew made no mistake about it. First in to Iraq, mission to grab and question suspects, they took men, women, teens and children to task. Not a single one was relieved of suspect. No matter the age, sex or appearance. If they did not comply to his orders in English, he would push his booted foot into their head and into the dirt to convey the message. It was very clear from the beginning to Andrew that communication was not only by words. It was better served by action. Especially, if one wanted to live, and thus, both sides, all parties, all persons, all elderly, disabled and child or child-like, learned quickly that times were strange and the sooner one learned to live in strangeness the better life would be away from reality. And far from legality.
Today as I write this, I had earlier sat once again at the VA clinic where I receive my gentle care and treatment. And I must add, that I do indeed receive great care and treatment from the center with which I am registered. The staff are of the highest standard, they care and they work hard and they, unfortunately, know as much as the Vets. They do their jobs and more. Just one look in their eyes and one can feel the pain they share with the pain of God only knows how many.
As I walked the hall toward the pharmacy for my routine medication, I found myself in a left-right march with a soldier from OIF. Tyler, in his early 20’s, just off from three visits to three doctors at the facility was on his way to our mutual destination: The pharmacy. The place where we get our medication (drugs) to alleviate the symptoms but in no way solving the problem.
Tyler and I talked as we waited. Side-by-side, we formed an instant bond of brotherhood. He was sick. Sadly, he was half my age. He was not ready for the words I had to say. I kept myself in check and told him some minor details of things he should look at. I gave him my name, number and 24/7 contact. Tyler is going to need a lot more care than his family or government gives him. Tyler is in a need for a truth he does not even yet fully know.
The VA, as much as I appreciate it, is lying to tell the truth with him and his health, not to mention his future and his life. He confided that he has “lumps” in his body. He has yet to be diagnosed as to the cause of the swelling in his glands, lungs and chest. He was quick to state the satire of how he and his unit developed the “Qatar Cough” upon arrival and deployment in the Mid-East. A cough that lasted to the point of dispersed blood from the lungs. Military mortem humour.
In our final moments of our meeting, and beginning of days to come, Tyler took the bag full of various medications and said “They still haven’t told me what it is. I know I was exposed to something. We know it was all around us. Jeez, we were deep in it, we just did what we were told and said F… it.”
I haven’t let this go and I will not let it go. I have plans and thoughts. I will be damned if I let one Andrew, one Tyler, one “C” get lost between the lying and dying for the truth. Depleted Uranium is affecting my friends, my family and my brothers. Let’s get to the truth and let the lies die. If DU is harmless, then find another answer for hope and help for these boys. They deserve the truth. They don’t need to hear a song, witness a dance and be mesmerized before the reality hits hard, fast and furiously. There is something bad in the air, something blowing hard in the sands of combat and it is just as deadly, if not more so, than the sniper fire, the IED’s and the mortar rounds that daily pound there peace.
Lonnie D. Story [send him email] is the author of “The Meeting of Anni Adams