After reading this, it's likely there will be more questions than answers about PTSD regarding my situation .  I enlisted in the USMC in 1966 after some turbulant teenage years.   I was arrested and charged with auto theft at age 12 and placed on probation.  I did poorly in school and because of my belief that I simply was not smart enough to handle the curriculumn, I quit highschool when I was 16.  I worked for two years as a clerk in our local supermarket until I was old enough to enlist in the USMC.  After boot camp graduation and another 8 weeks of advanced infantry training and radio school, I received my orders for WESTPAC.  I arrived in Vietnam on December 29, 1967.

I was a radio operator with 3rd Amtracs; "B" Co.; 1st Marine Division.  We were referred to as AmGrunts as we had our own AOR (area of responsibility) which included, while in our battalion 24 hour foot patrols.  Often they were uneventful, however, there were those times when our ten man squad walked into NVA ambushes.  Requesting medevacs for wounded Marines, blood pouring from their wounds left me at first frightened and then very angry.  There are no schools that prepare a Marine for the sight of bodies ripped apart by incoming mortars, boobie traps, landmines or enemy rifle fire.  It is something every combat Marine sees and every Marine handles differently.  Tough talk among ourselves was common but I believe that every Marine or "Brother In Arms" who witnessed another killed or wounded was affected.

There were a couple of times when our battalion area was overrun by sappers and NVA.  On one of those occassions I was awakened by an incoming mortar exploding only 20 feet from my hooch.  Already sleeping in my boots and utilities, I simply donned my helmet and flak jacket before grabbing my rifle.  My destination was COC (command operations center) and as I ran in a zigzag direction, I heard rounds hit the ground by my feet and several bullets passed close enough to my head that I could hear them zip past my ear.  At COC I was instructed to remain outside with "H&S" Co. for security.  I positioned myself behind the 3 foot wall of sandbags encircling the bunker.  I hadn't been there for more than a few minutes when I saw two Marines approach.   By now the battalion area was so light up by flares that a newspaper could be read.  One Marine was supporting the other walk as his body was literally smoking!  Sappers destroyed several vehicles with satchel charges.  One Marine had been close to a burning blast and after his Brother killed the sapper, he was able to help him to COC bunker.

When in the field or on operations outside the batallion area, the sight of a burning body being tossed fifteen feet into the air from a turret after driving over a landmine is a sight nobody should have to experience.  The fuel lines ran underneath the deck so it took very little to rupture and ignite causing the amtrac to enhance the explosion of any landmines.  I was medevaced in January, 1969. The reason for my medevac which resulted in several weeks in an Army hospital in Japan was so uneventful that I hesitate to even mention it..

While in the Army hospital in Japan, my very minor situation nevertheless placed me next to an Army captain who had lost both his legs and on the other side of my bunk I heard the demands from a wounded Marine for something to kill his pain.  He lost one of his arms.  At the end of the barracks were the BURN VICTIMS.  I was able to walk but to get out of the ward I passed those men who were in constant pain.  One time the sight of a burn victim lying in his hammock like bed as I walked past him was more than unsettling.  He watched me walk past him and his hollow eyes showed a pain that was just barely eased by morphine but it was so clear that he was still suffering and his silent agony and my inability to do anything to help left me feeling guilty.   I returned stateside several weeks later. I still had six months of active duty left in the USMC on my enlistment.  Stationed at Camp Leguene, North Carolina I was able to locate John "Dusty" Hollman who lived with his wife not far from base.  Dusty was the first medevac I had to call in and even as I write this years later, I can't help remembering that particular patrol like it happened only yesterday.  Our patrol walked into an ambush and within seconds Dusty went down and calls for Corpsman Up went unanswered as no "doc" had been dispatched with this patrol.  I was only a few feet from Dusty and it was clear he needed a medevac.  Somebody in the squad was calling to me but I was already crawling to Dusty.  Most of his elbow had been blown off by an AK-47 round and even though the Marine next to him had applied a tourneqit, the ground was damp with his blood and his face lay in the mud.  Even though this feels like it happened yesterday as I write this, there are gaps in my memory as I know that something was handed to me so that Dusty's face could be lifted or propped up inches from the dirt.  Then I was on the prc25 radio requesting a medevac.  The voice that responded was calm and decisive as he asked our squad's location.   I cannot nor will I change the ugly truth as I remember it during this medevac request.  I again keyed the radio and replied that I could see the batallion area as it was some 100 meters from us.  Be more specific, exactly where are you?"   I then continued telling COC the route we had taken to our present locale.  I had been shot at before but this was different as I simply found myself unable to explicitly relay our location: 100 meters south east of the battalion's southern gate! Even though I remember it was only minutes until I saw two amtracs heading toward us; one veering off to the ambush site while the other continued to approach us, I simply have been unable to forgive myself or forget the fact that I was too damn confused with incoming rockets and constant rifle fire to coordinate a precise location.

These memories and other ugly thoughts remain with me today.  However, what I'll carry with me and remember to my dying day is the friendships bonded by combat; Brotherhood should never be underestimated.  While in Vietnam friendship was something to be cherished and at the end of the day if you were able to smoke a cigarette, have a beer, tell a joke with your Brothers you gained something very few people will ever experience.  The bond is for life!

Even though my "homecoming" was disappointing I was nevertheless still very happy to be home.  Long story short--I became involved with drugs and since I was living at home working as a janitor, my family soon learned about my drug abuse.  I was given 3 strikes and you're out which didn't take too long.  A couple of months after my discharge I found myself homeless; living on the streets of New York City.  The 70's was not a good decade for me even though I did move to Minnesota in 1972 to get married.  I also was working as a counselor at a free clinic and attending community college under the GI Bill.  I was divorced a year after my marriage, I lost my job as soon as drug abuse left me unreliable and unable to function.   I soon dropped out of junior college.  I don't remember how many unemployment checks I had left but sometime during this period I had my first unexplained trumatic experience.  Jim, a friend from my job as a counselor would frequently drive up to the rear of my apartment building and honk his car horn to get my attention.  I remember looking out my window this particular day and just as I was about to acknowledge that I was home I had what I can only call a panic attack.  My heart began racing, my thoughts were scattered, my legs felt weak and all I was able to do was shake my head from side to side indicating I didn't want company at which time Jim simply pulled off.   I do remember falling into the nearest chair, sitting there for how long I don't know but I recall thinking to myself that what had just happened was far too frightening and inexplicably odd that I went to the Veteran's Administration Hospital in St. Paul, MN. the very next day.  I was admitted to the psychiatric ward.  The staff was friendly, accomodating but also had no idea why I experienced this "panic attack."  It was 1973 and PTSD wasn't recognized, I believe until 1980 but I spent almost three months there and was beginning to feel more alienated as the other guys there were much older and we had nothing in common to talk about but I actuallyI wasn't interested in talking to anybody.  I simply wanted to be left alone because talking to people just made me anxious too damn anxious.

I returned to New York City and at age 26 figured I would simply use drugs; yes heroin until I either overdosed or died.  The few years that I lived in SRO (single room occupancy) Hotels were bad.  These "hotels" were nothing more than "flop houses."  No heat, no hot water and certainly no security.  My door was kicked in once and two guys jumped me; one stabbing me an inch from my heart while the other stole a black and white $20 televesion set.  I honestly cannot remember what year I found myself living on the bowery in a shelter.  All I do remember was that it was winter because during the night my boots were stolen even though I had placed them under my head as a pillow.  When I went to the "staff" they replaced my boots with mismatching shoes, one was too small; the other too large and after walking just one block in the snow, I felt a cold damp rush on one of my feet.  The sole on one shoe was loosening and soon the toe began flapping with each step I took.  I also do not remember how long I walked around like that or where I found another pair of shoes.  I do remember that was the last night I slept in the NYC Bowery Shelter as it was far worse than sleeping in a semi warm doorway or on a subway platform.

There is NO brotherhood among the homeless.  There is NO trust or care among the homeless.  There are really only a few rules on the streets.  Watch your back at night and learn to sleep prepared to defend yourself at a moment's notice.  Trust nobody and since the strongest survive on the streets, my life was miserable beyond words as my drug addiction made me physically weak.  Drug addiction leaves a person vunerable and caring only about where the next fix was coming from.  Sleeping in subway cars, abandoned buildings is actually much safer than staying in a NYC shelter.  However, one night I awoke to a fleeing rat which had been nibbling on my hand.  Sleeping in doorways or wherever I thought I could close my eyes without being either robbed or hassled by the police was, of course, worse in the winter months.  Many nights I'd be awakened by a wrenching pain in one or both legs caused by nightsticks from one or two cops deciding that this was how I would be told to move on.

In 1979 I entered a live in therapeutic drug center.  Even though I really didn't care at that time if I lived or died, the pain of life on the streets was simply too overbearing.  At times I thought I was back in the Marine Corps.  Every Saturday the five floor building or what we referred to as "The House" would be GI'd.  What this entails is every last object in every room, closet or other space was removed and cleaned; the now empty area was then scrubbed, mopped and buffed.  The furniture or occupying articles previously in the rooms would then be returned to their former locations.  I also attended hundreds of groups along with 3 marathon groups, all of which lasted for days.  Blankets covered the windows, mattresses were laid wall to wall in the 20 foot by 20 foot room, watches were taken and the time of day soon became insignificant.  Twelve or so hand picked residents for these groups (the number differed with each marathon) would relate feelings to the satisfaction of the two CSWs monitoring.  Nobody left the room untilI "everybody" opened up; one group lasted an entire week.  Of course a person slept if tired but eventually the group placed "concern" on each individual.   Thirteen months later feeling physically and mentally stronger and healthier, I left the community and re-entered the work force, started dating again and found myself making friends.

Today I continue to live in NYC, however, I live in a comfortable studio apartment on Central Park West and stopped using drugs in 1980.  Do I have PTSD?  What do you think!  I have nightmares when I sleep but they're not about Vietnam or combat there.  They are about combat but I'm awakened in a cold sweat when I am being attacked by a pack of rats or when my nightmares find me sleeping on a subway track and hearing the noise of an oncoming train.  I chose to enlist in the USMC and I knew that I would be going to Vietnam.  I chose to use drugs but I did not know the HELL that that kind of life involved.  Hopefully, if you have learned anything after reading these words about PTSD you have come away realizing that you don't have to go off to war to suffer PTSD.  Just like any other illness, people with PTSD experience mild to severe symptoms.  

Incidentally, I have seen psychiatrists on a number of occassions.  Some of the times were voluntary while others were forced.  No I was not dragged to "the shrink" yelling and kicking until I ended up in a straight jacket but rather awoke from an overdose while my stomach was being pumped.  I was then taken to the psychiatric floor where 24-72 hours of observation was determined whether I was suicidal.  Three years ago I phoned Col. Chace my commanding officer while I was in Vietnam.  I asked him if he would write a letter verifying that I encountered combat which of course he did.  He mailed me one letter to my home here in NYC and emailed me the copied and typed letter which can be read at: CLICK HERE if you're interested in reading it.  I decided I was going to file for PTSD benefits and I actually began the process.  I knew that during interviews I would have to explain exactly what I believed caused my stress and since I remain uncertain if PTSD was because of the homeless decade living the way I did, or because of Vietnam experiences; I discontinued the long ardous task of filing for benefits.  Since I can't diagnose myself re: what caused my PTSD, I've found it much easier to try to accept certain things with the understanding that I am pretty much where I am at because of life decisons!  

I started this article by stating that you may have more questions about PTSD, at least in my situation than you do answers.  What I meant by that is did Vietnam cause the PTSD which led to covering it up by self medication, which certainly led to a lifestyle I never would have expected could have occured in my life.  Or did my experiences as a homeless person cause the PTSD with all the truama involved in that kind of situation and would I have ended up homeless had I never gone to Vietnam?  Certainly there is no way I could ever know this but it does leave a big question unanswered.

2010 and the following events have come to light since I initially wrote this some 5 years ago.   I mentioned earlier that my Commanding Officer in Vietnan; "Col. Frank "Stub" Chace" wrote a letter for me when I was thinking about filing for PTSD benefits.verifying personal knowledge of my combat experience while under his command.  I was honest with him and said on the phone that I believed that I had PTSD but that I wasn't certain whether experiences in Vietnam caused this or whether it was my lifestyle upon return from Vietnam.  I went on to say that I never had nightmares or flashbacks about Vietnam but I did experience what I felt were nightmares.  I said that these "dreams" were always basically the same in nature as I was never able to find my way home.  I was always unable to complete any task at hand in these dreams.   Col. Chace told me he had the same type of nightmares where he was unprepared to accomplish a given task.  I miss talking with Col. Chace.  We were never close in Vietnam because of our ranks in the USMC but as former Marines I learned a lot from him.