Sitting in a room with eight other people, I drift off for a quick moment as I offload my Nikon camera. To my immediate right is the commander of the administrative (S-1) section. A major, with a cautionary presence.
I’m putting together a photographic caption from a recent assignment. We are in Germany participating in Operation Dynamic Front. A multinational exercise of partner nations and allies. I’m the public affairs section leader, fulfilling both officer and enlisted responsibilities.
“Spc. Boisvert, I hear you are a prior infantry Marine?” She asks me.
“Yes, Ma’am. I was.” I reply.
“That’s — different. I didn’t expect that, coming from you. Why did you leave?”
I stop typing and stare off into space as I formulate a response. It takes a few seconds as I try to navigate those dark spaces. Those memories — buried deep underneath. All of the emotions flood to the surface. I experience them all at once. Grief, regret, anger, and sadness. I look at the reflection of my face on my tablet. As the emotions carry themselves out, they remain locked away.
“Well, ma’am,” I pause for a second and think of how I want, or should, word this.
3 or 4 seconds pass as she continues typing on her computer.
“I got tired of seeing my friends get killed.”
She stops typing. Digesting what I said. Although it was only for a moment, she glances over at me and I can see her in my periphery. I see the so-called threatening persona vanish, and she remains silent. Struggling to formulate a response, only met with silence.
After this exchange, she was always very personable with me. I intended to never disrespect her as a person, nor did I ever want to garnish sympathy from her. I never wanted to masquerade my accomplishments as a Marine, nor embellish or scrutinize the smallest of details. I just gave a response, and I think she understands my story — my response.
For this operation, there is no clear indication of my importance for being here. As a public affairs specialist, I am a powerful asset to any military commander. Most combat arms commanders have no idea how to employ public affairs. They simply believe that we cover stories and tell the military story. Frankly, that is only the silver lining.
During the operation, higher-ups from the 29 different participating nations will show up. They will walk through, speak with their service members and learn the value of conducting an exercise of this magnitude. There is a problem: 29 different nations, 29 different entourages, 29 different crowds all thrown together in a small four-by-four room. All visiting at the same time and same place. As the acting public affairs liaison, I am overwhelmed by all of the scheduling conflicts taking place. If that isn’t the worst of it, the crowds are already making me nervous.
During the visit, people scurry in and out of all the different hallways and corridors throughout the building. It’s difficult trying to concentrate on building a photographic caption with the white noise of multiple conversations going on. I think to myself that I would like to put in headphones to drown out the silence, but realize that it would look unprofessional. I decide against it, and just let the noise fester in the background. I sense my autonomic nervous system activates. My stress starts to heighten and match the echo of proxy conversations all around me. I try to drown it out by working at my work station, but the large crowds of strangers only exacerbate my symptoms.
I speak with one of the medics about my past. I tell them about walking through the streets of Afghanistan, and why large crowds can actuate certain memories. I tell them it’s nothing personal against people. it’s only the mechanism behind it that gets me. They recommend I take a few short breaks outside from time-to-time. I was already going to do this anyway, but nonetheless just needed to let someone know. I feel secure knowing that people are aware of my shortcomings.
As I step outside for my first mental break, half of my unit is already here. It’s reassuring to know they understand me.
“Hey, Boisvert. What’s up? Had to take a step away? Me too.” A uniformed fellow says to me.
Strength in numbers.
During the visit, everything thing runs smoothly, but I am elsewhere. I revisit memories throughout the day. One moment, I’m walking through the streets of Afghanistan, with all eyes on me. The next I’m listening to the countrymen whisper to each other in their turbans and long dresses, and I wonder if they are plotting? Plotting to take us out, as if we are nothing but ants on a hill.
I don’t hate the Afghans for looking at me. I don’t hate them for seeing me other than a mere man. I just hate the unfortunate circumstance we each find ourselves in, even though I volunteered.
Back at my computer, I finish the caption for my photograph. A picture that has four different uniform patterns working in tandem. A photograph that communicates proper teamwork. They point at a computer screen as if solving some sort of math problem collaboratively. According to doctrine, I can’t speak of what is on the computer, or even what they are doing. It would violate national security procedures.
My work station is flanked by a long corridor hallway. I see everyone that walks by, and they see me. Our commanding officer lies at the end. The military brass is constantly walking up and down during the visit. I get very acquainted with the varying degree of faces which trace the black and white tiled floor.
As the visit dies down, I hear less and fewer footsteps shuffling across the corridor hallway. The time is around 4:30 p.m. I don’t always have problems with obsessive-compulsive disorder, but this is heightened whenever white tile becomes involved. Service members, with their combat boots, track in all sorts of things. It’s a never-ending fight during the day to keep the floor spotless, but it still requires upkeep.
While I’m working, I decided to take a quick mental break by shifting my focus to something easy — sweeping. I always found it rather odd that some people in the military find it demoralizing if they have to clean. To me, it was always an act of drifting away and performing a meditative form of work. I can think of something else, while just sweeping something along the ground.
I vacate my workstation and adventure off to find the nearest broom. I a thin bristled one down the hallway and begin sweeping the erratic layers of sand on the floor. Left-to-right, left-to-right, I sweep the dirt in small piles.
I start drifting away again and visiting memories. Captioning each one, for a tailored situation. A memory lapsed in time. During the operation, people will see a different side to me. They will see a person who takes their work very seriously, while also revealing my humanity. Exposing my deepest motivations, always trying to do my best. It’s not without shortcomings, though. I remain forever critical of myself. A weakness and a strength.
The Major walks out of our work station area and sees me sweeping.
“Boisvert, have you ever thought of going to Officer Candidate School?” She says to me.
“I have, ma’am. I’m just not sure.” I reply.
No one told me to sweep, I just started doing it because the movement is a welcome state of my existence.
The major displays a soft smile and walks out of the corridor hallway.
“You know there is a bigger broom to sweep the hallway?” I hear a coarse, experienced voice behind me. General Conway, a towering man with a large command presence. Grayed hair, from a lifetime in the infantry himself. An American flag on one shoulder, while a ranger and special forces line the other.
“Yes, sir. I just like this smaller broom. I can grab the corners easier.” I reply.
“I understand that. It’s like painting with a different array of brushes.” He says.
After a few seconds, he lets out a big sigh.
“I’m glad the dog and pony show is finally over.” The general says.
For a moment he fails to remain present. He looks off into space, getting lost in a distant memory. Comparing and contrasting a time between past and present. Looking for some level of normalcy. I see something different in him, something that I also see in myself. Over the years I realize that most infantrymen turn out this way. Locking ourselves between time zones.
“Yes sir, I am too,” I reply. I don’t want things to get too personal at all here, but I find that I’m a conversationalist with anything.
“Is this the first time you’ve ever been to Germany?” The general asks
“Well, sir, technically, yes. I came through here twice when I was younger,” I reply.
“What were you doing over here?” He asks. At first, I remain reluctant to expand on the subject. I’m not so privy to opening up. It only opens up more doorways for them to ask questions. I feel helpless, as the memories attached to those intermittent travel periods make me frantic.
I respect this man, though. A well and esteemed career working in special forces. I feel as if my story wouldn’t measure up, and that I don’t want to bother him with my small story. My small experience which probably, pales in comparison to his own.
This is what I think in my mind, but it is never truly like this.
“I was wearing a different uniform then, sir,” I reply.
“Really? What were you doing?” He asks.
“Well, sir. I was only here in passing. I was on my way to Afghanistan. I guess that’s why I have trouble with crowds.” He seems to take notice of my body language and facial expressions. Mirroring and reciprocating the same mannerisms he was just displaying himself.
“I understand that,” he replies.
“Yes, sir. I’m just wary of an unfortunate circumstance. I get a little uneasy in large crowds sometimes. It’s not the people themselves, it’s just the mechanism behind it.”
The general stares into space once more, then visibly pulls himself back.
“I hope that that hasn’t affected you for the majority of your life.” He says, expressing a deep concern.
“Sir, honestly it’s getting better. I’ve surmised I’m not the only one who goes through it. There’s comfort in numbers. Realizing that I’m not alone. I find that being outside, and climbing and photography are a catalyst for something more. A catharsis of sorts.”
“You climb?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply
“Have you seen that movie with that guy that free solos? Alex Honnold, I think his name is?” He says.
I laugh, “Yes sir. He isn’t just a mystery to the masses. He’s a bit of a mystery to climbers.” I reply.
I explain to the general, a personal opinion on the enigma that is Alex Honnold. A climber who moves upward with no equipment. A daredevil who defies all the odds. I go over details of my life, and how I started my passion for photography and climbing. I speak about a spirit forged through grit and vulnerability. Mapping out the displeasures of failure. I tell him of my adventures, to which he reciprocates with his. We talk for what seems like an hour but it is only about 20 minutes.
“I don’t want to hold you from your work,” he says after we finish our talking points.
“Thank you for the conversation,” he says. “I enjoyed it.”
Strength in numbers.