FIRST PERSON
AFGHANiSTAN AND ITS AFTERMATH
The tyson murray Story
My name is Corporal Tyson Murray. I was a high risk search team commander
deployed on operations in 2010 and 2012. This is the story of my downfall and
the effect PTSD has had on my life and those around me post Afghanistan. I
never anticipated this story being published. I simply wrote it in a final attempt
at expressing and unscrambling the myriad of emotions I was feeling inside.
PTSD had taken over my life. Daily, I fought the demons in my head that had
planted their roots deep inside my thoughts. It was a constant battle to perform
the simplest of tasks.
Anything from getting out of bed to
attending to the administrative needs of
my soldiers. It all seemed to be more
trouble than it was worth.
Before 2010 I was a determined, fit,
motivated person who believed I could
do anything I put my mind to. I was
hard-working and would continually
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strive to better myself as a person and a
soldier. I eagerly awaited an opportunity
to deploy so I could put the skills I had
learnt over the years to good use. I had
developed a reputation as a responsible,
professional hard worker who could be
relied upon to get the job done.
I took a lot of pride in this reputation
and I liked the fact that my subordinates
looked up to me and my superiors could
rely on me. I had aspirations of joining
the Special Forces as part of a long
career in the army. I loved it here. I knew
what to do and how to do it. I was aware
of my limits and was content in the fact
that I was good at my job. It was my
dream job. Something I’d done since
high school. I viewed myself as your
stereotypical soldier. I knew nothing else.
The opportunity to deploy arose. An
operational deployment for a soldier is
his final test of objectives. Every soldier
dreams of doing his job on the battlefield.
Regardless of how many simulated
exercises you rehearse, nothing compares
FIRST PERSON
to the thrill and adrenalin of battle. I had
dreamt about this opportunity. Waited
years. Pre deployment, I had proved myself
in the lead-up training. I knew what had to
be done and how to do it. Everyone was
confident in my ability. More importantly, I
was confident in my ability.
I loved the adrenalin, the excitement
and the camaraderie. It was the pinnacle
of everything I’d learnt about searching
and being an engineer. We risked our
lives, did our jobs very well and had the
admiration, respect and appreciation of
our peers and superiors. Often, during the
deployment, ranks far superior than mine
would raise questions as to the route or
task at hand, and I would happily answer.
I loved that these people came directly to
me. I was an expert on the subject. I had
the answers they needed. I didn’t realise
it at the time but the trust and faith placed
in me had a profound impact. Not only
was I being relied upon, but upholding
this faith became my responsibility.
In June 2010, when Sapper S and
Sapper D were killed, I was faced with
the worst situation a junior commander
could ever be faced with: seeing two of
my soldiers killed and knowing I could
have had an influence on whether or not
they lived or died.
At the time of the strike, I was blown
to the ground. I reacted as soon as I
comprehended what had happened. I
knew from the size of the blast and the
proximity of my boys that it was going to
be bad. We had all been in blasts before
but this one was different. It just stirred
that instinctive feeling you get in your
guts when you know something isn’t
right. I remember repeating in my head,
“F--k, f--k, f--k, f--k!”
Cordite and smoke filled the air. I
could see Sapper S lying there, his body
motionless. I ran straight to him and
dragged him back as he was about to slide
into the aqueduct. He was unrecognisable.
The top of his head was gone and so were
his legs. He was a mess.
I held his hand and started asking, “Can
you hear me, mate? It’s gonna be all
right.” I knew that it wasn’t but I didn’t
know what else to say. Seeing his head
was making me sick. It was so surreal.
This is S! I put a piece of his shirt over his
head and continued to talk to him. I felt
him squeeze my hand. My heart stopped.
I remember thinking, how could he
possibly be alive? Why won’t someone
help? He is still alive! I need help! I
didn’t realise at the time that this was due
to his severed nerve endings contracting
in shock. All I could think was that he
was lying here, he could still hear me so
what do I do? What the f--k do I do? I’ll
keep talking to him: “It’s alright mate.
I’m here. It’s OK, bud, you’ll be right.”
What else could I do?
I then heard an enormous gasp. As I
looked up, I saw Pte K pulling Sapper D
out of the aqueduct. He was screaming
and trying to sit up. The CFA’s and medic
were working frantically to keep him
down and tend to his wounds. I could see
he was a mess. I screamed at the other
searchers to start clearing for secondaries
on the other side of the aqueduct and then
work on the landing zone.
It was only then that I realised I had
run straight into the blast site without
checking for secondaries. I could have
been sitting on another IED but honestly
at this point in time, I didn’t care. I didn’t
want the searchers to see the boys the
way they were. Sapper P and Sapper G
got straight to it. They were brilliant.
When they started CPR on Sapper D,
I knew he was dead. I didn’t leave
Sapper S’s side until the bird came in. I
carried him onto the chopper and said,
“Goodbye, mate.”
Praised for my actions on the day, I
was left feeling that, post blast, I had
done everything to the best of my ability.
However, “post blast” is not what I was
concerned about.
My problem was that, before the strike
occurred, the boys were being a little
more jovial after such a successful
morning of cache finds. If I had held a
tighter grip on them, this blast might not
have occurred. I do not blame myself
solely for the deaths of the boys, but I
sure as hell know that if I had been more
aware, more switched-on those few
I could see Sapper S
lying there, his body
motionless. He was
unrecognisable. The top
of his head was gone
and so were his legs.
moments before the blast, then I could
have prevented it from happening.
After the deaths, I didn’t have time to
mourn. The very next day, I was back
on patrol and that’s how I spent the next
three months – patrol, sleep, patrol, sleep.
I grew a deep hatred for the people of
Afghanistan – the men, women, children
– I didn’t care. I hated them all. I hated
what they stood for. I hated them as
people. I hated everything about them.
In all honesty, I thought of them as less
than people. They were animals. Filth.
Worthless. Nothing more.
For the last three months we were so
busy I didn’t have time to think about
what had happened. We would patrol
until exhaustion then collapse until we
were woken for our next patrol. I can’t
remember dwelling on what happened.
All I knew was that I had learnt a
valuable lesson the hard way.
Upon return to Australia, the
celebratory drinking started. I would
go on benders just happy that I was
alive. I remember the first night back
in Australia. I was staying in a motel
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FIRST PERSON
When I was sober, I was
completely numb. When
I was drunk I was an
emotional mess. I kept
asking myself, “Why did
I survive? Why couldn’t
I have lost a limb . . . ?”
Something – anything –
to give me a reason for
not doing more.
on Southbank. I had spent the evening
drinking and pouring my heart out to a
stripper. When I got kicked out of the
club, I somehow made my way back
to the motel. It was pouring rain and I
couldn’t sleep. I remember walking out
onto the motel balcony, pressing my legs
and body firmly against the rail, looking
up at the sky and feeling the rain on my
face. I threw my arms out to the side and
I cried. I didn’t know what I was doing
or why I was crying, I just needed to cry.
This was the first time I’d been emotional
on the piss. The beginning of a landslide
that, over time, gathered so much
momentum, it became near impossible
to stop.
I became an emotional hand grenade.
I always felt like shit. Nothing could
stimulate me or make me happy. When I
was sober, I was completely numb. When
I was drunk, I was an emotional mess. I
kept asking myself, “Why did I survive?’
Why did they die and not me?” Why
couldn’t I have lost a limb or something?
Something – anything - to give me a
reason for not doing more. I should have
done more.
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I began shaking in my sleep. I was
growing more anxious by the day and I
couldn’t handle traffic or crowds. The
slightest things would drive me into
an irrational rage where, regardless of
whether I was right or wrong, nothing
could change my views and opinions
on the issue. I constantly missed the
excitement and adrenalin offered by a
deployment. I was more comfortable
over an explosive device than I was in a
Westfield Shopping Centre. Regardless
of how far I pushed the boundaries,
nothing gave me the thrill of combat. I
got bored with normal life and all the
monotonous bullshit that went with it. I
craved adrenalin. Whenever I had time
to think about the boys and what I could
have done differently, I began to feel
depressed. I felt like I had let so many
people down. I was meant to be a role
model and I couldn’t even keep my men
alive. I had failed at my job. I failed as a
brick commander.
I remember lying awake one night,
thinking about how much I hated
Afghanistan but how I also missed
it so much. Over there, I was worth
something. I was valued as an integral
part of a well-oiled machine. Here in
Australia, what was I? An angry drunk
who didn’t want to put up with people’s
bullshit. I just did not care. I began to
think I needed to talk to someone but
who? I couldn’t possibly tell anyone
this. I am a man and a soldier. The fact
that I was having trouble dealing with
my emotions made me feel pathetic. I
continually thought people would judge
me for being weak so I would bury it in
my box, lock it away inside, dig deep,
fight through the pain and push on.
I started taking unnecessary risks drink driving, ecstasy, cocaine. Anything
just to feel something. I’d go out to a
club and someone would give me a pill.
I wouldn’t even know what it was but
I’d still take it. I was happy to take these
risks because, for a fleeting moment,
it felt good. I was so desperate to feel
good again, I didn’t care about the cost
or the risk. At work, I was a diligent and
respectable NCO but, at home, I was a
broken man whose life was being held
together by medication and alcohol.
FIRST PERSON
When I first heard about my unit
redeploying to Afghanistan, my eyes
lit up. This was my chance to show the
unit what I was capable of. This was my
chance to right the wrongs and do the job
properly. I could redeem my name, excel
at the job, the money would get me out
of debt and everything would fix itself. I
just needed to get back there. Besides, I
couldn’t possibly live with myself if the
men I had previously fought with went
without me.
These men were my support group.
They were the mates I turned to when I
was in need. When I was at my lowest.
And, when they needed someone to cry
to, or ask advice, I’d been there for them.
The connection I shared with these few
men was closer than that which I shared
with some members of my own family.
The bond we’d built on MTF-1 was and
is unbreakable. We forged a friendship at
a time when the only thing that would get
you out of bed, to willingly put your life
on the line, without hesitation, was your
mates. The greatest bunch of men I’ve
ever known. I couldn’t possibly let them
go without me. It was my duty to deploy.
My honour, my pride and my sanity were
resting on it.
At the time, I was seeing a psychologist
and a psychiatrist weekly. Although I
hadn’t been medically downgraded,
they still wouldn’t have signed me off to
deploy. Let’s face it – I was a drunk with
a caffeine addiction. I had a couple of
months to change their opinions.
When I went to my psych
appointments, I slowly started to
introduce the fact that I wasn’t hitting the
piss as much. I would tell them I’d found
other activities to keep me stimulated
to lessen my drinking. I told them I’d
changed my group of friends so that now
I wasn’t hanging out with piss heads. I
told them that I was slowly cutting back
on the V and coffee when really I was
still drinking anywhere from 10-12 cups
a day. Over the months leading up to that
deployment, I had miraculously turned
from a drunk with a caffeine addiction
into a deployable soldier again! I got
the right tick in the right box from the
psychs, all my demons were subdued
inside me and, with the aid of alcohol, I
was good to go!
Everything was progressing well until
my engineer certification exercise.
My performance at certex was the first
indicator to my superiors that I might not
be as stable and in control as they might
have thought. I wasn’t comfortable with
some of the rules and regulations the
directing staff had in place. This led to
a butting of heads which, in turn, ended
with me losing my cool.
Inevitably, I failed certex. I had been
deemed not competent to lead a search
brick overseas. My grand plan was
falling apart and I didn’t know what to
do. I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t
want my men to see me this way so I
resorted to the only coping mechanism
I knew – I got drunk. Surprise, surprise.
This made me feel even more worthless.
What was I going to do? I’d be f--ked if
my squad was deploying without me. I
was at my wits’ end.
Then I received a ray of sunshine –
a glimmer of hope in my otherwise
miserable world. My OC informed me
that there was a position available in
Dubai for a couple of months and that
I might have the opportunity to head
into Afghan after that. I was stoked. It
wasn’t what I had initially hoped for but
at least I’d still be able to help the boys.
And doing Explosive Hazard Awareness
training was something I was really
passionate about.
I spent six weeks in Dubai and
then moved forward to Afghan in an
operations role. This involved sitting
behind a desk, looking for emerging
trends or potential new tactics,
techniques or procedures.
While in Dubai and then Afghan,
I felt like my usual self again. I’d
done the EHA training very well and
was regularly commended on my
performance. During the ops role, I
managed to keep my nose clean as well.
I didn’t seem to have any depressing
thoughts. I wasn’t drinking. I was
hitting the gym. I had even planted the
seed of a new relationship with my
best friend Kate. I looked good and felt
great. There was nothing to suggest that,
a few months ago, I was a psychological
mess. I thought that, just maybe, this
was what I needed to get me back to
normal. Never could I have anticipated
just how wrong this statement would
turn out to be.
The time came when I was to return
to Australia. Upon arrival in Dubai, I
walked into the psychologist’s office and
my heart sank. It was the person who
had conducted my psych interview after
S and D were killed. All of a sudden
my body started to shake and my heart
rate increased. I was terrified. What was
going on?
The person looked at me and asked,
“How are you doing?” I burst into tears.
I couldn’t speak. I was a blubbering
mess. For the past three months I had
been fine and now, when I see this
person, I break down. I told them I
was scared to return to Australia. I
didn’t want to get into the same vicious
routine I’d left behind three months
ago. Without my army boys there for
support, who would I turn to? I don’t
want to be a drunk pathetic mess. I’m
a soldier! A role model! I am someone
people look up to and can rely on. I
begged the person to put in my report
that everything was normal on the
condition that I would promise to get
help back in Australia.
I got back to Australia but a week later
was sent to the USA for a course. It
was all right but it wasn’t Afghan. The
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FIRST PERSON
boys were still over there getting shot at
and blown up and here I was, swanning
around in the States. I thought, these
boys need me. I’m wasting away when
I should be with my mates fighting a
war. The fact that I wasn’t with them
constantly ate away at me.
Returning to Australia, as predicted,
the cycle started again. My mates were
deployed without me and, because of
that, I was drinking like a fish. I felt like
shit. Depression was creeping in. I was
starting to realise that my aspirations for
Special Forces were slowly fading away.
This made me even more depressed
which, in turn, caused me to drink more,
which increased my depression because I
was drinking so much! I think that’s what
they call a vicious cycle.
I finally snapped. I called Kate and
asked her to come over because I
needed to talk. As always, she was more
than willing to oblige. Then I lost it. I
cried for hours and told her everything
– every detail – as accurately as I
could remember. Kate knew that I had
problems but she had no idea it was this
bad. She begged me to go and get help
but I had too much pride. I insisted that
no one could find out about what I had
become. This went on for weeks.
Kate would bring herself to tears begging
me to get help, but I refused. I was drinking
myself stupid and blowing money I didn’t
have. My debt was going up and my
morale going down. Still, I kept feeling
sorry for myself, telling Kate that I didn’t
need help. Then I thought, I can’t do this
anymore. I went and saw a psych.
When the psychologist saw me, I was
sent straight to the psychiatrist to get
drugged up. This was to settle me down.
They wanted to admit me to hospital but
I refused. I couldn’t bear the thought of
my peers seeing what I had become.
I couldn’t hide it any longer. I had to
come clean to make it work. This would
be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had
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to do in my life. I was placed on stress
leave, medically downgraded and told
that I wasn’t in a fit state to be at work.
The doctors and psychs were pretty
confident I wouldn’t recover to be in
a deployable state again. As much as I
argued the point, it was useless. I was too
far gone. This was my life. Everything I
had ever aspired to be. I was living my
dream and now I’d been told that the
dream had to end. It was like being back
in high school and having to figure out
what I was going to do with the rest of
my life. I had been doing exactly what I
wanted to do. But now I had lost it.
influence has been.
During one of these periods, I was
introduced to an organisation that, over
time, would help give me purpose again.
I was welcomed into Mates 4 Mates
and initiated a process that gave me
direction and meaning again. Unlike the
usual therapy sessions where I had some
person preaching who I couldn’t relate
to - someone telling me that they knew
how I felt, that everything would be all
right, I was introduced to fellow veterans
– people who I could immediately relate
to – it gave us a common goal to work
towards.
I’m currently sitting in a room in the
alcohol rehabilitation wing of the
Brisbane Private Hospital. At 26 years
old, I’m the youngest person here. I
keep to myself and just observe a lot of
the time. There are people here from all
walks of life – lawyers, footy players,
teachers and businessmen. All the people
here have one thing in common. Alcohol
has ruined their lives.
My path from here is going to be very
difficult. I’m only just coming to terms
with the fact that I have a problem.
I am at the pivotal point in my life.
Even if my existence is still a vicious
rollercoaster of highs and lows, I know
that if I don’t make changes now, it may
become too late and I’ll end up like one
of the empty souls in this room. Good
people who have lost everything, their
family, their business, their lifestyle all
due to poor choices. My relationship
with Kate has already fallen apart. I
don’t want to lose anymore.
We all have defining moments in
our life. Even if, at the time, we don’t
realise it, they are never far away. Some
of the most important moments I’ve
experienced have been shared with
some amazing people and it’s only the
beauty of hindsight that has helped
me realise just how significant their
This simple but effective method gave
me purpose and drive again. By having
such a close involvement and evolvement
with the other veterans, it helped to
put things in perspective again. Just by
talking to people who understood was so
therapeutic, it felt unifying. Like we had
been to war together so now we could
work through the recovery together. In
particular, “Moose” McKenzie often
offers me priceless counsel. I don’t know
what I’d do without him.
It is the continued support received
from my closest friends that makes this
slow recovery that much easier. I find
it’s not the doctors or the psychologists
who help me with the recovery
process, it’s the man who has been by
your side, digging in with his eyelids
while insurgents’ bullets spray the
ground around you, that’s where these
inseparable bonds are made.
How am I ever going to be able to
repay the kindness shown to me by
my mates? Another instance when I
believed I had hit rock bottom, my best
mate opened his house to me. With no
questions asked, he gave me somewhere
to live. This was an enormous thing for
me. After all my binge drinking and
thrill chasing, I had an $80,000 debt
and nothing to show for it. Not having
FIRST PERSON
somewhere to live was just another
burden weighing on my mind. I don’t
think I’ll ever be able to repay his
kindness.
I have my fellow engineers who I
deployed with on MTF-1. Every couple
of months, we get together, have a few
beers and, if a cry is needed, then a
cry is had. No judgment is passed. It’s
just another one of the ways we try to
deal with the enormous emotional and
psychological burden that soldiers carry.
I know soldiers who have seen my fallout with the army and they’re so terrified
about getting help because they don’t
want to risk the implications to their
careers or are worried about being judged
by others. In order to help them out, I’ve
shared my prescription medication just
so they could get though their battle in
silence. I know how wrong that was but,
at the time, I just wanted help out in any
way possible.
I’m lucky enough to have the full
support of a loving family. I was so
reluctant to tell my mum about my PTSD
because I didn’t want to worry her. I
didn’t want my younger brothers to hear
about my downfall and not be proud
of me. They have always looked up to
me, I didn’t want to risk losing that. I
knew that I had my family’s support. I
just needed to find the right time within
myself before I let them in to what I was
going through.
My battle with PTSD has turned me
from a hard working professional soldier
into an emotional mess without direction.
Getting out of bed, going for a run,
just being nice to people! It’s a daily
challenge. I constantly have to fight the
demons in my head telling me it’s not
worth it; there’s no point. There are times
when I curl up on the couch feeling sorry
for myself.
But there are other days when I look
back at what I’ve achieved and feel so
proud of myself.
PTSD is a curse. I wouldn’t wish it
upon anyone but it has helped define and
shape the person I am today. My time
in the army played such an enormous
part in my life. Letting go of it terrified
me beyond belief. It wasn’t until I took
the fear that was controlling my life and
looked at it from another perspective,
that I was able to even begin to move on.
Although fear terrifies us and our
immediate reaction is to pull away, I
believe that fear also makes us curious.
It stimulates us and makes things
exciting. I like to compare it to walking
into the ocean: we can either creep in,
one step at a time, feel the anticipation
and nervousness grow inside, then
work ourselves up to a point where we
have no other option but to just give in,
collapse and get wet. Or we can walk in
and just dive, feel the water rush over
us and all those emotions wash away in
one hit. Then a fleeting moment where
everything is clear, it’s just you and the
open ocean at your fingertips. By looking
at my fear this way, I’ve begun to initiate
the healing process.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m far from
cured. I think I’m pointed in the right
direction but, for now, my story doesn’t
have an ending. My PTSD has led to my
discharge from the army. The final ties
to the job I loved have been severed, and
now I’m at a point where I’m not sure
how it will end. Will I ever get over the
people that took the boys from us? Will
the nightmares and broken sleep pass?
Will I be able to fully patch the holes in
my somewhat broken life and have some
sort of normality? I guess I can just keep
working through the issues one step at a
time and hopefully I turn out al lright.
A man who I have an awful lot of
respect for once said to me: “We all have
good and bad days. When we are having
a good day, reach back and lend a hand
to someone who is having a bad day.”
Whilst riding the vicious roller coaster
that is my life, sometimes I find it
incredibly hard to get motivated but then
I found a quote by Tennyson. I read it
many times every day. It helps to remind
me to stay focused and in perspective.
“Though much is taken, much abides,
and though we are not now that strength
which in old days moved earth and
heaven, that which we are, we are . . .
One equal temper of heroic hearts, made
weak by time and fate, but strong in will to
strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
I will do my best.
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