Three Roads Back

(4 of 5)

Jim Batchelor sits in his darkened living room and tells an infantryman's tales of bugs and snakes, leaky gas masks and indestructible humvees. Since he returned from Iraq, he hasn't been able to sit still, so as he talks, his hand constantly worries at the filmy floral curtains, twisting and turning the fabric. His wife Kristy, laughing along with his stories, quietly reaches out, frees the curtains from his grasp and places his hand back on the couch. Twist, reach, release. Twist, reach, release. Finally, Kristy gently rests her hand on her husband's and leaves it there to calm him. It's a gesture that would be unremarkable in its tenderness if not for one thing: Jim's bags are packed, and he's moving out of the house.

Since Batchelor, 24, returned last April to his home in Copperas Cove, Texas, with a bullet wound between the eyes, his marriage has been stripped of intimacy. The couple puts on a good show in the company of others, the two say, but when alone they're either silent or arguing. Once giddy newlyweds desperate to have a family, they now rarely share a bed. "I went through the motions a few times, but I didn't feel anything," says Batchelor. "I just don't care."

He feels nothing--not even when his wife, a uterine-cancer survivor, talks about the baby she lost, five months into a high-risk pregnancy, when she found out Batchelor had been shot. "When he first got back, he literally told me that my husband had died in Iraq and this new person was here," says Kristy. "It's true." She hopes they will reconcile but is no longer sure they're a match.

Psychiatrists divide symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder into three categories. Batchelor, found to have the disorder, fits every bill, including: nightmares and flashbacks; estrangement and emotional numbness; irritability and difficulty sleeping. Every night he fights sleep, knowing it will bring a replay of the day his unit was sent to rescue a patrol that had been ambushed in Sadr City, Baghdad, and fell into a ferocious firefight. "It was like the entire city was shooting at us," Batchelor says, pacing around the room. "I saw the guy shooting at me. He was on a rooftop, and I saw the muzzle flash. It sounds weird, but I saw the bullet. Then it hit me in the head and snapped my head back. It made me really mad." A specialist machine gunner, Batchelor shot back and watched his would-be assassin topple to his death before crumpling to the ground himself. The bullet that hit Batchelor pierced his helmet and lodged in his skull, miraculously stopping before it reached his brain. It was April 4, 2004, and Batchelor had been in Baghdad for four days. He now hates the number four.

A year later, the only visible evidence of Batchelor's wound is a couple of small, chicken pox--like scars. But mentally he's a mess. He has 14 different bottles of medications to help him control his temper, his migraines, his depression and more. Still, he often flies into inexplicable fits of rage. He has cursed out commanding officers, hit his father, pushed Kristy and pinned her down.

Batchelor's fury does not extend to the Iraqi people, or the U.S. Army, or the government that sent him to war. "Even knowing the way things turned out, I wouldn't change a day of it," says Batchelor. "When you put on that uniform, you're part of something a lot bigger than yourself."