Later, we’d grabbed seats together at a table with three others. The trainer started with moral injury ― what it is, what it looks like, why it matters. He played poignant excerpts from recorded interviews of veterans talking about the psychologically and spiritually painful impact of witnessing or committing actions that violated their sense of morality or that had shattered their trust in those they’d relied on to act in their best interest.
The trouble had started after lunch when the trainer asked attendees who were veterans to raise their hands. A half-dozen or so complied, but James hesitated. I’d given him a nod and whispered, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
He gave a forced smile and raised his hand. Then the trainer asked the veterans to stand and announced that an intern would be making rounds with a box of flag pins.
James had quickly sized up the well-intentioned ritual coming his way. The trainer would speak directly to each veteran, asking them what branch they’d been in and where they had been stationed. Then he would thank each of them for their “service” while the intern pinned a flag to their shirt and the audience clapped.
Sweating profusely, James had scanned the room looking for the nearest exit and anything or anyone that might get in his way. That’s when he’d bolted.
“James,” I call out as he unlocks a beat-up Ford Mustang. He doesn’t respond as he flings the door open and fumbles with the seatbelt, his hands shaking. I step between the open door and the car’s frame. I know it’s tricky, maybe even dangerous, getting in his space when he’s feeling threatened, but I’m determined to help him settle before he revs the engine.
“Five minutes,” I say holding up five fingers. “Just give me five, James. After that you can forget you ever met me.”
His respirations are rapid. I take a deep breath, trying to cue him to do the same. He taps the steering wheel rapidly with one of his fists as though thinking, then motions to the passenger seat. “Clock’s ticking,” he says.
I sit in the passenger seat, leaving the door open. We stare ahead avoiding eye contact. I wait for him to speak.
“Service,” he finally says. “They have no idea.”
He lowers his head.
“They call what happened over there service? Do they think we were serving fucking French fries? What I saw, what I did. What my buddies did. What we had done to us. It wasn’t any kind of service. It was pure hell and I’m still living it. Now they want to pat me on the head and jab me with a cheap flag pin?”
“You’re right,” I respond. “They have no idea.”
“They don’t want to know,” he shoots back. “They want us all to shut the hell up and go along so they don’t have to take any responsibility themselves. Didn’t I tell you we were all betrayed? It never stops.”
He gives me a sad look. “I watched friends get their guts blown out. You ever seen bodies of women and kids splattered across the ground knowing you and your buddies are the ones who did it?”
I shake my head silently.
He grips his steering wheel so tightly the sinews in his forearms look like tightened cables.
“Service,” he says with acid sarcasm.
His face softens and tears well in his eyes. “How can they start in with the flag pins without even asking me what my experience was? It’s like they’re trying to push a lie down my throat.”
“What lie?” I ask.
He looks up as though searching for words. “That whatever we do is some kind of service to humanity. That we never commit atrocities and cover them up; that we’re always helping the weak and protecting democracy. I found out fast we were killing and getting killed for money and power.”
“What’s it like having people thanking you for your service everywhere you go, James?”
He shakes his head as though I wouldn’t understand. I remain silent, giving him time to either respond or switch the subject.
“You know what it’s like?” he finally says. “You might think this is an exaggeration but you asked. It’s an act of violence.”
“Help me understand that one,” I say.
“Imagine you’re hurting like hell and all you want to do is tell your friends and family what happened, hoping they’ll understand, hoping maybe they’ll tell you they’re sorry about what you had to go through and reassure you that you’re not some kind of monster. But all they do is pretend what you did was great and parrot a bunch of lame horse shit about being a hero. It’s like you’re being choked to death from the inside and you look to others for help and they just smile and look away.”
“Psychological and emotional violence,” I say.
He nods.
I look at the clock and mention that it’s been five minutes.
“You kept your part of the deal, James. I’ve got time if you want to talk more but I want to keep my end. It’s your call.”
His hands are steady now and his breathing is normal. “Thanks for coming after me. I’m good now.”
He reaches out his hand. He squeezes mine tight and says, “Thanks for not thanking me for my service when we met.”
I nod.
