‘You do your job.’ Coast veteran shares struggles with PTSD and life after deployment.
Editor’s note: Sun Herald photography intern Lukas Flippo has been capturing the Mississippi Coast’s biggest events of 2020 through his lens, and in between breaking news and interviews he’s worked on a project of personal importance: sharing the stories of our military’s veterans.
“My battalion has the highest rate of suicide in the Navy. We check on each other, but it’s hard.
“One night everything is okay, but then the next day we get news of the death. We all talk about it, but we can’t figure out what to do.”
Brett Fletcher served in the Navy for 21 years. From interacting with presidents as a member of the prestigious Honor Guard to roaming the streets of Greece as an engineer in the Seabees, Brett’s boots were on the ground in over 20 countries.
Brett grew up in a small Missouri town where everyone worked hard for what they had.
”Out of high school, I was doing landscaping, which was pretty good money. I was in college to be an EMT, but I wanted something different. I was living in a one-horse town, where everyone you saw, you knew. I wanted to see different people and different places. So I joined the Navy and left 6 months after I walked in the recruiter’s office.”
Brett’s dad served in the Navy in the 60s — a time period where perspectives on the military were shifting dramatically. I asked Brett what his dad felt when he told him he had joined the Navy. Was it sadness? Pride? Shock?
”He told me, ‘ah I always figured you would.’”
Brett swelled with pride as we approached a shadow box on his wall, displaying an American flag and many medals, above his Cabella cabinet.
”I started in D.C. I was plucked out of boot camp to go into the Honor Guard. You see them at the presidential inaugurations mainly.
“I worked what felt like thousands of funerals at Arlington National Cemetery. I met every living president at the time, except for Reagan.”
I asked Brett how he was chosen for the prestigious post.
”They pick the clean-cut guys. You have to have a perfect record... good discipline.”
I asked Brett’s wife, Amy, how they met.
”Oh... we met at the Elk’s Lodge,” she said with a slight laugh.
Brett cut in.
”No, come on, that’s not true. I was dancing at this club in Clinton, Maryland, when Amy and her friends came in and started throwing money on me. Amy threw the five-dollar bill, so she is the one I went after.”
Amy shook her head before continuing.
”Quit lying! You are cutting into my 10 minutes.”
Their young son Jackson had just appeared at the garage door, telling me that I had 10 minutes left to talk to his mother before she was his.
”I never planned on dating a military man. I didn’t really understand. For me, I always looked at it like a job. But really, it was more than that. It was his life. But really, our lives were easier when he was in the military than it has been since he retired.”
”Mommy, It’s been 10 minutes!” Jackson crashed through the door.
As Brett’s final days in the Navy loomed large in 2015, doubts began to creep in.
”What was I going to do when I left? I heard all these stories of veterans struggling to find jobs... to find their lives,” Brett said.
But Amy was steadfast.
”He started to say, ‘Oh I could stay in one more year... two more years... or three more years.’ And I said no, that wasn’t our plan. Our child was on the way, and I didn’t want to raise him alone. I felt like then was the best time.”
Brett listened. He retired from the Navy and enrolled at Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College.
”Suddenly, my whole purpose in life was to study. It wasn’t hard. The answers were in the book, and I just had to study the book. So I spent late nights alone, studying. It was a much-needed break.”
For Brett, school was just like cutting grass and doing landscaping in high school... or standing guard at a presidential inauguration. It was a process.
”I put in the work.”
And he excelled.
As the sun set over Kiln, I asked Brett about his final college days and the job search that followed.
”It almost felt like going back to third grade as a high school student.”
Brett’s relationship with college is complex.
”I got to be a leader. The students, mostly 18- and 19-year-olds, looked up to me and gave me a strong sense of respect. It was similar to my role in the Navy... be the leader. It’s pretty much nonexistent in the civilian world.”
Amy viewed it as an opportunity to gain an advantage in the job market.
”I thought the degree could help differentiate Brett. I don’t know, give him an extra credential.”
But when Brett graduated, a different reality set in.
”I waited three weeks to finally have my diploma in hand, and then I went out looking for work. And many times, I heard the same thing... overqualified. It’s just a piece of paper, and in many ways it can be worthless — especially when compared to experience.”
I asked Brett if he thought college was a bad move.
”Definitely not. I don’t regret it at all.”
The garage light was a beacon for our conversation as the sunset quickly retreated into the black night.
Brett was able to find employment, but the job was second shift, meaning Brett often worked late into the night.
”I would come home, try to sleep, wake up, and go to work again. I was never home with my family. I was here physically, but never mentally.”
Amy nodded silently as Brett finished his reflection. I asked her how she managed that. She had pushed for Brett to get out of the Navy to be present to raise their son and be involved in family life. She had encouraged him to get a degree. But not only was Brett not home often, he wasn’t happy.
”Me, my mom... we all knew something was going wrong. Brett was losing weight. He was paranoid.”
Eventually, Amy issued an ultimatum.
”I told him, ‘You have to get help or...’” her voice trailed off.
Amy had a personal history with mental illness and saw no shame in getting help.
”You just go, you deal with it, and get help through a tough time. We were all rooting for him. I knew him, and that wasn’t him.”
Amy emerged from the house with a small black binder.
”You know Brett was recognized by the Army for his work in Afghanistan.”
Amy’s pride in this small certificate was highly evident, but Brett didn’t react. He simply stared ahead.
”I’m not to Afghanistan yet.”
Brett broke his silence. It has been over five years since he returned from Afghanistan, but he hasn’t even reached that point of reflection.
Rather, his mind is currently in Haiti, where he was deployed on a humanitarian mission after the 2010 earthquake.
”I still see the faces in my sleep.”
This caught me off guard and led to a realization for me. Combat missions, like those in Afghanistan or Iraq, typically capture the public consciousness when it comes to trauma. But humanitarian missions take a serious toll too.
Brett’s job in Haiti was to create infrastructure. And in the process, he would come across victims of the earthquake. He saw lives displaced, destroyed and lost.
”You do your job. You just do your job.”
Brett looked down, thinking of days past.
“I think you should tell him what happened,” Amy said.
Their dog, Emily, scratched and whined at the door.
”It came down to the 2nd of April, 2017. I was sitting out in my garage one night drinking beer. I would sit out there and clean my guns. Looking up on the wall, I had an HMR, 30-06 and a 50 cal, and I was going to decide which one would hurt less if I decided to put a bullet in my head.”
I could hear their son Jackson inside playing with his grandmother as Brett spoke.
”That’s when I got a call from Mike.”
Mike is one of Brett’s closest friends. And he cares about Brett deeply. The second time I showed up to interview Brett, Mike immediately walked to my car to question who I was. Only after Brett waved to Mike that I was welcome did he let his guard down.
”He had no idea what was going through my head, but we talked for almost three hours. It was the start of our woodworking business.”
I was admittedly taken aback.
”Oh yeah, that was gonna be the end of my life, that night. But he called out of the blue and started talking about woodworking. I invited him out. It was a purpose... it gave me purpose.”
Brett and Michael jumped head-first into the woodworking venture in 2015, and the orders have poured in ever since.
As we stood in the middle of their “office,” which was a large shop area attached directly to the house, Brett scanned the area with pride, rattling off specifications and purposes behind many different tools in the area.
While we spoke, Brett worked on a piece for a friend they served with.
”It’s all about attention to detail. Everything is about the little details.”
In a way, woodworking saved Brett’s life. And the reverence he holds for the craft is evident.
It’s the glimmer in his eye as he supervises the machine, the smile that pierces his lips as he holds up a finished piece, and the exhalation of pride as he steps back and views the space and the passion that saved him.
As the night wound down, Amy sat alone on the porch of their home. Jackson was long asleep, and Brett was grinding away on his latest piece of woodwork the shop.
I slowly approached with a question.
”What would I tell someone else going through what I went through? Well, I would tell them that they aren’t alone. And not to hesitate to ask for help.
“I would want them to know that they can’t truly understand what their loved one has been through. We have jobs. We do our work and come home. When they are in the service, it isn’t just a job. It’s a lifestyle that consumes every part of them. I can’t relate to that, and that’s okay.”
Amy told me that when Brett was at his roughest and she couldn’t handle it anymore, she would come out to the porch and sit alone. The silence brought her peace.
”You just have to be patient.”
As I packed up my things and left the Fletcher’s home for the final time, Amy laughingly told me that they had never talked so openly as they had in the interviews with me.
And it hit me. Their battle is never-ending. In each of our interviews, Amy learned something new about Brett and vice-versa. I suppose that’s the way it will always be for them.
BEHIND THE STORY
MOREWhy I wanted to tell this story
When I was in the second grade, I stood on our high school football field and sang patriotic songs to our town’s National Guard Unit, which was leaving for Afghanistan that day.
I remember looking up into the stands and seeing my mother crying. My oldest brother, Dave, was deploying with the unit. Several years later, my middle brother, Matt, enlisted in the Marines and completed a deployment of his own.
Their service took both a physical and mental toll, and it also affected our family. Many nights, my mother and I sat at the kitchen counter as she constantly checked her phone for an update — one that might have never come.
I have immense pride in my brothers, but I hadn’t fully explored my own connection with their service. This summer, I had the opportunity to delve deeper by learning about the journey of a Kiln Navy veteran.
This photo essay was created with the support of Fujifilm.
