Lost Then Found

This is not your typical tale of romance between a man and a woman. I have tried to tell a story of how a man, who believes he has lost everything important in his life, discovers he really hasn't.

Although Post Traumatic Stress Disorder plays only a small part in this tale it plays a major part in the real lives of many people. PTSD is not just a condition that affects men and women in the military. It can, and does, affect anyone who has suffered a traumatic event in their life. If you, a loved one or someone you know suffers from PTSD I urge you to seek help for yourself or for them. There are dedicated men and women trained and all too willing to help. Life is too short to live it in misery.

As in all my stories this one does have a happy ending. Hope you enjoy reading it and will forgive me for any spelling or grammatical mistakes.

*****

I took my good friend 'Jack', 'Jack Daniels', to sit out on the screened-in pool deck overlooking the St. Johns River for another long conversation trying to explain how my life had turned into pure crap in just six short months. It was easy conversing with 'Jack'. He didn't talk much. In fact, he didn't talk at all. But he was a damn good listener.

I'm Scott Martin, named after my father, and up until five months ago I was a captain in the United States Marine Corps. I was half way into my third deployment, the first one in Iraq and the second along with this one in Afghanistan. I had seen the promotion list for advancement to the rank of Major and I was in the top five.

******************

MY CONVERSATION WITH 'JACK'

After pouring a healthy three fingers of bourbon into a glass filled with ice, I told 'Jack' about the conversation I had with my wife, Maureen, just before my last deployment. My plan was that after getting promoted I was going to request an assignment to the Marine Corps Training Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina. I figured with my record it would be granted. I loved the Corps and wanted to make it my career.

Maureen was not too happy when I left but I promised her our life would be different when I returned. The first six months went by pretty quickly. Maureen and I managed to communicate via email and Skype. We set up a schedule when I would contact her and she would be at our computer at home to take the call.

It was working well at first and then gradually she wasn't on-line when I tried to contact her. Her excuses sounded plausible. She was in the shower, she lost track of the time, and so-on.

Finally, six months and one week into my deployment, on one of the few times I was able to video message her, she dropped the bomb. She told me she didn't love me anymore, she found someone else to look after her that wasn't half way around the world and she had initiated a divorce.

"Scott," she said. "It's over between us. Just sign the papers when you get them."

With that she broke the connection before I even had a chance to ask why.

The paperwork arrived a week later in the snail mail. I read them over. She wasn't asking for much, half of our savings and some assorted other items that meant nothing to me. Since we rented an apartment there was no home to sell. She kept her car and would put mine into long-term storage (at my expense). I told her to have my dad sell it and let him deposit the money along with my half of our savings.

I contacted my mom and dad told them what had happened. They were shocked and dismayed. I asked dad if he would find out the name of the SOB she had hooked up with. He did and a few days later I had my answer, Timothy (Tim) Truckman. I knew him from college. He was a jackass then and evidentially he hadn't changed at all.

Truckman had taken over his family's freight hauling business and had a fleet of ten to fifteen semi-trucks and trailers. From what dad told me he was making the big bucks. Putting two and two together it was easy to see why Maureen divorced me.

There was no point in contesting the divorce from half way around the world. What could I do? I couldn't force her to love me so I signed the damn papers and sent them back. I did make one change to her petition for divorce. Since she initiated it, she could pay for it out of her split of our assets. Eight years of my life down the drain in the blink of an eye.

Six weeks later I got another kick in the head. Lieutenant Colonel William Sheffield, my commanding officer, summoned me along with seven other officers to a meeting. We were handed paperwork informing us our services were no longer required due to a drawdown of military personnel and our separation from the Corps would be effective at the conclusion of our current deployment.

Who in the Hell gives 'pink slips' to guys in the middle of fighting a war? I'll tell you. Some stupid ass civilians in the current administration who decided that it was politically expedient to cut the number of men below the rank of major in all branches of the armed forces. These assholes never spent a day in the military and had absolutely no respect or concern for any for us currently serving.

In the space of two months I had lost a wife and now a career. Was I pissed? You better believe I was. Once again, I had no choice but to suck it up and accept it for what it was. I did what I was trained to do. Complete our assigned missions, look after the men under my command to ensure that they stayed alive to return safely home.

Twenty-nine days before my scheduled rotation home and separation from the Marines I was in the lead Humvee with four others following on a routine 'show the flag' mission. About an hour out from base, as we entered a small village, we were waved down by a little boy. I judged him to be about ten or eleven years of age. Getting out of my lead vehicle I listened to his plea.

In halting English he told me his parents had been killed by the Taliban leaving him and his two younger sisters alone. They had nothing to eat for days. Could we help them?

I called to Rich, my driver, who was out of the Humvee watching the surrounding buildings, to bring me all the MREs we had stashed in the back of the vehicle. He returned with a bag filled with a dozen or so of them.

When I handed them to the boy his eyes lit up and thanking me profusely he headed back to a two story building across the street. He hadn't taken more than ten steps when a shot rang out and he fell, scattering the precious food he had secured for his sisters.

This little boy did nothing wrong. All he did was try and get something to feed his sisters and he was killed for talking to Americans. The sight of him lying dead in the dirt would stay with me for the rest of my life.

By now all of my men had dismounted from their vehicles and, following our Urban Warfare Protocols, we stormed the building. The first floor was clear so I led the way up to the second. The first three rooms were empty. The fourth room was locked, but fortunately Rich had the key, a size eleven boot made short work of the flimsy lock.

As the door flew open I advanced with my M16A4 at the ready. A bearded man stood in the center of the room holding two little girls in front of him as shields. As he began to raise his weapon the two girls broke free and scampered away to safety. Before he could fire I emptied half a clip into him starting at his pubic bone and up the center of his chest and finishing in his head. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Handing my helmet and weapon to Rich I knelt in front of the terrified girls. Talking as quietly and soothingly as I could I told them they were safe, I meant them no harm, and I would take them to someone who would look after them. I don't know if they understood me but after asking the girls to trust me they allowed me to gather them both up in my arms and make my way downstairs back to the Humvee.

The older girl, who I judged to be about six or seven, sat in my lap with her arms wrapped tightly around my neck refusing to let go. The younger one, who was maybe three or four, sat quietly in the seat beside me clutching my arm.

I knew there was a Catholic Mission, not far from my base at Camp Dwyer, who took in orphaned children. For the entire journey to the Mission, the older girl kept her arms around my neck. Keeping her face pressed against my cheek, she kept whispering something that sound like 'Usafas, Usafas'. When we arrived she didn't want to let go of me, crying and screaming, until the Sister and I managed to quiet her down.

I inquired if they would be able to find good homes for these two little girls. Answering me, with sadness in her eyes, she told me "no".

Asking why not she explained to me. Because they are Christians. No one will want them. About the best I can do is place them into the system and perhaps find them a foster home in the United States or Europe.

Before leaving I asked the good Sister what 'Usafas' meant. She said she never heard of that word in the Afghan languages of either Dari or Pashto.

Picking them both up to hug them good-bye I was surprised when they both kissed me on the cheek and and said 'Usafas, Usafas'.

I left the Mission with mixed emotions. The vision of that little boy laying dead in the dirt and two pretty little girls that would, hopefully, find a better life were etched into my mind.

******************

THE CONCLUSION OF MY CONVERSATION WITH 'JACK'

Ten days before I was to leave Afghanistan I was, once more, summoned to Lieutenant Colonel Sheffield's office. He asked me to sit down and then handed me a communique from the States informing me of the death of my mother, father and younger brother, Ben.

There had been a horrific traffic accident on Route US 301 just north of Starke, Florida. They were coming home to Jacksonville from Gainesville where Ben was a sophomore at the University of Florida.

Apparently a semi-truck, heavily loaded with scrap metal, had crossed the median and slammed head-on into the car my father was driving. They were all killed instantly.

The next day I was on a plane back home. I was numb. In the space of less than six months I lost a wife, a career, parents and younger brother.

******************

BACK TO THE PRESENT

I made it home in time for the funerals. All the arrangements had been made by my dad's long time friend and attorney, Michael Anders. Three days later when all the sympathetic friends and acquaintances of my family had gone I was left alone with only 'Jack'.

It was late that afternoon when my bottle of 'Jack' had also deserted me that I heard the front door bell ringing. Opening the door I found Michael Anders, or Uncle Mike as I had called him all my life, standing on the step.

"Scott," he said. "As I told you the day of the funeral I would stop by, after things settled down somewhat, to explain the settlement of your parents estate."

I motioned for him to follow me back out onto the pool deck.

Seeing the empty bourbon bottle he asked me if I was up to hearing the terms of my parents will. I told him I was okay and to go ahead.

Opening his briefcase he retrieved some paperwork and, glancing at it from time-to-time, he explained to me the terms of my parent's will.

"Scott, since you are now the sole surviving family member you inherit everything. The mortgage on the house was satisfied sometime ago, so you get it free and clear. After all the bills and other encumbrances have been paid from your parents savings and checking accounts you stand to receive this amount of money." He said, sliding a sheet of paper over to me with a figure written on it.

"Adding the life insurance payouts to that figure you have a considerable amount of money. I suggest that you secure the advice of a financial planner to explore your options with what do with it. If you're interested I have the names of several firms I could recommend."

Looking at him, with tears in my eyes, I said to him. "I can't sleep, I'm angry all the time, I have nightmares where I keep seeing the face of a dead little boy. Uncle Mike I'd give all that money up if I could just have my life back."

"I know son, I know." He replied. "It sounds like you are suffering from PTSD."

Picking up the empty Jack Daniels bottle. He said to me. "Scott the answer to your problems won't be found in this bottle."

"Let me tell you a story about myself. Some forty years or so ago, when I returned from Southeast Asia, my career was just starting. I suffered a serious problem in a relationship with a woman I thought I was in love with. I had a friend back then, too. Only his name wasn't 'Jack'. It was 'Jose', 'Jose Cuervo'."

"Your dad found me one day in my car parked in front of my apartment. I had passed out before I could drive away and hurt myself or, worse yet, some innocent person. He dragged me back inside, sobered me up and had a long talk with me."

"Together he helped me to resolve my problems. Your dad never lost faith in me. After a while, with his help and support, I realized that I had a good life ahead of me if I wanted to work at it. A year later I found Barbara and we have been happily married ever since."

"You've suffered more things than I could ever imagine. But it's up to you to move on. There's help out there for you. People trained in dealing with PTSD who want to help you deal with it. Reach out to them, Scott. Please do it, if not for yourself, for your mom and dad's sake."

We must have sat there for ten minutes not saying a word to each other.

Changing the subject I asked, "Uncle Mike what can you tell me about the accident?"

"Right now nothing. The accident investigation hasn't been completed yet. As soon as it is finished I'll get a copy and get back to you with it. Should only be a matter of a few more days."

"Meanwhile, go take a shower, change into some clean clothes and pack a bag. I'll call Barbara and tell her I'm bringing you home for dinner and we'll want you to stay with us for a couple of days."

That evening, after dinner, I recounted my experiences over the past six months in greater detail. They both listened to me, not interrupting my narrative, only exchanging knowing glances with one another.

When I had finished, Barbara said to me. "Scott, tomorrow you and I are going to the VA Hospital and see about getting the help you need. You deserve to live a happy and productive life."

******************

THE HEALING BEGINS

Early the next day we went over to the VA where I completed the necessary paper work to enroll in the system. I was lucky enough to secure an appointment that very afternoon for a preliminary assessment. After a light lunch Barbara drove me back for my appointment.

An hour later I had a treatment plan. As I told her, on the drive back, "the doctor was very optimistic that I could be treated with counseling without having to resort to prescription drugs. I have my first session scheduled for the day after tomorrow."

"That's pretty fast considering all the problems the VA seems to be having." She said.

"Yeah, I know. Looks like they are finally getting their act together. I guess all the bad press forced them to make some dramatic changes."

Two days later I had my first meeting with a therapist trained in treating those suffering with PTSD. It was a very productive session and for the first time in months I felt a little better about myself. I was given a schedule that allowed me to meet with the therapist once a week. In addition, he gave me his cell phone number if I needed help outside of normal working hours.

The very next day Uncle Mike called to tell me he received the final report of the accident investigation. By now I was back in my own home so I asked him to come by when he was finished for the day. He told me what he had couldn't wait and he would be by in under an hour. When he arrived forty minutes later we sat at the kitchen table where he explained everything the report revealed.

This is what Uncle Mike told me. "It would seem Mister Truckman has been cutting corners regarding his trucking fleet in order to be able to underbid his competition."

"Number One. He has hired undocumented aliens as drivers and has been able to pay them about a third of the going rate."

I interrupted him for a moment. "Undocumented? You mean illegal aliens?"

"Well the politically correct term is now undocumented." He replied. "But you are correct. They are illegal immigrants."

"Number Two," he continued. "He has required his drivers to circumvent the Department of Transportation's mandate for the number of hours they can drive without rest. If they don't do what he tells them he threatens to report them to immigration and have them deported."

"Number Three. He has falsified the semi-annual and annual safety inspections on his trucks as required by the Federal Highway Transportation and Safety Act."

Looking once more at the paperwork in his hand he said.

"Number Four. The toxicology report on the dead driver of the semi-truck that killed your parents revealed that his system was overloaded with amphetamines. This report states they were provided by Truckman to keep these guys awake so they could drive those longer periods of time."

"Number Five. Because of his complicity in the death of your parents and brother he's going to be charged by the State of Florida with three counts of vehicular manslaughter."

"He's facing some heavy duty criminal charges both Federal and State."

"My prediction is that he's looking at a very, very long time behind bars. Everything is documented. He doesn't stand a chance."

"Now I'm prepared to file a civil suit against Truckman Trucking, Inc. on your behalf. It is a privately held corporation and he is the single shareholder. Everything he owns is listed as being held by this corporation, everything, including both of his fancy cars as well as his penthouse condo in Ponte Verda overlooking the Atlantic Ocean."

"Won't his liability insurance just cover the damages?" I inquired.

"Nope. In the fine print of every policy there is a stipulation that if the policy holder is negligent or is found guilty on criminal charges in any matter regarding the claim the insurance company is not liable to pay any claims against it."

"We'll take it all. Just give me the go-ahead and I'll have the paperwork drawn up and filed with the court as soon as the criminal charges are adjudicated."

"What about Maureen? How much will she be hurt by all this?" I asked.

"Since they never married she's not liable for any damages. However, her high style of living will be over. Everything he ever gave her; car, jewelry, expensive clothing all of it was purchased in the name of his corporation and therefore, is not her property. You'll get all of that as well."

"All right, Uncle Mike. go ahead. Leave Maureen with something though. After all we did have seven and half good years together and word has gotten back to me that all of our old friends want nothing more to do with her."

"Not only your old friends, Scott." Uncle Mike said. "I'm in the American Legion along with her father. As I understand it he and her mother tore her a new one when they found out what she did to you."

"Really? I would have thought her parents would have stood by her through the divorce and everything." I said.

"Scott, you are forgetting her father was in the Marines. He was absolutely livid with what she did. He still refuses to have anything to do with her. He told me one time that he no longer has a daughter."

"That's too bad, Uncle Mike. Maybe I should call and talk with him. She's going to need someone when this is all over."

"Scott," he asked. "Are you still in love with Maureen?"

I thought for a few minutes before answering him. "When you love someone for a long, long time it's hard to just turn it off."