Consequences of War: A Warriors Story of Combat and His Escape to Africa in Search of Peace

By David Wilson

Consequences of War is an American warriors story of unrelenting combat against terrorism in the Far East. It recounts the authors early life that gave him a warriors soul, unrelenting drive, and fearlessness to fight, and it follows him as he describes grueling military preparation and combat, narrating mission after mission. Observe as he tries rescuing wounded US Spec Ops forces still engaged with the enemy, resulting in a fierce firefight against those trying to overrun his position.

With American conflicts never seeming to end, he eventually resigned his commission and went to Africa in search of peace. In his work as a wildlife scientist he describes shooting hundreds of animals--including elephants, buffalo, and antelope--for population control. He narrates being knocked down and gored by Cape buffalo, encounters with deadly snakes, and attacks and deaths from lions and elephants.

After undergoing 22 surgeries and military disability, the author describes the consequences of war resulting from prolonged and excessive numbers of American wars, the severe impact on our military, and the devastation to the US economy. He deeply honors those who fight for this nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499050509

David Wilson

David Wilson is Assistant General Secretary (Campaigns and Communications) at the National Education Union (NEU), and previously was Head of Organising in the National Union of Teachers (NUT). He tweets at @DavidWilson1975.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A WARRIOR’S STORY

I think that people want peace so much that one of these days government had better get out of their way and let them have it.

—Dwight Eisenhower

East of the Wadis

The blasts woke me out of a deep sleep. The concussions were so violent I noticed I was on the ground, literally shaken off my bunk. Still not fully awake, I scrambled over next to the sandbag wall not sure what was going on, but certain we were under attack. I glanced at my watch, it was 0300. The explosions continued, so loudly I pushed the palms of my hands tight against my ears to block out the roar. Outside, strange yellowish-white light was building up in the sky, lighting it like it was day. Slowly my head cleared and I realized it had to be a B-52 bomb strike. No enemy IED (improvised explosive devices) or truckload of RPGs (rocket propelled grenades) was that powerful. I rushed outside in my shorts, and other pilots also came staggering out as well to see what was happening. B-52 bombers were dropping 2,000-pounders so close we could feel the heat of the explosions. I hoped no off-target drop would hit us or we’d be vaporized.

B-52’s usually bombed from 35,000 feet, too high for anyone to hear, and command never gave us warning they were coming. The attack continued for several minutes. With each concussion the ground shook like an earthquake. No one in the target area could survive such destruction. I’d seen bombings from a distance before, but up close it was unreal! Our Chinook helicopter unit had been probed by the enemy for several weeks—an isolated sniper shot here or there, a grenade over the barbed wire in the middle of the night, anything to disrupt our sleep. B-52s had come to settle the score.

When the attack died down none of us could get back to sleep. At first light many of us pilots boarded a Chinook and flew over the bombed area. It was totally bare, trees and everything denuded and vaporized down to bare soil. The bomb craters looked like small empty lakes—something you’d see on the moon.

Consequences of War

We were at war again. American forces have been fighting for over half a century in continual conflict, and always in foreign countries. And war has consequences, horrendous consequences. By far the worst consequence is the incalculable suffering our military and their families endure as a result. Millions of our men and women and their families have been affected, in total a large portion of America’s population. Those dying in combat entered their peace. But the living—the military and their families who have been physically or emotionally scarred for life, and those whose memories have been irreparably damaged—continue to bear a crushing burden. The sum of it cannot be fully understood except by those who have been there and experienced the absolute hell of what war truly is.

War Residue

Most soldiers returning from combat come home with degrees of emotional residue—some semblance of change, a slight personality shift, pensive seriousness, disturbed dreams, road rage, or broken relationships. Combat just does things to people. Humans weren’t psychologically designed to kill each other, or live in situations day in and day out where their own lives could be snuffed out in an instant. That stress is not sustainable indefinitely regardless of how tough a soldier is—or thinks he is. Sure, we’re trained for combat, but the combat life is unnatural and emotionally unsustainable.

The movie screen portrays warriors with a casual bravado that includes swagger and arrogance, especially in scenes where the hero blows something up only to walk away—not even looking back as fiery explosions take place behind him. That’s not reality. The courage and heroism I saw in combat was quiet, never with bravado, and it said, I see the situation, it needs to get done, and I can do it. Period. No fluff, no nonsense—the total opposite of Hollywood. And it always leaves emotional residue. Most men go into combat willingly, some with anticipation and excitement, but often come home with modified behavior—a combat residue. Sometimes it’s subtle and not consciously known to the individual, and at other times it manifests itself noticeably—homeless veterans, increased rates of suicide, broken homes. Unfortunately, in our very imperfect world there always has been, and always will be, conflicts requiring men and women to be involved in war, and they will continue to come home with the signs of having been there. Such was my case.

Stress is handled in different ways. Take animals for instance. While working as a wildlife scientist in Africa—my place of solitude after combat—I watched as herds of antelope would be grazing peacefully one minute, then be on high alert instantly as lions began stalking. After a kill was made and the lions began feeding, the antelope would immediately come off high alert and begin grazing again—even in close proximity to the feeding lions—as if nothing had happened. They seem oblivious to the fact that they had been in danger and a kill had just been made. Fortunately, they have a kind of built-in mechanism that keeps them from remaining in a chronic state of alert. Humans are different, they’re meant for peace. Consider the emotional conflicts between a husband and wife and the residual effects on the family. The stress is debilitating, affecting the mental well-being and health of the parents, and especially the children—perhaps even changing the course of their lives. Combat stress is similar, only to a greater degree. It may vary between individuals, but it’s always there. Displays of bravery and heroism during combat do not mean that extreme stress and fear are absent. Rather, through acts of disciplined training and willpower, soldiers control the stress and fear in a way that enables them to accomplish the mission.

I was born with a fighting mentality. It was deeply imbedded in my character. From my earliest memories I played war all the time. If I didn’t have a play gun, I made one out of a broom handle or a stick. I built forts, teepees, or tree houses from which I was always attacking the enemy. I lived to defeat an unseen foe, and this was before my family had television. As I grew older that fighter mentality saturated my personality, and it was directed toward whatever I wanted to achieve, always fighting to get where I wanted to go or get what I needed. I fought and paid my own way because very little was handed to me. When my turn came I went to war. No resistance or reluctance. After intense combat I was worn out and disillusioned. Not with the military, it was the political dysfunction in the way war was handled. I felt America’s political meanderings were disrespectful—even degrading—to all whose lives were on the line. And I wasn’t alone in that opinion. American leadership is so eager to be the world’s watchdog; too quick and too willing to commit American forces and finances for an overly quixotic sense of being mankind’s protector and policeman—all the while greasing the squeaking liberal wheel to ensure every nations equality, safety, and well-being. Why? Who made America the overall protectorate of the planet? The rest of the Western world sits back in peace and comfort knowing the US will take care of everything—then the consequences fall on the US military.

As warriors we had a sense of being used as pawns in US foreign policy—an opinion shared by most combat veterans. The politics of war are not difficult to understand. But in most cases the political approach is to treat war as if we’re too concerned about offending our allies or the nations surrounding the conflict, or the progressive mindsets within our own country. Every conflict tends to be unnecessarily drawn out to the point that American soldiers’ grueling efforts become futile. It’s basically incrementalism in fighting. The military isn’t allowed to fight all out for victory. If America is forced to go to war (emphasis on forced), then it should be fought with intensity to get it done quickly: not fight, negotiate, fight, negotiate, and politically tiptoe around ad infinitum. Why? Because that approach exponentially increases the burden on our military and their families.

I always appreciated the way Israel conducted war. They were slow to get into it, but when they did they didn’t mess around. They got with it and ended the conflict. In days. Repeatedly. And they ignored world opinion. We were trained to fight the same way—tough and ruthless in order to win, and end it as soon as possible. Through it all I carried an enormous compassion for the suffering of our combat forces and their families. War is hell and living conditions atrocious. Our men in combat truly suffer. I hauled out too many body bags and wounded to be cavalier about my wartime duties just being part of the job. I’ve never been—nor will I ever be—antiwar, even though I hate it. The depraved nature of mankind will never allow the world to be at peace, so there’ll always be war. And American warriors.

Shot Down

After a time in special operations (spec ops), I was transitioned into aviation due to the increasing demand for pilots. I would have better satisfied my warrior nature if I had stayed behind a gun rather than the controls of an aircraft. But the die had been cast for my military future. My new weapon was the CH47 Chinook helicopter. There were special forces and secret, classified spec ops units operating where I was posted, and I supported their operations, inserting teams into enemy territory for reconnaissance, sniper assassination missions, and enemy capture. Then I recovered teams returning from clandestine operations, hauled out wounded and dead, and resupplied. It was intense combat flying.

While trying to extract severely wounded forces still engaged with the enemy, my aircraft was shot down, cut to pieces with forty-one holes in just a few seconds—fuel tanks, rotor blades, drive shaft, and other vital components—and two of my flight crew were shot. The aircraft was almost uncontrollable, but I held it in the air just long enough to reach a clearing in the trees. It went down hard! We were on the ground with no further injuries, but in a very bad situation. We were a crew of six: two pilots, two door gunners, and the flight engineer and crew chief were both wounded. The enemy knew we went down and would soon come after us.

We had to set up a defensive position until we could get rescued. I did a quick recon and found a defensive position with reasonable cover about ten yards back in the trees. I had the door gunners set up their M60 machine guns with fields of fire to cover our frontal approach and sides, and we got ready. When the enemy found our position they began a probing fire to get us to respond so they could determine how many we were and spot our individual locations. I told my men to hold off returning fire to keep the enemy guessing. The enemy finally came in a full-on assault, but we were ready and opened up with an intensity they hadn’t expected. We took them by surprise and put several of them down and out of the fight. The rest pulled back into the trees.

No way could we handle a drawn-out firefight; our basic load of ammo wouldn’t last long. Plus we had to get a medivac in for the two wounded crew members who needed a hospital. I made radio contact and worked out a plan to get the medivac chopper in during the next lull in the firefight. I was told it would be a small chopper and couldn’t extract us all, so four of us stayed behind until rescued. The medivac braved enemy fire and we rushed the wounded on board. They were airborne in seconds. The four of us readjusted our positions and continued fighting until we were almost out of ammo. Just in time a second chopper landed and pulled us out as well. The enemy had hemmed us in tight, trying to move around behind us, but we held them off, putting more of them down for good. The rescue chopper came in fast with guns blazing, and we got away clean in the nick of time with no more casualties (see firefight in chapter 13).

Disillusion

I loved the military. It was a great home for my personality—composed on the surface, but with an adrenalin-junkie underneath. There was always new man-stuff to learn, lots of action, and 110 percent involvement required. I volunteered for every military school I could attend. I was promoted rapidly to the rank of captain, and on the list for promotion to major. At twenty-six years old, my military future was brimming with potential, but I’d had it with inept war politics. There seemed to be no end to conflicts, and it certainly wasn’t worth all the men who were being wounded and killed. I considered leaving the military. I wasn’t afraid of combat; actually, I loved it, because that’s what I was trained for. I had been decorated with a Bronze Star and Air Medal for heroism. I felt no shame at the thought of leaving the military while our forces were still fighting. I did my part willingly and with honor. My only regrets would be giving up a coveted and successful military career.

Pilots were being killed at an alarming rate, so it was certain I’d have more combat tours to fill those empty seats if I stayed in. Had our forces been allowed to fight in an all-out effort to win using all our US military might, we could have easily won in short order, and I would never have considered leaving. I loved the military and I had staked my career on it. But I had three young children to consider, and I was tired of being a pawn in a never-ending war. With that mindset I returned home. Returning stateside was a real shock. There wasn’t much concern in the general public that Americans were fighting and being wounded and dying on a daily basis. I was angry when I saw the preplanned political sound bites on TV, or listened to the mediocrity in the news and the armchair analysts regarding our military. Our men were out there suffering and dying so sycophants like demonstrators, news reporters, and politicians had the freedom to spew their progressive political nonsense. I ended my final year in the military as an aviation company commander, and then as an aviation battalion operations officer. At night I took as many university classes as I could fit into my schedule, working toward graduate degrees in wildlife biology and zoology. I had a commercial multiengine flying license and plenty of leadership experience, so I could easily have gone into commercial flying or taken a good job, but I had lost respect for the politics of our nation and those who voted them in. And since I couldn’t do anything about it, I determined to find a quieter place away from the mess.

I applied for a discharge. Readjustment into civilian society, especially family life, was difficult—especially being calm and rational in relationships. I was restless without knowing why. I think it drove me deeper into a lose myself in work and fight to succeed at all costs mentality. I wasn’t an alcohol user, and I despised the drug culture, so I never sought emotional relief that way. I needed solitude. I had been injured a number of times in the military, and I was hurting physically. Combat left residue in me that lay hidden for years before I was even aware of it or understood how to cope with it. It affected not only me, but more importantly my family. My story could just as easily be called The Agony and Ecstasy of Life with a Warrior—probably more agony than ecstasy. Even now I cringe when thinking about the people I hurt. My greatest pain was the lost years of friendships and deep family relationships that suffered.

I entered the military a socially adept young man given the nickname Smiley. Throughout college and military training I was friendly, one of the boys, happy-go-lucky. I enjoyed people and particularly the excitement of anything new. I especially loved military training. In it I found my career calling. But after combat I returned home a loner without a smile and socially inept. Socializing was difficult. I was unfriendly and distant. However, through sheer determination I excelled at just about everything I did, worked hard, and achieved my goals. But something had changed in me. The saddest part was that I didn’t even notice the change.

My purpose-driven state of mind was behind my desire to return to university. Initially, I had been an English major. But after combat I pursued advanced degrees in wildlife sciences, solely with the intent of working in the wilderness. I ended up with a doctorate in science and post-graduate degrees in wildlife biology and zoology—a total of almost sixteen years spent in tough, exhaustive college and university study. And I was tired, really tired. With that herculean effort behind me, I packed up my family and headed for Africa, hired as a wildlife scientist by the South African government. Decades later, after being slowed down by unrelenting military injuries, twenty-two surgeries, and associated medical problems, I began to understand some of the issues that had been driving me. What happened along the way? Fortunately the story is just beginning, and I’m getting way ahead of myself.

What follows is my story. It’s not about introspection or emotional struggles. It’s a warrior’s book; a story about a boy’s early life and influences that shaped his mentality; it’s about military training that prepared him for combat; it’s about fascinating and miraculous experiences in the midst of fierce, relentless fighting; it’s about his withdrawal to Africa and life-threatening experiences working with dangerous animals in the wild African bush. Finally, it’s about settling years and unusual experiences that enabled him to find a degree of peace and eventual closure with war, fighting, and his own warrior soul.

In those decades of water-under-the-bridge experiences, I came away with many stories. After much encouragement from my wife and friends to write about them, I felt perhaps there was a responsibility to share what I had been privileged to experience. What follows is a walk through my memory, with a bit of literary license for purposes of conciseness and to keep things interesting. Names were changed for discretion. Military related injuries, surgeries, and subsequent disabilities are detailed intentionally and explained in the epilogue, which also details in depth the consequences of war and their impact on our nation. My wife added some comments and they are printed in italics.

Much of this story will make you smile; some of it may make you sad. You will read about things you never heard before. And some may even identify with what you read. My ultimate goal, however, is that my story will be enjoyable and make you feel better for having read it. So welcome to my journey. At this point I need to start at the beginning with a bit of personal history. And as Paul Harvey, the famous radio personality used to say, "And that’s the rest of the story."

CHAPTER 1

Early Years

An active mind cannot exist in an inactive body.

—Gen. George Patton

Discipline and Principles

Every story has a beginning, and this part of my story needs to start with some background. My family was large—three boys and two girls, an older sister, a younger sister, and two brothers who were nine and eleven years younger than I. My older sister and I were born in Detroit, the city of automobiles, and from there we moved six times by the time I turned fifteen.

My father was an orphan with the last name of Montgomery. He, his brother, and two sisters had been taken away from their father for abuse issues, and their young mother—who was very ill—tried to support them by playing the organ for a silent movie theater. This happened during the Great Depression when better jobs for a single mother were scarce. The state eventually took the children from her and placed them in a government youth-care facility. Their mother died soon after. They were then transferred to an orphanage. Dad was shuffled in and out of different foster homes from the age of five, often being thrown out onto the street. The children had been separated, so I had no contact with or information about those aunts and uncles. Dad was eventually adopted into the Wilson home, the only child of my step-grandfather and grandmother. Grandpa Wilson was a gentle and easy-going man, but Grandma Wilson was a bit of a tyrant who beat my father for the slightest reason.

Grandpa Wilson was employed as the personnel manager of the Ford Motor Company in Detroit. At an early age my dad was enrolled in the Ford Trade School, where he received all his early education. He often saw the original Henry Ford on the factory floor, and Dad had good things to say about Mr. Ford and his principles. One of those principles eventually worked its way into my life via Dad. A worker in the factory had used a large wrench to beat a stubborn part into place, and in doing so put deep gouges in the wrench. When Henry Ford found out about it, he made the worker manually file and hand-sand the gouges out of the tool. This cost the company more time and money than if he had allowed the use of a power tool to grind out the damage, but Henry Ford’s principle was to teach the worker to do the job correctly. Also, Mr. Ford constantly promoted the theme If you’re going to do a job, do it right! This, in turn, had a big influence on my dad, who then made sure it had a big influence on me—for the rest of my life.

By the time Dad was eighteen years old he was manager of the carburetion department. Eventually, though, the unions infiltrated the company. Henry Ford, however, was popular with the workers, and many so respected him and his fair treatment of his employees, they refused to work under the mandatory union membership. Those employees quit the company, along with my dad. It was a matter of principle; he gave up a wonderful job with a great future to uphold his principles—another trait that would have a huge impact on my life. When Dad was nineteen years old, he married my mother of sixteen. Mom was born in Germany and her family immigrated to the USA when she was five. My sister and I came along a couple of years later.

Dad and Mom both went to college when I was four years old, paying their own way. Dad graduated as a clergyman. He was very intelligent and talented, with a strong personality. He stood out as a man who wouldn’t chase the dollar, nor was he a selfish man. He loved people and helped anyone with anything at any time. I can remember times in winter when he came home without his overcoat or jacket after giving it to someone who was without. He often brought down-and-out people home for meals. This wasn’t too helpful for Mom, though, as it put pressure on her. She already had limited food resources for us. But she just added more water and potatoes to the usual soup and we got by.

The Great Depression and World War II had recently ended, so Dad’s income as a clergyman was especially meager. He was a worker though, and supplemented his clergy duties with different jobs to keep food on the table. We were what one might call poor, but it was the post-Depression years. Many people were in the same boat. As a boy, however, I never thought about being poor. In fact, I remember once when Mom had no food in the house except some flour and a bit of sugar. She gave me a pot and told me to go out to the backyard and fill it with cherries from our tree. That evening we had cherry soup for supper. It was remarkably delicious and I thought nothing about the association between cherry soup and being poor. Every Friday evening we went to Grandpa’s house for supper. And every time the main dish was canned chicken. The chicken came in quart-sized round tin cans, similar to what grapefruit juice used to come in, so the chicken wasn’t very big to feed six people. I always ate the neck because I liked it. As a result, for many years it seemed to me that a chicken didn’t have anything but necks to eat. Those were tough times on my parents, who shouldered the heaviest burdens for us. As I grew older and began seeing the realities of it all, I began pushing hard to make a better future for myself.

Dad was a very strict disciplinarian with me—he had to be. I was always into everything and probably really tried his patience, even up through high school. He was mostly fair with his discipline, but his punishments were not easily forgotten. I didn’t get away with anything! I remember how he repeatedly impressed upon me the need to do a job right.

After many, many warnings, one evening he and Mom had to go out and left my sister and me to do the dishes. I had spilled some jam down the side of a cabinet next to the fridge and neglected to clean it up. I was in bed and dead asleep when my covers were pulled back and the whipping started. It continued as Dad reminded me of my cleaning failure. And it continued all the way down the stairs to the kitchen until I completed the job correctly. This was just one of his many lessons to do a job right. It worked. The lesson never left me.

It probably looks like child abuse, but the way I see it, I was so full of impulse and adventure that I often forgot the things I was supposed to do. I was also the oldest son, which perhaps explains why I was disciplined more thoroughly. I never knew my dad to be a cruel man, even though he was unrelentingly serious about instilling principles in me, always telling me I could do better. But I loved and admired him, and will always deeply appreciate the time and effort he put into helping me become the man he always knew I could be.

I loved being outdoors, but I also loved to read, which stayed with me all my life. I read so many books that my dad became concerned and limited me to five a week. I went to the library weekly and returned with stacks of books, mostly about adventure and hunting; there weren’t many books about war in those days. However, I wasn’t a bookworm in the strict sense, I only read at night or when I couldn’t be outdoors due to weather. While outdoors I lived wild and free like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. When I wasn’t exploring the woods or fishing or walking railroad tracks hunting for snakes, I built forts and tree houses, pretending I was fighting wars. When living next to the Ohio River I built rafts and floated with the current, or I would lie on the bank by the hour watching paddle-wheel boats pushing barges of coal.

My neighbor and best friend was Wade, and we shared the same childhood aspirations and were a great match in friendship and shenanigans. The only bad thing I ever did was when he and I laid on top of the entrance to the long train tunnel at the base of our hill and dropped big rocks into a steam locomotive’s smokestack before we were engulfed in choking smoke.

My first love was airplanes, and I loved everything about flying. A close second was my old Ryder BB gun. I shot just about everything and was deadly on sparrows, but I wasn’t allowed to shoot any other kind of bird. I even got a squirrel once. Wade and I frequently challenged each other’s creativity. A few of his best pranks have stayed with me all these years.

Wade wrote a letter to my parents as if the letter had come from the government, saying that I had shot a rare and endangered bird and they were coming to arrest me. I had never shot a rare bird, but when my mother read the letter she began to cry, stating she would never let them take me! It had us going for a while that day, and I kept looking over my shoulder for the feds who were after me, unsure if I feared them or my dad more.

I spent a weekend at another friend’s house. I took my BB gun because both he and his brother had them too. We built a fort outside and played war, which eventually escalated into a BB gun fight between us. Their BB guns were a bit worn and less powerful, while my lever-action Ryder really packed a punch. It was them against me, and we went at it. It turned out that I was quite fast and agile with my rifle, so I only received a few BB welts, but I nailed them repeatedly. They came away with several red lumps and even some bruises, and none of us lost an eye.

Wade’s father was an unknowing contributor to yet another of our shenanigans. He worked in underground coal mines and used a carbide headlamp. We learned that mixing carbide with water produces acetylene gas. We would borrow his carbide, put it in an empty glass bottle, pour in some water, quickly screw the top on, and toss it as far away as possible. The bottle would explode with quite a bang and scatter glass everywhere. Quite fun. We were always blowing stuff up with carbide or firecrackers when we could afford them. We survived those times with all of our fingers, thank God.

I practically lived in the woods, sometimes with Wade, sometimes alone. With young brothers and sisters to keep Mom busy, I was mostly free to roam. One time Wade and I found some caves in the woods, miles from home. The opening was quite small, down near the ground, and we found it by chance. So we decided to explore. After getting a flashlight we had to lie down and squeeze our way through the opening until the cave opened up inside. There was no sign that anyone had ever been in the cave. We spent hours exploring, squeezing through other openings to other chambers, oblivious to possible danger, including the fact that no one knew where we were.

Bicycles were fairly important to us at that age too—only single speed, of course. Most of the boys in the neighborhood had nice bikes, but mine was a beat-up secondhand bike from the thrift store. I took off the front fender because I thought it looked cool. One day, rapidly coasting down our steep asphalt hill, I decided to press my shoe gently on the front tire to slow down rather than use the pedals. What an idiot! The spinning tire grabbed my shoe, jamming it between the fork and tire, which immediately stopped the front wheel and sent me—still stuck to the