The Forgotten Veterans
The
radio announcer on WUSF, 89.7FM, in Tampa,
Florida, was solemn as he spoke:
“This is a breaking news item. A man is standing on
a ledge off the Skyway Bridge on the south bound span preparing to jump into
the deep blue waters of Tampa
Bay more than 150 ft
below. There are at least two Highway patrol troopers and a number of
on-lookers on the scene. We will keep you informed as news come in.”
This was no surprise to me, or for that matter
anyone who has lived in Tampa.
Since its official opening in 1987, this beautiful, majestic piece of
engineering spanning more than four miles across the bay, suspended by massive
steel cables, has gained the unenviable reputation as the Suicide Bridge of America. Since its formal opening there have been
more than two hundred successful attempts and at least fifty more individuals
who lived to tell their story. This does not include the hundreds of others,
male and female, who were persuaded to change their minds, as well as the many
more incidents that have gone unrecorded.
I was on my way to Ybor City to meet with my friend and colleague Robert, for our
regular weekly beer, sandwich and cigar meeting. We have been meeting every single
Wednesday for the past three years, hot, cold, dry or wet. We would try to get
to the famous TBBC Restaurant on East
8th Street at 1pm, order a glass of Old Elephant Foot IPA, a Corned
Beef Reuben for Robert and their famous Beer Battered Buffalo Chicken for
myself and then finish off the afternoon with a Churchill Maduro Select
each.
The
announcer at WUSF broke in again to report that from the information received,
the man on the Skyway
Bridge appeared to be a vagrant and kept referring to a “Dr. Mike” from the VA hospital,
suggesting he might be a veteran in trouble. This immediately piqued my
interest. For ever since my time in the army where as a young attorney with a
psychology background I spent less time fighting on the front lines, and more
on dealing with the psychological fallout on those young men and women who had
gone to the front lines. Since then I have become more and more involved, and
have devoted much of my spare time, energy and knowledge to helping my brothers
and sisters. This was particularly so in respect of those suffering with that
scourge of modern warfare commonly called Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
Without a second thought I knew what I must do. I
was traveling on Kennedy drive and immediately
changed direction towards 275 South heading to the Skyway. I called Robert on
my Bluetooth and explained what I planned to do, he understood and he agreed.
Our regular meeting was off. Once I got on the 275, I headed south over the Courtney Campbell Bridge
and shortly after, the breathtaking view of the Skyway rising into the cloudless sky came into view. As I drove
along toward the bridge I could see in the distance, a large commotion. There
were at least two ambulances, an assortment of law enforcement vehicles and more
than twenty cars, trucks and motorcycles with at least one hundred people
milling around. At about one hundred yards from the center of activities
it was obvious that I could go no further, so I pulled off onto the shoulder,
got out of the car and started to walk forward. As I got closer to the site, I
could sense the excitement in the gathered crowd of onlookers. It was clearly a
very serious situation.
There were several troopers
standing close to the barrier and at least one of them who appeared to be a
negotiator, was talking to the young man. He was a tall, thin athletic looking
man in his mid-thirties with long, scruffy blond hair tied in a pony tail and
an ungroomed beard clearly in need of a thorough shampoo and wash. His clothes
were well fitting but obviously heavily used and in need of replacement or at
least washing. He stood proud on the ledge of the bridge like a captain
surveying the scene. His eyes were wide open, showing a clear set of blue
corneas. Despite all the commotion around him, they appeared to be focused on
the far horizon, completely oblivious of his immediate environment. He was a
man on a mission.
When I
got closer, I realized this young man was no stranger to me. I recognized him
as William Brady whom I first met three
years ago on the streets of Tampa where I worked
as a volunteer with Volunteers of America
of Florida. I
got to know him quite well over a period of more than a year before he left the
area to go to South Florida. He was Brother Willy to me and we spent many
hours together as he suffered repeated episodes of traumatic recollections, his
fears, his anxieties and above all, his social rejections.
Willy was born to a close-knit
family in Kansas.
His father is a retired Engineer and his mother was a teacher. He was a very
active student who excelled in sports, especially long distance running, and
was a straight-A student who was a biology whiz. He obtained a full scholarship
to attend college where he studied Biology, obtaining his bachelor’s degree cum
laude. Upon completion he elected to follow his mother’s vocation and take up
teaching. Subsequently he applied and was accepted to teach Biology and
Genetics in a high school in Ft.
Lauderdale, Florida.
He quickly became a sensation; not only with regard to his competence, but in
the way he was able to motivate his students to achieve more. He soon took over
all the AP Biology classes and they became much sought after. He also became
involved in athletic activities especially in respect of marathon and cross-country
running and developed quite a successful program. Willy was a happy man, doing
what he enjoyed, and gained the respect of his peers and his students for his
efforts. He was even beginning to entertain the possibility of going further in
education, applying for post-graduate studies and even thinking of proceeding
into a college academic career.
Everything changed dramatically
on March 19, 2003, when President George W. Bush gave the order to invade Iraq. Willy,
having spent all of his high school and university years as an active member of
the ROTC felt it was his duty to obey the order of his commander-in-chief. He
promptly enlisted and very shortly after, found himself undergoing training in
an Army Base in Tampa.
By June he was on his way to Iraq
as an Infantry man, by way of a forward base in Kuwait. His unit received orders to
move out in early July, 2003 and on July 17, 2003, on his mother’s birthday, he
boarded a Humvee and proceeded in a convoy northward to Baghdad. They had traveled several days in Iraq without
encountering any kind of resistance. They were relaxed and generally felt that
it was all over, that the “shock and awe” plan had really worked and that their
tour will be a “piece of cake”.
Then it
happened, their Humvee drove over an IED and blew up! The driver and four of the soldiers died
on the spot and every one of the others were seriously injured. Willy suffered
a severe concussion and remained in coma for 72 hours before slowly regaining
consciousness. He was repatriated to USA
and remained in the Miami VA hospital for nearly two months before
being subsequently discharged in November, 2003. He was declared fully
recovered from his physical injuries but unfortunately continued to suffer from
a severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
His problems were just beginning. He had lost all
his people skills and could not tolerate any kind of stress without developing
recurrent acute anxiety symptoms. He tried to resume his teaching career, but
quickly realized that his memory gaps and lack of patience made it impossible
to continue. In fact he was incapable of holding even the simplest service jobs
without sooner or later getting in trouble. He gradually drifted down the
social scale and as expected, all his friends and associates drifted away. He
eventually ended up doing whatever he could, even panhandling or selling
newspapers at street corners to try to survive.
In the last few years he became a confirmed vagrant living as best as he
can. He had officially joined the sixty to seventy thousand veterans who were
homeless on the streets of America
on any given night, a number greater than the number of service personnel who
died during all the wars since World War 11. They were virtually abandoned by the society for which they had fought
to safeguard.
He moved from city to city, lived in alley ways or
in empty boxes or electrical rooms and foraged at the back of groceries or restaurants for leftovers. Sometimes a few
kind people will try to extend a helpful hand, but most of the time people
generally avoided him and some will go out of their way to remove their
children from his vicinity. I presume this is the reason why he only stayed in
any place a short while before moving on. He was never able to develop any
lasting relationships or even casual friends. Even the local police, some of
whom were themselves recently discharged veterans, showed little tolerance and
often tended to harass them and encourage them to move on, -mainly to appease the upset citizens and
angry parents.
For someone like him, who cared so much for
the welfare of children, this was the unkindest cut of all. Not only was he
unable to do what he loved best, but he was being actively treated like an
outcast in his own community, by his own people.
The VA was not very helpful but this was not for
want of trying. I suspect the main reason is the serious overload on the
limited resources available. Dr. Mike
Jacobs, his present psychologist, had been trying, as best he can, to help
him, but unfortunately, the heavy workload and limited time available rendered
his efforts impotent. It would seem that congress has no hesitation in
authorizing billions of dollars for more airplanes and military equipment that
were essentially unnecessary or in some cases obsolete, but at the same time
determined to hold down or even cut back on essential commitments to the
overall care of these people whose only sin is that they served and sacrificed
for their country.
Unfortunately, as a society, we are much more inclined
to sweep these problems under the carpet and hope that they go away, or leave
it to others to solve, while we continue to enjoy all the good things that America
provides. If we are truly honest, most of us will admit that we would rather
spend time chasing the latest exploits of Lady
Gaga or Madonna, Kanye and Kim, Wade and LeBron rather
than be bothered by “Willy, the Vagrant.”
-What a crying shame on all of us!
I finally reached
close enough to make eye contact with Willy, and as I yelled at the top of my
voice: “Hold on Brother Willy, I want to
talk with you”, I am sure he moved his lip as if to say “goodbye”,
as he dived headlong in obscurity.
I paused
for a while then dropped on my knees, lamenting the tragic loss of yet another
good young man with such great potential. I could only think of the words my
friend Robert, speaking for all of us sometime ago when we discussed this topic
at one of our lunch meetings. With a deep sigh of resignation he said:
“Isn’t it ironic that
George Bush, and Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz and all
those other politicians can continue with their lives, living happily and doing
very well if you please, while these young men and women, and so many others
like them with so much to offer, are consigned to the rubbish heap of society
with no chance of return”
To which I replied: AMEN!
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