Sample Chapter from Ghost In the Ranks
From Chapter 5: I Loved the Army
The blackness of the Kandahar night erupted into blazing fireballs and ear-splitting blasts from the two 500-pounders. Concussions could be heard and felt miles from where the aircraft had mistakenly taken out the Canadian patrol—four killed instantly, many more wounded.
At first they thought it had been an IED (improvised explosive device) or a nighttime ambush by the Taliban fighters, but when the first casualties and the dead began to arrive back at camp, Gerry and the others knew from the gruesome injuries what had caused them. Gerry was a section leader and immediately started applying battlefield first aid to the injured. It was utter chaos. Guys were screaming, crying.
Disoriented and in shock, he moved through the ranks to check on his guys. He was up most of the night with them trying to do the impossible, to eradicate the terrible impact on his guys. Young wide-eyed faces, none of whom, himself included, would ever be the same.
Two years later, Master Corporal Gerry Hynes from the 3rd Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry was released because of PTSD. He had gone back to school on his own dime and managed to complete training to become a paramedic. He was not interested in talking about Afghanistan or taking any more medications. No one understood how utterly heartbroken he felt or how his pride had been kicked around during those two years since that night. He knew he worked too hard. The other paramedics called him a perfectionist. These people had no idea of how much effort it had taken to overcome being thrown away by the military and the struggle to study and pass the tests to become registered. He knew how to care for people, and that is what drove him. But something else drove him like a fire inside, a volcano that could erupt if he lost control. On other days, he felt emptiness in the place that used to be filled with the pride of being a soldier with his own section that had been taken from him.
Gerry’s eyes avoid mine as he speaks.
“As far back as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to be a soldier. I loved the army and my guys, and I would have done anything for them.”
A couple of days after the friendly-fire incident, Gerry had been tasked to the mountains on a search and destroy mission. Three days later, with his left leg severely busted up, he was on a medevac flight to Germany and then home to Canada. During physical rehab, Gerry was also diagnosed with severe PTSD and kept back by his unit. Instead of being given a new section or responsibilities, he was assigned to a job in regimental stores, which told him that he was now broken and useless. This was the beginning of the darkest days of his life.
“The thing that hurt the most was that everybody scattered like I had leprosy. Nobody and I mean nobody called me to even ask how I was doing.”
To him, the word had been passed: Hands off. Gerry volunteered for various jobs, anything and everything to stay in the Army; he even took university classes at night in the hopes of remustering to Medic. Nobody wanted to hear about his alternatives. He was deemed unfit for military service, and that’s how his career would end. He despised the uniform. They had betrayed him.
Beneath Gerry’s anger is obvious heartbreak. Apart from not having a chance within his section to resolve the horror and grief of losing his friends, his biggest struggle since his release is trying to keep his anger under control.
“I don’t fit anywhere.”
In spite of all of his counselling and therapy, he could still lose control without warning. The physical toll of his leg injury and the mental toll of constant anger, shift work, and sleepless nights had worn him down. The thing that angers him constantly is that his role in taking care of other soldiers—his soldiers—had been dismissed and that any acknowledgment of his commitment to his guys had been taken by superiors who had not been there as he watched his buddies fall apart. Instead, he felt ignored, and when he was injured, in his mind, he became just another useless liability overnight. All his efforts to get better in the medical system were meant to show them that he was still a good soldier and salvageable, but it was discounted, leaving him little choice but to play along. Gerry wanted to be recognized for what he had done to help that night, but he was also embarrassed for wanting this recognition. The importance of these acknowledgments, formally and informally, from people who matter cannot be overstated.
The blackness of the Kandahar night erupted into blazing fireballs and ear-splitting blasts from the two 500-pounders. Concussions could be heard and felt miles from where the aircraft had mistakenly taken out the Canadian patrol—four killed instantly, many more wounded.
At first they thought it had been an IED (improvised explosive device) or a nighttime ambush by the Taliban fighters, but when the first casualties and the dead began to arrive back at camp, Gerry and the others knew from the gruesome injuries what had caused them. Gerry was a section leader and immediately started applying battlefield first aid to the injured. It was utter chaos. Guys were screaming, crying.
Disoriented and in shock, he moved through the ranks to check on his guys. He was up most of the night with them trying to do the impossible, to eradicate the terrible impact on his guys. Young wide-eyed faces, none of whom, himself included, would ever be the same.
Two years later, Master Corporal Gerry Hynes from the 3rd Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry was released because of PTSD. He had gone back to school on his own dime and managed to complete training to become a paramedic. He was not interested in talking about Afghanistan or taking any more medications. No one understood how utterly heartbroken he felt or how his pride had been kicked around during those two years since that night. He knew he worked too hard. The other paramedics called him a perfectionist. These people had no idea of how much effort it had taken to overcome being thrown away by the military and the struggle to study and pass the tests to become registered. He knew how to care for people, and that is what drove him. But something else drove him like a fire inside, a volcano that could erupt if he lost control. On other days, he felt emptiness in the place that used to be filled with the pride of being a soldier with his own section that had been taken from him.
Gerry’s eyes avoid mine as he speaks.
“As far back as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to be a soldier. I loved the army and my guys, and I would have done anything for them.”
A couple of days after the friendly-fire incident, Gerry had been tasked to the mountains on a search and destroy mission. Three days later, with his left leg severely busted up, he was on a medevac flight to Germany and then home to Canada. During physical rehab, Gerry was also diagnosed with severe PTSD and kept back by his unit. Instead of being given a new section or responsibilities, he was assigned to a job in regimental stores, which told him that he was now broken and useless. This was the beginning of the darkest days of his life.
“The thing that hurt the most was that everybody scattered like I had leprosy. Nobody and I mean nobody called me to even ask how I was doing.”
To him, the word had been passed: Hands off. Gerry volunteered for various jobs, anything and everything to stay in the Army; he even took university classes at night in the hopes of remustering to Medic. Nobody wanted to hear about his alternatives. He was deemed unfit for military service, and that’s how his career would end. He despised the uniform. They had betrayed him.
Beneath Gerry’s anger is obvious heartbreak. Apart from not having a chance within his section to resolve the horror and grief of losing his friends, his biggest struggle since his release is trying to keep his anger under control.
“I don’t fit anywhere.”
In spite of all of his counselling and therapy, he could still lose control without warning. The physical toll of his leg injury and the mental toll of constant anger, shift work, and sleepless nights had worn him down. The thing that angers him constantly is that his role in taking care of other soldiers—his soldiers—had been dismissed and that any acknowledgment of his commitment to his guys had been taken by superiors who had not been there as he watched his buddies fall apart. Instead, he felt ignored, and when he was injured, in his mind, he became just another useless liability overnight. All his efforts to get better in the medical system were meant to show them that he was still a good soldier and salvageable, but it was discounted, leaving him little choice but to play along. Gerry wanted to be recognized for what he had done to help that night, but he was also embarrassed for wanting this recognition. The importance of these acknowledgments, formally and informally, from people who matter cannot be overstated.
