We spent the last week together vacationing with the kids, preparing for the familiar separation we’d once again endure. Although Korrina had deployed in support of special operations in the past, this was the first time she’d be heading into a war zone. I knew she was an extremely competent naval officer able to take care of herself, her patients, and the corpsmen working under her, but the idea of her going into Iraq was still distressing for me. I had seen the effects of rocket and mortar fire firsthand, and lately I’d been reading intel reports about the increased use of vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices and suicide bombers inside the Green Zone. The only solace I had was that she’d be deploying with a SEAL Team, giving us direct communications over the secure net, and the knowledge that camp security would be wired tight.
Even so, she’d been my rock, faithfully staying by my side during the worst of times, and I couldn’t imagine not having her in my future. In an effort to keep such thoughts off my mind I engrossed myself in work. As always, I would be wearing dual hats, but this time it was more SEAL than medic. My primary job would be as programs training officer, while my position as a medical officer slipped into a secondary role. Having recruited some top-notch corpsmen into a few programs that were in need of support freed up the time I needed for Trident.
As a young SEAL I served as an intel rep for my platoon when criminal and terrorist activity were among the nation’s top priorities. Although intelligence work is more desk-intensive than SEALs prefer, I found the time researching and reporting on the condition of the enemy intellectually stimulating.
Later, as I moved up the health care ladder, I noticed similarities between the sourcing of information for national security and patient care. Although there are times when the information gleaned from a military operation or clinical procedure is concrete, I was discovering that these instances were more the exception than the rule.
Intelligence analysts like medical providers pore over every piece of information with their colleagues, more often than not concluding they need more details before making any recommendation. Just as a patient is hauled back into the radiology suite for another look, SEALs are reinserted into the wild or a drone is launched, all three situations driven by experts trying to confirm or deny their hypothesis. It isn’t as if they are intentionally trying to be difficult; it’s simply the means to the end. Both the physician and intelligence officer understand that lives hang on their decisions, and neither wants to make a fatal error due to lack of information.
During my time on the wards I was reminded that medicine is not an exact science but rather a skillful art form based on knowledge, which is why it’s called the practice of medicine. Likewise, good intelligence is also derived from the similar melding of information tempered by knowledge, logic, and experience. However, in both situations deduced theory can become eclipsed by passion unless every member of the team applies an honest evaluation of the circumstances, and of himself or herself, for that matter. Bullfrog knew this and demanded every one one of his crew take a brutally honest approach to everything. Intellectual honesty is the hallmark of the best officers and extremely difficult to maintain, so his expectation of brutal honesty resonated with me, in more ways than one.
For years I’d been mentally burying the effects of combat, for the sake of driving on. Deep down, I knew when I was brutally honest with myself it always had a positive net result, even though it could be painful getting there. As a teen, I had to face the cruel realities of home and accept the harsh realities of our family dynamic. The decision to enlist in the military took me away from friends and family but kept me off the streets. As a young marine, I lied to myself about my swimming ability, or lack thereof, and nearly died because of it. Admitting the weakness to myself led to swim lessons and countless hours of training to even become skilled enough to apply for special operations. Later, as a Recon Marine, I was drawn to medicine, and only when I was brutally honest about switching to the navy did I find my calling. The pattern continued as I entered the SEAL Teams; I fought like hell to make it through the toughest training on earth, yet my soul felt a calling to become a physician assistant. Acknowledging that internally, I went on to … Just then it struck me.
The captain was very clever when he delivered his rationale about brutal honesty when I checked on board. It emphasized the need for an objective approach regarding intelligence reporting, but it also accomplished so much more. It inspired me to confront my internal demons in an honest, check-your-pride-at-the-door way. I’d taken the first steps by meeting with psychologists at Portsmouth and later NNMC, and was strong enough to take a hard look at myself and see the ugly truth. I was slowly learning how to live with the stressors caused by combat and not suffer from them.
25
A COMMON BOND
From day one, I’ve told [my troops] that killing is not wrong if it’s for a purpose. If it’s to keep your nation free or protect your buddy.
—MAJ. DOUGLAS ALEXANDER ZEMBIEC, USMC
On most days I pulled double duty, first as training officer, where I’d write training plans, draft instructions, and horse-trade school billets for our guys. I’d then flip into medical officer mode and schedule appointments for the troops who needed specialty care such as orthopedics or mental health. Mike Wade was on my priority list for the latter. Mike was an extremely competent and respected intel specialist whose skills were needed for the protection of our country, but more importantly he was a teammate and my friend.
We could relate to one another in a number of ways, and I enjoyed his company while I waded through D.C. traffic. As the medical officer, I would often drive him to his appointments, and we’d take the time to catch up on much-needed conversation. Mike and I discussed everything from our family situations to combat stress. I started off with my plans for Korrina’s return early next month and her new assignment as the command representative to a Special Operation Command initiative that provides advocacy to the wounded, ill, and injured of the community; he told me how comfortable he was working with his psychiatrist, which is always a very good thing considering there’s little choice on which doctor you receive when you schedule your appointment.
The idea of being randomly assigned to a provider based on availability was always a bit unsettling when it came to something as personal as mental health, but it was the reality of military medicine and the main reason I sought out Doc Garsha. Unfortunately, with both of us traveling for work, our schedules rarely matched up. With the closest Special Warfare psychologist hours away, based on Mike’s comments, I decided to book an appointment for myself.
Special Warfare’s psychologists and Doc G had a direct, nonemotional approach to therapy, and I was comfortable with it. However, the mental health specialist I had been scheduled to meet with that day turned out to be the complete opposite: a hyperemotional provider who spoke in a soft voice and seemed to be constantly on the verge of tears. She was the epitome of a touchy-feely therapist, and the more I spoke with her, the more I resented being there. It wasn’t because she was a woman; in fact, I specifically asked for a female provider, trying to avoid some egomaniac medical officer who would see the SEAL device on my chest and medical insignia on my collar and start telling blustery stories about all of the high-speed training he’d attended. It happens more than I’d like to admit. What I wanted was someone with a businesslike approach and a good-natured bedside manner.
I know she was well intentioned, but it was hard for me to discuss such personal experiences with someone who I felt reacted as if I’d been abused. Last time I checked, SEALs were an all-volunteer force drawn from an all-volunteer navy. No one forced me into those situations. I wanted to be there. I felt I had to be there. It was my calling! I tried to explain how the battles themselves weren’t difficult for me; rather, my problem was the loss of close friends and teammates, heightened by the continual exposure of extreme levels of stress related to years of sustained combat. “It’s not the killing, it’s the deat
h,” I said, referring to the men who died as I was trying to save them. The taking of someone’s life is not a natural impulse, but in combat it is an expected one. I have no regrets over killing men who were trying to kill my teammates or me. My actions were intended to be an instantaneous execution of violence, and when I was given the opportunity that’s exactly what my enemy received. What haunted me then, and still does to some extent, was having to fight my way to a wounded man who’d entrusted his life to my hands only to have him die as I worked on him. Combat is a chaotic engine of death driven by a series of choices; I just wasn’t sure if I’d made the right ones.
One of the pillars of the special operations community is an unwavering commitment toward one another, so the loss of any teammate weighs heavy on the heart of everyone in the community. Being the medic only deepened the pain. It was my job to preserve life and not let it slip away, but we were in combat and death happened. It wasn’t about what I saw or heard, it was about who I lost, and as a medic there’s no more painful memory.
I tried in vain to connect with her, and she with me, but we were clearly at an impasse, so I patiently waited until the end of the appointment. I reflected on how much progress I’d made since accepting I had a problem dealing with what I’d experienced, although I knew I wasn’t anywhere near being done.
FOR WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION
Mike’s appointment ran much longer than mine, so I grabbed a coffee and set up camp in a coffee shop in the hospital lobby, my table facing out to the main atrium. As I sipped the joe and meditated on the meeting I’d just left, I caught sight of a large bronze sculpture of a corpsman pulling a marine to safety. It was a fitting tribute to the bravery of corpsmen and a nice touch in the hospital lobby. Having been both a marine and a corpsman, I was deeply moved by the artist’s rendition of the bond between warrior and medic, and I wondered how many other war veterans felt the same when they looked upon this statue.
I then noticed an older couple clad in purple regalia, struggling to cart large boxes into the lobby. I walked over and offered a hand, and they gratefully accepted. When we were finished, the elderly man looked at me and offered a firm handshake.
“Thank you. Steve Cobb, Military Order of the Purple Heart,” he said with a large smile on his face. “This is my wife Tatanya, but she goes by Tanya.”
“How do you do,” she said with a Russian accent.
“You’re welcome, Steve. I’m Mark,” I said as I reached over to shake Tanya’s hand.
“So, Mark, you here for a medical appointment?” he asked as he spotted the Purple Heart on my ribbon rack.
“Well, yes, sort of. I brought one of my co-workers over for an appointment and thought about checking on a few things myself,” I said, trying to be vague.
“You a doc?” He smiled, now looking at my collar.
“I’m a bunch of things, but yes, I was once a corpsman turned physician assistant, and yes, I’m a SEAL.” I thought best to answer that one before he asked, since he was looking at the SEAL Trident.
“You’re a long way from home, considering you’re not an inpatient,” he said with a laugh.
“You seem to know a lot more than the average retiree,” I said with a large grin.
“That’s because I’m an old army colonel with a little bit of experience about special operations. Right now I could use a rest. Let’s sit.” We continued talking as we moved to the coffee shop and grabbed a table. Tanya ordered coffee as Steve and I settled in. Apparently they were both old fixtures in the place, because everyone knew them by name and most would wave as they walked by.
“You a member of the Purple Heart?” Steve asked, referring to the Military Order of the Purple Heart, an organization I’d been invited to join but never really had much interest in.
“No, I’m never around, so I thought I’d wait until I had more time on my hands,” I said quickly, making up a white lie so no feelings got hurt.
“Bull, it doesn’t take any time unless you want it to. Now where are you stationed?”
“Right now I’m TAD to the area,” I said, trying to be respectfully vague about where I worked.
Steve was an old pro and knew how to work me. We sat for half an hour discussing the Purple Heart, war, and what I needed to do before my first meeting the following month. There was no getting off the hook with the old colonel, so there was no use trying. He had magical powers of persuasion, and he used them for good.
A few weeks later I walked into an American Legion post to attend my first meeting and learned more about Steve. Much more. In addition to being the chapter adjunct, he was the recipient of multiple purple hearts and a Silver Star for action during Vietnam. He was also a former Hawaiian congressman and state senator. He welcomed me to the meeting and then introduced me to the esteemed members of the chapter.
The group of veterans in attendance had served in wars from World War II to the present day, and all of them talked openly about the same problems I struggled with. Several of the men pulled me aside and said most things got better but others never changed. They allowed themselves to be human and lean on one another in order to get past those dark days.
As the months went on, I spent more time with Steve and the others, and it hammered home the importance of finding someone to talk to. The meetings weren’t all gloom, doom, and war stories. We simply didn’t avoid the subjects if they came up in conversation. In the past I never spoke about them, afraid that emotion might overwhelm me. I was relieved of that burden when speaking with my fellow war veterans. The more I talked about experiences, the easier it was getting to accept them. Mike was learning this as well, as he met with fellow veterans at the VFW.
26
COMING HOME
You are today where your thoughts have brought you; you will be tomorrow where your thoughts take you.
—JAMES ALLEN
I drove down from D.C. to meet Korrina, arriving from her overseas flight. She had spent her time downrange supporting the SEALs who were kicking doors and capturing and killing insurgents while I supervised intelligence support stateside. This was the first time that our roles had been reversed, and the deployment helped me appreciate what families go through when their loved one goes off to war.
I missed her dearly, and because she was in a war zone, it made me realize how much I truly loved her. Despite all the chaos I had brought into our lives, she focused on the good in me. She spoke softly when I needed her support, reminding me how much my family loved and needed me, but she also called me out when I was coming up short and encouraged me to try harder. Korrina accepted my faults, and despite my resistance to her affection during my first year back she remained committed to loving me deeper than I ever had been loved before. Sadly, it took the threat of losing her to the same enemy I had battled years earlier before I understood the enormous courage it took for her to be my wife. Now I just wanted her home!
* * *
After a wonderful but slightly awkward night getting reacquainted with one another, we woke with one agenda: planning a whole new future together. Our life had been one fragmented year after another, but instead of tearing us apart it strengthened our resolve. What we needed now was stability. We both had another two years on our current set of orders, but with her new position at her command I’d be the only one at risk of deploying.
* * *
Midway through the decade one of the Special Forces veterans from the Vietnam era came up with an idea to ensure the wounded and those who suffer from a severe illness or injury within the special operations community would never be left to their own devices. He pitched the idea to the leadership, many of whom he’d worked with or mentored along their way, and within a short time a coalition of support surfaced that advocated not only for the members but for their families and the families of the fallen.
Naval Special Warfare was a little hesitant at first, but once they realized the strength in having advocates and liaisons from within the community caring for their membe
rs, they wasted no time installing an official for the East Coast. Korrina was a wound care specialist and had treated more than a few wounds from training and war. This face time with leadership and understanding of the navy’s procedures made her the perfect fit for the job.
With Korrina locked into a shore billet, all we needed to do was gather the kids and move into a home suitable until the time they’d move on to college or possibly military service.
EMERGENCE
At Trident I continued to work with the rest of the crew to build Bullfrog’s program into one of four pillars of excellence within the Office of Naval Intelligence, and I greatly enjoyed the tempo and intellectual challenges that came with balancing responsibilities between intelligence, special operations, and medicine. Needless to say, Steve encouraged me to become more engaged with the local chapter of the Purple Heart. We visited Bethesda and Walter Reed and interfaced with wounded and severely injured troops, and it proved to be good medicine for me as well. On occasion Bullfrog would do the same when casualties from the special operations community came in from the regional medical center in Landstuhl, Germany. He, like all the other operators in the area, longed to spend more time with the wounded, but of course time was always limited, so visits were more of a monthly event. However, Bullfrog made a special point of visiting Jay Redman when he shipped home from Germany.
The last time I saw Jason “Jay” Redman was outside our living quarters in Panama. I was saying farewell to him and other members of the platoon before heading off to Howard Air Force Base to catch a military airlift back to the States. My orders to PA school had come in, and Commander Bosiljevac, my CO at the time, wanted to ensure I had enough time to get my personal affairs in order before making such a monumental move. Jay was serving in his first SEAL platoon, and the moment he walked into the team room the officers, Chief, and I knew we’d hit the jackpot with this FNG. Jay was a bright young SEAL with an intelligence background who was quickly moving through the enlisted ranks by utilizing both his intellect and sense of humor to their fullest potential. Jay was the type of team guy that could say something blatantly obvious but instead of sounding stupid or whiny he’d put you in tears laughing about it. Even when we were buried half frozen in a snowbank for days during a training exercise, he always found something humorous to say. He’s the type of guy anyone would want as a brother, and the team was proud he was a part of our family, especially me. I guess that’s why it hurt so much when we received word he had been seriously wounded in Iraq.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 29