Editor’s Note: Scars on my heart by sally drumm

Editor’s Note:
Scars on my heart
by sally drumm

I. Why Milspeak?
Eighteen years into my military service to the United States of America, I was denied the right to lead a group of Marines into a South American country on an undercover drug surveillance mission. The EC-7 mission would take several active duty members from various branches of the military—controllers, interpreters, medical personnel, and communications personnel—deep into the Amazon jungle to a radar site atop a 5600-foot mountain for three months. The official message requiring my removal from the team read: “…due to cultural differences, request team be composed of male personnel only to avoid possibility of sexual harassment….” I was infuriated that sexual harassment policy initiated after the Tail Hook incident (Naval aviators demeaned themselves and made national headlines by groping women in a Las Vegas hotel) was being used against military women when the policy had been designed to protect us.
My only recourse was to request mast, an official, documented request to take my problem to the chain of command for resolution. In the Marine Corps, request mast is not undertaken lightly by most of those who use it to resolve problems. The process begins with the commanding officer hearing the problem. Each commander in the Marine’s chain of command is given the opportunity to solve the problem. If no one in the direct chain of command can resolve the problem to the Marine’s satisfaction, the Marine can send a letter stating her case to the Commandant of the Marine Corps.
In 1996, as I contemplated requesting mast in order to be allowed to do the job I had trained eighteen years to do—a job I was being denied simply because I was a woman—I remembered my first fight to be trained as the first enlisted woman in my military occupational specialty in 1978, and I remembered every other moment in my eighteen-year fight for equal recognition as a Marine. The list of exclusions due to gender is endless, and runs from mild to outrageous to sublime. For many years—and during the first six years of my enlistment—women were outlawed from firing weapons or qualifying at the rifle range because money was tight. We were not allowed to deploy with our units because women weren’t allowed in the field or aboard ship. We were ordered to always wear skirts in formation and forced to live in barracks away from unit barracks because that was where all the women on base lived, often behind high walls or rolls of concertina wire. As one supervisor, an enlisted Marine who had become a warrant officer, told me in 1986, “You’re nothing but a token Marine.”
Two female junior-enlisted Marines were to accompany me on the EC-7 mission, women who worked for me and were trained by me, women who deserved the opportunity to lead when their time came. By 1996, I had also served two tours—more than four years—as a drill instructor. From 1978, when I began active duty, through 1991, when I left the drill field for the second time, I had witnessed and been part of the development of woman recruit training from a focus on image development to a focus on warrior training while preparing hundreds of women for Marine Corps duty.
I was not about to turn tail and run just when the going got a little rough with the United States State Department. Also, my unit (and units in all military branches) was suffering the effects of a mandated force drawdown—a consequence of Americans’ perception that their military had outgrown its usefulness after the Berlin Wall came down. Resulting personnel shortages demanded that I do my part. More importantly, as a staff noncommissioned officer, a gunnery sergeant, my being excluded from a key leadership position made training junior Marines of all genders a hypocrisy that undermined my authority, therefore undermining subordinates’ respect for me.
I requested mast to air my grievance over a denial to leadership that I read as an institutional devaluation of my years of service and of my ability to lead as a staff noncommissioned officer, and because, in being excluded from the EC-7 mission, I was reliving the first years of my military career in its last years. The mirror was unbroken. As a woman, I will never be anyone’s idea of the perfect Marine, but I had served my country as well as any man for eighteen years and I had earned the right during those years to lead the EC-7 team into South America. I didn’t want another woman to have to go through what I had experienced between 1978 and 1996. In requesting mast in 1996 I wasn’t fighting only for myself, but for all military women. This fight began for me in 1978, still hadn’t been won in 1996, and remains to be won.
When I talked with my commanding officer about the EC-7 situation, he told me that requesting mast was unnecessary and promised to do his best to right the situation. This, I knew, was a way to keep my request mast proceedings undocumented and off the record. A few days after our talk, my CO gave me the news: the Marine Aircraft Group and Wing Commanders had been unable to change the ruling—the State Department, overlord of the EC-7 operation, was the rust in the hinge. I took matters into my own hands, disregarding standard procedure for request mast, and sent the Commandant of the Marine Corps an email stating my case.
The Commandant responded on March 19, 1996:
GySgt Wyndham, Thank you for standing up to be counted. You did and you counted. Your commandant thanks you. While the team leader for the group […] will be an officer […] the restrictions against women being members of the team have been rescinded by […] (who originally requested them). Our Marines— all of our Marines—are deployable worldwide on a moments notice. I know that—I saw the effectiveness of our woman Marines when I was CG 2nd FSSG in Desert Shield and Desert Storm. You, of course, know that. Stick to your guns, Gunny. Semper Fidelis, C. C. Krulak, Commandant
Although an officer was assigned to lead the team for the first time since recurring EC-7 deployments had begun and I wouldn’t be the EC-7 team leader, I would be the staff noncommissioned officer in charge, the officer’s-in-charge right-hand woman. Two additional women would accompany us: one woman from my unit and a medic. My commanding officer and the Group and Wing commanders were furious with me for going over their heads to the Commandant with “my” problem. My direct supervisor kowtowed to his senior officers via email, and I played along. In apology, he wrote: “Gunnery Sergeant Wyndham is totally satisfied with the attention she received on this issue, but at the same time realizes that there was a better way to initiate her concerns.” “Attention” I received? This was a minimalization of my concerns, making my request for equal recognition as a leader seem completely personal, but there was no doubt in my military mind that I had won a major battle in the fight for equality. Others’ underestimation of my will to make right a wrong had paid off once again, but winning the battle proved more costly than expected.
While in South America on a shaved-flat mountaintop, I fell many times on cloud-covered pathways built with logs harvested when the mountain was topped to make way for system equipment. Log trails wound between radar, equipment vans, and hastily built log shacks used for living and eating. Many mornings I stood at the edge of the mountain to watch vast masses of cloud rise from Amazon jungle below. Those of us on the deployment spent seven days on watch on the mountaintop and seven days in a small village twenty minutes by helicopter from the mountain— the site was accessible only by chopper.
During one of my stays in the village, Pedro, one of two helicopter pilots, crashed into the mountain during a heavy fog. All aboard were killed, none of them from our detachment, all of them visiting dignitaries. My officer-in-charge was away in a distant city meeting with State Department officials. After informing the State Department of the disaster by telephone, a young enlisted Marine interpreter and I went to the airfield to meet with the South American general in charge of the radar site. I extended our condolences and offered to help in any way. Later that evening, I was warned that the general was seeking my arrest for spying. Fortunately, the misunderstanding was resolved by the State Department.
Soon after the crash, I returned to the mountaintop. I stood my watches at the radar console. I ate my meals with the South American officers and troops in a wooden shack where meals were served on cloth-covered tables set with nice china. At night, I slept alone in a steel van positioned below the radar site and reached via a steep stairway of slippery log steps. A few weeks before the deployment ended, one last fall seriously injured my back by jamming the end of an upturned log into the small of my back. I didn’t realize how badly I was injured until later that night. During my twelve-hour watch I became nauseated, my stomach began cramping, and I felt as though I was dying. The South American doctor on site asked me to lie on a rack in his hooch. We shared little of each other’s language. After explaining as best I could that I’d experienced a serious fall, he asked me to lie on my stomach and pull down my cammie trousers. I trusted him completely—my pain was immense; he was kind and gentle. He discovered a huge and growing bruise on my lower back, diagnosed nerve trauma, and gave me an injection. To this day I have no idea what the syringe contained, but the contents relieved my pain. The next day, I was flown down to the village by helicopter and never again returned to the mountaintop.
Upon my return to the States, my back injury caused me to become one of the walking wounded, an active duty Marine who is considered a sick bay commando because he or she cannot heal. The injury or illness affects command readiness. The injured Marine is just “taking up space.” Often, coworkers and the system treat us walking wounded as though our injuries and limitations are psychological. Always, we walking wounded are treated as a liability to mission accomplishment.
During the last two years of my career, the fight to make it to retirement was difficult. Being one of the walking wounded was embarrassing. I felt as though my back injury was a punishment for fighting for my rights as a woman Marine, capable and more than qualified to lead but denied leadership because of gender. I endured injections in my spine under xray and underwent every form of physical therapy. Each time I tried to run even a short distance to keep up with the pack, I was unable to walk for days afterward. Despite a doctor’s letter requesting I remain in the rear, I was deployed to Gulfport, Mississippi, to work atop a Bauxite mound where The System, the tangle of cables, computer vans, and radars used by controllers in a Marine Air Control Squadron, was emplaced. I had to be returned from the deployment early because climbing and walking on that coal-like mound immobilized me. I believed this assignment was punishment for forcing my way into the EC-7 detachment, but every ordeal, every moment of pain, was worthwhile, despite the physical damage to my body and the political damage to my career.
On my return to Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS) Beaufort from the Bauxite Mound, I received permanent change of station orders to Marine Air Control Squadron 24 (MACS 24) at Dam Neck, Virginia. In response, I submitted my retirement package and removed myself from promotion rolls. Because I expected to receive a small disability rating for my back injury, I followed the advice of an Old Salt when submitting my retirement package. I listed on the Veterans Administration form all injuries and scars received during my military career: the seven-inch scar on my left forearm incurred during a drunken car wreck that nearly killed my best friend; the three-inch scar on my right knee from kneeling while drunk on a broken glass; the three-inch scar on my right hip where the bone graft had been harvested to heal my broken left arm a year after it was broken; and the six-inch scar above my Mound of Venus where my uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries had been removed from my body in 1984 when long-term problems with my reproductive organs were interfering with military readiness. I was given a choice before that surgery: have the surgery or be discharged from the Corps. I chose surgery and duty over the sense of personal well being that comes with knowing that one day you might have a child. A month after that surgery, while still on convalescent leave, I received my first set of orders to the drill field.
There was no place on the VA’s form to list the scars on my heart.
Shortly after I retired from active duty on February 5, 1998, I received a letter from the Veterans Administration in response to my application for disability. The news was stunning: I was assigned a 60% disability rating in a two-paragraph letter. No VA representative contacted me. No one advised me how to proceed with my life as a disabled veteran. I could still walk, talk and possessed all my fingers, toes, and eyes. I felt undeserving of the disability rating and totally confused by it. The VA had assigned 10% each for my back problem and for carpal tunnel syndrome in my left hand, the result of wearing a cast for more than a year. Civilian doctors employed by the military medical system in 1985 kept telling me my arm would heal. After threatening to contact my senator in Illinois, I was sent to Bethesda Naval Hospital for my first appointment with the Naval doctor who performed a bone graft from my hip to my arm. Fifteen months after breaking my arm, the cast came off for the last time; the steel plate that ran the length of my ulna remained. An additional 10% disability rating was assigned because I had a spouse, a husband; my third—military life is as hard on relationships as it is on the body. A 50% rating was assigned for loss of my reproductive organs. This 80% percent total was refigured by some mysterious formula into a 60% total service-connected disability rating.
After receiving this news, I went into a depression that lasted weeks. Feeling undeserving was only part of the problem. I read the 50% rating for my 1984 hysterectomy as an admission that the operation had been unnecessary, that it was all a mistake, that my ability to bear children had been stolen from me. Perhaps this was a misreading on my part, I thought, so I read the paper over and over, trying to find a way to believe I was a 60% disabled veteran.
Finally, I decided I would never speak about it again, that this was just another part of life’s plan for me, a plan more often ambiguous than clear. This self-imposed silence lasted many years; I am breaking it now. It is a silence shared by many disabled veterans who feel they are at the mercy of a health care system and a military system that will make them suffer if they speak out. If we speak of disability we are often misunderstood, often unemployed, and often left feeling ashamed and undeserving. If we speak of disability we are often viewed as taking advantage of the system. Many disabled veterans believe their silence is expected in order to honor their service, that to speak out is disloyal. Ours is a silence that speaks of both self-denial and a public denial of our value to society, of our ability as disabled veterans to be contributing members of society. In its worst form, this denial is a silencing of the disabled veteran’s right to exist in a world where the value of Beauty often suppresses the value of Life. The very word disability in all its forms, with its demeaning prefix, dis-, provokes negativity in definition: discard, dismiss, dismay.
In my own state of denial, I went about my after-service life struggling to establish a career in landscape design. I hadn’t yet accepted my physical limitations. While on active duty, I had studied horticulture at the local technical college and planned to build a career in landscaping following retirement from the Corps. After injuring my back, I couldn’t let go of the dream—there had to be some way to become a landscape designer. This was something I could do sitting down without the physical labor involved in landscaping: I could draw designs and find people to create them. It was a ridiculous fantasy. As in the military world, I would have to earn my title in the civilian world—that meant physical labor in landscaping if I were to become a credible designer.
For nearly a year, I drew beautiful plans and performed the hard work of carrying them out. There were many days when back pain made walking difficult. Lifting and digging were out of the question. I forced myself to do the work anyway, inventing ways to limit stress on my back. My chiropractor was my best friend—I have paid thousands of dollars to him over the years; he keeps me walking; his service is not covered by my military medical benefits. My husband Pete often helped me with landscaping jobs. Pain was my constant companion. Finally, at the end of a $20,000 job that involved hiring many people to do the work I couldn’t do, I admitted to myself that I was a failure. There was no way a landscaping career could work for me. The beating my body had taken during my twenty-year run with the Marines had finally registered in my heart and mind.
I applied for administrative jobs, but remained unemployed. How could I not reveal to potential employers that I am a 60% disabled veteran with a back problem?
One morning in 2000, I woke up and fell head on into a tremendous anxiety attack. If something were to happen to my husband Pete, I wouldn’t be able to support myself, to continue to live in our home, or to maintain our quality of life. We live on a small island near Beaufort, on an acre of ground purchased from my mother-in-law. Pete, a self-employed carpenter, built our home on the shore of Lucy Point Creek. Jets from the Marine Corps Air Station often circle overhead. Rifle fire from Parris Island echoes across the marshes on Friday qualification-day mornings. We watch the sunset from our deck beside the river. Each day, one of us asks the other, “Do we really get to live here?” Fear of economic insecurity has been a driving force in my career choices. My employment history began in high school with a job waitressing that bought me my first car, a green 1964 Rambler American, a tank of a car that I lived in before I wrecked it in 1977—everything I owned fit in the trunk with room to spare. Waitressing transformed into a job cooking following a skin-of-the-teeth graduation from high school. Then it was bartending, working in an Easter grass factory, working in an old folks’ home, and finally, unemployment prior to enlisting in the Corps on December 22, 1977.
On the morning of my anxiety attack, my employability was limited. Military job skills don’t easily translate into civilian skills. In my case, more than 2000 dogfights and a keen understanding of air-to-air tactics earn zilch in resume points. I was as unemployable or less so than when I enlisted in the Corps. How could I explain a 60% disability to a potential employer? Who wants to hire someone with a history of back problems? Was I going to have talk about my lost reproductive organs to explain my disability to employers for the rest of my working life? I couldn’t even wait tables. I figured I’d end up a greeter at Wal-Mart, but even that would be iffy because standing for any length of time is always a chore. Following retirement from the Corps, I didn’t enjoy the opportunities that men I had worked with in the military enjoyed. Many of them retired into positions in the defense industry, often due to contacts made through the military’s Good Old Boy network. I’ve never been in that network and I’ve always been proud that no matter the obstacle set before me, I could find a way around it on my own. But finding that way around had gotten me right where I found myself that morning in 2000—dependent upon a man, my husband, for my welfare, a position I never wanted to be in because of a long history of abandonment that began with my father abandoning me when I was a child.
Certainly, I did have retirement and VA disability pay. Each dollar of disability pay was offset dollar for dollar by a reduction in retirement pay. I had retired as a gunnery sergeant/E-7. In 2000, I was receiving less than $18,000 a year in retirement and disability benefits. My husband, a self-employed carpenter, made a little more. Our combined incomes allowed for a simple lifestyle. But if his pay were lost, if he were injured, could we survive?
My only option was to return to college and earn a degree that would make me employable. It never occurred to me that military stereotypes or disability might possess potential to destroy what I could create of myself with an education. Once I have a plan, I am unstoppable. If a door closes in my face, I will find the back door, the side door, the trap door, the mouse hole. Through my local university, I discovered that I could become a librarian in four years if I worked hard. A university counselor suggested I contact the VA for education assistance, even though I had paid into the Montgomery GI Bill program and had $16,000 in education benefits in reserve.
The drive to the VA office in Columbia, South Carolina from Beaufort, South Carolina is about two and a half hours up I-26. I prepared for my meeting with a VA education specialist by keeping my expectations low. Also, I had prepared a full brief, including a proposed course schedule, on achieving my education goals in four years despite having accumulated only 17 credit hours toward a degree in horticulture. Later, I would discover that the many service schools I had attended and my active service would earn an additional three credit hours toward a degree—20 years, three credit hours. During the drive to Columbia, I further prepared for my first meeting with a Veterans Administration official by not expecting a positive reception. During the drive back to Beaufort, I cried—not in sorrow, but for joy. The VA had agreed to fund my entire education. They would pay for tuition and books, and also provide a living expense stipend. I felt as though I’d just won the lottery. I also felt guilty as hell. Who was I to receive this kind of treatment? I still had my fingers and toes. I could walk most of the time, short distances anyway. I could pay for this myself, with my GI Bill benefits and a second mortgage on the house. But who was I to turn away this kind of help purely out of false pride? The voice of reason won out.
The VA made few demands of me. I had to give up $1200 paid into the Montgomery GI Bill plan and my benefits under that plan, maintain a B average, meet regularly with a counselor, and complete my education within four years. I did all they asked and more—I maintained an A average despite family illnesses, changes in counselors, tuition payment snafus, and wading without a compass through a culture, Academia, I had never before experienced. I completed a four-year Bachelor of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies degree in two years—the twenty credit hours accumulated during active duty covered my electives.
During my last undergraduate semester, I applied to University of South Carolina’s Master of Library and Information Science degree program. While I was waiting for a reply, I received a flier in the mail from Queens University of Charlotte, North Carolina announcing a low-residency program for a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree. Queens’ two-year low residency program meant I could pursue a career in writing without having to move from Beaufort or endure a long separation from my husband. Writing was what I had always wanted to do, long before I enlisted in the Corps. I applied to the Queens program, creating my application portfolio from essays written during my undergraduate studies in literature and philosophy. Upon learning of my decision to pursue a master’s degree in creative writing, Dr. Carl Eby, one of my undergraduate literature professors, asked if I had ever read Annie Dillard. My answer was no—I had never heard of the memoirist and essayist or of her creative nonfiction, the primary genre I would study at Queens. I went to Queens intending to learn to write better essays and somehow find a back door into a journalism career, the profession I had wanted to pursue before I enlisted in the Corps. My husband was unsettled by my decision to change course from library science to creative writing—what kind of job would a degree in creative writing earn? I filled his head and mine with visions of adjunct teaching and freelance writing assignments. Internally, I struggled with the idea of the sensible thing (librarian) butting against the fantasy (writer). I’d always chosen the sensible thing—at least since 1977, when I’d enlisted in the Corps. I decided to take a chance on myself and follow the dream. I threw the dice; they’ve yet to land.
My VA counselor, newly assigned to my case after my original counselor—a woman—moved to a new VA location, didn’t like the change of plan, either. We argued in his office in Columbia over my decision. He wasn’t sure the VA would fund the program. Fine, I told him, I’ll take out a second mortgage.
“Let’s not go there, yet,” he said.
“You need to tell me today if you won’t fund this. I need to make arrangements now if the VA won’t fund this.”
“Well, uh, I, uh—”
“Look, if you don’t know, go ask your supervisor.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“This is my life and I’ve got a right to a say in it…and what about that sign?” I pointed to the VA’s “Roadmap to Excellence: Planning the Journey” poster hanging on the wall.
ROADMAP TO EXCELLENCE Planning the Journey VBA Mission Statement “The mission of the Veteran’s Benefits Administration, in partnership with the Veterans Health Administration and the National Cemetery System, is to provide benefits and services to veterans and their families in a responsive, timely, and compassionate manner in recognition of their service to the nation.” “We are dealing with veterans, not procedures—with their problems, not ours.” —Omar Bradley-1947 Our vision is that the veterans whom we serve will feel that our nation has kept its commitment to them; employees will feel that they are both recognized for their contribution and are part of something larger than themselves; and taxpayers will feel that we’ve met the responsibilities they’ve entrusted to us. Courage, honesty, trust, respect, open communication, and accountability will be reflected in our day-to-day behavior.
“You’re not going to use that against me, are you?” my counselor asked.
“Yes. I’m holding you to it…and I’d like a copy of that before I go.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, and left the office.
When my VA counselor returned to his office, his answer was yes— the last two years of my self-devised educational program would be VA funded in 2003 as promised when my journey toward excellence began in 2001.
As I left my counselor’s office, he asked, “How’s your kids?”
“I don’t have any.”
Nearly two years would pass before the relevance of his comment about “kids” sank home in my brain-housing group.
I began the Queens writing program in May 2003, two weeks after I graduated magna cum laude from University of South Carolina. I worked hard at Queens, struggling with all I didn’t know about creative writing, which was everything. I had never taken a creative writing course or studied writing formally, but I had written poetry, short stories, and plays from the moment I learned to write my name. Fortunately, I’d studied literature, philosophy, and anthropology as an undergraduate, my instructors had required me to write seriously on my subjects, and I’d fallen in love with research. So I didn’t come to the table empty-handed.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the alienation I experienced during each of my five residencies at Queens. I had brought that alienation on myself, and it was directly related to my lack of social skills, craft skills, and my choice of subject matter: alcoholism, addiction, ostracism, death, family dysfunction, military life. For me, writing is pointless unless I address subjects important to humanity. My subjects were too deep and dark and my ability to write too poor. Readers cringed when faced with my work and found my experiences strange and unbelievable.
Once again, I was an outsider in my chosen community. I made only one lasting friendship in the military and made none among students during my tenure as a Queens’ student. My mother told me each time we talked that I would never finish graduate school, and “Don’t be too disappointed if your plans don’t work out.” My husband was bumming because reading, research, and writing had become my locus of activity. My VA counselor and I weren’t getting along, either. Tuition payments to Queens were consistently late. A constant stream of email and phone calls ensued and interfered with my studies, with me as middleman between the VA and Queens. My counselor always said he would fix the problems but didn’t— not until my fifth and last semester at Queens.
My VA counselor and I met for the last time in a classroom at Technical College of the Lowcountry, where my horticulture study had begun in 1994 and ended in 1996. He began our meeting by apologizing for the payment trouble. He went on to explain that he had in fact been intentionally hard on me. Why? He had worked for a woman in the Air Force who had treated him like dirt. This woman, my counselor told me, had intentionally had a hysterectomy so that she could receive disability after she left the service. She had children before she had the surgery.
My counselor thought I had done the same thing—sacrificed my reproductive organs to earn a VA disability rating. I was shocked—why would anyone intentionally rip out her guts to get disability? The notion was beyond my range of thought. In fact, I had no idea that loss of reproductive organs rated disability until my rating determination letter arrived in the mail—I wouldn’t have included the hysterectomy on the VA form if the Old Salt advising me hadn’t said to include every injury, every scar, every ache and pain. Everything wrong about how my counselor had treated me—from asking how the kids were to holding up tuition payments to making me pay for my books in graduate school—finally made sense. I forgave him as I have so often been forgiven for assuming something about someone else. We went on with our meeting.
My student days came to an end with writing a thesis and graduation from Queens University of Charlotte in May 2005, 29 years after graduating high school. My thesis was an overly long, jumbled and nearly incoherent account of my military career. But something good came of writing that scramble. I better understood my position in military and civilian society, as well as the position within those cultures of the people I had served with. My outsider status gained new meaning. Pride in my accomplishments during military service was restored to me. My perspective changed. Writing about my life set me free of the past. Researching my life to write about it helped me to better understand my family, the military, and my place in the world.
Developing and leading Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars is my response to my military experience, to my experience as a disabled veteran, as a woman in the military, as an alcoholic, as a student and as a teacher, and as a writer. Milspeak is an expression of gratitude for all I have been given by my country, its citizens, and the Corps—developing and leading Milspeak is my way of giving back and a way of providing a forum for other military people to break the traditional silence about military life.
II.
Writing as a Healing Art and the Warrior Poet in American Literature

Today’s military writing is evolved from a long tradition. The Iliad, the Greek poet Homer’s epic revelation of war’s devastation upon both civilian and warrior, stands out as the first example of military experience translated into literature. In what may be the most poignant metaphorical moment in literature, wild, tormented youth—Achilles—is approached by humble, wise, old age—Priam. The two reconcile their differences in a recordbreaking moment of peacemaking. Imagine youth meeting old age over the body of middle age to settle the score between waste of time and waste of life. Both learn the power of forgiveness, both are guided by a power greater themselves to create something greater than themselves. Although centuries separate then from now, writers still attempt to answer the question posed by Homer in The Iliad: What hold has higher law in human affairs? The answer is still out there. Writers search for this higher law with every word placed on paper, attempting to confirm or deny its existence through deeper understanding of the human experience.
The Iliad is important not only as literature or as historical, spiritual, and cultural record. Homer’s epic also holds a key to understanding the warrior’s psychological dilemma. Identified by Dr. Jonathan Shay in his groundbreaking book on the subject, Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character (1), Achilles’ actions in response to the death of his brother-in-arms represent the first literary characterization of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
PTSD was known as Soldier’s Heart during the civil war. Who better epitomizes the condition than the character Ashley Wilkes in Gone With the Wind? Following WWI, Ernest Hemingway captures the PTSDafflicted soldier in Krebs, protagonist of “Soldier’s Home.” T.S. Eliot renders the devastation by war of a generation in his epic poem, The Waste Land. Joseph Heller’s Yossarian in Catch-22 encapsulates the imagination of the 1960s peace movement. Tim O’Brien speaks for the infantryman in Vietnam through The Things They Carried. Sometimes a writer helps an entire culture or nation assimilate a shared experience, as Margaret Mitchell did with the Civil War in Gone With the Wind. Writers sometimes fictionalize personal military experience while trying to make sense of events that happened at ticker tape pace. The result is often amazing, artful, and entertaining, as is the case with Pat Conroy’s autobiographical novel, The Great Santini.
I have never been diagnosed with PTSD, but I now know that I began experiencing symptoms early in my life. Heavy drinking was selfmedication, my way of taking the edge off the brutality I have experienced since childhood. Members of emergency response teams tell me they believe everyone experiencing trauma suffers some degree of PTSD. From experience, I have learned that writing about a traumatic event and/ or its aftermath is one way of coping with the mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical syndrome known as alcoholism, and its sibling, PTSD. The two conditions often surface together. Whether or not one is diagnosed with PTSD, writing about traumatic experience diminishes the power of the event to control the future. When the traumatized places him- or herself into the action as a character at a safe distance from the event, either in time or space, the true nature of the event is realized and lessons the sense of survivor’s guilt.
Narrative writing has a long history of use as therapeutic, or healing, tool. Perhaps the warriors of old were aware of the healing power of storymaking and storytelling. Maybe that is why literature as we know it today was built by the contributions of many Warrior Poets, why the plots and characters of ancient poems and treatises reappear in today’s works, and why so many of today’s filmmakers retell Warrior Poets’ stories.
The Warrior Poet tradition reaches far into the history of civilization. The Fianna, a band of Gaelic forest warriors led by Finn MacCumhaill, existed two thousand years before the advent of Saint Patrick (2). These warriors were not aristocrats, but fighters in the trenches, each of them required to memorize the oral history of the clan and its many poetic cycles before becoming one of the Fianna. Finn MacCumhaill, sometimes known as Finn McCool or just Finn, fathered the better-known Irish hero Oisin. Finn is recognized as a hero in Ireland and Scotland. He is sometimes identified as a giant and his men as a clan of giants. Among the Irish, it is believed Finn, like Britain’s King Arthur, sleeps in a hidden location and will awaken when needed by his people (3). Joseph Campbell, the renowned mythologist, relates a story of one of Finn’s men, the giant Caeilte, engaged in conversation with St. Patrick:
“Patrick said: ‘Was not he a good lord with whom ye were; Finn MacCumhaill that is to say?’ Upon which Caeilte uttered the following tribute of praise: ‘Were but the brown leaf which the wood sheds from it gold, Were but the white billow silver; Finn would have given it all away.’ ‘Who or what was it that maintained you so in your life?’ Patrick asked; and the other answered: ‘Truth, which was in our hearts, strength in our arms, and fulfillment in our tongues’”(4).
In defining the Warrior Poet, consider the many ancient Greek and Roman warriors who wrote. Among them stood Homer and Marcus Aurelius, a Roman Emperor who died fighting barbarians on the Danube frontier. Consider any of the many Warrior Poets of many nationalities and eras that you have met through reading: Chinese, Egyptian, African, English, French, Italian, Swedish, Icelandic, Norwegian, American, et al. Imagine their shared qualities: military experience, literary excellence, historical significance, all of them engaged in a search for meaning, and you have met the Warrior Poet: e. e. cummings, Robert Graves, Thomas E. Lawrence, George Orwell, Joseph Heller, Norman Mailer, Leon Uris, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Tim O’Brien. Try to imagine literature without these writers, and your definition of Warrior Poet will be complete.
Milspeak writers continue the Warrior Poet tradition by capturing the world of the moment while exploring what science and history cannot: “the human heart in conflict with itself” (5). This phrase of Warrior Poet William Faulkner’s is the beating heart of memoir, and of military memoir in particular:
“Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat” (6).
I use Poet in describing writers of military memoir in the broadest sense: that language is poetic; that creative writers use the poet’s tools; that prose, too, can be poetic; and that the literary genres as we know them today, divided and subdivided, still share a common foundation in written language used as communication between inner and outer worlds. Creative nonfiction is a hybrid genre as is memoir, as is poetry, as we know the genres today. Lyric essays, like “Life as Dream,” and “Hymn,” written by Milspeak writers Yvonne Green and Charlotte Brock, are poetic by nature.
Milspeak writers also continue the traditions of American Literature. Ralph Waldo Emerson, a major influence on American Literature, wrote in his essay “The Poet” that “cause, operation, and effect” go by many different names, including “the Knower, the Doer, and the Sayer” or “the love of truth, the love of good, and the love of beauty.” “The sign and credentials of the poet are,” Emerson continues, “that he announces that which no man foretold. He is the true and only doctor; he knows and tells; he is the only teller of news, for he was present and privy to the appearance which he describes” (7). Milspeak writers bleed words to describe the military world they have experienced, often in hopes that what they have learned will benefit someone just beginning the journey on a road the writer has traveled. Purists and critics might abhor my use of Poet to describe writers of military memoir, but every writer in the role of language smithy is a poet. Emerson writes in “The American Scholar” that “Life is our dictionary”:
“I embrace the common, I explore and sit at the feet of the familiar, the low. Give me insight into to-day, and you may have the antique and future worlds. What would we really know the meaning of? The meal in the firkin; the milk in the pan; the ballad in the street; the news of the boat; the glance of the eye; the form and the gait of the body; —show me the sublime presence of the highest spiritual cause lurking, as always it does lurk, in these suburbs and extremities of nature; let me see every trifle bristling with the polarity that ranges it instantly on an eternal law; and the shop, the plough, and the ledger, referred to the like cause by which light undulates and poets sing; —and the world lies no longer a dull miscellany and lumber room, but has form and order; there is no trifle; there is no puzzle; but one design unites and animates the farthest pinnacle and the lowest trench” (8).
Who can better reveal the everyday in American military life than those who have lived it? Our present day Warrior Poets sing new chants and old while they run in formation. These warriors memorize history, customs and courtesies in boot camp and read from professional reading lists. Today’s Warrior Poets are rapping, singing, writing verse, blogging, publishing books, and participating in Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars. So doing, they aren’t just finding their voices by writing the truth about their military experiences; our Warrior Poets continue an ancient tradition of honoring the past by keeping it alive in the present. Beyond being a catch-all for the historical and cultural details of military life that might otherwise be lost, Milspeak’s most important achievement is bringing together military people from all military branches, all generations of veterans and retirees, members of the military family, and civil service employees. By being inclusive rather than exclusive, our stories have the potential not only to heal wounds of memory, but also to build the civilian community’s understanding of military life.
III How Milspeak Works
Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars (MCWS) is a series of workshops developed for military people who want to write about their experiences. MCWS grew from a shared idea. Several veterans attended the Queens University of Charlotte creative writing program with me. During graduation residency in May 2005, three of us talked about what was next. We agreed we’d like to do something to help veterans, a writing workshop, or something like that. Creating a writing workshop for combat veterans wasn’t as difficult as you might think. The Milspeak program is a hybrid of the Queens’ creative writing program. That program depended upon a weeklong residency each semester for craft seminars and manuscript critiques, a well as serious and lengthy reading prior to residencies, and an email manuscript exchange to develop writing craft among pod members. Each pod was assigned a writing instructor for the semester. Instructors were published authors and usually held teaching degrees. Each month of the semester, pod members exchanged a new piece of writing for critique by their pod and the pod instructor. MCWS is organized the same way, but in my initial plan writers workshopped one story from idea to final draft through a six-week process. Adapting the Queens’ program to the military lifestyle also ensured that the workshop would not become a burden on participants by taking up too much precious off-duty time.
Milspeak is a simple creative writing program designed as an outreach program focused on teaching combat veterans to use narrative writing to assimilate the wartime experience. The program introduces military people to the writing process, helps them understand their own writing process, and transforms their writing. While undergoing the creative process that occurs during each MCWS, participants’ understanding of their own experience is transformed. In undergoing the creative process that unfolds during each MCWS, in re-seeing the facts of experience, old fictions of memory can be set aside. The only requirements for participation are membership in the extended military family, an idea for a true story about military life, a willingness to try writing memoir or personal essay, an email account, and access to a computer and a printer. Participants do not pay a fee, although there is minor cost involved in printing manuscripts. I do not receive monetary compensation for my work with Milspeak. My initial proposal for the Milspeak program called for two one-hour meetings a week over a six-week span. The first workshops were held during lunch, from 11:45 a.m.—12:45 p.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. MCWS now meets twice year on five Saturday mornings from 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Each MCWS begins with distribution of a flier designed to draw participants, who respond by sending a one-paragraph email to me that explains why the writer wants to attend. A Welcome email and the MCWS Handbook are delivered via email to participants prior to the first workshop (Welcome emails and the handbook are posted on the program website: www.milspeak.org). Delivering the Welcome Email and handouts early allows Milspeak writers time to prepare before Seminar Saturday. During Seminar Saturday, the basics of creative writing and creative critiquing are taught. On Second Saturday, a guest author is invited to speak to MCWS writers about the writing life. Following Second Saturday, writers submit first drafts via email to me. I then distribute drafts to workshop participants for critique. During Third Saturday, Workshop 1, critiques are discussed and suggestions for revision are offered. Revised manuscripts are again routed through me for distribution and critique. During Fourth Saturday, Workshop 2, a roundtable critique discussion offers writers suggestions for revision. On Fifth Saturday, Celebration Saturday Read & Chow, participants come together with family and friends for a potluck breakfast, and final draft manuscripts are read aloud. Each Milspeak writer is also invited to publish his or her work in the Writers Gallery of the Milspeak website. Other opportunities for publication are discussed during each seminar, but writers must do the work to publish to a wider audience.
Since September 2005, Milspeak writers have gathered twice a year to write memoir in a classroom at Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort. A sign above the classroom whiteboard reads, “Blackbird Zone.” The sign is a museum piece, as is the SR-71 Blackbird, a spy plane decommissioned several years ago. Milspeak writers’ works are artifacts as well. Each memoir is a carefully crafted reminiscence, the telling of a memorable moment in a military life, a personal, cultural, and historical record, a work of art crafted through sweat and anguish for a reader, and has the potential to foster greater understanding of military life among the civilian community. Sadly, these writers’ hard-wrought works are often overlooked by a publishing world more often interested in spectacle than in matters of the heart meeting mind over the body of a written page. Military life isn’t all blood-and-guts combat tours. The majority of service members and veterans—there are millions of us—never see a day of combat. Milspeak writers’ topics cover the gamut of military life: from caring for a dying veteran to acknowledging the impact of one life upon another, from the drudgery of daily operations to the excitement of enlisting or enlisting someone else. Service members’ families’ stories, too, are often forgotten or overlooked by the publishing world. The trials and terrors of being the family member of a service member are no less in principle than those experienced by the hardened combat veteran. Civil Service workers supporting operations aboard bases and beyond are the silent million. Their sacrifice is great and their story is untold.
In Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars, these members of the military family are finding a voice, but many participants believe their stories are unimportant. From capturing the sound of rounds fired down range, to humming a song in desperate times, to remembering words spoken by someone lost and brought to life from memory at just the right moment, Milspeak writers are discovering that writing is not only hard and valuable work, but like any art form, it is also one of the healing arts with an ancient past. They are learning that exploring the details of a military life can be salve on an open wound, a balm that allows the future to unfold, not only for the writer but also for the reader. In a country at war, everyone, military or civilian, has a war story to tell and a wound to heal— the story each of us is running from or running down, the brutal truth of loving and losing, of dying and surviving.
Yours is the story only one person can tell.
What follows in this anthology is a narrative thread that begins each chapter and leads to memoir written by Milspeak writers who have participated in MCWS 1 through MCWS 8. The narrative tells the Milspeak story, including my experience developing Milspeak, my findings on Milspeak’s accomplishments, and my understanding of the program’s potential to assist military people positively assimilate their experiences. In this anthology you will also find memoir and essay by guest contributors who have given time and effort toward developing Milspeak, mentoring Milspeak writers, and serving as MCWS Guest Writers. Each of us has reached into the abyss of meaning and returned with boon, a measure of experience to be shared with you. Caeilte of the Fianna might say, “Truth is in our words, strength is in our pens, fulfillment in sharing our stories with you.” In this anthology you might come face to face with your own fear, or your own story. Perhaps, your perspective on military life will be changed by these stories, as mine was. And maybe, if you are a military person struggling to find your place in the world, you will find a way home in the words of these writers, as I have. When Milspeak began, I never imagined the writers I met would lead me home to a sense of belonging in the military family I never felt part of and abandoned when I retired.

Notes: 1 Shay, Jonathan, M.D., Ph.D. Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character. New York: Touchstone, 1994. 2 Finn’s story is related in many texts. The Fenian Cycle lives on in tales like the story of Tristan and Isolt and James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake. This version of Finn’s story is paraphrased from Internet sources, The Celts by Nora Chadwick (Folio), as well as The Masks of God: Creative Mythology (Penguin Compass).
3 ibid. 4 The Masks of God: Occidental Mythology. New York: Penguin Compass, 1968. 471-472. 5 Faulkner, William. 1949 Nobel Banquet Speech. From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967. Ed. Horst Frenz. Amsterdam: Elsevier Publishing Company, 1969. Downloaded at http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1949/faulkner-speech.html. 6 ibid. 7 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “The Poet.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Fifth Edition, Vol. 1. Nina Baym, General Editor. New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1998. 1144-1159. 8 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “The American Scholar.” The Norton Anthology of American Literature, Fifth Edition, Vol. 1. Nina Baym, General Editor. New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1998. 1112.

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