Not So Friendly Fire
Some days are relatively peaceful and uneventful, and some days not so much. For instance, I was still half asleep in front of the television late one night when I heard a sharp “bang!” that sounded far more ominous than a gate being slammed too hard. This being unusual after midnight and most any other time in my quiet neighborhood, I armed myself with a portable light source and an adequate means of self-defense to patrol the perimeter.
No sooner had I reached my shadowy back yard in a hypervigilant, newly-triggered state, when a second and much louder “BANG-BOOM!” rocked the neighborhood. I turned to look from the forest side of my domain toward the urban side and saw smoke roiling up above the fence top. Undaunted and in my usual Devil Doc-move-toward-the-firing stance about life, I quietly slipped through my back yard gate to enter the front yard. Across the street from my house was an older model sedan in the midst of a grand combustion.
There are not many car fires in our solidly middle-class neighborhood. We had all been stunned the previous week to hear that a drive-by shooting had taken place just one and a half blocks down the street and around the corner, and to discover tonight that the shooting was somehow tied to the same person(s) who parked the car in front of the only empty house on the block (across the street from mine) and set it ablaze. (Insert your own commonly-used military expletive here.)
So the fire department came and skillfully put out the fire (having much difficulty getting any of the car doors open), through which process I learned from my across-the-street neighbor Bruce (a detective on our city police force) that automobile gas tanks rarely explode, now fitted with metal gas lines and welded seals. I was relieved to know that my windows would not be blown out, after all, especially because we had just spent several thousand dollars having them upgraded. Detective Bruce had come out to talk in huddled fashion with the police officers who arrived to investigate and to support the fire fighters. (Unlike, as in some other metropoli, our police officers and fire fighters seem to get along with, support, and watch out for each other. Go figure.) The car was burning in front of Detective Bruce’s next-door-neighbor’s house, a proximity which I, police detective or not, would tend to take personally, being a committed ally of my neighbors on all sides, down the block, and across the street.
In due time, most of the neighbors standing around in their hastily-donned midnight casual attire were politely questioned by the police officers who were asking if anyone had seen someone park the car or torch it. Nothing was to be found, unfortunately, as we had all been aroused ourselves by the explosions coming from the burning car itself. My next-door neighbor Bruce (a retired engineer, not associated with the police but very supportive thereof) observed that the car must have been left there after 8:00 p.m., because he had not seen it there when he arrived home that evening. The police went off to question the person to whom the now-extinguished car belonged, the people on my block all went back to bed or wherever they had been in their homes, and I said thanks to both Bruces and went inside. I put the light and the more-than-adequate means of self-defense back in the nightstand drawer. Then I double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, turned off the TV and lights, and went to bed…..but not to sleep.
In Vietnam I was told by other aircrew members about a gas tank explosion on the flight line. An undiscovered bullet hole in the underbelly of a wing tank on the flank of a Phrog (CH-46) had let in just enough air to rip the tank open in an explosion that came from a lone spark of some kind. The fire then spread from the tank to the hose to the pump and threatened the fuel truck itself. Soon the leaky hydraulic fluid inside the bird was also flaming. It was a complete fireball, and the helicopter was toast. Crash crew had the fire out in minutes, but three Marines had burns from the explosion. One was among the helicopter’s flight crew. Two others were ground crew refueling the Phrog when it exploded. Not so friendly fire. Go figure.
My next-door-neighbor Engineer Bruce took pictures of the whole burning-car thing that night. He captured flames against the dark sky and made it all seem wondrous. He kept his promise to email me the pictures he took; they were striking and starkly beautiful. Having been thoroughly triggered, I lay awake for a time, remembering my own long-ago fire fights and explosions. I wondered about the memories those Marines might have tucked away, memories of the Phrog’s fuel tank exploding and the screams of men on fire. At one time in my life, I might have wished I could email the whole world the screams of men on fire. No longer, though. Besides, that would be cruel, because then the world would not be able to sleep at night, even if they had finally put the fire out.
It is my belief that if we talk out such experiences and difficult memories with someone we trust, the events will remain meaningful but will gradually haunt us less. It is never good to carry the hard memories alone. That’s partly why we encourage you to talk openly with a veteran mentor who can understand and not be shocked, no matter what the memory is about. As a wise friend of mine said, “You can’t come home if you’re stuck there, and you can’t feel at home if you’re in it all alone.”
Things to Wonder About:
- During your military service, what events have you experienced or images have you seen that are easily triggered, that take you back to that time and place? What, if anything, haunts you?
- What have you found to be most helpful in adjusting to civilian life, whether recently or years ago?
- Think of five words that best describe your military experience and five words that best describe your post-military civilian life.