Posted by Brian Duka-Smith on January 31, 2013 at 5:30amS

During my time at the FOCUS program I think I might have been the only Marine/Sailor not to get up and share a story.  Well, I’ve thought four months about it and now I’m going to say why.  For those who don’t know I was a Hospital Corpsman. I’m not going to say what unit I was attached to but I was only with them because I made an enemy inadvertently that got me kicked out of Force Recon training.  Right at this time my closest uncle died young, leaving my aunt and four cousins, and my best friend drowned. I was attached to my unit which was already in pre-deployment training and couldn’t go to either funeral.  When we got put on pre-deployment leave I had a rare reaction to the smallpox vaccine we were given days before and spent most of the time with fever and hallucinations on a relative’s floor.  The rest of my family was scared to visit me cause they didn’t want to catch it.  Just saying things were pretty lousy before we ever got to Iraq.

While in Iraq, I made the commitment to be the best corpsman I possibly could, not in the least because the company commander promised me to get me orders back into spec ops if I held up and performed well. And I did.  I went on every single patrol, sweep, and ambush that my platoon went on even though the Marines got cycled out. Often I was disallowed from sleeping and kept in the COC because I was the only corpsman and they wanted me on ready stand-by. I almost never got more than 2 hours of sleep the entire deployment.  During our 2 week post details I was attached to different units operating in our zone that needed a corpsman.  In addition to doing every combat mission that my platoon was sent on, while the Marines were on down time, I was in the BAS doing sick calls, taking care of medical records, studying for advancement, taking the exam, stabilizing wounded enemy combatants that we took captive, and regularly seeing local Iraqis that showed up seeking medical attention.  I saved every life that was in danger, successfully treated every injury, and even saved one Marine’s life by recognizing the symptoms of appendicitis and fighting my way up both my chains of command to make sure that he wasn’t allowed to go out into the city and got on a medevac instead.  I made a friend in the unit and he and I used to do artwork to relax and shake off the stress and compare our drawings when we had time but he was killed and it was years before I was able to draw a picture again.

Two years later when I was redeployed to the same place with a different unit just as my first unit was coming back from their second pull in the same place, my battalion commander recognized me in the chow hall and called me over by name to his table and introduced me to every officer at the table as their “best corpsman.” He didn’t even know I wasn’t attached to them anymore, and I honestly wouldn’t have recognized him if I hadn’t caught his name and rank. And I was still an E3, having not been selected for petty officer.  I’m not writing this to blow my own horn, just giving pertinent information.

At the end of that first deployment (and I’m not going to discuss all the things that traumatized me during it and there were plenty) we went into “decompression” time.  In our battalion corpsmen weren’t required to do firewatch but I always volunteered for it because I wanted my Marines to know that I pulled my own weight.  On this particular day both of the Marines scheduled after me never showed up, staying at the USO instead.  An hour after getting replaced the private on firewatch came to my rack and ordered me to be his replacement.  I respectfully declined, citing that I’d done three watches that day and suggested he go to one of the marines. Instead he took me in front of the sergeant who without ever giving me a chance to defend myself (not that I was dumb enough to) went nuclear and declared that from here on out there would be “Duka watch.” Get your laughs in now, cause at first it might have seemed funny.

A second roster went up in the hooch for “Duka watch.” For 18 hours a day I was required to clean s******* and dig cigarettes out of the mud with my fingers, staying constantly moving and not allowed breaks. I was allowed two half hour meal breaks, which my armed “guards” had to accompany me on.  The Marines whose respect I fought so hard to earn during the 7 preceding months of hell soon learned reasons to hate me while in addition to firewatch they were forced to pull hour long shifts of following behind me as I cleaned the FOB.  This continued even as we flew to air bases on our way back out of country.  It started getting sadistic, and privates seemed to take pleasure in being able to order their E3 corpsman to dig in the dirt.  Every Marine in the battalion saw this going on all day long, and they all laughed.  I tried to laugh at first, and told myself that by keeping my head down, my sense of humor in front of me, and not raising a stink I could get through this.  But it went on for 2 weeks.  I learned how much believing that the man to your right and left has your back keeps fear at bay, and PTSD and chilling nightmares started before I ever got home, whereas through the entire deployment I had no problem sleeping soundly on a concrete floor in the middle of a firefight.  The Marines I had come to respect and love I learned to fear, and I saw how quickly everyone forgot how I hard worked for each and every one of them and made me a running joke instead.  I still carried around a rifle and ammunition, and I thought long and hard about shooting myself in the face right in front of my “Duka watch.”

Finally I couldn’t take it any longer and instead of shooting myself I told the “Duka watch” that I was going to find my Navy chain of command.  He told me to stop or he would shoot me. Funny, huh.  I ignored him and kept walking, had no clue where I was going on this base, but eventually ran into someone who gave me directions.  I went to my chief and in a matter of minutes he had me in front of the company commander.  An impromptu company meeting was called, which without ever directly citing my name went like this: “OK let’s all remember that hazing is bad, alright good work boys, break.”  The rest of the time I was with the unit almost every marine that passed laughed at me.

Back on base stateside, the one corpsman friend I had was suffering from intense PTSD after his platoon commander died in his arms.  Long story short, I came to his door and got cold cocked in the face twice.  I walked away and went back to my room.  He kicked my door down and came after me with a knife.  I hit him with a chair and then beat him into a corner until he cried.  I started cutting myself.  I took the knife and slashed the barracks room to ribbons.  My room mate never said anything, it was like I was invisible.  From that day onward, I haven’t been able to trust a Marine.  I haven’t been able to trust anyone.  I volunteered for a second deployment because I couldn’t stay with my girlfriend: I would wake up swinging and she would take the bruises.  I hoped I wouldn’t make it home but I did.  I’ve never told any of this to anyone, but now those of you who read this know why when the rest of you were swapping war stories I said nothing.  I can’t go to counseling with groups of other vets because I’d feel like I was dangling my junk in a piranha tank. Civilian counselors made me feel like killing them.  The one good veteran counselor I had told me he didn’t want to see me any more after he found out I was thinking about killing myself because it caused him hours of paperwork.  I’m going to be honest and say I really didn’t benefit from the FOCUS program because I was terrified on such a deep level that I never opened up to let it help me.  Corpsmen have to be good at hiding their fear and being the calm at the eye of the storm and that is what I did.