Listen to our second podcast as I interview Matt Mack, a combat veteran from the early days of Iraq. He was blown up by a suicide bomber in a car and lived to tell the tale. Hear what it’s like to survive and recover from a bombing.
Before the Veterans Art Foundation was even a concept weaving it’s way inside my brain, I was an infantryman. Some people don’t know what one is. It’s simply a foot soldier, a grunt, the front line troops.
Like everyone who’s deployed, I have war stories. I try not to exaggerate or embellish mine. For instance, I didn’t kill a hundred Iraqis with my bare hands. Maybe one by knocking out his chest tube. It didn’t look like he’d had a chance, anyways.
Truth be told, I never pulled the trigger outside the “wire.” I had made the choice once and was pulling the trigger as my squad leader stopped me from firing on an Iraqi National Guardsman who’d been tucked away in a window, above our heads firing rounds into the field before us.
The real problems I had didn’t start until I touched down with the rest of the first wave home after our 12 month tour was complete. The three weeks that followed were both the best and worst of my life. I’ll never have another time like that. In some ways, I’ll miss it. In others, I’m glad it won’t happen again.
The powers that be had decided to extend my unit, the 172nd SBCT out of Anchorage and Fairbanks, Alaska. Our unit was to take control of Baghdad for four months. The news spread like wildfire, through the media and eventually down the chain of command.
Soldiers overseas were lined up, ready for their plane roster, in hopes of getting home soon. The CO of the unit ripped the dream to shreds. Panic, anger, and disgust swept through our ranks, at home and abroad.
My own thoughts initially were to stay at home, to ride the surge out. The vast majority of us fought the urge to run, to cower, and to opt out medically.
Coming home from war as a unit is an amazing, unforgettable series of events. Being greeted by family and friends is heartwarming. Unfortunately, most of us had no one there to greet us. We’d been moved north for the remainder of our time in the army.
The only sign welcoming our unit back was taped to a dumpster in a parking lot away from the main roadway. If you strained your eyes, you might catch it. Regardless, our homecoming was bittersweet.
After the news rocked the city, fort, and soldiers (families too) our lives became chaos. We fought white rappers in the streets, drunkenly screamed at military policemen, vandalized, and womanizer. What else could we do but unleash the fear and horror of returning to the unknown of war.
Those weeks, without the fanfare, politicians and anger were the best of my life and I’ll never be able to find that again. Good or bad.
– Mike Hawley, co- founder.
Some wounds can’t be seen.
PTSD can be a death sentence, if untreated.
I’m sure there are scores of other combat veterans that have publicly humiliated themselves nationally by going on a syndicated news program ranting about how in a four-day period, they caught the clap, fought a white rapper and his posse, and knocked up a grandmother. By doing this, I’m sure they pissed off their girlfriends and wives, like I did.
What you’re about to read, isn’t the typical war memoir, but a true glimpse at an under achieving and overeducated grunt. It’s often not pretty. The language you will come across is coarse and often politically incorrect. I may paraphrase some conversations and quotes. The characters that inhabit my story vary. Sometimes the antagonists aren’t insurgents hell bent on ruining your day, but the people you work for. I would classify some of the people involved as heroes, others not so much. I include myself in the latter group.
The story itself moves from comedy to tragedy, with ease. You may read into the humor and lightheartedness as escapism. The book is more of a comedic take on the military experience, but don’t mistake it for satire. Beneath the funny aspects lies sadness. I don’t hate the military at all. I miss the sense of purpose and camaraderie. However many times I trash other people and leaders, I bring the same upon myself two-fold. That’s probably what it truly is and how I deal with reality. The dark side of wartime service balances the levity. The good and bad die, get cancer, ruin their lives, are injured, and lose families. I’m disabled, the Veterans Administration puts my percentile at 60%. I’m mental, it would seem.
Currently, I am sipping a beer, wondering why I haven’t finished the paperwork for the Art Foundation I am forming.
You are about to enter a different type of culture. I am dedicating this book to my fallen comrades, along with the veterans in my family who have passed. I am sure if my grandpa had read this, he’d strangle me. Here’s hoping they have a sense of humor up there.
 National Public Radio, “War Vets Try To Bridge The Divide Back Home” by Libby Lewis. Originally aired on June 18th, 2008.
 It’s curable.
 A wonderful, caring woman who I hope is doing well.
 As I know it.
 I’ll get to that later. As the reader can see, I like footnotes.