[NYTr] The Marlboro Marine: Am I to blame for his private war?

[All the News That Doesn't Fit]

sent by tsimonds - activ-l

The Observer -Nov 18, 2007
http://www.guardian.co.uk/

Am I to blame for his private war?

by Luis Sinco

The young marine lit a cigarette and let it dangle. White smoke wafted
around his helmet. His face was smeared with war paint. Blood trickled
from his right ear and the bridge of his nose. Momentarily deafened by
cannon blasts, he didn't know the shooting had stopped. He stared at the
sunrise. His expression caught my eye. To me, it said terrified,
exhausted and glad just to be alive. I recognised that look because
that's how I felt too. I raised my camera and snapped a few shots.

With the click of a shutter, Marine Lance Corporal James Blake Miller, a
country boy from Kentucky, became an emblem of the war in Iraq. The
image would change two lives - his and mine.

I was embedded with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine
Regiment, as it entered Falluja, an insurgent stronghold in Iraq's Sunni
Triangle, on 8 November 2004. We encountered heavy fire almost
immediately. We were pinned down all night at a traffic circle, where a
six-inch kerb offered the only protection. I hunkered down in the gutter
that endless night, praying for daylight, trying hard to make myself
small. A cold rain came down. I cursed the Marines' illumination flares
that wafted slowly earthward, making us wait an eternity for darkness to
return.

At dawn, the gunfire and explosions subsided. A white phosphorus
artillery round burst overhead, showering blazing-hot tendrils. We came
across three insurgents lying in the street, two of them dead, their
blood mixing with rain. The third, a wiry Arab youth, tried to mouth a
few words. All I could think was: 'Buddy, you're already dead.'

We rounded a corner and again came under heavy fire, forcing us to
scramble for cover. I ran behind a Marine as we crossed the street, the
bullets ricocheting at our feet. Gunfire poured down and it seemed
incredible that no one was hit. A pair of tanks rumbled down the road to
shield us. The Marines kicked open the door of a house and we all piled
in.

Miller and other Marines took positions on the rooftop; I set up my
satellite phone to transmit photos. But as I worked downstairs in the
kitchen, a deep rumble almost blew the room apart. Two cannon rounds had
slammed into a nearby house. Miller, the platoon's radioman, had called
in the tanks, pinpointed the targets and shouted: 'Fire!'

I ran to the roof and saw smouldering ruins across a large vacant lot.
Beneath a heap of bricks, men lay dead or dying. I sat down and
collected my wits. Miller propped himself against a wall and lit his
cigarette. I transmitted the picture that night. Power in Falluja had
been cut in advance of the assault, forcing me to be judicious with my
batteries. I considered not even sending Miller's picture, thinking my
editors would prefer images of fierce combat. The photo of Miller was
the last of 11 that I sent that day.

On the second day of the battle, I called my wife by satellite phone to
tell her that I was OK. She told me my photo had ended up on the front
page of more than 150 newspapers. Dan Rather had gushed over it on the
evening news. Friends and family had called her to say they had seen the
photo - my photo.

Soon, my editors called and asked me to find the 'Marlboro Marine' for a
follow-up story. Who was this brave young hero? Women wanted to marry
him. Mothers wanted to know whether he was their son. I didn't even
know his name. Shellshocked and exhausted, I had simply identified
Miller as 'a Marine' and clicked 'send'.

I found Miller four days later in an auditorium in the city's civic
centre. Miller's unit was taking a break, eating military rations.
Clean-shaven and without war paint, Miller, 20, looked much younger than
the battle-stressed warrior in the picture - young enough to be my son.
He was co-operative, but embarrassed about the photo's impact back home.

Once our story identified him, the national fascination grew stronger.
People shipped care packages, making sure Miller had more than enough
smokes. President Bush sent cigars, candy and memorabilia from the White
House. Then Major General Richard F Natonski, head of the 1st Marine
Division, made a special trip to see the Marlboro Marine. To talk to
Miller, Natonski had to weave between earthen berms, run through
bombed-out buildings and make a mad sprint across a street to avoid
sniper fire before diving into a shattered store front. 'Miller, get
your ass up here,' a first sergeant barked on the radio.

Miller had no idea what was going on as he ran through the rubble. He
snapped to attention when he saw the general. Natonski shook Miller's
hand. Americans had 'connected' with his photo, the general said, and
nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead. 'We can have you home
tomorrow,' he said.

Miller hesitated, then shook his head. He did not want to leave his
buddies behind. 'It just wasn't right,' he told me later. 'Your father
raised one hell of a young man,' the general said, looking Miller in the
eye. They said goodbye and Natonski scrambled back to the command post.

For his loyalty, Miller was rewarded with horror. The assault on Falluja
raged on, leaving nearly 100 Americans dead and 450 wounded. The bodies
of some 1,200 insurgents littered the streets. As the fighting dragged
on, the story fell off the front page. I joined the exodus of
journalists going home or moving to the next story. More than a year
and a half would pass before I saw Miller again.

Back home, I tried to put Falluja behind me. Yet not a day went by that
I didn't think about Miller and Iraq. National Public Radio interviewed
me. I became a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Bloggers riffed on the
photo's meaning. Requests for prints kept coming.

In January 2006, I was on assignment along the US-Mexico border when my
wife called. 'Your boy is on TV. He has post-traumatic stress disorder,'
she said. 'They kicked him out of the Marines.'

I'd spoken with Miller by phone twice, but the conversations had been
short and superficial. I knew PTSD was a complex diagnosis. So I dug up
his number. I offered simple words: life is sweet. We survived.
Everything else is gravy.

As the third anniversary of the US-led invasion approached, my editors
wanted another follow-up story. So in spring 2006, I drove to Miller's
hometown of Jonancy, Kentucky, in the hollows of Appalachia. Mobile
homes and battered cars dot the rugged ranges. Marijuana is a major
cash crop. Addiction to methamphetamine and prescription drugs is
rampant. Kids marry young and boys go to work mining the black seams of
coal. Miller showed me around. At an abandoned mine, he picked up a
chunk of coal. 'Around here, this is what it's all about,' he said.
'Nothing else. It was this or the Marines.'

Often brooding and sullen, Miller joked about being '21 going on 70',
the result, he said, of humping heavy armour and gear on a 6ft, 11=st
frame. Before he was allowed to leave Iraq, he attended a mandatory
'warrior transitioning' session about PTSD and adjusting to home life.
Each Marine received a questionnaire. Were they having trouble
sleeping? Did they have thoughts of suicide? Everybody knew the drill.
Answer yes and be evaluated further. Say no and go home. Miller said he
didn't want to miss his flight. He answered no to every question.

He returned to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. His high-school sweetheart,
Jessica Holbrooks, joined him there and they were married in a civil
ceremony. But he began to have nightmares and hallucinations. He
imagined shadowy figures outside the windows. Faces of the dead haunted
his sleep. Once, while cleaning a shotgun, he blacked out. He regained
consciousness when Jessica screamed his name and realised he was
pointing the gun at her. He reported the problems to superiors, who
promised to get him help.

Then came a single violent episode which put an end to his days as a
Marine. It happened in the Gulf of Mexico in September 2005. His unit
had been sent to New Orleans to assist with hurricane Katrina relief
efforts. Now a second giant storm, Hurricane Rita, was moving in, and
the Marines were ordered to seek safety out at sea. In the
claustrophobic innards of a navy ship, someone whistled. The sound
reminded Miller of a rocket-propelled grenade. He attacked the sailor
who had whistled. He was medically discharged with a 'personality
disorder' on 10 November 2005, one year after his picture made
worldwide news.

Back home in Kentucky, the Millers settled into a sparsely furnished,
second-storey apartment. Four small windows afforded little light. The
TV was always on. Miller bought a motorcycle and went for long rides.
He and Jessica drank all night and slept all day. He started collecting
a monthly disability benefit of about $2,500. The couple spent hours
watching movies on DVD, Coronas and bourbon cocktails in hand. Friends
and family gave them space.

Miller had hoped to pursue a career in law enforcement, but the PTSD and
discharge killed that dream. No one would trust him with a weapon. But
at least he didn't have to go back to Iraq. He started to realise he
wasn't the only one traumatised by war. 'There's a word for it around
here,' Jessica said. 'It's called "vets".' She talked of Miller's
grandfather, changed by the Korean War and dead at 35. Her Uncle
Hargis, a Vietnam veteran, had it too. He experienced mood swings for
years.

Sometimes, Miller's stories about Iraq unnerved his wife. He sensed it
and talked less. Nobody really understands, he said, unless they've been
there.

On 3 June 2006, the Millers renewed their vows at a hilltop clubhouse
in a lavish ceremony paid for by donors from across the country. His
father and two younger brothers, supposed to be groomsmen, didn't show
up. His estranged mother wasn't invited. Instead of a honeymoon, the
couple travelled to Washington, DC, at the invitation of the National
Mental Health Association, which wanted to honour Miller for his
courage in going public about PTSD. They also wanted him to visit
lawmakers to share his experience.

As a boy, Miller confided, he had embraced religion, even going so far
as to become an ordained minister by mail order. He felt the passion for
preaching. That's how he found his new mission: to tell people what it
was like to come home from war with a broken mind.

Three days after their wedding, I tagged along as the young couple flew
to the nation's capital. Easily distracted by the offer of free drinks
for an all-American hero, Miller stayed out until 3am. He was hungover
during his meeting with House members a few hours later and smoked and
cursed while recounting his combat experiences. The politicians
listened politely and thanked Miller for his service. One congressman
sent an aide to tell Miller he was too busy to meet him. No one
promised to take up his cause.

After Miller picked up his award, he took a tour past the White House
and Lincoln Memorial, but his mind was elsewhere. 'Let's get drunk,' he
said.

I returned to Los Angeles the next morning, thinking I would catch up
with Miller in a couple of months. A week later, Jessica called. After
they had got home, Miller's mood had become volatile. He was OK one
minute and in a deep funk the next, she told me. Then he'd disappeared.
She hadn't seen him for days. Could I come to Kentucky and help?

Why me? I thought. I could feel the line between journalist and subject
blurring. Was I covering the story or becoming part of it? I travelled
all night to get to Pikeville, Kentucky, and found myself with Jessica,
making the rounds of all the places Miller might have gone. I wanted to
be somewhere else. Finally, the next morning, Jessica saw him driving
in the opposite direction. She did a U-turn and caught up with him down
the road. He got out of his truck. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

'Who is that, Blake?' Jessica demanded. 'Who is she?' He said her name
was Sherry. They had just met and he was helping her move. Jessica
didn't believe him. I thought: didn't I attend this young couple's
fairytale wedding just 10 days ago? Now here they were, in a gas
station parking lot, creating a spectacle.

Jessica grilled Miller. He seemed sober and sullen. Then he dropped a
bomb. He didn't want her any more and had filed for divorce. 'You guys
might want to go home and talk,' I suggested.

At home, the tortured dialogue escalated. Jessica pleaded with Blake to
stop and think. They could quit drinking, she said. They'd get help for
him and as a couple. Maybe they could move away - anything to work it
out. Miller slumped on the couch. I sensed his unease and feared he
would become violent, so I stayed even though I felt intrusive. But he
remained strangely calm, albeit brooding.

I returned the next morning. He called his attorney and put the phone on
speaker. If uncontested, the lawyer said, the divorce would become final
in 60 days. Jessica went to the fire escape to gather herself. Miller
remained unmoved, chain-smoking. The local newspaper had been calling
him about rumours that he was getting divorced. He wrote a statement.
He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle's house. He
told me that he had come close to killing himself the night before. He
had thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain
road. He showed me the newspaper. His divorce was the lead story. I
felt torn. I didn't want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close
the book on Iraq. But if I hadn't taken Miller's picture, this very
personal drama wouldn't be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield.
It creates a space for me to work and distance to keep my feelings in
check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping
hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Falluja. In the tight spaces,
we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes. Above
the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: this is the end. I've
never felt so alone. I snapped back to the present and before I knew
it, the words spilled out.

'I have to ask you something, Blake,' I said. 'If I'd gone down in
Falluja, would you have carried me out?' 'Damn straight,' he said,
without hesitation. 'OK then,' I said. 'I think you're wounded pretty
badly. I want to help you.' He looked at me for a moment. 'All right,'
he said.

A veterans' treatment programme in West Haven, Connecticut, arguably the
best in the nation, offered hope. Moe Armstrong, a pioneer in vet-to-vet
counselling, had heard of Miller's troubles and sent him feelers about
coming for a visit. Despite my reservations about getting too involved,
I coaxed Miller into my car and we headed north.

I questioned myself. Was this the right thing to do? For Miller, yes.
But for me? What awaited us at the end of this journey? I caught
Miller's eyes in the rear-view mirror, droopy and lifeless. A long road
led from his home in the Appalachian coal country to New England.

During the long drive to Connecticut, Miller and I discovered we had a
lot in common, despite our 25-year age difference. We both had religious
upbringings. We both went to public schools and ran with reckless
crowds. Like Miller, I'd faced obstacles growing up. Despite my good
grades, my high school counsellor saw only a Filipino immigrant and
lumped me in with the underachievers. Instead of college catalogues,
she offered me army recruitment brochures. It would be better than
'setting chokers', she said, referring to the equipment used to harvest
clear-cut timber off mountainsides. It's dangerous work, like mining
coal in Kentucky.

As dusk descended, Miller and I drove on, discussing movies, music,
motorcycles and cars. We talked about Iraq. Miller recalled intense
training as the Marines prepared to enter Falluja. There was bluster,
bravado. Some of the men talked about notching 'kills'. On the eve of
battle, they became subdued as they wrote last goodbyes. Their letters
basically said: if you get this, I am dead. Miller was haunted by the
brutality of the fight.

I remembered that, but my mind had also stored a consoling image, one of
transcendent serenity. I told Miller about it as we drove north. The
morning sun was streaming gloriously through the broken windows of the
shattered Khulafah Rashid mosque in Falluja, where Marines had taken
refuge during the battle. The light splashed over deep red prayer rugs
where Marines sprawled in fitful sleep, their packs serving as pillows.
Rubble littered the floor and dust floated up through shafts of light. I
recalled leaning against a pillar in the vast space, breathing the
tranquillity. Miller talked about killing the enemy.

'To try to live with that... how do you justify it, regardless of what
your causes are or what their causes are?' he said. 'To see somebody in
your sights and to pull that trigger, it's almost like you're with them,
seeing their life flash before their eyes as well as taking it. It's an
insane connection that you make with that person at that point.'

We talked about the dissonance we felt. We existed in our postwar world,
forever changed by the experience. Meanwhile, everyone around us seemed
distracted by trivialities - the price of petrol, a sex scandal in
Washington, a paparazzi photo of Britney Spears without panties. Fuelled
by coffee and Marlboros, we crossed six state lines and covered 870
miles. At dawn, we arrived in West Haven. It was pouring rain. We
checked into a motel pushed up against the freeway and Miller nodded
off. A CNN report about the war glowed on TV. I couldn't sleep. A
journalist wasn't supposed to get involved with his subjects. But I
felt responsible for Miller. Over and over, I thought: it will be my
fault if something bad happens to him.

'You know you're going to be OK, right?' Laurie Harkness, who runs
Errera Community Care Centre for veterans, said when she met Miller the
next day. 'Maybe you did some horrible things in Iraq. But war is
terrible,' she said. 'You do what you have to in order to survive. And
you survived. That's good news, right?'

Miller nodded. He agreed to join the programme. Veterans' benefits would
cover the cost of treatment. Miller would pay $300 a month for room and
board. Between the counselling and the peer support from Moe Armstrong's
group, Vet to Vet, it seemed Miller would finally get the help he
needed. But shortly after signing in, he insisted on returning to
Kentucky to get his motorcycle. Harkness reluctantly issued a weekend
pass. I crossed my fingers.

Worried that I was in over my head, I asked Armstrong to accompany us as
we covered the same highways we had traversed just days before. I
figured that if Armstrong was there to offer professional counselling,
I could retreat into my role as journalist. Besides, my patience was
wearing thin. Another 1,700 miles - for a motorcycle!

All the way back to Connecticut, I kept my eyes on the rearview mirror,
constantly checking to make sure Miller hadn't pulled a U-turn. On the
programme. On himself. On me.

Over the next month, I stayed by Miller's side as he began to reveal the
things that weighed so heavily on his mind. At his request, I sat in on
most of his therapy sessions. He said my presence put him at ease, but I
never put down my camera, never stopped documenting the story. Miller
told Harkness how empty and confused he had felt when combat ended. How
he had placed the barrel of an M-16 assault rifle in his mouth on the
outskirts of Falluja one day, taken a deep breath and reached for the
trigger.

'What made me so special that I deserved to stay here and my buddies
didn't?' Miller asked, speaking of friends who had died. 'At one point,
I was almost mad at them. How could they leave me like that? We came
together. We were supposed to leave together. I don't know how you can
disconnect that feeling.'

He told us about an event that haunted him. From an observation post in
Falluja, he had seen a head pop up amid the wreckage of several cars. It
was a free-fire zone. He squinted into his rifle scope, saw dark curly
hair and squeezed the trigger. Later, Marines advanced on the scene and
found a dead boy, six or seven years old, his curly hair mottled by bits
of brain and blood. There was more, he said, terrible things he couldn't
divulge. Not now. Maybe never. 'To kill the snake, we had to cut off its
head,' was all he would say.

On 10 July 2006, Miller turned 22. He seemed to be getting the help he
needed. I had been away from my wife and three children for a month. It
was time to go home to Los Angeles. The night before my departure, I
joined Miller and some other vets for a birthday dinner. We broke it up
about 10pm. I told Miller to call me day or night if he needed help. I
encouraged him to hang tough.

'You stuck your neck out for me to keep mine here,' he said. 'And I feel
with everything in me that you have saved my life. I thank you for
that.'

Relief washed over me. It was like shedding a rucksack of rocks. I got
into my car as he started up his motorcycle. A deep, loud rumble ripped
the night. We travelled together for a time. He slowed and waved as I
turned into my hotel. I watched him roar into the darkness.

Over the next several weeks, Harkness took a special interest in
Miller's recovery. She told him that, in time, he might even enrol at
Yale University through a special admissions process. Miller began to
realise that guilt and fear were ruining him. It's what prompted the
rush to marry Jessica, even though he knew deep down he wasn't ready.
Now he understood that even Jessica couldn't make him feel safe or
accepted. She couldn't make him stop scanning the darkness for the
enemy beyond. It's what made him drink all night, finding sleep in the
arms of exhaustion.

Still, he didn't say much in group therapy. He commonly skipped the
daily meetings and instead spent hours on the phone with Jessica. He
put off sessions of 'cognitive behavioural therapy', which would
require him to discuss his troubling memories.

'It's all good,' he told me over the phone. He said he was gaining
clarity. He borrowed a guitar and strummed all day. He expressed
optimism. But soon Miller began talking about going home. Once again, I
made the trip. I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and tell him not
to blow an excellent opportunity to put his life back together. A
chance to go to Yale? I would jump at that myself.

But Miller wasn't receptive. He had scuffled with some local motorcycle
toughs and felt threatened. He missed the mountains. He wanted to go
home. Period. Disappointing all who had tried to help him, he dropped
out just two months into a programme that was supposed to last six
months to a year.

We left Connecticut in the middle of the night. I followed in my car as
he rode his motorcycle for 18 hours through a sweltering summer day to
be reunited with Jessica. It was August 2006. The couple hoped to get a
fresh start in Princeton, West Virginia, which offered a veterans'
centre, the mountains Miller loved and the privacy so lacking in his
hometown. They thought maybe they could work things out. They shopped
for used furniture and found an apartment that was light and airy, with
a porch for barbecues.

But Armstrong, a Marine veteran of the Vietnam War, was worried. He had
had high hopes that he could help Miller and that Miller could help him
reach a younger generation of combat veterans.

'Blake Miller is a flipped-out, 22-year-old former Marine who was
involved in a major battle,' Armstrong said. 'He's been through a lot,
seen a lot. I can't endorse the quick fix. It's a common pattern that
vets are in and out of therapy for years.'

Miller began seeing psychologist and retired Marine Ernie Barringer at
the veterans' centre in Princeton. Miller knew I was disappointed in
him for leaving the Connecticut programme. He and Jessica went out of
their way to reassure me everything would be OK. They drove me to the
secluded mountain top outside Pikeville to show me the spot where
Miller had asked Jessica to be his girl, just days before he shipped
out to Iraq. They laughed, embarrassed by the story. Miller sipped root
beer and Jessica Nehi orange soda. Insects hummed in the dark. Under a
splash of stars, the moon rose. A gentle breeze rippled the woods. One
could almost imagine Falluja had never happened.

By mid-October 2006, Miller had again slipped into depression. Memories
flooded back as the second anniversary of the Falluja battle approached.
As the death toll mounted in Iraq, he worried about his buddies who had
been redeployed to the Middle East. Marriage counselling proved hard;
sessions often ended in stony silence. Vaguely familiar facial features
reappeared in Miller's dreams: a mole, thick beards and curly black
hair. Then body parts exploding.

Jessica became frustrated. They didn't talk. They stopped having sex.
One night later that month, Miller called me, sounding depressed. I
offered to come and see him. By the time I arrived, Jessica had moved
out. They next met at a law office in Pikeville, They sat across a wide
table and agreed to proceed with a divorce. So much for happy endings,
I thought, recalling their wedding.

As Miller and I drove back to West Virginia, news crackled over the
radio. The Democrats had routed the Republicans in the midterm
congressional election. Public sentiment about Iraq had soured, and
Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, the architect of the war, was
resigning.

Miller had mixed feelings. 'That's good news, I guess. But it should've
happened a long time ago,' he said. 'Everybody that's dead now. I mean,
what's the point?'

It was 9 November 2006, two years after I took the famous picture of
Miller and a year after he left the Marines. In his empty apartment,
Miller took his wedding picture from the wall and replaced it with a
Meritorious Mast, a certificate detailing his valour in combat. He drank
beer for comrades living and lost. He spoke the names of the dead:
Brown, Gavriel, Holmes, Ziolkowski.

'I didn't cry then and I won't now,' Miller said. 'I just can't.'

Over the next 10 days, we awoke late and drove aimlessly in the
countryside. He attended meetings at the vet centre. I took more
pictures. Winter was upon the mountains. Miller blamed his melancholy
on the season. Within weeks, Miller moved back to Kentucky and got an
apprenticeship at a custom motorcycle shop, working up to 14 hours a
day. The shop's owner presided over the local chapter of the
Highwaymen, a Detroit-based motorcycle club under constant scrutiny by
law enforcement. Miller acknowledged that the Highwaymen were into
'serious business', but said he joined the club for the camaraderie.
The uniforms and codes of conduct reminded him of the Marines.

I worried about this new affiliation. After joining, Miller never went
out without his 9mm semi-automatic pistol and he kept a shotgun in his
truck. To me, his new friends seemed overly interested in his combat
'kills'. One biker, a Vietnam veteran also plagued by PTSD, promised me
he'd get Miller to join the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign
Wars. 'We'll connect veteran to veteran,' the biker told me, his breath
tinged with moonshine.

Miller now sees Jessica a couple of times a month. They have not
completed their divorce, but remain separated. 'I see him on his good
days,' Jessica said, 'and everything is wonderful. We actually have
conversations.' But then weeks pass without sight of him. 'He has to
get stable,' she said. 'If he was better, we'd be together all the
time.'

Miller lives in a refurbished trailer behind his father's house. Two TVs
provide constant background chatter. The refrigerator is bare. A hound
called Mudbone spends most days tied in the yard.

Miller is estranged from his mother. He talks with his father, Jimmy
Miller, 43, about everything except Iraq. 'What am I going to say? Son,
I know what you've been through? I know what you're going through now?'
the father said. 'Well, the truth is I don't. Maybe it's just better
that we leave it alone.'

Miller's brother Todd, a 21-year-old diesel mechanic, doesn't pretend to
understand. 'I'm glad I didn't join the Marines,' Todd said one day. 'I
got a nice house, a wife and twin baby daughters and I drive a Durango
that's used but damn near new. You're divorced, drive a beat-up pickup
and live in a trailer.' On top of that, Todd told his brother, your
head is screwed up.

The months go by. One disability check comes and then the next - about
$2,500 a month. Miller sees Barringer, the psychologist, but only
occasionally.

'Sometimes you just have to look at the culture of small-town eastern
Kentucky,' Barringer said. 'Blake graduated from high school and had no
future. So he joined the Marines, and now he's home and has a steady
income. Things are good. But sometimes that's more of a negative than a
positive,' he added. 'Look, every time you go out to that mailbox and
get your disability check, it tells you you're sick.'

It took a while to get to know Miller. But I've come to appreciate his
intelligence, generosity and dignity. He is a talented musician and
skilled mechanic. I try to relate to him as a brother, even though I'm
older than his father. He has helped me sort through the craziness of
Falluja. I can't stop the war, but Miller has given me a chance to make
a difference - by helping him. And maybe myself. Often, I wonder if I've
done enough. Can I let go now? Can I ever let go? The experts tell me I
may be in it for the long haul.

Armstrong says Miller is 'playing out his symptoms on cue', adding:
'He's just keeping his head above water. He can't afford any downtime
because it allows him to think.' Harkness holds out hope that Miller
will eventually seek intensive therapy of the kind she offered. 'He
won't come in for help because a part of him is very macho,' she said.
'He really comes across as the Marlboro Man. My fear is that at some
point, it's all going to come crashing down.'

To me, she said: 'You are a constant object for Blake. You are the only
person to follow him from the war zone to back home. You have a bond. He
would be much lonelier and lost without you.'

Some experts estimate that 30 per cent of the troops who have seen
combat in Iraq will suffer from PTSD. As that thought lingers in my
head, I remind myself that the sweetest victory is survival. The rest
of life is a glittering gift, tempered in the forge of Falluja.

Sometimes in the night, I hear a grenade launcher belching rounds. Or
maybe it's just Miller gunning his Harley. He's roaring over Foggy
Mountain, the wind blowing by, cleansing his thoughts. Blake, son, I
know it sounds crazy, but my mind always takes me back to that distant
rooftop in Falluja, where I snapped your picture. I think of that
sunrise, bright and warm, and how lucky we were to see it.

(c) Guardian News and Media Limited 2007