Quiet Crisis: In the shadow of a record number of military suicides, spouses and children are also taking their own lives

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved)

Her husband suffered a skull-shattering bullet wound in Iraq. She lost her job. Her car was repossessed. A psychiatrist misdiagnosed her then threatened to commit her if she didn’t take medication that made her feel crazy.

These are some of the reasons Torrey Shannon tried to kill herself. Twice.

“It piles on and piles on and you wake up one day and say, ‘I can’t take it anymore,’” Shannon says.

Shannon is part of a quiet crisis sweeping military families. In the shadow of a marked increase in military suicides, spouses and children are also taking their own lives. The crisis is rooted in the strain of 12 years of war, an overwhelmed mental health care system, financial woes, relationship problems and a code of silence dictated by the stigma associated with seeking help. It’s a problem military families expect to get worse as the wars wind down and they no longer have the distraction of the next deployment to postpone dealing with difficult issues.

“The trend is increasing and I would say in the last two years it has close to doubled,” says Brannan Vines, founder of Family of a Vet, whose network receives dozens of messages a week from spouses who are contemplating suicide. “At some point, we’re going to get past the tipping point.”

Military family suicide is a significant public health problem, adds psychologist Craig Bryan, associate director of the National Center for Veterans Studies at the University of Utah. He treated military families in a primary care clinic during his Air Force tenure. “If you don’t pay attention to suicide and suicide risk in family members,” he says, “you are not going to be able to address suicide in the military and society as a whole.”

But the civilian sector is going to have to step up and help.

“We can’t expect DoD and VA to do all of this — they simply don’t have the resources, and in many respects, the cultural competency,” says Kristina Kaufmann, executive director of Code of Support Foundation, which works to bridge the military-civilian divide. “This is not DoD’s Army. This is America’s military.”

Kaufmann has been raising the issues of military spouse suicides for years. She has lost three military spouse friends to suicide and knows of many others who have taken their own lives. They include Kaufmann’s first mentor – “a real practical, strong, get-it-done kind of person who was very involved in her church” – as well a neighbor who was four months pregnant. Both killed themselves the summer of 2009.

But Kaufmann is most troubled by the suicide of a fellow commander’s wife. Faye lived around the corner from Kaufmann and her husband at Fort Bragg. “She looked like the picture of a perfect Army wife – always put together, two great kids,” Kaufman says. Faye locked herself and her children in the garage and started the car during her husband’s deployment in 2006.

“To this day, it haunts me that I didn’t take that opportunity as a commander’s spouse to speak to our battalion about deployment, depression, stress, suicide and asking for help,” Kaufmann says. “But I had no idea how to have that conversation. I couldn’t have done it effectively at that point.”

Part of the problem is the stigma attached to seeking mental health care. That stigma is just as bad if not worse for spouses than it is for servicemembers, Kaufmann says. That’s not a military issue. It’s a societal problem. “The conversation I was too afraid to have in 2006 is a conversation our entire country needs to have,” she says.

Even when military families seek help, it’s often either hard to find or inadequate because the military and veteran’s mental health care systems are understaffed and overwhelmed. Jamie Johnston found no support after her husband, a pilot, was killed in a training accident in the mid-1990s. Her husband’s squadron walked her through life insurance documents and other paperwork then cut her loose. The sole military counselor she connected with was transferred three weeks after her husband’s death. In addition, she had a miscarriage just before her husband’s plane when down.

Johnson was forced to sell their house, find a new place to live and deal with the disappearance of her social circle.  “I had friends tell me, ‘You’re too depressing to be around,” Johnston says. About a month after her husband’s death, she tried to overdose on sleeping pills. “He was my rock and my rock disappeared,” she says. “I just wanted to be able to see him and I needed to die to do that.”

Johnston’s brother discovered her suicide note and she was hospitalized. She found help through the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors – which tracked her down and offered its support – then spent years rebuilding. “I was completely broken,” says Johnston, who requested that her real name not be published because she has since remarried and had children.

Shannon sought treatment while her husband, Dan, was hospitalized at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He was shot in the head in Ramadi in November 2004 and arrived when Walter Reed was at its worst. Dan became part of the front-page story in The Washington Post that revealed despicable conditions at the Army medical center. Meanwhile, Shannon’s family was worried that Dan’s PTS diagnosis meant he was a danger to their children and initiated multiple frivolous Child Protective Services’ investigations, she says.

That pressure, along with financial issues and other family problems, prompted Shannon to seek help. She was assigned to a psychiatrist named Major. Nidal Hasan, who now is on trial for shooting fellow servicemembers at Fort Hood. Hasan misdiagnosed her with bipolar disorder. “I was prescribed a cocktail of medications,” Shannon says. “I went crazy.” Shannon says she told Hasan the drugs made her feel worse. He threatened to have her committed if she stopped taking the medications.

Shannon tried to overdose in November 2006 and April 2007. “In my skewed thinking, I thought I was doing my children a favor,” she says. After getting out of the hospital following her second suicide attempt, Shannon stopped taking the drugs. While medications are helpful for some, “Since I’ve been medication-free, I’ve been fine,” she says.

Military children also are falling through the cracks in the mental health system, sometimes with tragic consequences.

Twelve-year-old Daniel Radenz killed himself just days after convincing doctors at Darnall Army Medical Center in Texas that he didn’t need to be hospitalized despite a litany of warnings including drawing graphic suicide pictures and writing on the walls of a school bathroom with his own blood.

The youngest of three boys, Daniel was a good student with perfect attendance and lots of neighborhood friends, says his mother, Tricia Radenz. A “funny little prankster,” Daniel was close to his father. He postponed his ninth birthday celebration until his father returned from his first deployment.

Soon after Daniel’s father deployed the second time, however, he started having nightmares. He became withdrawn and didn’t want to go to school. “He was just telling me he was so sad and worried about his dad and he didn’t know if his dad was coming home,” Tricia says. She found Daniel an appointment with a civilian counselor – the first opening was about 10 days later – then rushed Daniel to Darnall after his teacher called and told her he needed immediate help. He was seen by both a psychologist and psychiatrist, started on a low dose of medication and set up with a counselor.

Daniel’s mood never improved except when his father came home on R&R in March 2009. “After his dad left, he plummeted,” Tricia says. “He started having hallucinations at school, and writing in blood on the walls of the school.” Meanwhile, it was very difficult to reach his doctor.

Throughout the school year, Tricia had cut back on her hours as an emergency room nurse at a civilian hospital so she was available to help her son whenever he needed her. She and Daniel’s teachers corresponded by email throughout the day. Daniel’s former football coaches took him fishing. “Everybody was trying so hard to help him,” Tricia says. “Nothing was working.” Tricia finally told her husband what was happening. The Army sent him home from Iraq immediately.

While Daniel was happy to see his father, Tricia also believes he felt guilty. “I think he may have wondered, ‘Is dad in trouble because he came home early because I was having problems?’”

After Daniel drew detailed pictures of people shooting themselves in the head, his parents took him to Darnall. “We were very uneasy,” Tricia says. “We thought he needed hospitalization with the pictures and the things happening at school.”

Daniel convinced doctors he was OK and they sent him home. He hung himself within a week. Today, Tricia wishes she wouldn’t have let Daniel out of her sight for even a second. “I thought he went into the kitchen to get a sandwich with his dad. His dad thought he was outside with me. He was out of sight five or 10 minutes. That’s all it took.”

Tricia also wishes she had asked Daniel if he was contemplating suicide. “I think of all of the times I could have opened up the dialogue and prevented it,” she says. “I was afraid of putting the idea in his head. I know now that you don’t put the idea of suicide in someone’s head anymore than you cause a brain tumor.”

Darnall told Daniel’s family it has made changes in the way it treats patients as a result of Daniel’s death, but refused to provide details. “Pointing fingers at this point is counter productive,” Tricia says. “We have to find out where he fell through the cracks and have it not happen again.”

One of those cracks is the strain on the mental health system. “I know (Darnall) is overwhelmed. I know they couldn’t see him as much as they needed to given his situation,” Tricia says. “There were probably a hundred Daniels.”

She also believes parents need more education about the medication their children are given. Tricia read the pharmaceutical company’s warnings about anti-depressant increasing the risk of suicide. Still, “I had no idea of the seriousness of it,” she says. “And his doctor told me he had a lot of success with children taking this medication.”

Tricia now speaks about suicide prevention at places like Fort Hood and Fort Benning. She corresponds with children who need a listening ear on Facebook. She worries about the other children who are in despair.

“You have an increase in suicides when hopelessness exceeds the resources,” Tricia says, “and that’s where we were.”

Andrew Patrin’s family was there was well. Andrew went to an Army primary care clinic in search of help soon after returning to San Antonio to attend college. He felt medications he was given three months earlier were making him more depressed and wanted to be referred to a mental health specialist or inpatient treatment, says his father, George Patrin, then an Army pediatrician commanding a clinic in California. Instead, the physician changed Andrew’s medications and told him to come back in two to three weeks if he wasn’t better. Mental health appointments, he was told, only were available to active duty patients.

After that appointment, Andrew told his best friend he had answered yes to every question about being depressed and suicidal on a survey he was given during that clinic visit and still couldn’t get help. Ten days later, Andrew sent each of his family members a goodbye email from a motel room, turned off his computer and phone and shot himself. “I’m really sorry Dad,” Andrew wrote. “I’m giving up. I’m stuck at 5 percent all the time because of these stupid human limitations.”

Since Andrew died, George retired and he and his wife Pam started the Serendipity Alliance to work on ending suicide and improving health care. They realize, after speaking with hundreds of other grieving families over the past four years, that the same steps that would have saved Andrew will save servicemembers who are completing suicide, George says. That includes referring patients like Andrew to a mental health specialist that same day they ask for help and following up with in a few days to see if patients have improved. It means listening to family members when they say a patient is struggling and including them in a treatment plan when there is a risk of depression or suicide. It means screening for mental health issues every time patients visit a clinic.

Bryan, of the National Center for Veterans Studies, also advocates training mental health professionals in the military and civilian communities to provide the most effective care to servicemembers and their families.

The consequences of not taking these steps are evident in the suicides rates and homelessness of veterans and families who didn’t receive the care they needed 40 years ago. “We have a model of what not to do here – the Vietnam generation,” says Kaufmann of Code of Support. “Are we really going to do that again?”

This story originally appeared in the September 2013 issue of The American Legion Magazine

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Stealth Soldiers of the Vietnam War: The Little Known Legacy of the U.S. Army’s Combat Tracker Teams

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved)

Pete Peterson was recruited for the combat trackers while recovering at a U.S. military hospital in Japan during the fall of 1968. It wasn’t a hard sell for the two trackers who shared his hospital ward. Peterson had lost several friends in a firefight with the North Vietnamese while he was sidelined with an ankle injury. “The tracker’s job was to hunt down the enemy,” says Peterson, who had been serving with an infantry company. “I liked the idea of that. I wanted some payback.”

When he returned to Vietnam, Peterson joined one of the elite Army teams charged with finding an enemy known for melting into the jungle, gathering intelligence, and searching for missing U.S. soldiers and pilots. Although the secrecy surrounding the combat trackers has meant their accomplishments were all but lost to history, they were so successful that the North Vietnamese army put a bounty on the five-man teams and their Labrador retrievers. That bounty was a point of pride with the trackers, part of what made the work both arduous and gratifying.

Ready to head out (Photo courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express permission)

David Herbert (far left) and Steve Krause (far right) with other members of a Tracker team. (Photo courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express permission)

“It was easier than being in a line company, plowing through the jungle, waiting for something to happen,” Peterson says. “At least with the trackers, you knew something could very well happen. It kept you on your toes.”

But that constant tension was also exhausting. “We were busier than any other infantry operation,” says Perry Taitano, who was a dog handler with Peterson’s team. “We were always on the front line.”

British Legacy

Peterson learned the tracking trade on the job – but that was the exception. The British military secretly trained the first wave of U.S. tracker teams deployed in Vietnam. The U.S. Army later established its own training school at Fort Gordon, Ga.

The British had developed jungle-savvy combat tracker teams to deal with communist insurgents in Malaysia in the 1950s. Each included a visual tracker, a dog handler and Labrador retriever, a cover man, a radioman and a team leader. Their success depended on an ability to move quickly and avoid detection. That often meant running for miles to catch the enemy and maintain the element of surprise.

“The British had figured out how to out-guerrilla the guerrillas,” says Susan Merritt, wife of combat tracker Frank Merritt, and author of “Seek On!“, a history of U.S. combat trackers in Vietnam.

The Army contracted with the New Zealand Special Air Service (SAS) to train American trackers, and with the British to supply tracking dogs, beginning in 1966. Soldiers were shipped to British Jungle Warfare School in Malaysia for an intensive eight-week field course. They traveled from Vietnam to Malaysia in civilian clothes on temporary U.S. State Department passports – all part of the secrecy that surrounded the program.

A beloved tracking dog named Moose (Photo Courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express written permission)

A beloved tracking dog named Moose (Photo Courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express written permission)

Dog handlers were paired up with a dog and trained separately for most of the course. The other soldiers learned visual tracking, no matter what role they would assume once the team was in combat. The two groups came together for their final two weeks in Malaysia.

Jungle Warfare School was brutal. Each trainee had to run up a hill with someone on his back, then kick a latrine hard enough for the SAS instructors to hear it. “That latrine was made of ribbed metal, and you could hear it for miles, yet the instructors would always say, ‘I did not hear you hit it,’ and you found yourself running up the hill again,” says Charles Steward, who went through the school in 1968. Soldiers, working in groups of six, were also required to run through a field carrying a telephone pole. And that was only part of the endurance test.

“The philosophy was if you weren’t physically fit, you couldn’t follow that dog through the jungle,” Steward says. “Probably half the NCOs flunked out and went back to Vietnam. They couldn’t take it.” Trainees also washed out if they didn’t quickly learn visual tracking. Overall, 12 of the 40 men Steward went to Malaysia with failed.

That rigorous preparation paid off. “We were probably the best-trained U.S. Army soldiers in the field at the time,” says John Dupla, who trained in Malaysia in 1967. “We knew what we were doing and we had the confidence to do it.”

The jungle belonged to them

Combat trackers take a break (Photo courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express permission)

Combat trackers including David Herbert, left, take a break (Photo courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction prohibited without express permission)

Tracking teams were assigned to combat divisions and brigades but were dispatched wherever they were needed. Combat trackers were summoned when U.S. forces were ambushed or engaged and then lost contact with the enemy.

The teams traveled by helicopter and were often greeted by hostile gunfire. “From the time the helicopter started to land, I was waiting for a bullet to hit me,” says cover man David Herbert, who, ironically, was dispatched to tracker training after washing out of NCO school. “We didn’t wear flak jackets or steel pots. They were too heavy and hindered you more than helped you.”

Unlike scout dogs and their handlers, combat tracker teams worked well ahead of infantry units. The visual tracker or the dog and handler led the team, depending on tracking conditions and whether there was clear evidence – such as a trail of blood – indicating the direction the enemy had gone. The cover man was always second in line, protecting whoever was leading the team. “If you got into something, you shot your way out,” Herbert says. “The level of constant stress was unreal. I walked out after one firefight, and I couldn’t feel my feet touch the ground.”

Ideally, the tracker team located the enemy and then called the regular troops. “If things worked out OK, the dog alerted, we stopped, called the infantry forward, they re-engaged and the fight was on,” Steward says. “More times than not, we would take a few rounds before the infantry got up there. Fortunately, my team never lost anybody. A lot of times we got lucky. Very lucky.”

Although records are incomplete, it appears that 43 of the approximately 750 combat trackers deployed in Vietnam were killed in action, Susan Merritt says. That casualty rate would have been much higher if not for their superior training. “The jungle,” she says, “belonged to them.”

Incredible dogs

The trackers also credit the dogs for repeatedly saving their lives – alerting them to enemy soldiers and to the booby traps that the North Vietnamese were known for leaving behind. The British developed Labrador retrievers as jungle trackers in part because the easygoing dogs could adapt to different handlers as soldiers rotated out of teams at the ends of their combat tours, Merritt says.

Tracker Perry Taitano at work in Vietnam. (Photo Courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction is prohibited without  permission from David Herbert)

Tracker Perry Taitano at work in Vietnam. (Photo Courtesy of David Herbert. Reproduction is prohibited without permission from David Herbert)

“There’s something about a Lab that makes it a great tracker,” says Taitano, who was the least likely dog handler. He grew up in Guam, where dogs are considered a nuisance, not pets or working animals. “When we see a dog in Guam, we kill it,” he says.

But a black Lab named Moose captured Taitano’s heart. “I had a best friend,” he says. “It’s a privilege to work with a dog who gives you unconditional love.” He tried to buy Moose at the end of his tour so he could take his tracking companion home. But the Army wouldn’t allow the dogs to leave Vietnam because of the risk of spreading diseases they acquired in Southeast Asia. That still bothers the trackers.

“The terrible thing is, the dogs were left behind – and the Vietnamese eat dog,” Peterson says. “That was always gut-wrenching.”

Once the North Vietnamese caught on to the tracker teams, they tried to develop ways to confuse them. A withdrawing enemy unit would have a couple of soldiers go off in a completely different direction, even dropping articles of clothing and leaving other obvious signs, Dupla says. His team lost a visual tracker and a cover man to enemy snipers as they checked out one of those false trails – the only men from his team who were killed during his tour.

The North Vietnamese also placed a bounty on the trackers rumored to be the equivalent of three or four years’ pay for an enemy soldier.

“It made you feel good at the time,” Peterson says. “But it caught up with you afterward.”

Sometimes the greater risk was friendly fire. One evening, Dupla’s team found itself between the North Vietnamese contingent it had been tracking and an American unit it didn’t realize was in the area.

“We stopped to call for a helicopter,” Dupla says. “And all hell broke loose.” He ended up with a piece of shrapnel in his shoulder from a grenade that could have come from either an American or a North Vietnamese soldier. “That was close,” he says. “A couple of inches’ difference, and it would have hit my head.”

The infantry units also often misunderstood the trackers’ role. In many cases, commanders wanted to use the team to walk point, not chase down the enemy. “I think it was just that a lot of companies and platoons had never heard of us, so they had no idea how we operated,” Peterson says.

Forgotten Legacy

The U.S. contract with the British Jungle Warfare School ended in 1969, and the tracker training program at Fort Gordon opened. Steward taught at the school for a year, then returned to Vietnam for a disappointing second tour with the trackers from 1970 to 1971.

“Vietnam was a different place,” Steward says. “The Americans were trying to turn more responsibility over to the South Vietnamese army to lessen U.S. casualties.” There was less follow-through when the trackers engaged the enemy, he adds. “It was not a good experience.”

The Army discontinued the program in late 1971, and the quiet legacy of the combat trackers faded. “We saved lives by not letting the enemy get away,” says Peterson, who started as a cover man and became a team leader. But the secrecy of the program cost the trackers recognition.

“We had a lot of kills, but the credit always went to the infantry unit we were with,” adds Steward, who went on to make a career in the Army and retired as a sergeant major. “And we’re so small, we’ll never get the notoriety the Special Forces did.”

But the combat trackers are leaving a trail. The U.S. Army Combat Tracker Team Memorial was erected at Fort Benning, Ga., in the early 2000s. The Merritts also created a website for the Vietnam combat tracker teams, combattrackerteam.org, more than a decade ago. That helped a couple of military gear collectors reunite Herbert with his M65 field jacket, with its rare combat-tracker shoulder patch intact, after it turned up in a North Carolina thrift store in 2009. Herbert had loaned it to a friend for a hunting trip in the late 1970s and never saw it again.

The trackers have also been holding annual reunions since 2000. They will dedicate a stone bench, engraved with the names of trackers and dogs killed in action, at the Ohio Veterans Memorial Park in Clinton in June, thanks to the efforts of tracker John Carroll.

Beyond these clues, however, the trackers remain as mysterious to the American public and many of their fellow soldiers as to the North Vietnamese they surprised.

“There’s so many people who have no idea about the trackers and what we did,” Steward says. “Our legacy will never be known.”

This story first appeared in the May 2013 issue of The American Legion Magazine.

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The Gift of Arms: After years of waiting Iraq veteran Brendan Marrocco is celebrating a successful bilateral transplant

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013/All Rights Reserved)

Brendan Marrocco has new arms.

Nearly four years after an armor‑piercing roadside bomb claimed all four of his limbs, Brendan became the first person in the United States to receive such an extensive bilateral arm transplant. Now he sees the day when he’s driving himself to the store or racing his Dodge Charger.

“It makes me feel more human,” Brendan says. “It’s given me more confidence about myself. It’s something

I was waiting for a long time.”

His family is astounded and grateful.

“It just blows my mind,” says his mother, Michelle, who is a nurse. “I look at his arms, and I think, ‘How can it be? You have two sets of DNA here but it heals like any cut.’”

“It’s been a very emotional time,” adds Brendan’s father, Alex. “We owe it all to a family who, in the midst of their sorrow and the midst of their loss, made a selfless decision to be a part of Brendan’s life.”The arm transplants, which took place at The Johns Hopkins Hospital just before Christmas last year, also give hope to others who have lost hands and arms. “This is groundbreaking work,” says Col. John Scherer of the Armed Forces Institute of Regenerative Medicine (AFIRM), which is helping fund limb transplants and other clinical trials for wounded warriors. “This will allow us to understand how the body will adapt to new arms.”

Brendan was injured on Easter Sunday 2009 when a roadside bomb ripped open the armored truck he was driving during a night mission 130 miles north of Baghdad. The bomb cost him his arms and legs, burned his body and damaged his left eye. When Alex and Michelle first walked into Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, they did not recognize their son. “We wouldn’t have known it was him if someone hadn’t told us,” Alex says.

Brendan was the first surviving quadruple amputee from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Soon after he arrived at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, he told his medical team that he wanted to be standing on the tarmac in Hawaii to greet his unit when they returned in about six months.

And he was.

Brendan’s recovery continued to defy expectations. He mastered his first set of prosthetic legs in five weeks with the help of Walter Reed’s rehabilitation team and his brother Mike, who quit his job on Wall Street to become his primary caregiver. He caught the attention of Gen. James Amos, then assistant Marine Corps commandant, who asked Brendan if he was interested in arm transplants.

A few weeks later, Brendan met with pioneering surgeon Dr. W.P. Andrew Lee, then at the University of Pittsburgh, who developed a limb transplant regimen using a fraction of the immunosuppression drugs required for organ transplants, which have serious side effects.

Brendan had no second thoughts. “Pretty much from the get-go, I thought it was great,” he says.

Michelle, though, was angry, feeling that someone was giving her son false hope. That turned to worry when she learned that arm and hand transplants were really possible. “My greatest fear was that he would die on the operating table,” she says. “This is major elective surgery. Anything can happen. But it wasn’t my decision to make.”

Michelle also tried to persuade Brendan to have just a right-arm transplant to reduce his reliance on people post-surgery, given that he was doing well with the myoelectric prosthesis on his left side. “He doesn’t want to be dependent,” she says.

But prosthetic arms “were never the endpoint for me,” Brendan says. And Michelle says that she admires his courage, considering that he faced an additional three years of rehabilitation and a lifetime medication regimen as a result of the transplants.

Getting the arms alone proved a long and frustrating journey. Finding the right donor is difficult. Donor limbs have to be the same size, build and skin tone as well as matching the recipient’s blood and tissue types. After waiting for a donor for a year, Brendan contracted a bone infection and had to drop off the transplant list for 10 months.

“He was very discouraged,” Michelle says.

Brendan left Walter Reed in July 2011 and moved into a specialized home on Staten Island, N.Y., near where he grew up. The house was built with funds raised by the Stephen Siller Tunnel to Towers Foundation, Building Homes for Heroes and the Brendan Marrocco Road to Recovery Trust.

Lee, meanwhile, moved to Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine to become chairman of the plastic and reconstructive surgery department, and continued to prepare for the operation. Brendan would require the most complicated transplant surgery Lee’s team had ever performed. “It is really the first time in the country two arms were transplanted – the left arm to the elbow joint and the right arm above the elbow,” he says.

The left-arm transplant was especially challenging because Brendan didn’t have enough remaining muscle to operate a wrist or hand. Yet Lee wanted to preserve Brendan’s left elbow so that in the unlikely event that the transplant wasn’t successful, he would retain use of the joint.

Surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists and other members of the team began meeting two years before the actual operation. They practiced the surgery on cadavers four times, right down to detaching and attaching the bones, nerves, tendons and skin. Each of the 16 surgeons had a specific task. One was responsible for preparing the bone on the right recipient arm, another for the muscle on the left donor arm.

“Going in,” Lee says, “everyone knew what he or she was going to do.”

Brendan was at his father’s house when he received a call from Lee on Dec. 16 telling him that they might finally have a donor. “I got a text from Brendan saying something like, ‘I think you’ll want to get home early,’” Alex says. “That meant one of two things. Either the roof is leaking again, or he got the arms phone call.”

Michelle and Mike were having lunch at a Staten Island restaurant when they got the word from Brendan. “I started to shake,” says Michelle, who had kept her suitcase packed the entire first year Brendan was on the transplant list.

The family traveled to Baltimore together on Dec. 17. Brendan’s transplant surgery began at

1:30 the next morning in an operating room crowded with medical staff, microscopes, a portable X-ray machine and other equipment. “Operating rooms are not designed for bilateral arm transplants,” Lee says.

Thanks in large part to the teamwork among doctors and nurses, however, it worked. Brendan had new arms after 13 hours of surgery – his 22nd operation since he was wounded.

He woke from the surgery excited, but confused from the anesthesia. “I was looking around for my arms,” he says. “It was weird because I couldn’t find them at first.”

Two weeks after the surgery, Brendan received an infusion of the donor’s bone marrow, part of the protocol Lee developed to help trick the immune system into accepting the new limbs. So far, Brendan hasn’t experienced any rejection.

“That’s the biggest hurdle of all transplants,” says Scherer, who is director of the Army’s Clinical and Rehabilitative Medicine Research Program in addition to his work with AFIRM. “We’ll revolutionize the transplant world if we can dramatically reduce or eliminate immunosuppression.”

Brendan’s success is good news for other wounded warriors contemplating limb transplants. More servicemembers have lost multiple limbs as insurgents develop more powerful IEDs, Lee says. About 300 have had major upper-extremity amputations as a result of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. A number of them are going through the screening process for transplants.

Brendan spends four to six hours a day in hand therapy, six days a week. “I should be getting decent function in the coming year,” he says. “It will be a couple of years before I get feeling.” The nerves regrow a maximum of an inch a month.

He credits his family as the single most important element in his recovery and looks forward to giving them a break. “Being independent is definitely my main goal – being able to do what I want and not having to worry about someone being around the whole time,” he says.

In a few months, Brendan will move to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, where he will get back on his prosthetic legs as well as work to strengthen his new arms and hands. He hasn’t used his legs in about 18 months. “Not having arms, you aren’t able to keep your balance. Once you lose your balance, you can’t grab anything.”

In the long term, Brendan will continue working on the 2006 Dodge Charger that he plans to race one day. People who know him aren’t surprised.

“I thoroughly expect him to scare the hell out of me,” Michelle says, although she isn’t sure she’s up for watching Brendan race. “I’ll support him in any way I can, but that might be pushing it.”

____     _____     ______

Rebuilding Brendan’s storm-damaged home

Superstorm Sandy flooded part of the specially designed home built for Brendan Marrocco with funds raised by the Tunnel to Towers Foundation, Building Homes for Heroes and The Brendan Marrocco Road to Recovery Trust. Donations are needed to repair the home, which is uninhabitable because of the storm damage. Alex, who lost his pickup while checking on the house during the hurricane, also plans to revamp the house so it is not vulnerable to flood damage from future storms. He also is establishing a foundation to help other soldiers and other organizations.

Contributions may be mailed to:

The Brendan Marrocco Road to Recovery Trust

P.O. Box 120197

Staten Island, NY  10312

This story first appeared in the May 2013 issue of The American Legion Magazine.

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Veterans potentially exposed to toxic waste at nearly 140 military bases

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013/ All Rights Reserved) 

From Marine Corps Air Station El Toro in California to Fort McClellan, Ala., there are nearly 140 U.S. military bases on the federal government’s roster of toxic waste sites.

This is a significant issue for veterans, says Jim Deremo, The American Legion’s department service officer in North Dakota. The drinking water was polluted at many of these bases. “I think a huge number may be suffering from health problems because of their exposure to these chemicals,” he says. “The whole issue has been and continues to be a well-kept secret, so not many veterans know about it.”

In 2010, a county veterans service officer asked for Deremo’s help with the case of a Marine stationed at El Toro in the early 1950s. Ray Alkofer was suffering from a nervous system disease called multiple system atrophy. “Essentially, his body shut down and he was bedridden for quite some time before he passed,” Deremo says. “There’s no question Ray’s illness was caused by his exposure to all of the chemicals at El Toro.”

Ray Alkofer as a young Marine

Ray Alkofer as a young Marine

The Navy identified more than two dozen potentially contaminated areas, including landfills, underground storage tanks, pits where jet fuel and paint thinner were burned for firefighting practice, and aircraft hangars where solvents such as trichloroethylene (TCE) were dumped.

Alkofer served at El Toro from 1951 to 1953, says his widow, Laura. Although his official job was in communications, he also cleaned airplanes and did other work around El Toro’s hangars. After his discharge, he came home to North Dakota and worked for the railroad and the telephone company.

Alkofer started experiencing medical problems in 2000, and went from being active in his community to bedridden. “You name it, he did it,” Laura says. “Community theater – he was in every musical. He was an EMT and a member of the fire department for 25 years. He was active in American Legion Post 147, Lions Club and Knights of Columbus.”

Laura and Ray Alkofer in 2004

Laura and Ray Alkofer in 2004

With Deremo’s help, Alkofer filed a VA claim based on his exposure to toxins, but it was denied. “I was ready to give up,” Laura says. “Jim said, ‘No, we’re not going to stop.’” They appealed, and Alkofer received a 100 percent disability rating in March 2011. He died seven months later.

“The last year of his life was sad for him,” Laura says. “It bothered him that he’d been exposed by the Marine Corps.”

A few months later, Deremo was helping file a claim for Richard Bounds, who served at El Toro from 1974 to 1976. Bounds says he became so ill while building a fence around a vehicle dry dock that he requested barracks duty.

Bounds first developed serious organ failure about a decade after he left El Toro, even though he has no family history of such medical problems. That led to kidney and liver transplants in 2007. Bounds’ VA claim was approved late last year, thanks to Deremo and Steele County veterans service officer Dennis Kubischta. Bounds also now has a 100 percent service-connected disability for toxic exposure.

Veterans who served at other contaminated bases haven’t fared as well. Sue Frasier has been unsuccessful in her fight for a national health registry for veterans who served at Fort McClellan between 1935 and 1999. Frasier went through basic training in 1970, when the base was home to the Army Chemical Corps and the Women’s Army Corps. Nearby Anniston had a chemical plant that manufactured PCBs.

“Nobody told us about the contamination level,” Frasier says. “There were factories all over America in those days – it was hard to get a sense of the danger.”

Frasier developed respiratory and gastrointestinal problems as well as chloracne while on active duty. Chloracne would later be one of several diseases tied to Agent Orange exposure.

Frasier’s health problems continued after her discharge in 1972 and forced her to retire from her civilian job at 41. VA rejected Frasier’s disability claim several times. She sold her car, her house and her furniture to pay her bills, she says.

Today Frasier runs the Fort McClellan Veterans Stakeholder Group. At her urging, Rep. Paul Tonko, D-N.Y., has introduced legislation to create a national health registry for veterans whose medical problems may be related to chemical exposure during their service at Fort McClellan.

“We want a universal notification form, sent out on Army or VA letterhead, telling veterans the truth about where they were stationed,” she says. “Something with substance, that includes a detailed account of what they were exposed to. Veterans should not have to rely on public rumors, Internet activists and storytelling to find out what happened at Anniston, Ala.”

This story first appeared in the February 2013 issue of The American Legion Magazine along with stories about decades of toxic exposure at Camp Lejeune, N.C.  

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Camp Lejeune’s Toxic Legacy: Marine Corps families who were exposed to decades of contamination search for answers

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013/All Rights Reserved)

Jerry Ensminger’s 9-year-old daughter died of a rare form of leukemia he believes was caused by solvent-laced drinking water at Camp Lejeune, N.C. Her death could have been prevented, he says, if the Marine Corps had followed its own testing regulations.

“I have never been so disillusioned in my life,” says Ensminger, who served 11 of his 25 years in the Marine Corps at the base. “I want the truth. I want accountability. And I fully recognize they will probably pat me in the face with a shovel and blow Taps over me before I get that.”

Ensminger can claim partial victory in his 15-year battle over contamination at Camp Lejeune, where drinking water was tainted with five times as much trichloroethylene (TCE) as the Woburn, Mass., drinking water system made famous in the book and movie “A Civil Action.” Congress recently mandated that VA provide health care for Marines and family members stationed at Camp Lejeune between 1957 and 1987 who are suffering from certain cancers and neurological diseases.

“This bill is confirmation by the president of the United States and Congress that we were harmed by our leaders,” he says.

But the plainspoken former drill instructor and father of four is not standing down. “This is not the end of the issue – this is the end of the first act,” Ensminger says. “They are still withholding information from Congress and the public. There has been no accountability for the people who perpetrated this on us and our families.”

Record Exposure

The Marine Corps acknowledges that as many as 800,000 Marines, family members and civilians drank, swam and showered in Camp Lejeune’s toxin-laden water, the largest exposure of its kind in the nation.

Established as an advanced training base in 1941, the 246-square-mile complex relied on dozens of shallow wells, averaging 40 feet deep, for drinking water. These wells were contaminated by leaking fuel-storage tanks, a chemical dump and discarded industrial solvents. One well was even installed in a corner of a Camp Lejeune landfill where solvents, DDT and other waste was discarded. A civilian dry cleaner near the Camp Lejeune family housing complex where Ensminger lived also polluted the drinking water.

The Marine Corps says the contamination was the unintentional byproduct of an era when federal law didn’t limit the amount of toxic substances – including tetrachloroethylene (PCE), TCE, benzene and vinyl chloride – in drinking water.

“In the early 1980s, standards and regulations for the treatment and disposal of solvents were just starting to be put into place,” the Corps said in an email response to questions about Camp Lejeune. “The understanding of health effects of these chemicals has evolved. For example, up until 1977, TCE was allowed for use as a general anesthetic, skin wound and surgical disinfectant.”

Health experts call the Marine Corps’ response disingenuous.

“Hiding behind the lack of an official regulation doesn’t fulfill its moral obligation to the Marines and their families,” says Richard Clapp, an epidemiologist at the Boston University School of Public Health, who specializes in causes of cancer in workers, community residents and veterans. Massachusetts voluntarily closed two Woburn wells in 1979 after tests revealed a far lower TCE contamination level than that at Camp Lejeune, even though the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) hadn’t yet set drinking water limits on the carcinogen.

“That was based on guidance from EPA and not a formal regulation, but it was done to protect the public health based on evidence available at the time,” Clapp says. “I see no reason why the Department of the Navy could not have done the same thing to protect its people.”

The medical community, meanwhile, abandoned TCE as an anesthetic because it was lethal. “It was causing people to go into heart failure on the operating table,” Clapp says. “That should have sent up a red flag about TCE exposure in the late 1970s as well.”

“I Had to Be Strong”

Ensminger first went to Camp Lejeune after he graduated from boot camp in 1970. He and his wife lived in a Marine Corps family housing complex called Tarawa Terrace from 1973 to 1975. One of their daughters, Janey, was conceived and carried through most of her first trimester at Camp Lejeune. That timing is key. A developing fetus is so sensitive to the chemicals that were present in Camp Lejeune’s water, Clapp says, that a few hours or days of exposure at the wrong time could cause birth defects, cancers or neurological diseases. There was an eightfold increase in the risk of childhood leukemia among Woburn, Mass., babies whose mothers were exposed to the TCE-contaminated water during pregnancy.

Ensminger and his family returned to Camp Lejeune in 1982, and lived in nearby Jacksonville, N.C. The town had little in the way of community recreation facilities, so his daughters regularly swam in the base swimming pools. Because TCE and the other contaminants can be absorbed through the skin, the pools were just one more source of potential exposure.

Janey Ensminger was diagnosed with childhood leukemia in July 1983. She was 6.

“At first I went into shock,” Ensminger says. “Then it was the hustle and bustle of getting her to a treatment facility.”

They took Janey to Penn State University Medical Center and Duke Children’s Hospital, searching for a cure and answers. No one in his or his wife’s family had ever had cancer. Janey’s illness didn’t make sense.

“After I had a chance to sit down and think about it, the question was why,” Ensminger says. “But these doctors couldn’t – or wouldn’t – answer my nagging question.”

Ensminger told Janey they would fight her cancer together. He told himself that he wouldn’t cry in front of his daughter. “I had to be strong,” he says.

“Every time that child went into a treatment room, she was screaming, ‘Daddy, Daddy, don’t let them hurt me,’” Ensminger says. He finally broke down in front of his daughter in late September 1985. Janey told him she loved him, lapsed into a coma and died 30 minutes later.

“I didn’t just lose my daughter. I feel like I lost my entire life,” Ensminger says.

Mystifying Response

Why didn’t the Marine Corps begin testing drinking water for total organic pollutants – a class of chemicals including TCE, PCE, benzene and other toxic substances – in 1963, as Navy regulations required?

The Corps says such testing wouldn’t have made a difference because those early regulations didn’t require specific analysis for TCE, PCE and other toxic substances. Indeed, the appropriate analytical tools weren’t readily available or commonly used by water utilities in the early 1960s.

But even if the Marine Corps hadn’t identified the specific contaminants, those early tests would have alerted officials to a significant pollution problem and prevented decades of human exposure to solvents and other dangerous chemicals, Ensminger says. At a minimum, the Corps would have discovered that Camp Lejeune’s Hadnot Point Fuel Farm was leaking, eventually allowing as much as 1 million gallons of petroleum to seep into the soil and groundwater.

There is other evidence to suggest that camp commanders were slow to act. Congress passed the Safe Drinking Water Act in 1974 after a national outcry over water pollution. Even the magazine Civil Engineering – hardly a staple of the environmental movement – published a cover story in September 1977 headlined, “Are U.S. cities doing enough to remove cancer-causing chemicals from drinking water?” By then, Camp Lejeune had the third-largest municipal water system in North Carolina and was obligated to meet federal drinking water standards.

An Army analytical lab was finally tapped to test Camp Lejeune’s water in 1980, as required under the Safe Drinking Water Act. It alerted the base several times to high levels of drinking water pollution that were interfering with its analysis, although the lab didn’t identify specific contaminants. Two years later, a private lab also found dangerously high levels of toxic substances while conducting similar water sampling. In fact, the water was so contaminated that Grainger Labs assumed it had gotten bad samples. It repeated the tests several times in May 1982 and discovered dangerously high levels of TCE and other solvents.

“I was alarmed,” says Mike Hargett, then co-owner of the lab. “By 1982, the toxicological impact of TCE and PCE exposure was well‑established. They should not have been drinking that water.”

Hargett took his concerns to Camp Lejeune officials, and even met with the officer in charge of the water utility – an individual whose name he no longer recalls. “I said, ‘This is not something you want to expose the population to,’” Hargett says. “He dismissed me, saying, ‘This is something we will turn over to the Navy.’”

Camp Lejeune continued to use the contaminated wells for another two and a half years. As a result, water supplied to parts of the base by the Hadnot Point treatment plant contained as much as 1,400 parts per billion of TCE. That’s the highest level of the solvent recorded in a municipal drinking water system in the United States, and 280 times today’s TCE limit.

But the Marine Corps says the source of the pollution was unknown. It also cites the lack of limits on solvents in drinking water as a reason it didn’t take immediate action. In addition, it’s difficult to second-guess decisions made decades ago. “Although it is impossible to know why a discretionary action was or was not taken more than 25 years ago, one must view the situation in the context of the relevant time period,” the Marine Corps says.

Camp Lejeune finally began closing its highly contaminated wells in late 1984. Even then, the base newspaper mentioned only “trace contamination” and did not warn of any potential health effects. A letter the Marine Corps sent to Tarawa Terrace residents in April 1985 mentioned “minute (trace) amounts of several organic chemicals in the drinking water,” but most of the letter focused on water conservation required by the well closures.

This lackluster response is puzzling for other reasons. The Navy shuttered contaminated water wells at other bases well before Camp Lejeune finally took action. Naval Air Station Willow Grove and Naval Air Warfare Center Warminster – both in Pennsylvania – closed contaminated wells in 1979, according to records Ensminger unearthed.

Hargett’s firm found lower concentrations of contamination in the drinking water at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point in North Carolina in the early 1980s. Hargett notified Cherry Point’s water system manager, who immediately shut down the offending well because the person in charge of the utility “understood the severity of the problem,” he says.

The difference, Hargett believes, is that the problem didn’t come to the attention of the right person at Camp Lejeune until late 1984. “I don’t think they had the right information or understanding of the problem,” he says. A field commander is concerned about having enough water for his troops to bathe, drink and do the work he needs to do. “The details of what was in that water were a secondary concern.” That mentality carried over to the water utility at Camp Lejeune.

Haunted By Questions

In the summer of 1997, almost 12 years after his daughter died, Jerry Ensminger heard a TV news report that said Camp Lejeune’s drinking water had been

contaminated with solvents potentially linked to childhood leukemia. “It was like God had opened up the sky and said, ‘Jerry, here is a possible answer to the nagging question that has plagued you,’” he says.

By then, Ensminger had retired from the Marines as a master sergeant and was raising corn and soybeans not far from Camp Lejeune. He started a group called The Few, The Proud, The Forgotten and began digging for answers. Tom Townsend, a former Marine whose son mysteriously died six weeks after his birth at Camp Lejeune, joined Ensminger. Townsend filed more than a thousand requests for Marine Corps and Navy records under the federal Freedom of Information Act.

Townsend’s health later forced him to step aside. But Mike Partain, the son of a Camp Lejeune Marine, heard about Ensminger’s work and stepped up. Partain was born at Camp Lejeune in 1968, had just undergone a radical mastectomy for a rare case of male breast cancer and was likewise searching for answers. He dedicated nine months to sorting the records Townsend and Ensminger had obtained and constructing a detailed timeline of Camp Lejeune’s contamination.

Ensminger and his volunteers pored through hundreds of documents, including copies of emails that showed that the Marine Corps considered postponing the release of information about drinking water contamination at Camp Lejeune, as well as a health survey, because the movie version of “A Civil Action” was about to hit theaters. Such timing would bring unwanted attention to the problems at the base, one Camp Lejeune official worried.

Ensminger, meanwhile, made countless trips to Capitol Hill. He’s testified before the House and Senate five times. In 2008, he successfully lobbied Congress to order the Marine Corps to formally notify former Marines, family members and civilians about the Camp Lejeune water contamination. Ensminger scored another victory last August when President Barack Obama signed legislation mandating VA health care for former Camp Lejeune residents. However, there are concerns about how long it will take VA to begin providing care to families.

Ensminger continues his fight for comprehensive epidemiological studies of the people who lived and worked at Camp Lejeune, and is worried about ongoing delays in the release of the results. The Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry was expected to publish two studies in July: an analysis of birth defects among Camp Lejeune residents and a historical reconstruction of their exposure to contaminated drinking water. The historical reconstruction is particularly important, he says, since it’s the foundation for future Camp Lejeune health studies.

Most of all, Ensminger tries to make sense of the profound betrayal he and others feel from an institution he served and revered – and to answer the questions that still haunt them, such as how and why.

“We still don’t have the whole truth about what happened to us and our families,” Ensminger says. “Janey’s dead. Nothing’s going to help her. But there are other people out there who are still suffering.”

The story originally appeared in the February 2013 issue of The American Legion Magazine.

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Suicide help on the home front: Symposium April 20 at Fort Belvoir, Virginia for military spouses and children

Frustrated by the lack of attention on the crisis military families face, an Army wife is organizing a suicide awareness symposium to help the spouses and children who are struggling on the home front.

“Are You Listening: Suicide Awareness for Spouses and Family Members” is planned for April 20 at the USO Warrior and Family Center in Fort Belvoir, Va., says Karen Francis, the military family advocate who organized the symposium. Plans for the program include the survivor of someone who committed suicide, representatives from Give An Hour, Not Alone, American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, and other groups.

The symposium also includes stress management information, yoga and lunch. There is no charge.  The symposium runs from 8:30 a.m. to 1 p.m.

Francis was prompted to put together the symposium after the September 2012 Army-wide suicide stand down failed to address suicide risk among military families.

“They did not say one word about family members except, ‘Servicemembers should keep an eye on their spouse,’” Francis says. “They aren’t counting us, but we know spouses are committing suicide and teenagers are committing suicide.”

The April 20 workshop is geared specifically to families of servicemembers, DoD contractors, Guard and Reservists. Francis also hopes to reach caregivers of injured servicemembers.

“We’re there to provide as much information as possible so they know there’s a place to reach out besides Military OneSource,” Francis says. “If Behavioral Health can’t help you, there are many alternatives.”

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Frank Kowalski’s forgotten war: In the mid-’50s, Kowalski and hundreds of other U.S. soldiers were sent to a largely unknown country called Vietnam

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved)

The Pentagon didn’t acknowledge Frank Kowalski’s tour in Southeast Asia for more than 40 years. Some of his fellow veterans still don’t.

Kowalski was handed orders for Vietnam on his 19th birthday in September 1955 and told nothing else about his surprise new assignment. Six weeks later, he received a top security clearance and $200 to buy tourist clothes. “Trying to buy summer wear in November is a little difficult,” he jokes. He soon flew to Travis Air Force Base in California to begin an eight-day island hop across the Pacific in a turboprop military transport.

Frank Kowalski and his brother Chester just before Frank shipped out to Vietnam. (Photo Courtesy of Frank Kowalski.)

Frank Kowalski (left) and his brother Chester just before Frank shipped out to Vietnam. (Photo Courtesy of Frank Kowalski.)

When he arrived in Vietnam shortly before Christmas, Kowalski stashed his uniform and donned the slacks and short-sleeve shirt the Army ordered him to wear. During his first night in Saigon, he was assaulted by a group of rock-throwing Vietnamese while returning to his apartment across from the Metropole Hotel. A dental technician stitched up his head.

Kowalski was with Tech Sgt. Richard Fitzgibbon Jr. when he was killed by a fellow airman on June 8, 1956. More than 40 years later, Fitzgibbon became the earliest U.S. casualty etched into the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington. The publicity surrounding that event enabled Kowalski to meet Fitzgibbon’s daughter and tell her about the father she barely knew. (Fitzgibbon’s son, Richard III, was killed in Vietnam in 1965; the Fitzgibbons are one of two confirmed father-son duos to die in the war.)

Kowalski regards his service with the Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) Vietnam, an early U.S. effort to train the South Vietnamese army to defend itself against the communist North, as one of the defining experiences of his life. Throughout his career as a rehabilitation counselor, special education teacher, and high school drug and alcohol counselor, he kept two photos on his desk. One was of his father at the steel mill in western Pennsylvania that Kowalski sought to escape when he joined the Army. The other was a picture of himself preparing to go to Vietnam.

Kowalski recently spoke with The American Legion Magazine about his role with MAAGV and his interactions with the Vietnamese people.

What did you know about Vietnam before you deployed?

My orientation was probably better than anybody else’s because I was attending McKeesport (Pa.) High School in 1954 and my civics teacher – a World War II veteran – taught us current events. French Indochina was falling at the time. Still, Vietnam was so new that after I got my orders I had to go to the Fort Myer library and look it up.

What went through your mind as you stepped off that plane in Saigon?

I was terrified. I remember riding in the jeep to my quarters, going past rice paddies, hearing gunshots, smelling dung.

Did that sense of unease persist?

I was apprehensive. I couldn’t tell who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. Saigon was infiltrated by thousands of refugees who were fleeing North Vietnam. No one spoke English. People would drive by and shoot at the Americans. A couple of months after I got there, somebody threw a satchel charge in the back window of one of our Chevy coupes and killed our Vietnamese driver. We weren’t allowed to go out during the presidential election in April 1956 – there were demonstrations and shooting – or on May Day, which is a big communist holiday.

What was most difficult about your tour?

Frank Kowalski's visa for blog

Frank Kowalski’s was issued a Vietnamese visa for his tour with MAAG in the mid-1950s.

Not knowing anything about the Vietnamese culture or people, not understanding the language and what these people had gone through after 100 years of French occupation and, during World War II, four years of Japanese occupation. There were French aristocrats having parties and people living in the gutter starving. You could go from the impoverished to the elite in 10 minutes.

Did you blend in as a tourist, like the government hoped?

I had red hair. People stopped and stared at me when I walked down the street.

Describe the assault your first night there.

I was walking back to the billets with an Army sergeant who was going to be working with me, and these Vietnamese were following us. They started throwing rocks, and I got hit in the head.  I had to be sewed up by a dental technician. The next day my commanding officer said, “Did anybody tell you not to go out at night?”

How did your perspective on the Vietnamese change?

I came to respect them. They were very bright people, very industrious. By the time I left, I thought they might just pull it together and win this war. They didn’t. But they came over here and grabbed the American dream. Today, if you go to the VA here in San Diego you have a lot of Vietnamese doctors and nurses. The cardiologist who put a couple of stents in me was Vietnamese.

How did you come to teach English?

A guy in the signal section taught a conversational English class in a building next to the embassy. They asked me if I wanted to take his place after he left. It was mostly telling stories about America. They wanted to know what snow was like. If you really had hot water every day. It sparked my interest in education.

Describe the group you deployed with

There were 350 of us. A lot of the guys with me were career – World War II veterans, and some fought in Korea. About a quarter of us were around Saigon, and 75 percent were out in the provinces teaching the Vietnamese how to fight. Were the bad guys shooting at us? Yes. Were we shooting back at the bad guys? Yes. Did anybody say anything about it? No.

There also were a lot of CIA there, but you didn’t know who they were because we all wore civilian clothes. You could be shooting the breeze with a guy at the bar thinking he was another PFC and he was CIA. My older brother, Chester, showed up about six months after I arrived. He was with the Army’s Temporary Equipment Recovery Mission, which was supposed to track all of the weapons and ordnance we had given the French that had gone missing.

What was your job?

I was in the signal section. Our primary job was to establish radio contact with our guys out in the bush training the South Vietnamese army. We also monitored Hanoi. And we maintained a signal with Clark Air Base (in the Philippines) because if we evacuated, it was to Clark. It was boring as hell at 2 in the morning, so I listened to Radio Free America and read teletypes of the propaganda broadcasts from Hanoi.

And you bought a gun on the black market?

We were guarded by South Vietnamese troops. They weren’t that good, and there weren’t enough of them to guard the transmitter and receiver sites. Since I worked 10 miles outside Saigon – and worked alone – I wanted a weapon. I bought a revolver, but it was big and bulky and I felt like John Wayne. So I traded a guy at the U.S. Embassy for a nickel-plated .32-caliber Beretta that I could carry under my shirt. I had to get a license and register my weapon with the Vietnamese-American Consulate. I only used it once. I fired three shots in the air to scare off these Viet Cong who would come to my radio shack at night and throw rocks at the shutters. Everyone in the signal section bought weapons because of the limited security and sold them to our replacements as we left.

How was Tech Sgt. Richard Fitzgibbon Jr. killed?

Fitz was the crew chief on a C-47 that flew provisions out to our guys in the bush. The radioman on his airplane was giving him problems because they were taking ground fire and he was frightened. Fitz was saying, “If you keep flaking off, I’m going to write you up.” One night, this radioman got his pistol, came into the bar at the Metropole and started shooting. Emptied one clip. Put another one in his gun, then went outside and shot Fitz four times.

I was coming out of a movie next door, heard all of the gunshots and smelled the cordite. I went around the corner, saw two guys lying on the sidewalk. I knelt down by Fitz and held the back of his head. He wanted to sit up a little bit so he could breathe better. I knew he wasn’t going to make it. It was June 8, 1956. I thought, “Jesus, I just graduated from high school two years ago today. What the hell am I doing here?” The other guy who was shot was evacuated to Clark. The radioman went up a fire escape, fell and died.

Somebody put a fishbowl on the counter of the hotel and we put money in it for his widow and four kids. I often wondered what happened to his family – whether his widow ever got that money. There was no Internet, no way to search. I went to the VA in Cleveland after I got home to get the ringing in my ears checked out, and I asked them if they had any records of our group that might help me find his family. The VA told me, “Nobody from the U.S. has gone to Vietnam.”

How did you finally connect with the Fitzgibbon family?

A TV reporter called me on Veterans Day 1998 when Fitz’s name was going to be added to the Wall. She told me Fitz’s daughter lived nearby. So my wife and I followed the reporter over to her house. I gave his daughter pictures of where Fitz lived and where he sat in front of the hotel handing out candy to the Vietnamese children. I told her how he got a jeep and took us all to Mass on Easter Sunday. I asked her if her mother had ever received the money we collected for the family. She didn’t know. But that night Fitz’s sister, Alice, called me. She said, “Forty-three years later, his widow wants me to thank you.”

How does it feel to not have your Vietnam service acknowledged?

There’s virtually an era of involvement that is forgotten. Someone in the Pentagon decided Vietnam started in 1962. When I tried to join the VFW, I was told I was not in Vietnam prior to 1962. My DD 214 didn’t say “Vietnam,” it said “foreign country.” I had never really paid attention to it. The Legion classifies me as a Korean War veteran because I served 1954 to 1957.

Nothing that we did compared to what they did from ’62 to ’75. But that should not denigrate what a few thousand soldiers did before 1962. We had a lot of casualties. And I’m proud of my service. I’m not looking for acknowledgement. I’m looking for recognition that people were there and doing a good and noble thing prior to 1962.

Did you think Vietnam would become a controversial war?

No. I thought we’d have some kind of stalemate, the politicians would get involved and then we would have some kind of agreement with the North. I never in my wildest dreams thought 58,000 guys would never come back.

What is MAAG’s legacy?

It was a noble effort to do the right thing in the spirit of the time. Russia and Red China were at their peak. There was an invasive communist threat. The tragedy of the Korean War was still so fresh. We didn’t want that to happen again.

This story originally appeared in the February issue of The American Legion Magazine.

MAAG reunion set for May

Two years ago, Wayne McCaughey started searching for soldiers who had served with him in the little know Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) Vietnam. That led him to organize the first reunion of this group of servicemembers who put aside their uniforms and weapons in the 1950s and early 1960s to help train the Army of the Republic of Vietnam defend itself from the North Vietnamese.

McCaughey served with MAAG-Vietnam in 1960 and sustained shrapnel wounds when a South Vietnamese soldier tripped a landmine.

The reunion will include service members who served both with MAAG-Vietnam and it’s earlier incarnation MAAG – Indochina. It will be held May 10-12 at the Airport Hilton in St. Louis. For more information, contact McCaughey at 540-450-8526 or email him at wmmccaughey@verizon.net.

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Upside Down Lives: Spouses and parents of severely injured veterans struggle under weight of 24/7 caregiving

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2012/All Rights Reserved)

By the time Debbie Schulz got help, she had been her wounded son’s full-time caregiver for more than six years. She had lost her husband, her teaching career and her retirement. She lay awake at night wondering how she was going to get health insurance.

“That blast changed the fabric of our family,” Schulz says of the roadside bomb that inflicted a traumatic brain injury (TBI), partial paralysis and vision loss on 20-year-old Steven Schulz during his second tour with the Marines in Iraq. “It’s that sort of constant having to rewrite your life and what you are doing.”

Yet, Schulz is fortunate among caregivers in some respects. Last year, she started receiving a stipend and health insurance under the Caregivers and Veterans Omnibus Health Services Act of 2010, the first federal program to provide assistance directly to families caring for veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. “As everybody applies and settles into the program, we’re realizing how much we needed it,” Schulz says. “And we wonder how we ever got by without it.”

Schulz and other caregivers also hope that the program, championed by The American Legion and other veterans service organizations, will evolve to meet the realities of caring for injured veterans. High on the list: compensation. Caregivers receive a stipend for a maximum 40-hour workweek – far short of the around-the-clock care many provide, particularly to veterans with brain injuries. “It’s truly 24/7, even when they look fairly independent,” Schulz says.

Respite care and counseling provided by the legislation are also inadequate and difficult for families to access. In addition, many caregivers of post-9/11 veterans have no idea the program is available.

“I’m still hearing from people who don’t know about it,” says Karen Francis, an Army wife and military family advocate. “I can’t imagine it would be that hard to do phone outreach.”

New Realities

Sarah Wade helped start the drive for caregiver relief in 2005, about a year after her husband, Ted, was blown out of the back of a Humvee in Iraq and suffered TBI, a broken leg and amputation of his right arm. Then-Sen. Hillary Clinton introduced the Heroes at Home Act in 2006, but the measure died.

Wade, military families and VSOs kept up the pressure, and the Senate went to work on a new bill, says Ian de Planque, the Legion’s deputy director of legislative affairs. But VA opposed caregiver legislation – the agency insisted its mission was to help veterans, not assist families – and the program was painfully slow to launch. The agency didn’t start accepting applications until May 2011, a year after the act passed.

Despite this rocky start, the program is making a difference. “There’s a system in place, there are families who are getting benefits, and it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing,” de Planque says.

The result, as Sen. Dick Durbin, D-Ill., noted in a speech marking the anniversary of the act, is that veterans “are home with someone they love at a fraction of the cost of institutional care.”

Today, Schulz and Wade are among no fewer than 5,150 caregivers receiving stipends through the post-9/11 veterans caregiver program – 1,000 more than VA had anticipated enrolling by 2015. They receive, on average, between $600 and $2,200 a month, based on care needs and local wage rates for home health aides in their area. About 1,200 caregivers also receive health insurance through the program.

The burden on these parents, spouses and siblings is considerable. Many are exhausted, overwhelmed and face decades in roles they never prepared for. “It’s a drastic shift to go from coping with being apart to being together 24/7,” says Wade, whose husband served with the Army in Afghanistan and Iraq. “And it’s not like I was eased into that transition.”

Even families with professional caregiving or mental health treatment experience are surprised by the demands. Schulz was a psychiatric social worker for the state of Texas for nine years before becoming a special-education teacher in a Houston suburb. “Both of these careers prepared me for some of the realities of traumatic brain injury,” Schulz says, “but not the realities of becoming a caregiver.” Her son required help with tasks as simple as getting dressed and brushing his teeth. “It was step by step,” she says. “I was exhausted those first six years.”

Schulz took a temporary leave from her teaching job after her son was wounded in April 2005, thinking she’d go back to work the following fall. She extended her leave twice – once for six months and then for a year – before she realized that she would never be able to return to the classroom. “Dealing with Steven was a lot like dealing with my class,” she says. “I know I couldn’t do that during the day and come home at night and deal with Steven’s needs.”

In addition, Steven couldn’t be left by himself. And Schulz didn’t have the resources to hire someone to help him, or the confidence that she could find someone who would take good care of her son. Then her husband died unexpectedly in March 2011.

Elements of Schulz’s dilemma are common to families helping injured veterans.

“People are really struggling with their role as caregivers,” says Joan Griffin, a researcher with the Minneapolis VA Health Care System and an associate professor of medicine at the University of Minnesota Medical School. She led a 2009 study of caregivers. “It’s incredibly hard.”

Post-9/11 caregivers deal with far different issues than those helping veterans from earlier conflicts, who are more likely to suffer from cancer or chronic diseases than combat-related injuries, Griffin says. Because they are helping Iraq and Afghanistan veterans, they are typically younger and face a lifetime of caregiving. They often take care of veterans with multiple injuries – such as TBI, amputations and other wounds – who might not have survived earlier wars. Because of their age, post-9/11 caregivers are unlikely to have peers also taking care of a veteran, leaving them isolated and invisible.

The strain goes both ways. “I think the level of stress is pretty great for veterans and caregivers,” Griffin says. “A lot of times with brain injuries, veterans can remember what they were like before the brain injury. The caregivers mourn who they’ve lost and the things they used to do, just as the veterans mourn who they used to be.”

“You are asking some very young people to take on something they never thought they would have to take on,” Francis adds. “You reach the point you want your own life too.”

Lonely Road

Count 32-year-old Lee Karcher among the frustrated. Her husband, Mark, came home from his third deployment with TBI, PTSD, and knee, back and shoulder injuries. He suffers from migraine headaches, a hernia, acid reflux, sleeplessness and depression. He has not been able to find a job since he was honorably discharged from the Army and returned to southern Oregon in September 2010.

“I sent him to war a whole, healthy strong man and they returned a broken shell of a man to me,” says Karcher, who cares for her husband and six children ages 6 to 13. “It can be a very lonely road. It’s like having another child – a disturbed child, on top of that.”

Negotiating the veterans benefits system has been arduous and confusing. “We’ve been told something different at four different VAs,” Karcher says. “Eventually you get to the right person, but we spend several hours a week chasing information.”

Karcher learned about the caregiver program from Mark’s VA psychiatrist. Lee, who was designated his official caregiver in August 2011, receives a monthly stipend of about $1,200 – the equivalent of about $8 an hour for a 40-hour work week. But that extra income cost the Karchers most of their food stamp benefits.

That’s an unfair trade, she says. “It’s like, ‘Thanks for your service to our country. Now get out of here.’”

High co-pays also prevent Karcher, who has Crohn’s disease, from using the health insurance she receives through the caregiver program. And she is too busy homeschooling children with special dietary needs, and getting her husband to medical appointments in four different cities, to take advantage of the caregiver respite or counseling programs.

Assuming the role of single parent, however, has been the hardest part of this upside-down life. “I need a second adult in the house to be an example, to be a disciplinarian, to give kisses and a hug, to be an extra set of hands,” Karcher says. “To have that go downhill is, as a mother, really hard to watch.”

Still, Karcher remains committed. “At times, things feel really bleak,” she says. “But I am a faith-based person. I feel the angels have been there pulling my load. There are still times of peace and love.”

This sort of resilience is typical among caregivers Griffin encounters in her research. “I am amazed by their spirit,” she says. “I never finish (a caregiver) interview without thinking, ‘I can’t believe how they have persevered.’ It’s heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.”

Griffin and her team surveyed 564 family members caring for veterans discharged from VA polytrauma treatment centers. The results are both encouraging and cautionary. Thirty percent of the caregivers said their veterans needed very little help. “That’s a sign that rehabilitation works,” she says. “My hopeful side is that a certain portion do get better and go on to lead functional lives.”

Even so, 22 percent are completely consumed by their roles. Half of these “high-intensity caregivers” are providing care more than 80 hours a week, Griffin says. “That is a pretty vulnerable group that needs a lot of support.” And their stress doesn’t subside over time, as some might expect.

“The take-home message is that the consequences of war extend far beyond the veteran who has fought, to families and communities,” Griffin says. “Those consequences will extend a long time, and families and communities are not well-prepared for what that takes. VA has a role in setting that up.”

Dignity and Equality

Going forward, families and veterans advocates hope that VA’s role will include revamping respite care and caregiver counseling. “Neither are easy to access or appropriately provided,” Schulz says.

Indeed, Wade’s options for respite care include leaving her husband at a VA hospital, nursing home or similar institution for up to 30 days a year. But he would be miserable in such a restrictive environment with an older population, she says. “I was adamant, because of our experiences, that respite care be age-appropriate for the veteran,” Wade says of her work to help draft the legislation. “That isn’t happening.”

For the Wades, another option is using a home health agency of VA’s choice. But Ted says he’s uncomfortable having a stranger caring for him at home, and Sarah is leery of leaving him with someone not well-versed in his needs. “They typically aren’t experienced with cognitive and neurobehavorial issues (such as TBI and PTSD) and they aren’t trained to deal with mental health issues,” Wade says. “Polytrauma care can’t be cookie-cutter. Each individual has unique issues that compound each other.”

The fix is straightforward, caregivers say. Families should be able to hire an approved provider of their choice to stay with a veteran when they need the help. “I don’t expect VA to be able to provide it all,” Wade says. “Leverage community resources to provide the best and most appropriate care.”

VA officials say they’re open to making changes. “We’re aware we have work to do in this arena,” says Deborah Amdur, VA’s chief consultant for care management and social work. “We are working with our community partners on alternatives.” VA also hopes to introduce an alternative telephone support program to help caregivers who cannot access the current counseling options.

VA and caregivers, however, are still at odds over increasing caregiver stipends to recognize the 24/7 strain on families. VA says it will contract with home health agencies to supplement family caregiving where it’s deemed necessary for more than 40 hours a week, Amdur says. “We understand the significant burden many of these families are under and want to support them with supplemental care in the home as needed. We know the stipend does not replace employment. It is meant to be a recognition of sacrifices the family caregivers make.”

For caregivers, however, this reinforces how poorly VA understands the situation. “We wrote this bill because home health agencies were either an inappropriate resource or limited as far as usefulness,” Wade says. “Ted’s doctor has said since 2005 that a home health agency is clinically inappropriate care. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Caregivers are also mystified by VA’s willingness to spend huge sums of money on home health agencies instead of assistance appropriate for young veterans with a range of complex physical and cognitive injuries. “The idea isn’t to simply put the veteran somewhere and keep them alive,” Wade says. “If VA is willing to spend the money for Ted to be miserable with a home health agency or a group home and separate him from society, why would they not be willing to use that money to provide quality of life and further his independence as well?” she continues. “Our country owes it to Ted to treat him with dignity and equality.”

Outside of VA, meanwhile, there is broad support for expanding the post-9/11 caregiver assistance program to families caring for veterans of all eras.

“I know that would be very costly,” Schulz says. “But it sort of puts a rift between generations when one gets it and, for the others, it’s ‘Oh, no, you can’t have it.’”

“I’ve fielded a lot of calls from people who say, ‘I’ve taken care of my husband since Vietnam,’” de Planque adds. “I have a lot of sympathy for that. We hope to get that changed and are working toward that goal.”

VA will present a report to Congress on the feasibility of expanding the program this spring, but there’s no indication where that will lead. Despite the flaws in the caregivers act, families of post-9/11 veterans can’t imagine being able to do this work without the assistance.

“Without the caregiver stipend and attached benefits,” Schulz says, “I would probably be much like I was for the first six years – treading water, but never knowing what event may come along and sink me.”

This story first appeared in the December 2012 issue of  The American Legion Magazine.

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For Air Force veteran, challenge trumps comfort

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2012/All Rights Reserved)

Nicole Green walked away from her secure six-figure salary at a Washington consulting firm for a far more austere and uncertain future at Team Rubicon.

That says everything about the quality of people the veterans group attracts, not to mention Green’s dedication to helping veterans find a meaningful place in the civilian world.

“She would rather have something that gives her purpose,” says Joshua Webster, Team Rubicon’s personnel and training director, who Green is replacing as he returns to active duty with the Army. “It’s amazing we have people willing to do that.”NIcole in Joplin

The decision was easy for Green.

“Team Rubicon has given me a much more tangible sense of accomplishment,” she says. “It’s given me a peer group I didn’t realize I was missing as much as I was.”

Green had plenty of other options. An Air Force Academy graduate, she served as an intelligence officer in Iraq early in the war. She left the military in 2006 and taught English in Russia while earning her master’s in diplomacy with a focus on conflict resolution. Green then moved to Washington to work as a management consultant for Deloitte Consulting.

“She’s the type of person you look at and think you’d never be able to afford to hire because she’s so intelligent, successful and accomplished,” says Jake Wood, president and co-founder of Team Rubicon. “Fortunately for us, Nicole has a deep passion for Team Rubicon and our mission. She’s willing to sacrifice some of the comforts afforded her pedigree to join our team.”

Green is like a lot of the talent Team Rubicon attracts. Army veteran Matt Pelak volunteers as the group’s field operations director when he’s not working as a firefighter/paramedic in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., or serving with the National Guard. Dan Fong, a Denver-area firefighter/paramedic field instructor, donates his time as a regional coordinator and counts himself lucky to be able to work with a rapid-response effort even though he has no military background. Dr. John Sutter volunteers as chief medical officer between shifts at a hospital in Bethel, Alaska, and a homeless clinic in New York City.

“Everybody I’ve met in the organization is trying to do something outside of themselves and outside the norm,” Sutter says. “I believe in the mission, and everybody I’ve met along the way is going to be a friend for life.”

Like many people, Green’s connection to Team Rubicon involves the late Clay Hunt – one of the group’s original members. She met Hunt and Wood during a veterans lobbying week on Capitol Hill in 2010, soon after they returned from Team Rubicon’s first Haiti mission.

Pelak recruited Green after Hunt, haunted by PTSD and depression, killed himself in late March 2011. “At Clay’s funeral, Matt walked up to me and said, ‘You have a level head. You are good in a crisis. You should join.'”

Nicole Green clearing debris after a tornado ripped through the Joplin, Mississippi area.

Nicole Green clearing debris after a tornado ripped through the Joplin, Mississippi area.

A month later Green was part of the team’s response to the tornadoes in Tuscaloosa, Ala.,followed almost immediately by a mission to the tornado-ravaged Joplin, Mo., area. Next came Hurricane Irene on the East Coast.

“It’s a call to action that immediately engages every veteran,” Green says. “It gives them a purpose, a focus, a sense of pride. They tell me, ‘This gives me a reason to be proud to be a veteran.'”

This story appeared in conjunction with Mission Possible — the story of how Team Rubicon was born in the midst of the 2010 Haiti earthquake. 

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Mission Possible: Team Rubicon’s rapid response to natural disasters gives combat veterans the challenge they crave

By Ken Olsen

(Copyright 2012 / All Rights Reserved)

The moment he saw the destruction on TV in January 2010, former Marine scout-sniper Jake Wood knew he had to get to Haiti. He called a few friends, posted a quick note on Facebook – “I’m going to Haiti. Who’s in?” – filled some duffel bags with first-aid supplies and headed for the airport. Team Rubicon was born.

Forty-eight hours later, Wood joined seven other volunteers – Marines, firefighters, physicians, a priest and a former Special Forces medic – at the Santo Domingo airport in the Dominican Republic and headed for the Haitian border. Six days after the magnitude-7 earthquake devastated the region, they were running a makeshift emergency room in the courtyard of Port-au-Prince’s largest hospital.

By the end of the mission, Team Rubicon had treated thousands of Haitians and started a rapid-response group that has since dispatched combat veterans to natural disasters from Alabama and Indiana to Burma and the Sudan.

“I self-responded to Hurricane Katrina with a buddy from high school, and I saw how poor the response could be when things got overwhelming,” Wood says. “No one is better qualified than veterans to do this. This is an opportunity for them to feel like a part of a team, to engage in a mission. This is the opportunity I’ve been looking for since I took off the uniform (in 2009).”

Disaster Business

Before the Haiti disaster, neither Wood nor Team Rubicon co-founder William McNulty had considered using relief work to help veterans transition to civilian life. In fact, McNulty had never met Wood when he telephoned him to say, “I’m in” after seeing Wood’s Facebook post about going to Haiti.

Wood was taking college classes and applying to MBA programs following deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. The 6-foot-6-inch former University of Wisconsin left tackle wasn’t sure where business school was taking him. Banking, perhaps. “I was hoping to discover an entrepreneurial opportunity,” Wood says. “I was going to graduate school to give myself two years to figure out what that plan would be.”

McNulty was working in the intelligence community after two tours with a private contractor in Iraq. Dissatisfied, the former Marine formed a production company, bought the rights to ex-CIA officers’ stories and geared up to make his first film. “Never did I set out to start a disaster-relief organization,” McNulty says.

Haiti rewrote the script.

The aftermath of the earthquake was horrific: children with crushed limbs, the smell of gangrene, the urgency of amputations. Death. The pressure of being the only relief effort in the area.

“We were all going through something,” McNulty says. “We didn’t realize it was going to have a huge impact on our lives.” By the second day at the hospital, he was so overcome with despair that he stepped outside and cried.

But there was promise as well. Team Rubicon’s ranks grew every day. Ten doctors and nurses from Chicago arrived with two and a half tons of medical supplies. McNulty managed to get the supplies from the airport to the hospital despite a U.S. Army officer who tried to seize them for the American embassy. Clay Hunt – Wood’s best friend from the Marines – tracked the team down in the chaos of Port-au-Prince on the third day with nothing more than GPS coordinates, and started changing bandages, casting fractures and fashioning crutches from tree branches and duct tape.

Team Rubicon's Clay Hunt building crutches for victims of the January 2010 earthquake in Haiti.

Team Rubicon’s Clay Hunt building crutches for victims of the January 2010 earthquake in Haiti.

“You could see tangible results,” McNulty says. “You knew the work you were doing on a child was going to save a life. That’s very important to veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan.”

On their fourth day in Haiti, McNulty turned to Wood and said, “Jake, I think we have a model.” An attorney and former Marine following Team Rubicon’s work on the Internet also thought there was a future for Wood’s and McNulty’s approach to disaster relief.

“My dad was kind of running things for us back home,” Wood says. “On Day 6, he called to say, ‘Some lawyer just incorporated you as a nonprofit group.’”

Bridge the Gap

Team Rubicon initially focused on replicating its Haiti blueprint by pairing military veterans with medical volunteers and getting them to disaster scenes while the larger, more established groups were still mobilizing. A month after the devastation in Haiti, Chile suffered one of the largest earthquakes ever recorded. Wood, McNulty, Hunt and other volunteers headed to South America and again showed that their model worked.

However, there was less demand for their skills because Chile was better prepared to deal with natural disasters. Team Rubicon decided to focus on underdeveloped countries, particularly places where other groups didn’t feel comfortable sending volunteers.

“We’re getting young, hungry military combat veterans,” Wood says. “Everybody has the mindset that there’s nothing they can’t do.”

Team Rubicon has sent combat veterans with trauma expertise to Burma to train medics in a region that suffered violent government repression. It returned to Haiti when a cholera epidemic ripped through the country. It performed a monthlong medical mission in South Sudan. It sent a team to Pakistan to help flood victims. The list goes on.

Team Rubicon has bridged the gap between a disaster and the time when more established aid groups were able to respond. The group travels light, and hires locals rather than trying to fly in enough vehicles, equipment and personnel to take care of every imaginable need. “I think the biggest difference is what happens when we hit the ground running,” Wood says. “A lot of organizations set up tents and white boards and do risk analysis. We do our analysis on the fly, just like they teach us in the military.”

At every turn, the team relies on personal connections and persistence to gain access to disaster scenes: the childhood friend who played squash with the Pakistani doctor who knew the Pakistani ambassador to Japan who could connect them to the Pakistani ambassador to the United States. The Alabama doctor whose uncle knew the Tuscaloosa fire chief and could direct them to where help was most needed. The Haitian ambassador who took McNulty at his word and wrote letters in both Spanish and French Creole guaranteeing their safe passage across the Haitian border.

Renewed Purpose

Veterans who struggle to find their place after leaving the military thrive with Team Rubicon. Hunt – Wood’s scout-sniper partner – seemed to only find relief for his PTSD and depression when he was on missions.

“I cannot tell you how good it feels to be able to go into a rubble-strewn city in a Third World country and to be able to do good without having to worry whether or not everybody around is about to start shooting at you,” Hunt wrote after his third trip to Haiti. “I found a renewed sense of purpose within myself that has been missing since I separated from the (Marines). I found myself in the company of a band of brothers once again, which has been absolutely priceless to me.”

People noticed the difference in Hunt, who grieved the loss of four close friends in combat and was frustrated by his battles to get help from VA.

“It was such a good fit,” says Hunt’s mother, Susan Selke. When he came back from missions, “he was on top of the world.”

But the PTSD and the depression were too much. Hunt killed himself in March 2011, not long after the Houston VA hospital sent him home without filling his new antidepressant prescription, telling him they would mail it to him in two weeks.

Team Rubicon reeled.

“It wasn’t until Clay killed himself that we took a hard look at what service meant to a veteran – a sense of purpose, of self-worth,” McNulty says. “Things veterans lose when they take the uniform off.”

Wood and McNulty realized that the organization had to engage more veterans more often, and in their own communities. Team Rubicon had to perform disaster relief at home.

A month after Hunt killed himself, a tornado ripped through Tuscaloosa, Ala. Team Rubicon Domestic was born.

Twenty-five volunteers turned out to tarp roofs, remove trees and clean up debris. “That jump-started what became our flagship program,” Wood says.

The work was just what J.C. McGreehan needed. “My transition from the military was pretty difficult,” says McGreehan, who served in the Army. “I had this incredible gap in my life. Just knowing you have even five minutes of positive impact on somebody’s life is so rewarding.”

As Team Rubicon helped untangle Tuscaloosa, the veterans’ cellphones began ringing with the news that Osama bin Laden was dead.

“There was an outpouring of emotion from these normally stoic Marines,” says Dr. Alan Ogles, a family physician in Ashland, Ala., and a Team Rubicon volunteer.

Four weeks later, another tornado hit Joplin, Mo. Nicole Green found herself knee-deep in debris with Team Rubicon for the second time in two months.

“At the end of the day, I was exhausted and dirty from working with my hands,” says Green, who works as a management consultant in Washington. “But I did something that made a difference in other people’s lives. That’s something I wasn’t getting in my day job.”

Team Rubicon’s volunteers have positioned themselves as specialists in their field.

“There’s a massive gap in this country when it comes to disaster relief,” says Matt Pelak, field operations director. “The Red Cross and the National Guard don’t go out and get dirty cutting down trees and tarping people’s roofs.”

And who better than America’s veterans to answer the call?

“Veterans need challenges and opportunities,” Wood says. “It’s foolish not to tap them for disaster response.”

Sustaining Success

Team Rubicon recently moved from its founders’ apartments into a spare warehouse near Los Angeles International Airport, where the windows rattle when jets swoop in to land. The organization has a well-stocked mission locker and is recruiting regional directors. The number of volunteers tripled in two months last spring. And Team Rubicon’s model for helping veterans while helping disaster victims is gaining recognition. Veterans advocates have inquired about establishing similar relief programs in Australia and Norway.

Nevertheless, Team Rubicon struggles to keep the lights on and provide meager salaries for five staff members. Donors step forward to help send Team Rubicon to natural disasters here and abroad. But the organization’s rules require that any portion of a donation not spent directly on disaster relief be returned to donors or used for future missions. None of it can go for overhead.

Meanwhile, Team Rubicon’s founders have emptied their bank accounts and maxed out their credit cards as efforts to find funding have faltered. “We’ve gotten turned down for grants because people think we’re too well established,” McNulty says. “It’s frustrating.”

Team Rubicon is living on a small grant from Google while it looks for ways to sustain its mission. But Wood remains as undaunted as the day he announced his Haiti trip. “I’m obsessed with the idea that Team Rubicon can make a difference in the lives of veterans,” he says. “We’re sitting on a gold mine of energy and enthusiasm and talent.”

This story originally appeared in the October 2012 issue of The American Legion Magazine.

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