Context:  Anger, like a heat injury, is cumulative – it builds up as triggers occur – managing and venting built up anger is a learned Spiritual, mental and physical practice:

He shouted a tormented, but muffled groan into his open hands as traffic did that caterpillar thing, or is it a centipede thing – that stop and go, herky-jerky, speed up/slow down miserable cadence – he just wanted to get to the interstate less than two miles away – the eight lanes of bumper to bumper, darting evening traffic continually distracted his senses causing his back teeth to grind relentlessly – he took a bite guard out of the truck’s center console and seated it over his upper teeth – he cursed himself for forgetting to use the bite guard (again).

He also silenced his phone’s notifications to reduce the distractions – he accelerated, then braked sharply as traffic caterpillared (again) – he held his hands tented over his face, feeling like he was losing the battle to force himself to relax – hot rage crept up the center of his back and threated to erupt through the collar of his shirt – he switched off news radio, which was adding to his irritation and thumbed his phone for an upbeat podcast or music – something to help take his mind off the increasing rage.

The intermittent wipers passed over, and cleared drizzling rain off the windshield – this seemly minor event, distracted his visual focus and broke his train of thought – toppling his mental building blocks, falling in all directions, he lost what he was thinking about – he took a deep breath and forced himself into a long slow controlled exhale, then started methodically restacking his mental building blocks (again).

Two traffic lights down and six to go before he could merge over to the interstate on-ramp – he slipped his feet out of his shoes – he always wore shoes he could easily slip on and off – his therapist taught him and any release (like removing his shoes) could help him regain control of his anger – he removed his shoes a lot.

He surveyed his surroundings – his head and eyes constantly, mechanically took in the things, events and conditions around him – there’s an open gas cap – there’s a child not properly in a car seat – loud music – everyone on their phones – a tire with low air pressure – something dragging under a vehicle two lanes over, maybe a plastic bag – dozens of normal and heated conversations – cross traffic – horns – rain, but also a sunny blue break in the clouds – unfocused, unresponsive, careless drivers and their distracting passengers adding to the brew of chaotic traffic – not just traffic, it was never just traffic for him.

His upbeat pod cast lured his wondering fading focus, bringing him closer to a calmer place – ideally, he just wanted to drive, and be aware of his surroundings – but, ideal was never achieved, because ideal was only a few layers of mental gymnastics deep – only a few layers is what he thought normal people experienced – his normal mental rhythm captured, reacted to and attempted to manage dozens of layers of mental pop-ups and visual & audible interruptions.

Without warning, his tinnitus cracked into his audible awareness – the tinnitus masking device in his hearing aids needed an adjustment (again) – he grabbed his smart phone and tapped the application that altered the tiny tones and noises his hearing aids piped into his brain – the process worked and subdued the tinnitus, but it wouldn’t be long before it would need to be adjusted (again) – his tinnitus today was no worse than normal, but normal was still a screaming constant head splitting tone that had to be kept at bay for his brain to process normal daily activities.

The interstate was not without traffic issues, but typically it offered him a higher and more consistent rate of speed – he wanted to get home, so a higher and more consistent rate of speed worked in his favor plus helped him to relax…

BAM! A chip in his windshield caught his eye and he moaned having forgotten (again) to get it fixed – he needed to add this to his active task list – looking around, he couldn’t see his list, where was his list – he checked his pockets – he would also need a pen, does he have a pen – he looked around again – in another flash the truck’s odometer caught is eye and again, broke his concentration – the truck’s mileage was 220 mile away from a scheduled oil change – this morning it was 250 miles from an oil change – tomorrow it would be 180 miles  from an oil change – he needed to schedule an oil change…

BAM! Another distraction, the instrument lights were flickering – why were the dashboard instruments sporadically popping on and off – must be a short or something in the wiring – he wondered if the oil change appointment could also address the dashboard instruments flickering – he needed to add this additional task to his list – where was his list –

BAM! He needed to clean the interior of his truck, or at least wipe it down and vacuum it out – what was that smell – someone’s radiator was too hot – was his radiator too hot…

BAM! A beat up, rattle-trap pick-up truck in front of him stopped suddenly – it failed to make the light, which meant he would also miss the light – he pounded his stirring wheel and cursed the fool and his busted-up truck – he found his pen, but why was he looking for a pen…

BAM! By the weekend, his truck would be 40 miles from a scheduled oil change – what was he going to fix for dinner, it was his turn to fix dinner – the windshield wiper flexed and broke his train of thought (again) – he turned the wipers off.

Four lights down, four to go before he could merge over to the interstate on-ramp.

He knew he would have to work harder to control his anger and negative emotions, or he’d be a wreck by the time he got home – he could do this – he knew he could do this – he focused and mentally dialed up his PTSD control procedures for ‘traffic’ (again) – he thought through the rules his group had taught him about ‘traffic’ – he checked the rules off in his head:

“I really don’t know what the other drivers are going through.”

“The other drivers see me the same way that I see them.”

“What can I do to make traffic better for those around me?”

His traffic rules were actually a subset of a larger bundle of life-skill rules his PTSD group focused on – he worked hard to remember and leverage the rules – the rules were key and essential to engage before his anger, rage, fear, frustration and eventually hate out muscled his mental efforts to remain calm – the rules were good and worked well, as long as he could dial them up quickly and effectively enough to subdue his anger  – without the rules, the negative side of him would explode into one of his many outbursts – his anger was never far from the surface of his mental safeguards.

His awareness of the anger and negative feelings helped, but it was not easy – the negative had to be constantly kept in check –  he was learning how to stay a few step ahead of it – his negative seemed to grow stronger each year – his rules and practices would also have to be developed and grow stronger.

Focusing on the rules helped him – the bundle of rules also covered rules for work, home, church, extended family, and whenever he was out in public – he needed to manage his brain’s bandwidth to perpetually shift the rules closer to the front of his mental capabilities and control.

BAM! The sunny blue break in the rain clouds closed – he frowned – after dinner tonight, he’d be home alone for a couple hours…

BAM! What was he going to fix for dinner tonight – it was his turn to fix dinner – he couldn’t remember what he put out for dinner – his mind spun wildly – he did put something out, but he couldn’t remember what – maybe it’s on his task list – where is his task list –

BAM! Tonight would be a good time to catch up on internal chores – minor stuff – pay some bills, piddle in the garage, help with laundry, write a little, finish some projects in the grandkid’s nursery, research some outlying questions that just needed time and attention – he needed to whittle some of this stuff off his list, and direct his mind to let go of them  – anything, rather than do nothing he told himself – he was the worst at doing nothing – he was calmest and happiest when he was engaged or busy with tasks – he needed to check his list of chores, where was his list…

Without a task in front of him he would fail himself by binge eating junk food, watching mindless television or endlessly scroll through social media – the rain would keep him indoors – there was plenty to do indoors but more to do outdoors, but the rain… 

Six traffic lights down and two to go before he could merge over to the interstate on-ramp – 220 miles from a scheduled oil change, his tinnitus flared again and he can’t remember why he’s holding a pen…..

A weighty stink choked his dust filled lungs as he poked his head out of his stained sleeping bag – the stink of food, filth, feet, and weeks of laundry cocktailed into a toxic aroma hovering in the small living space occupied by a squad of Soldiers – he keyed the mic on his handheld radio three rhythmic times and paused – someone, somewhere outside the structure keyed their mic twice confirming their hasty perimeter was still secure – no alarm clock sounded, he just knew it was time to wake up – he hacked out a deep and painful smoker’s cough, only he didn’t smoke.

It was cold, not freezing, just uncomfortably cold – anywhere but here, a warm shower, hot breakfast and climate-controlled room would’ve managed the cutting temperatures – but, they had neither – the cold just would have to be tolerated.

Oddly, it’s not morning – in this case, it’s mid-day and it came too soon – there were many tasks to be accomplished before they went out on their next mission – routine night operations crushed any normal sleep cycles – their minds and bodies craved rest at all the wrong times of day.

Only his head was exposed from his sleeping bag – he laid still and took in his surroundings – twelve Soldiers racked out in deep sleep – all dreaming of lands less tormented than their current war torn situation – there was a raspy hum from their collective slow rhythmic breathing – most were buried deep in their sleeping bags, curled up next to their gear – rays of bright sun light cut through cracks in the mud brick structure that served as their temporary ‘hooch’.

The rays of light burned through a thick gray haze of floating dust that looked like smoke – smoke would have been easier to breath – the floating dust layered itself on everything – the persistent dust made zip lock bags mandatory – the bags came in various sizes and were treasured more than currency – a working zip lock bag kept ‘some’ of the dung laced dust off tooth brushes, if they had time to brush their teeth.

Trash from ‘pogey bait’ (snacks) and meals ready to eat (MREs) littered their cramped living space – cleaning this area was important, but not more important than sleep – they would be back on mission in just a few hours and they needed rest – weapons, radios and equipment needed cleaned and tested – routes and mission objectives needed to be reviewed and rehearsed – many critical things needed doing, but policing up trash just wasn’t a priority – not right now, not out here.

His watery eyes scanned the one room structure they seized four days ago – the three-sided roofless mud hut made a good frame to drop a GP Medium tent over, and create a temporary living space – their missions moved them between check points (CPs) and combat out posts (COPs) as the enemy, hidden well within the local population, resurfaced and refocused their attention and efforts.

Their squad was one of hundreds of aggressive squad sized chess pieces moved and counter moved around the chess board known as Kandahar City – their efforts were to outmaneuver or outwit the enemy’s illusive moves – it’s a game they grew weary of, but knew they had to play and win. 

He sat up, but kept his sleeping bag over his shoulders avoiding the cold – he slipped a dirty hand out to scratch his head and rub the crusts from his eyes – he looked around at twenty four bags of individual gear and belongings – the bags were in various configurations and disarray – some Soldiers were better than others at keeping their gear and belongings cleaned and organized – some gave it a little effort, and others just gave up as constant mission demands moved them around their sector of the city.

It was time to wake everyone up, but he give them five more much needed minutes –  the noise of rat caught his attention as it scurrying through trash and debris – he cursed it as it darted under the side of their tent – he thought about their much needed seventy two hour break back on their forward operating base (FOB) – they would rotate back in three days – they all needed hot chow, showers, laundry and normal sleep – then back to the CPs and COPs for another week of missions.

A quick visual sweep of the area accounted for all individual and crew served weapons – a less accurate sweep accounted for an estimate of their individual gear – he forced his mind to gather antics and jokes to jumpstart and lighten the hearts of his squad – he knows it’s important to keep them focused but not stressed – his Soldiers would spend another night in harm’s way and return at day break to these less than elaborate accommodations – he had learned this method of humorous mental manipulation from his old squad leader on his last deployment – it worked on him back then, and it seemed to work on his Soldiers now.

A few more quiet moments pass and he suddenly comes to life – he turns and pulls a picture of his young wife and two small children from the front of his assault pack – he kisses it three times and tucks it safely back away – he starts a mental check list of events and tasks that needed done prior to mission time – the day would not wait, it was time to get started – five minutes into his day and he is ready, he coughs again, clears his throat and shouts, “Get up ladies. It’s time to play army!”

This tiny piece of a much larger story is common  – there are thousands of young Soldiers with less than four years’ experience – some newly promoted Sergeants, recently appointed as squad leaders – each holding great responsibility and care for their squads – they hold their Soldiers wellbeing in their hearts and hands – these young warriors and squads are the ‘tip of the spear’ for our nation’s fights – they are American Soldiers, well trained and equipped, committed and ready to fight to the death for their families, their unit, their nation – and they fight for you.

In the military a combat zone memorial service takes on incredible weight.  Soldiers can’t linger or experience a prolonged period of mourning. They have to get their heads back in the fight at hand. This memorial service is their one chance to vent, let it out, deal with the loss so they can move on.  We have traditions that are a part of every memorial service – in this case, a large patio was made into an assembly area. In front, four wooded stands form a platform for the four pair of desert tan boots perfectly spaced and centered, four M4 rifles with bayonets centered, upright, muzzle down, between each pair of boots, dog tags hung from each of the weapons, a Kevlar helmet  mounted atop the butt of each weapon, and a framed picture of the Soldier leaned against the boots.  It’s a stirring display. A display that is standard for us.  The Soldiers who assemble it are typically Soldiers who were closest to the fallen ones.  Great care goes into the components of the display.  These few Soldiers will volunteer to share insight into the life, character, family, personality of the dead – their stories, labored through tears and gasps for breath, are real, funny, very personal and the heart of the service.  This is “the remembering” phase.

Then there will be a “roll call’ for each of the lost.  The Soldier’s First Sergeants will stand to out a normal roll call, which is conducted thousands of times in the life of a soldier.  Loudly calling out three or four names of Solders present, each Soldier will shout back, “Here, First Sergeant!” Then, after a slight pause, the First Sergeant will call out the name of one of the fallen Soldiers followed by a horrible silence. After another pause, the First Sergeant will repeat the Soldier’s name three times each time adding clarity, volume and pronunciation to the name. The First Sergeant will repeat the call for each of the lost Soldiers.  As the roll call unfolds the room,  packed  with battle hardened, rough and tough Soldiers of all ranks and skills, begins to erupt in emotional cries, shouts, angry rants, whimpering.  You hear every possible vocalized emotion.

You have to witness it to truly grasp it.  The roll call is “confronting the loss”

Then “Taps” is played. All the loud emotional venting stops as everyone stands at the position of attention for “Taps”.  The playing of “Taps” is the “honoring the lost” phase.  As if a switch was flipped in everyone’s

head, the first note of “Taps” forces the room to silence as the Soldiers regains their presence and bearing.  The dead are being honored and Soldiers embrace this, regardless of their personal loss.

Finally, after “Taps”,  Soldiers take turns, individually or in groups going to the front of the room to pay their last respects. This is “the good bye” phase. Soldiers approach the display, come to a halt, render a slow, methodical hand salute. Counting Three seconds up and three seconds down.  Once the salute is rendered the Soldiers can say their goodbyes in their own way.   Some stand for a moment, some kneel, some pray, some linger and others move away quickly.  On the platform next to the boots is a small empty area for grieving Soldiers to leave items for their lost Soldiers.  Some leave unit coins, some remove their own combat patches and leave them – some leave cigarettes, lighters, debts/money, letters, rank insignia, crosses, prayer beads, and all sorts of other mementos.  These items will all be collected and presented to the family once the remains make it home.

This memorial service for four of their Soldiers recently lost was crushingly hard to watch. These fallen men all have heroic stories.  Two displayed valor outside of my understanding, and one gave a total sacrifice for the rest of his unit.  How does a Soldier experience such loss and go right back into the fight?