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"Even though we see veterans of several different wars ... the bulk of our people are Vietnam-era veterans," said Dr. Arthur Aaronson, 55, coordinator of the program.
"I was a good kid," Balanovich said of his days before the war. "My parents owned a 108-acre dairy farm near Mount Pocono, Pa. I was in all the 4-H stuff.... I did well in school, too, and got along well with everybody." He remembers things beginning to change when President Kennedy was slain. "I was devastated. I thought the world of him. That's when I started thinking about military service."
Balanovich was 18 and fresh out of high school when he enlisted in the Army in 1964. After basic training at Fort Rucker, Ala., he was assigned to the 73rd Aviation Co.
"I hit 'Nam a quiet farm kid from Pennsylvania; I came home a monster," he said while sitting in a sun-splashed dayroom on the first floor of Building 410. On the table before Balanovich lay one of his prized souvenirs of the war - a floppy-brimmed hat adorned with a rattlesnake skin, complete with head. The snake's mouth is open, baring razor-sharp fangs.
The 73rd Aviation Co. was responsible for photographing suspected enemy positions and providing fire support for ground troops.
"They called us 'The Silent Death,' because we were often the first ones into an area, and usually nobody else knew about it," he said. "We flew more than 20,000 missions a year. Day, night, all kinds of weather. We averaged 200 bullet holes a year and lost a lot of planes. Seventy percent of our missions were classified, and many weren't made public until years after the war ended. My nickname was 'Snake' because ... well ... I always rattled before I struck."
"I figured I was one of the lucky ones," he said. "Even though I had plenty of close calls, including five emergency landings, I walked out of there in one piece. I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing."
Seven years later, the nightmares began.
"They come and go," he said. "Most of the time I can't even remember what they are about. Then there's the flashbacks. All sorts of things trigger them. A clap of thunder in the middle of the night ... a TV show ... an airplane flying over. One time a friend asked me to watch the movie Full Metal Jacket with him. I didn't want to, but I said I would. Ten minutes into the movie I had to leave the room."
Balanovich started drinking heavily. He floated from job to job. Five times he was married and divorced. "One of my ex-wives tried to commit suicide, another one did," he said. His eyes filled with tears.
"I've already lost 30 years," he said, voice quavering. "I went to Vietnam as a human. I came back inhuman. You can't see the stuff we saw, and do the stuff we did and remain human."
As Balanovich struggled to regain his composure, seven men were wrapping up another 90-minute PTSD group therapy session with "The Doc" in another building on the grounds.
"The Doc" is Dr. Peggy Arnott, a psychologist. The oldest member of the Tuesday morning therapy sessions was 81; the youngest was 44. They came from three states and represented four wars - World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the Persian Gulf. Post-traumatic stress disorder emerges among troops in any war. During the Civil War it was called "Soldiers Heart." It was "Battle Fatigue" in World War II and "Anxiety Neurosis" during the Korean War.
Over the months, members of the group became something of a family unit. The sessions were relaxed. The men were encouraged to laugh.
Arnott said it is important for therapy group members to focus on things they can do something about.
"The guys made care packages for the military people now serving in Afghanistan. They bought the stuff - everything from lollipops to canned sardines - then boxed the items and mailed the packages."
"When I came home, everything haunted me," Toy Roberts said in a soft Tennessee accent. Roberts, 81, spent seven months on the front lines during World War II. "I don't know how I lived with it all those years. You leave something behind you when you go to war - and you can never get that something back."
John Ball, 78, who was in the Navy during World War II, nodded. "I never talked about the war. I didn't even contact any of my old shipmates. I just kept reliving in my mind the day our whole gun crew - except me - was killed. It came back to me real clear, like a moving picture. When I came to the VA Center here and Mike told me I had PTSD, I asked him, 'What's PTSD?'"
Elijah Williams, 60, said group therapy was helping him overcome his memories of Vietnam.
"My daddy was in World War II. He had what I think they called 'shell shock.' He started drinking, and never did stop. I enjoy the therapy sessions, because you can go as deep as you want to. And even the quietest members of our group talk. What's sad is that there are still a lot of veterans walking around out there who have PTSD, but haven't taken that first big step to get help."
Balanovich, who has returned home to Pennsylvania, felt comfortable in the group therapy sessions.
"For a long time after I started showing symptoms of PTSD, doctors stuck me in the hospital and fed me pills," he said. "Even though they didn't come right out and say it, I figured they thought I was just plain nuts. I get nervous when I'm on the outside, because people don't understand what I'm going through. But I'm OK with the guys in therapy, because they've been there. They have the same pain. The same problems.
"My first few nights here, I took my hammock outside and slept in the woods," he said. "The VA folks finally promised me a private room if I'd stay inside, so I did. I'm dealing with my problems ... well ... sort of, anyway. But I still get angry every time I read in the paper that somebody wants to reduce the number of programs available to veterans. Instead of eliminating programs, they should be adding more to help the men and women who fought so damned hard to keep that old flag flying."
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