Now that my fiance and I are out of the Marine Corps, being a Marine has become "cool" again (it's never "cool" when you're in, strangely enough). We've been hauling out the dress blues all month for city parades and church programs and flag ceremonies. (This is pretty awesome, because that uniform is expensive.)
We live in a state that is very, very pro-military, but with the curious side note that not many of her residents actually join the military (Utah). We spend a lot of time at these things getting thanked for our service, explaining what each of our ribbons and medals are for, and shaking hands. (These events have also convinced me that there are a lot of secret feminists in the LDS church, given how many of them have thanked me for doing what they either didn't feel they were allowed to do, or never considered an option.)
And occasionally, we get the chance to really help someone else, which makes it all worth it.
At the last event my fiance and I attended (a concert put on by one of the LDS congregations in my area), I was making my way through the crowd when I was approached by the most sorrowful looking woman I have ever seen. She shook my hand and thanked me for my service, and then told me about her three sons, all in the Army. They had all done multiple combat tours, were all still active duty, and were all having problems coping with what they'd seen and what they'd had to do.
She said that they didn't ever seem to want to talk about what was bothering them, and that she knew they needed help but didn't know what to do to help them. I told her that she would definitely want to encourage them to join the VFW, since most combat vets (at least from my experience) aren't going to open up to anyone besides other combat vets, simply because those who haven't been there won't really understand. She nodded, and began to turn away.
"Wait," I said. "You know, I know your sons aren't here now, but if they come home on leave, and they need someone to talk to, you call us, okay? My fiance is a combat veteran, and he helped his Marines while he was still active duty, and I know he'll help your sons, as well." I gave her my number, and she left looking as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
I mentioned this to my fiance when we were on our way home, and he snorted and asked, "cause I'd be such a good counselor, right?" I pointed out that for this particular issue, yes, he would. "Standard counselor" isn't really what guys dealing with PTSD are looking for. They're looking for someone who's been where they are, who understand, and who can help them come to terms with what they've experienced, and help them learn to cope with it in their daily lives, instead of letting it take over. I love my fiance, and I will always, always be there when he has his bad nights, or when he can't drive, but I can't really know what he's going through when his mind regurgitates the bad shit he went through during the invasion in 2003.
He said that sometimes he feels guilty that what he saw and did during combat hasn't affected him as much as it has other people, that it hasn't been as hard for him to accept it as just a part of his life experience. I pointed out that that could make him an excellent individual to talk to for guys still struggling; he's proof that it is possible to get a semblance of control over it (for the most part; obviously, this isn't one hundred percent true across the board in every single case). He thought about it, then nodded and agreed that we should definitely help if we get the chance.
I'm not sure if we'll ever end up hearing from her. I just figure if even one of my suggestions helps that woman, her sons, and their families, I have done at least a small part for those who were asked to sacrifice much more than I was ever asked to give; that, to me, is what the brotherhood of the military is about, no matter the branch, no matter your job.