Duty. Honor. for My Country

By Mark A. Alaimo

SFC Mark A. Alaimo shares a glimpse of his grueling experiences in the war on terrorism, how it shook his life and his eventual quest for healing.


SFC Alaimos account is not a glamorized story of victory nor is it about the glory associated with war. Rather, it is the poignant and true recollection of a man who has been to the war, seen and experienced its horrors and, finally, returned with a changed view of the world, his country and life.


The pages give voice to the fears, doubts and pain that thousands of soldiers go through in the battlefield and even after combat. The author shares fragments of his childhood, his disappointments and even his struggle with post traumatic stress. What results is a book that effectively captures a realistic and humanized perspective of war and how it affects the lives that became intertwined in it.


Ultimately, DUTY. HONOR. FOR MY COUNTRY is a story of one mans love for his country and the sacrifices he had to make for his devotion. It radiates hope and inspiration most especially to the soldiers who share the same story crystallized in the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781453542675

Mark A. Alaimo

Ever since high school Mark Alaimo always knew he wanted to be a Soldier in the Army. The devotion to his country put him all over the globe; however, Iraq became the pinnacle for his distain to those appointed over him. Born and raised in Upstate New York his parents signed his initial enlistment paperwork at the age of seventeen, and he never looked back. From the Cold War to the War on Terrorism, Mark witnessed the change and degradation of an institution that once served as a bright light in his future. With his pride crushed and his wings clipped, his soaring career was extinguished by leaders who failed to understand his unique leadership style.

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Copyright © 2011 by SFC Mark A. Alaimo (US Army Ret.).

Library of Congress Control Number:       2010910720

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-7215-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4535-4266-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4535-4267-5

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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CONTENTS

FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

1 THE EARLY YEARS

2 DECISIONS

3 THE FIRST NINETY DAYS

4 HATE

5 SEPTEMBER 2005

6 THE KARKH

7 CRUDE SURVIVAL

8 INCOMPETENCE

9 FRUSTRATION

10 DISAPPOINTMENT

11 POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER: PERCEPTION AND REALITY

EPILOGUE

AWARDS AND DECORATIONS

REFERENCES

To my loving parents

Vincent R. and Marian W. Alaimo

FOREWORD

War stories told by vets who have experienced it are just that—stories. Facts within this book are to the best of my recollection. The PTSD or post-traumatic stress disorder and memory loss that I have experienced from these tales of war may have interfered in my abilities to accurately account for all events herein.

It is not my intention to mislead or overglamorize the events from my tour in Iraq. I merely want to tell my story so that others may read the contents of this book and courageously seek help for their conditions. I encourage others to take a lessons learned approach from this book so as to not repeatedly make the same mistakes.

Combat is not to be the iconic thing to do. It’s not to be welcomed with open arms as if we were all heroes. I don’t consider myself one of the heroes who came home. The real heroes are those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Parents, teach your children well: combat should not be a fantasy in a young boy’s mind as glorious. Service to this great country is an honorable thing to do, and sometimes war is deemed a necessity of peace. But don’t confuse honor with glory. There’s nothing glorious about watching a battle buddy’s life slip through your hands. There’s nothing glorious about watching a small boy die because his mother hated our Western culture. There’s nothing glorious about having to fear death every time you go on a mission. There’s nothing glorious about coming home scared and watching your world slowly crumble around you.

I love my country, and I’ve always answered her call without hesitation. I’ve always prided myself on the fact that people who join the armed forces make up less than 1 percent of the nation. You say, Only 1 percent? And my answer to you is yes, less than 1 percent of this great nation is truly willing to die for what it stands for, notwithstanding those who are disqualified because of preexisting ailments. I truly wish that more Americans would volunteer in support of their nation. The American dream is seen, by many, as a race for those who can get rich the quickest. On the other hand, some see the American dream as sucking the government dry of all its benefits without working a day in their lives.

You don’t truly appreciate this great country until you see others. You won’t appreciate our freedoms until you’ve experienced the lack of them. When Americans wake up to these facts, they’ll stop their whining and sweating the small stuff. Does it really matter if someone in the twenty-item express lane in Walmart has twenty-two items? Are you going to die? Is your life threatened in any way? We have so many conveniences available to us that we don’t know what it’s like to go without.

Men and women in the armed forces know about sacrifice: how to go without. They know about the endurance of pain and discomfort. This book is for them—the living and the dead. I only hope that I don’t disappoint them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not be possible had it not been for the encouragement of my therapist, Barbara Welch, who, over a two-year period, guided me from suicidal tendencies to being a successful member of society. Barbara, you are appreciated, needed, and special. In addition, I can’t help but gratefully thank the Behavioral Health Department within the General Leonard Wood Army Community Hospital and the highly professional command team within the Maneuver Support Center of Excellence on Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. They encouraged me to seek treatment without ridicule or restriction, which was, without a doubt, a significant turning point in my life.

A very special acknowledgment goes out to Dr. Sheila Perrin and the staff of the North Chicago VA Hospital who helped, guided, and transformed me into a better person. The specialized and professional team of doctors and counselors provided me with much needed PTSD treatment. Treatment that ultimately prevented my untimely death by suicide and tragic statistic that I felt I was destined to become.

To my son David, who was forced to grow up fast in the absence of his father, whether physically present or not. His willingness to help me into bed, check on me during long nights, and not asking the hard questions strengthened our bond as father and son. Many thanks also go out to my network of friends who were with me at the North Chicago VA Hospital and in group therapy sessions at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Without their encouragement and understanding, I would still be plagued with survivor’s guilt.

And finally, to my mom and dad whose constant love throughout my entire ordeal was unwavering. Their strong love for me enabled them to try and understand rather than solve my PTSD. I know it had to be very hard for them to sit back hundreds of miles away and watch their son slowly deteriorate. I know they are eternally grateful to those who chose to help me in my time of need. Thank you to my extended family and their constant loving care and sensitivity toward my emotional ups and downs. They have truly inspired me to get better. Had it not been for my cousin David Franklin’s straight talk, I would probably be in the ground. Family members would’ve been left hating my suicidal actions and infinitely asking the question why.

If there’s one thing that I ultimately learned from all this, it would be to speak up. Don’t be the good soldier or hide behind your rank. Don’t think that you’re doing anyone any favors by adhering to the status quo. Ask for help, and you shall receive help. You’re not the only one going through your nightmare. Many of us who’ve served in combat are forever bonded as brothers and sisters.

INTRODUCTION

He laid there with his eyes erratically moving around. His breathing was labored and sporadic, showing only signs of his body’s internal struggle to survive. SFC Morrison had just been blown across the road by an IED blast. How the hell did he survive the blast? The bottoms of SFC Morrison’s boots were split from heel to toe, his legs were severely contorted, and his left arm was half gone.

I knew that Iraqi set us up. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that man–dress wearing motherfucker. But I was knee-deep in trying to save SFC Morrison and lost track of the Iraqi. Those goddamn Iraqis were always lying about how they were just poor farmers trying to make a living. I got sick of hearing that after the first ninety days in country. Everyone knew differently, except for sympathetic officers and dumbass soldiers who didn’t know any better. The army even had us paying money to the bastards if they gave us information about the placement of IEDs. I called bullshit on that one, too, because they were getting paid by the insurgents to plant the shit. Then they would get a conscience about planting it and tell the closest American patrol they could find. I considered it double dipping, and that’s when I lost all respect for them. As a result, if an Iraqi pointed out an IED, I made him show us. The Iraqi would have to approach the hidden IED and show the Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) robot what it was.

I mean, really, when will these fucks start defending themselves and take control of their own country? American men and women were dying. Muslims were telling us they strived for a better life, and a small portion of the American public were denouncing the war on terror. Enter into the equation a woman by the name of Cindy Sheehan. She was the antiwar protesting bitch that hounded President Bush after the death of her marine son. Warriors engaged in the war on terrorism were annoyed at this bitch for protesting a war that was being fought by an all-volunteer force. I don’t think she ever knew what her protests were doing for our morale. Every time we heard about a protest or antiwar movement, our hearts would sink. It was easy for us to question the reasons why. We were thousands of miles away from our loved ones, getting shot at, mortared, and blasted. Why were we choking on sand if our own American citizens weren’t going to support us? It was bad enough that the Iraqi people couldn’t make up their minds on whether or not they wanted us there.

So as you can guess, I didn’t feel too bad when Muslims were killing each other, and I still feel that way. Truly, let them kill each other. Is anyone on this earth going to miss the Muslim world? A people who believe that women are lower than second-class citizens? A people who believe that if you don’t convert to their religion, they must kill you? A people who believe that if you mock their prophet Mohammad, you deserve death? A people who are so barbaric, they still believe in beheadings and stoning? I wouldn’t trust a Muslim as far as I could throw them. Yet the American public sympathized with them as they beheaded American civilians and dismembered US Armed Forces personnel. These lazy fucks didn’t want to stand up for themselves so as to become an independent nation. That’s what really got to me. Americans were fighting for them, financing them, and dying for them.

President Bush warned us that the global war on terrorism was going to be a long, hard-fought war. He made mention of this on the eleventh of September 2001, don’t you remember? And now look at us; President Bush is no longer in the White House and President Obama, who talked a good game of getting us out of Iraq, adopted the Bush strategy. At least President Bush could make a decision on how to handle the troops. I know he didn’t have an exit strategy, but at least I knew where I stood when it came to fighting terrorism.

We call things for what they are or at least we used to. Political correctness and fighting the war on terror don’t go hand in hand. But that’s what was happening on the battlefield. Too many high-ranking officers were concerned about their careers. Political correctness was getting soldiers killed. We were soldiers trained to kill, and yet they wanted to treat us like police officers investigating a crime. How the hell do you fight a war as a policeman? All these damned rules of engagement made soldiers afraid to pull the trigger, and that hesitation would get them killed.

Enter September 2005, and SFC Morrison’s lifeless body was fighting for each breath that it could get. He was the poor bastard who should’ve never come back into active service, let alone been placed in a psychological operations or known as psyops unit. He had been in the medical field for most of, if not all, his eighteen years in active service before he got out. Now the lives of his loved ones and those on the ground with him would be changed forever.

1

THE EARLY YEARS

I had a happy childhood. I was raised in a blue-collar, upper-middle income home where dad took care of the family. My years of life on this Earth did not bear any horrors of abuse or neglect from my family. My brother and I were raised in a loving family with loving parents who wanted the best for their children. Hell, what parent wouldn’t bend over backward for their offspring to ensure their success in life. How small my world was then, and how wide my eyes would open as I grew up and was to shape my minuscule existence.

I was brought up through parochial schools with nuns and priests in Rochester, New York, otherwise known as upstate New York. The city of Rochester was a thriving city with big business and big exports, employing hundreds of thousands of city residents. My dad, Vincent Raymond Alaimo, was one of those residents employed by Eastman Kodak Company as a sheet metal fabricator, back then known as tin knockers. It was always said that Kodak was Rochester. My earliest memories of my hardworking father were of him riding his bicycle to and from his workplace. It was a brilliant red Italian bicycle with thin detachable tires, a leather seat with no cushioning, and shoe clips on the pedals. The bike had these high-speed handlebars that sloped downward, and brakes that were on the hand grip portion of the bar. I had never seen any bike like that before. My bike was small and had only one speed with a big seat on it.

Dad always seemed to come home with something for either Mom or my brother and I. Mom would always have the house clean and dinner ready for Dad when he came home. We would eat dinner and then sit in the living room and watch a show on our big wood-encased television set with dials on it and rabbit ears on top so that we could get a clear picture.

We lived in a small house that suited the family just fine. Our home was a starter home for my young parents who were trying to raise two boys of only eighteen months apart. Our address was an easy one to remember: 6 Tacoma Street. It had a small front yard with a concrete driveway on the side just big enough for a car. The backyard was fenced in with a big weeping willow tree and a shed and a swing set with enough room to play. The neighbors were nice, and everyone got along. We had the Kenddricks on one side and the Evans on the other side. Across the street were the Secore and Haney families. Chris and I were constantly playing at the Kenddricks with Tina, Lisa, and Ted. They had a swimming pool and always had a kind heart to invite us over for a swim.

When I started kindergarten, I walked every day to Holy Rosary Elementary School with Tina and Lisa. The walk bonded us closer as friends and gave us confidence while walking to school in the city. I was excited to start school with my new books, shoes, and clothes. It was something new and exciting in my life. I think back and wonder if Mom ever worried about us walking to school. It seemed perfectly