Empathy in Times of Stress

It was October 3rd, 2005, and I was sitting in the back of an up-armored Humvee just outside of Haqliniyah, Iraq. A few days earlier, I had turned twenty-one and finally made it through the training pipeline to the big show.

We waited and watched for the lights in the city to go dark. The plan was to cut the power to the entire city, go in, perform door-to-door searches, and look for specific high-value targets believed to be on site. People don’t realize how much waiting is involved in combat deployments. In those moments, in boredom, while anticipation is at its highest, you develop the bonds that turn into brotherhood. Awkward laughter masked the fear and excitement inside the truck. The switch flipped. One moment, we were smoking and joking, and the next, the truck engine roared to life as all the city lights blinked off.

We tore through the dark desert, navigating only with the night vision mounted to our helmets; the truck lights stayed off. Other trucks around the city performed the same maneuvers while the door kickers, on foot, slipped silently into the city limits. The coordination was a master class in planning and training and a logistical feat found in only a few other places worldwide.

And then it happened.

The rumble from the explosion ripped through us, turning the dark sky into daylight. I yanked my NODS (night optical devices) up on my helmet, blinded by the sudden brightness. It was a long moment before I realized we weren’t the truck that set off the IED (improvised explosive device). We skidded to a stop and performed a SITREP (situational report). The radio piece in my ear crackled to life:

“Delta-1?”

“Up.”

“Delta-2?”

“Up.”

“Delta-3?” my contingent.

“Up.”

“Delta-4?”

“Up.”

Delta-5?”

Radio Silence.

“Delta-5?”

Nothing.

The truck carrying my team leader, Sergeant Brian Large, had been the one to hit the IED. I peered out my window and marveled at the mushroom cloud billowing from the crash site. I was shocked at its size.

But missions continue. The truck started to move again and plowed toward our objective. The piece in my ear stayed quiet.

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Almost twenty years later, I reflect on that night. It was my first exposure to combat. I was a baby medic who didn’t know anything, but what sticks with me the most about that experience isn’t the concussion of the explosion, the sight of the mushroom cloud, or even the feeling when I knew Brian was gone. It was a company-wide radio call in the wee hours of the following day as the night raid was winding down.

I had only known Sgt. Large for a few months. However, he was my team leader and in charge of getting me ready for my first deployment. We spent countless hours together, just him and me. We honed our skills, packed and repacked our aid bags, and discussed possible scenarios we’d most likely encounter. He was my mentor and became my friend. During that radio call, everyone who knew Brian took their turn and said a short piece about the man who gave his life for his country. I learned more in that hour than any other of my life. They talked about his daughters, father, awkward sense of humor, and what he did in his off time. They talked about how good of a medic he was and his love for his fellow soldiers. We laughed, we shed tears, and we tried to fill the hole the catastrophic IED had made.

I sat in awe and listened as these men poured their souls out through the radio. I was speechless. I didn’t know the word for it then, but it was the first time I experienced genuine empathy. They were some of the hardest pipe hitters in the world, yet here they were, teaching me about my emotions, all while in the midst of combat.

It wasn’t the last time I lost a brother in combat. And it wasn’t the last time I watched as grizzled veterans of the Global War on Terror let loose emotions that proved just how complex a soldier can be. As time passed, I began to share my stories as well, and I watched as the new guys had the same look on their faces that I undoubtedly had on mine that first night.

Genuine empathy, it’s a helluva thing. It might be one of the most important lessons this life can teach. Without it, we wouldn’t have family, community, or servicemembers fighting for us overseas. We wouldn’t care for our young, old, or sick. Empathy is a building block of love and is the basis for most things that bring us joy. It doesn’t matter whether you’re cheering on your buddy after an exceptional golf shot, commiserating with a friend after a breakup, celebrating a wedding, memorializing at a funeral, giving your friend a kidney, debating politics, or even rooting for your favorite team in a bar full of strangers; you are there because of empathy.

Fourteen years removed from my service, I still struggle with this lesson. In the heat of the battle, I forget to take a breath and remember that the person on the other side has their own feelings, is fighting their own battles, and has their own stories. Failure to empathize in the hard times has cost me. There are countless times I have failed, whether it be arguments with coworkers, friends, family, or my significant other. I am guilty of neglecting the lesson Brian taught me all those years ago.

So, don’t be like me.

Take the time to pause, check in with your surroundings, and perform a SITREP. Attempt to understand where the other party is coming from and what may influence their decisions. After all, if a soldier in the middle of war can find the time to do it, so can we.

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This Post is republished on Medium.

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Photo credit: iStock