It has been highly suggested that I not avoid the things and emotions associated with my PTSD. This will be the first time I have EVER disclosed this publicly, so I chose to do it in a big but sort of safe way. Through my blog:
It was a hot and sunny day in northeast Thailand during the late winter-early spring of 1973. The war was officially over, but not for the First Marine Airwing. We were supposed to stop bombing the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong. "Tricky Dick" Nixon and Henry Kissenger decided to pull a fast one.
They ordered my unit to move operations to Thailand (a neutral country) to bomb eastern Cambodia (another neutral country) where the Vietnamese had set up logistical shop(very,very illegal for both partys). My job was to keep the secret computerized fire control system of the A-6 fighter aircraft operational. This system selected targets, chose the appropriate weapons, and fired those weapons at the targets. Thus, fire control system.
This particular day, a Gunnery Sergeant approached me and asked"Have you found a good hiding place?"This question verified the rumors from the guys in communications. We were supposed to expect an attack from an overwhelming force and would probably receive about 80-85% casualties. OMG! I'm going to die! When the intel says to expect up to 85% casualties, I don't expect to be in the lucky 15%.
If I was in the 15% would I be taken prisoner and tortured, or just killed later, or both? This was definitely not looking good from my point of view. I wanted out of here and out yesterday!
We waited 10 long, excruciating days to die, and nothing happened. Morale was low because there were not enough weapons for everyone. There should have been, but this was war, not a perfect world, thus the talk about hiding places. Hell, I was a Marine. I wanted to go down fighting. Get it when I least expected it with adrenaline running at warp speed, not cringing in a hole shitting my pants. Talk about hopeless and helpless.
I gathered rocks for weapons (weapons of opportunity the Marines call it). Made spears and clubs. I felt more like a caveman thah a Marine. I wrote good bye letters to my parents and sisters, even the girl I broke up with (in a stupid attempt to protect myself from a Dear John letter [she kept writing anyway]).
My shop was in a thin walled office trailer. You could stand outside and just shoot in. My superiors said to destroy the classified equipment I worked on. I asked my coworkers the SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for destroying the equipment. I was low man on the totem pole and would surely get that job. They told me to blow the gear up with explosives.
I jumped for joy. This was my way out. The first time I ever thought of suicide, but masked with the task of keeping our secret gear out of enemy hands. Shoot, I might even get a posthumous medal! I was in Combat Heaven!
The whole 10 days the explosive ordinance guys kept blowing up dud mortars and artillery shells. Nerve wracking. Everytime I heard an explosion, I thought "This is it. Showtime". That's one reason I HATE thunderstorms. This is just one of a number of bad experiences I had here. I loathed this place.
Well folks, I really don't like telling war stories. I'd rather not dredge up these memories or emotions. You know what though? I think I'm starting to feel better. NOT!!!!!
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