Crossing the Rubicon...

 

 The following is from a social media post from this day, ten years ago. It is a quote in its entirety.

Crossing the Rubicon...

This is the article I had mentioned a day or two ago. Wanted to release it by Memorial Day. Peace be with us all.

Long Day's Journey...

Early in the morning local time...around 0200 hours...on 11 August 1966, the Coast Guard Cutter Point Welcome was on routine patrol off the coast of Viet Nam near the northern border. The 82-foot, dual supercharged V-12 diesel vessel was distinctive...except on radar, where to a relatively untrained eye it could resemble a small tramp steamer.

Night patrols were usually done without running lights. The Welcome was running at a slow cruise when an airborne surveillance aircraft/targeting center “painted” them as hostile. What followed was a friendly fire attack by a US Navy A4, and an Air Force Crusader that almost blew the gunboat out of the water, instantly killing the skipper, Lt. Brostrom, and Engineman Phillips on the bridge. Chief Patterson took over and got the boat to shore using only the throttles, as the steering was blown away. The others in the 8-man crew made it, but with some very serious injuries from the 20 and 40 mm cannon and rocket fire.

It did not need to happen. The parties involved had the opportunity to fix the situation that allowed the mistake, but did not use it until after the Welcome incident.

How do I know this? Well...I was at the table for the AAR (After Action Review) and had to type the report...and, I was the “opportunity.” Follow below.

This is going to be the Reader's Digest version, because to do more would produce a novella, not an article. Suffice that I enlisted in the Coast Guard in late 1965, at 17. I was eager to serve with the best of the best (at least in my family's opinion). I was a licensed radio operator; could send/receive 25 words per minute in Morse Code; was an Eagle scout, Order of the Arrow, etc.; had trained in survival techniques; and could shoot a two-inch group with a .308. And...I had been tested at over 200 on my IQ. In short, I was exactly what they needed for a specific task at the time...but I didn't really know that until a little later.

My “real” job was yeoman to the Squadron One training officer. Basically, he, and I, and two very competent instructors ran the training program for gunboat crews heading to Da Nang. I would go to my “cover” job as Assistant Commander of Oscar Company, running/administering/training the band members of the parade unit (it also included a full honor guard) from 0800 to 1200; then I would go to the Squadron One office for the rest of the day (however long that took).

The band fellows were all your basic, average musician...the honor guard fellows were pretty much the opposite. They were selected for height, physical condition, good looks, and (at least in many people's view) for their lack of smarts and social graces. One day in Spring of '66 a couple of the honor guard guys decided that one of our drummers (I'll call him Sam here) was gay. How they came to that no one could figure out, as Sam was not gay...and basically, none of the band guys cared anyway. We all lived in one barracks.

Early one Spring morning these two guys did what we called a “code red” on Sam. There was a lot of talk that the honor guard's non-com knew about it...maybe even initiated it, but we'll never know. They threw a blanket over him in his bunk at 3AM, then beat him severely...not even knowing where they were striking, because of the blanket. It was two bunks away from me; I got up and went to help Sam. I got a headlock on the prime instigator, but his partner slammed me in the back of the neck and in the lumbar with what was later described as the butt of an M-1 carbine (from the honor guard rack). That didn't get me off, so he then slammed my ears with his cupped hands...that worked. Two of my friends got me back to my bunk and called security...they didn't want me getting scooped up in the aftermath. Sam ended up losing an eye, and the use of one of his arms. I didn't report to sick bay the next day...no way I would get sucked up in it.

Concurrently, I had made the mistake of confiding in a band member (whom I thought was trustworthy) of my gut feeling of being born in the wrong gender. He spread it. I began getting threatening notes on my bunk, and in my locker slots...very threatening.

The Security Office was not helpful.

My boss at the real job was aware of all this. He had me sleep on the couch at the training office for a few days until things cooled, and the honor guard was purged of its cancers. At the same time, he said he had something for me to consider that might help me as well as Squadron One (the gunboat unit's name).

If I volunteered, I would go to Da Nang and conduct a week's worth of confidential, low-key operations surveys with attention to mitigating the risks involved in stopping and searching vessels. He'd asked for the info from other sources, and wasn't getting anything he felt was really useful. Since I was not legal to be in a combat zone (you were supposed to be 18 in those days), and I was of comparatively low rank (E3-P1), I would be traveling without orders, and the only people expecting me would be the Da Nang ops office...and they didn't know my real name or rank. I was to wear utilities (fatigues) with no rank or name insignia. I was to not transmit any information, but keep it in my head until I got back.

If anything happened to me on the mission, no one would know. There would be no written record of anything as it related to me. I would be a ghost.

Long story short, I went on three missions, and discovered a number of things on the trip that became recommendations in my verbal report (again, nothing in writing) when I got back. They were mostly having to do with tactical changes to minimize risks from suicide bombers, but one major issue was that there was no shared tactical radio frequency between service arms/specific operations. The only way for a gunboat to “talk” to the Air Force, or even a Navy unit outside of Market Time/Game Warden, was to run it through the comms office in Da Nang. I made a strong case for establishing a VHF and HF frequency that all units of all arms would scan/monitor in case something very unusual happened that required fast response.

Higher command accepted all the recommendations (not knowing exactly where they came from), except for the tactical frequency item. They thought it was too much work and too expensive.

If that provision had been in place, the Point Welcome would not have been attacked by its own forces for over two hours.

I spent a lot of years trying to compensate for surviving. There were stints as mercenary, bodyguard, sheriff's deputy, security analyst, railroader, newspaper publisher, freelance writer, software designer, and even minister. (and that's not all).

Jump to 46 years later; my hearing had been going south for years. Medicaid would only give me one, not very good hearing aid for one ear. I went to the VA Rural Health Team to try to get real help for my hearing. My intake counselor (now my regular one) was a behavioral science specialist who actually happened to be at the same small base that I was at, at the same time (their spouse then was an MD in the sick bay). They realized that what I was relating was entirely probable (similar things had happened to others...I wasn't alone); and after a year's investigation it was deemed true...but still not documentable (everyone who had direct knowledge is dead). As a result, I was awarded a 40 percent disability compensation...most of which is for hearing loss, but the balance of which is the crux of what messed up my social interactions for almost five decades.

I was diagnosed with “moderate to severe” PTSD. While, as a behavioral scientist myself, I obviously knew this already I was in no position to do anything really constructive as “a physician who treats themselves has a fool for a patient” held sway. My closing comments are directed to (1) those who know me and have been trying to figure out why I'm weird (good luck on that one), (2) other vets whose experiences will differ, but the results of which continue to haunt, and (3) those who know me, know the background (there are only a couple) and have been there no matter what to watch my six.

I decided when I was diagnosed that I was going to handle it the same way I did the gender change...I was going to be open about it, sharing the relevant parts of the experience. It made a significant impact in the transgender community when I took that position in 1983. Maybe it will help others to be open now.

Before the diagnosis, folks generally related to me in a “normal” manner. I was “different,” but generally treated the same as others so long as I behaved (not always easy for me). What I would like to address is how those things changed after the diagnosis was “out there.”

When people know you've been diagnosed with severe PTSD, they (well, most) just plain treat you differently, and it is quite obvious to the objective observer.

You're no longer asked for your opinion as much. No one wants to “trigger” you by asking what they assume to be a loaded question.

People avoid communicating with you unless it's necessary. They think something they'll say will trigger you. When they do communicate, it's in an obviously cautious manner.

People have always been a little perturbed at your unyielding position on certain things that are issues of inclusiveness and equality, or perhaps the inequity and untrustworthiness of government...now they're seeing it as a PTSD symptom and ignore your concerns.

In short, you are now treated like a hand grenade with the pin out.

Then there are the things that, once you've named your demon(s), become frontline issues for you that you are not willing to compromise on, and for which you have no more patience...things like being overly concerned with image, or stating (either as a person or organization) a given position...and then not living up to it, or only citing it when it's advantageous. Depending on the individual, this list of things can be very different…and longer, or shorter.

And...whatever opinion you give on something, it will now be observed through the PTSD filter.

I'm up for that. It took a while, but I'm not backing down (cue Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers here).

-30-