My story begins on a small farm in rural Oklahoma situated just north of Wildcat Junction, an intersection of two state highways that boasted a self-service gas station and a run-down horse track. I spent the hottest part of the summers bailing hay. Winters were busy filling feed troughs and chopping holes through frozen ponds so cattle could reach water beneath the ice. The time in between was occupied by hunting, fishing, and swimming in any creek that would hold enough water to get my dog and me wet.
My family was deeply rooted in military history. My older brother, father, grandfather, and two uncles had each served in the Army. At age 17, I would be the next in line to raise my right hand and swear to uphold the Constitution against all enemies both foreign and domestic. Hastey, was an Engineer, and I would follow in his footsteps.
Signing up to operate bulldozers seemed a logical decision considering my years of experience on farm equipment. My specific Military Occupational Specialty provided me the opportunity to move often and attach to many different Army and Marine units during my month tour.
I would later find out that my participation in these events and the thousands of miles convoyed across Iraq would not compare to the most difficult mission of my life, the return home. Practically overnight, I had been ejected from the combat theater and tossed back into the civilian world. At that time, PTSD was not a household term that people recognized, and resources for coping with combat related trauma were not main stream.
In addition to my own ignorance of what was happening to me, my faith in God had been shaken. I found that serving in Iraq was more convenient if I placed my faith in the footlockerβjust until I was back home.
