“Major Kohler.”
“Yeah?” Kohler said, looking up at the corpsman without bothering to take his feet off the nearby chair. The doctors across the table stopped talking.
“Another chopper’s in. The ward just called. Seems like you got a real winner.”
Kohler put his glass down on the edge of the table. “What’s wrong?”
“Black power. Apparently he took on half his base camp. They sent him here with four citations, under armed guard—and in a strait jacket.”
“Did Harold see him?”
“Yes, sir. He’s the one who told me to find you.”
“Is the kid lucid?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“OK. Tell Harold to take off the cuffs and jacket. Well, go tell him,” Kohler said, sitting up. “I’ll be right there.”
“What about these fellows?” one of the doctors asked.
“Huh?”
“What about these Negro troopers?”
“What do you mean, what about them?”
“Are they...? I mean, do they carry their own weight?”
“How long have you been here?” Kohler asked dryly.
“Two months.”
“Why don’t you wait about six more. Nothing like long-term reality to rid us of our foolish little prejudices.”
Without waiting for an answer Kohler got up from his chair and left the room.
The ward was quiet. “Where is he?” Kohler asked the ward master.
“In the treatment room, sir,” Harold said. “He didn’t want to move, so we left him there.”
“OK. What do you know about him?”
“Name’s Leroy Washington. Medic—25th Division...”
“And,” Kohler interrupted, “got taken away from his unit and rotated back to a base camp, was there for about ten days, and just got freaky as hell.”
“Well, a bit more, sir. He took on a lieutenant and broke a captain’s jaw and then went after a couple of hundred MP’s.”
“Drugs?” Kohler asked.
The ward master shrugged.
“And what about Dienst?”
“He’s getting tired of crawling.”
“I’ll see him this afternoon. I’d better see Washington now.”
Kohler went to the treatment area and, pulling aside the curtain, walked inside. The trooper, a short, stocky Negro, his right eye battered shut, was sitting sullenly on a cabinet. The straitjacket was lying on the floor. Kohler gave him a quick, appraising look.
“We won’t need that anymore,” he said. “Nobody makes it through six months as a field medic and then goes goofy unless somebody pushes him, does he?”
“Gentlemen, not only were the Newmans sending these combat neurosis patients home, but they were also losing these same men to their units and ultimately to the war. The Army simply could not tolerate the losses. They wanted these men back to duty.”
“The ward master tells me this morning he gave you an order and you essentially told him to go fuck himself.”
Washington remained seated, expressionless.
“I’m white,” Kohler said, “but let me tell you what I think’s bothering you. It’s not that captain you cut down or the ward master or even me. It’s that you go through all that shit, risking your life for white or black, for God and country, and then they take you out of it and it’s the same shit that you left. If it was me, I’d be angry too, angry as hell. Angry at the United States, angry at my officers, but most of all angry with myself for being so fucken stupid as to think anything would change. Believing that if I did my job it wouldn’t be the same. Yes, angry at myself for believing all that bullshit about comradeship and equality, angry with myself that, despite all my willingness, not only to join in but to put my life on the line, it’s still the same fucken mess it always was. I’d be furious, man, furious.”
Washington was stunned, and Kohler could see that he was stoically fighting not to let any part of him show. He watched the clear, smooth adolescent face twist on itself, saw the sadness and the depression underneath.
Come on, he thought, come on. Let it out. Let it out.
“The idea that the interpersonal aspects of adaptation had to be considered as well as the intrapsychic began to catch hold, and be pushed by Army psychiatrists. Then, more and more civilian psychiatrists began to think that it might be inappropriate to think of personality development solely in terms of resolved intrapsychic conflicts. The thought developed that no matter how mentally ill a patient might seem to be or indeed was, there were still areas of his ego that had been left intact, and that if one dwelt on the ill fraction, the conflict-ridden part of the ego, supporting only that part of the personality to the exclusion of the rest, you might very well be fooling yourself as to how sick the person really was and, quite simply, merely be prolonging the whole affair. With a little experimentation, a few military psychiatrists who, in desperation, had operationally taken up these new ideas, began to get remarkable results. In its simplest form, their success had to do with expectation.”
“You look a bit sad,” the ward master said.
“Well, maybe I am,” Kohler said. “Tell me, Harold, why the hell do the blacks come into the Army anyway...?”
“They get drafted.”
“I know. But why do they show up for induction?”
“It’s their country.”
“You want to tell Washington that?” Kohler said.
“I mean, they think it’s their country. You know, most of these kids are middle-class. No, I mean it. They’re not extremists. They’re told to do something, and they do it, just like anybody else. But,” Harold said quickly, “there is something else. You’ve never been in a ghetto, have you, Major?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, it’s not very good living, and it’s not just the way Middle America thinks of it. I had an apartment once, on Indiana Avenue in Chicago. It had holes and rats all the time and hot water every now and then. I worked like hell to fix it up—painted the walls, covered the holes. And when it was all done, the landlord jacked up the rent. I couldn’t pay it, and since it was the nicest apartment on the block, he had no trouble finding a tenant who’d pay the higher rent. So, how do you cope with a situation like that? The Army comes along and, despite their misgivings, the ghetto kids go. At least they get three meals a day and have a little money to spend. For some, Doctor, it is the first time in their life they have enough without having to do something wrong or going hungry. Besides, their brothers are here. Compared to what they’re used to, the Army ain’t that bad.”
Kohler got up to leave. “I’m learning, but I’ll tell you this. The only way the Army is going to learn is when the squads start coming back from patrol all white or all black.”
“Label a soldier as mentally ill, support that illness, show him that it is what interests you about him, and he will be ill and stay ill. Expectation, gentlemen, expectation.”
“Anger, Leroy,” Kohler said, “anger’s a funny thing. It can be a way of hiding things from ourselves. Tell me a little about your growing up, what you remember about it—about being black.”
Washington shook his head, as if to say what’s the use.
“You know, Leroy, the black psychiatrists who deal with black children report that a child experiences his first prejudice as early as two years. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Washington talked slowly at first, but later more and more animatedly—swinging into his words and concerns, not complaining so much as just talking about being a black child in a white world.
“And then you went into the medics,” Kohler said, “and you weren’t black any more. You were a healer, a savior, a medic—you could put everything aside for a while. And then it was over and you were back to being black again.”
“Yeah,” Washington said grimly, “I sure was.”
“You see, Leroy, there’s another side to your anger. It hurts a man to be called a nigger.”
The phone rang.
“Major, there’s a Mr. Tamni here from the Criminal Investigation Division.”
“What does he want?”
“He’s here about your patient, Leroy Washington.”
“OK. Send him in. You’d better go,” he said to Harold. “Criminal investigation, for Christ’s sake.”
A moment after the ward master had left the office there was a knock at the door and a brisk, pleasant-looking man in civilian clothes walked in. “Hello, Major. My name’s Tamni. I’m assigned to the 529th Military Intelligence Detachment.”
Kohler motioned him to a chair.
“It’s about your patient, specialist fifth-class Washington. He’s under investigation for assault and battery.” Kohler waited for him to go on. “We’d like to know your feelings about his mental status.”
“I see,” Kohler said. “His mental status. If the Provost Marshall wants a psychiatric evaluation of this patient, he can request it in writing.”
“We know that, sir. But we were hoping for a bit more. This man was...well, he was one of the troublemakers in his brigade.”
“In what way?”
“There were racial overtones to what he did.”
“So?”
“You know, the Army is concerned with this kind of dissent. We’d like a fairly definitive evaluation.”
“Mr. Tamni, I would advise you to do your investigative work yourself. That is what I believe you are trained for. I will do what I am trained for, no more. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m a very busy person and I assume you are.”
Tamni got slowly to his feet.
“I will tell you this, though,” Kohler said. “He’s sane, eminently sane. But the Army made a bad mistake with him. They made him a medic, gave him respect and an important job, and then rotated him back to a base camp where he was harassed, abused, given menial jobs, treated like a stupid nigger, and told to mind his own business. I’m certifying him fit for duty and recommending that he be sent back to his unit. And I’ll tell you something else. You’d better learn how to investigate guys like him and learn how to do it well, because you are going to be spending a lot of your time on soldiers just like him.”
“Gentlemen, the Korean war began in the middle of all these new concerns. For the psychiatrists, it began much the same as World War II ended. There is, unfortunately, a certain inertia to military thinking that at times, I admit, can be numbing. The lessons of 1943 and 1944 were simply forgotten and the psychiatric cases were once again being treated the same as all other medical cases, as sick people who should be removed from the combat zone. Six months into the war, the number of psychiatric patients being evacuated from the front were up to early World War II levels. The shocked response of the military was quicker, though, this time, and the new theories and methods that were already on the shelves were quickly put into use. To repeat, they entailed: (1) treatment of patients as far forward as possible to eliminate the fixation of symptoms; (2) maintenance of unit identification to contain the anxiety of being suddenly alone, from adding to the already developed anxieties; and (3) the unwavering expectation that these patients, no matter how bizarre their symptoms, would be returned to duty as soon as possible.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the ward master said, “is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like Washington?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
Kohler sighed. “Try to get him back to duty. What I’d really like to do is make him white.”
“Or make everyone else black,” the ward master said.
Kohler had to smile at the thought. “What I’m trying to do is make him look at the reality of what he did and what he is. What’s bothering him is that he lost control. It’s the whole identity crisis all over again. What am I? Who am I? I have to be his sounding board, sort of give him permission to be angry with the whole damn mess and appease the guilt that goes along with losing control. Try to get him proud of being black. Now, how the hell can I do all that?”
“Why, then, gentlemen, does a soldier crack? If it’s not from the shock waves or a blossoming neurosis, what’s left? Well, quite simply, war itself and exhaustion. Let me read from the reprint you were handed when you walked in”:
In combating fear, the combat soldier employs a good deal of his energy. There is an end point in the available resources of any individual. There is a place in time when all the positive motivation, training, and leadership are not enough, when the soldier’s capability and willingness to continue begin to deteriorate. If there is no chance of relief or no additional factors to sustain him, the potentiality for combat exhaustion exists. It is also important to note that this energy juncture may begin to indicate his impairment as a soldier in spite of his physical presence. His judgment is not as good, alertness may suffer, and his willingness to take chances may disappear. He and his men may become physical casualties long before they become psychological casualties.
This exhaustion is also partly physical. No rule exists as to which—mental or physical—exhaustion is either more prevalent or important; they both play important roles. Physical exhaustion is more comprehensible than the other factors mentioned. Nearly everyone has, at one time or another, expended about as much physical energy as possible in a certain period of time—whether during a football game or a strenuous evening of activity—the feeling can readily be recalled by anyone. In many ways, the symptoms of exhaustion are similar to those resulting from fear. In combat, they are mutually reinforcing.
“Sir, Dienst is here to see you.”
“OK.” Kohler rose from behind his desk.
Dienst entered the office. He looked a bit embarrassed.
“I just wanted to thank you, sir.”
“Come in,” Kohler said. “Sit down. Take a load off your feet.”
“I don’t have much time,” Dienst said. He was dressed in his jungle fatigues with his bush hat perched on the top of his head. “I’m going out this morning. All I wanted to do was say thanks.”
“No,” Kohler said, “you’ve got it wrong. It is I who should be thanking you. You’ll do fine. Write me and let me know what’s happening.”
“I will. I mean, I promise.”
“Good luck.”
“Well, Major, I made it through nine months; I can make it through three more.”
“No need for psychiatric contortions; no shock waves; no need to conjure up deep-seated anxieties and conflicts. It is combat exhaustion—instead of something ominous and mysterious. It is, quite simply, just having had too much. Of course, in more technical terms, combat exhaustion can be thought of as an abnormal reaction to the stress of combat, its manifestation being unique to the person who develops it, channeled into a specific form by the person’s own individual personality and background experience. But it is only one of many abnormal reactions. A soldier who has had too much might choose to surrender or convulsively go forward. He might panic and get killed; he could get himself wounded or wound himself; he
might even go to the chaplain or decide on the relative safety of a stockade. He might—if he’s so disposed—develop psychosomatic complaints, get angry, or, in some cases, become totally unreasonable. He can become neurotic, begin to shake, refuse to move, or go completely hysterical. He might even become grossly psychotic—hold imaginary rifles, hear voices, or see his grandmother in every chopper that flies by.
“You will be treating these men, and the treatment is simple. For most it will just be rest. In more severe cases, those soldiers whose functioning is beginning to be impaired, who can’t rest, you will medically put to sleep. They are given enough thorazine to put them out and left alone for a day or two. They too, though, like the troopers who are merely resting, stay near the aid station. The more disturbed patients, those troopers who for the moment may be truly disoriented, who have completely stopped functioning, who for any number of reasons appear to need more than a short rest, are sent to an evacuation hospital. But they are never lost to their units. Their group identity is never tampered with, and they know they will be going back. And they do go back. And they are accepted by their units. Believe me, the casual, yet efficient way it is all handled, the official emphasis on health rather than disease, and the lack of mumbo-jumbo have taken the stigma out of having had too much. To the men, it is just something that happens; and more important, it is something they realize can happen to anyone. It is handled that way and it is presented that way. “Gentlemen, it works.”
It works, thought Kohler, but the war goes on. The new psychiatry has done nothing about that. There were 11,000 wounded last month; two fire bases were overrun, and 700 boys were killed. We used to believe that conversion and anxiety reactions removed without sufficient uncovering techniques would only go on to reestablish themselves in other ways. No more of that now. In Nam the psychiatric patients go back to duty. One hundred percent of the combat exhaustion, 90 percent of the character-behavior disorders, 98 percent of the alcoholic and drug problems, 56 percent of the psychosis, 85 percent of the psychoneurosis, 90 percent of the acute situation reaction—they all go back with an operation diagnosis on their record of acute situation reaction. No ominous-sounding names to disturb the patients or their units.
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