Iraq veteran's death serves as a warning

By Jim Spencer
Denver Post Columnist
Sunday, March 21, 2004 -

One week ago, if anyone had told Chad Storlie that Bill Howell would commit suicide during a domestic dispute, Storlie's reaction would have been simple.

"I would call you a number of names," he said, "then call you a liar."

Bill Howell was one of the most squared-away soldiers Storlie met in the Army's Special Forces, he said. They served together from 1995 to 2000.

Howell "was a natural teacher," said Storlie, who spent 11 years on active duty and now serves as a major in the Reserve. "He was just a great shot."

Howell trained as a sniper, Storlie said. Like all Special Forces, Howell drew secret assignments and carried them out against almost any odds.

Howell possessed the judgment critical to the Green Berets, Storlie said: He knew when to take control and when to back off.

Until last Sunday, when he shot himself after a fight with his wife. He died about a month after he got home from Iraq.

They held a funeral for Chief Warrant Officer William Howell in Colorado Springs on Friday. His death should send a signal about post-traumatic stress to the entire U.S. military, Storlie said. "If this can happen to Bill Howell, it can happen to anyone."

The last time Storlie talked to Howell was a year ago. The two crossed paths in a Middle Eastern country days before the United States invaded Iraq. Howell was headed for an airborne mission into Saddam Hussein's kingdom, Storlie said. The two men didn't talk about the mission. They talked about home.

"He talked about his wife," Storlie said, "and how much he loved his family. He was excited about how things were going."

Howell's wife, Laura, called her husband "my best friend." He was a great father, brother and son, she added. He was an incredible soldier with 17 years of service.

In a statement read to reporters Thursday night, Laura Howell said that no one will ever know why her husband took his own life.

That doesn't mean people shouldn't try to figure it out.

No one wants Laura Howell and her four children to suffer. But it's clear the world was better off with Bill Howell than it will be without him. It's also clear that the world will be better off if it can save others like him.

Storlie met Bill Howell at Fort Carson in 1995. They were "newbies" to their unit in the 10th Special Forces Group. Storlie was a captain. He earned a commission in the Reserve Officer Training Corps at Northwestern University. Howell was a first sergeant. He enlisted in the Army straight out of high school.

They were Mutt and Jeff. Howell was tall and lanky, Storlie short and powerful. They spent two tours together in Bosnia.

At Fort Carson, their Green Beret unit used to meet for breakfast at the International House of Pancakes before five-hour training marches across Colorado's Front Range .

The relationship mirrored what Storlie said is the unique bond between Green Beret officers and enlisted men. It wasn't a pecking order so much as a blend of "trust, camaraderie and respect."

Howell attracted all three.

That's why Storlie now struggles with Howell's suicide.

"I'm having a hard time reconciling how this became his only option," Storlie said.

The problem is rooted in the adjustment from service in Iraq to regular duty, the major believes. Storlie did not serve with Howell in Iraq. But Storlie did fight in the war. He spent a year in the Middle East, from November 2002 to October 2003. He spent half that time in Baghdad.

"In Bosnia," Storlie said, "Bill and I were in stressful situations. We were in riots, and we did weapons searches. But it wasn't like Iraq. People weren't shooting at you. There weren't roadside bombs everywhere."

Or mortars. Or rocket-propelled grenades. Or complete chaos.

"The Bosnians kept a lot of their government structure," Storlie said. In Iraq, a million rules were replaced by none. What's left, Storlie said, is a conflict in which danger can come from any direction at any time.

"You're driving in traffic not knowing if someone is going to drive up beside you with a gun," Storlie said.

Nor do you know if someone will drop a grenade in your vehicle from an overpass.

"You always make a quick lane change," Storlie said.

And you're always on edge.

"In Iraq," he said, "you sit sideways in vehicles so you can observe and shoot easily, and so you can square off your body armor."

No one wants to take one in the side where the plates don't meet.

"Weapons are always ready," Storlie continued. "And you're constantly looking at people's hands to see what they're holding. You're looking at kids."

You're looking because you know you may have to shoot a child if he or she is holding explosives.

For Green Berets there are also secret missions.

"You're not allowed to know where they are a lot of the time," said Storlie's wife, Deborah, a University of Denver graduate.

From this pressure cooker, the military sends soldiers home while barely looking for signs of psychological trauma.

Before leaving Iraq, Storlie filled out a form that asked "probably six to eight" multiple-choice questions about mental health: "Did you see any dead bodies?

Are you having trouble sleeping? Have you thought about killing yourself or others? Fairly cursory," he said.

But, he added, not so cursory that guys like Howell would feel comfortable answering honestly.

"Rarely would someone mark (those kinds of questions) on a record," Storlie said. "Especially members of Special Forces. They would worry it would come back to haunt them when they want promotions."

No one made Storlie sit down with a counselor for an off-the-record talk, either.

"If you admit to a problem," he said, "you can't go home. You get pulled aside, ostracized."

To avoid that, you tumble from a world of fear, violence and intensity into a world of honey-do's and kids and much less structure.

Storlie thinks that matching up returning Iraqi combat vets with veterans service organizations would help.

Still, each soldier must find his or her way individually.

"Guys need to stay away from alcohol when they first get back," Storlie advised. "They need slow, measured thinking. Some guys rush out and buy new cars.

It's that kind of manic behavior for being free.

"It's a huge decompression in a little amount of time. I didn't like being in crowds at all when I first came back. You had to abandon things that kept you alive in a combat zone."

Deborah Storlie, who went to Bosnia and studied post-traumatic stress in women while a student at DU, traded on her experience.

She kept her husband in small groups. She also listened.

"She was good at pacing me," Storlie said, "letting me talk about things for as long as I wanted, then bringing me back to where I was supposed be."

Where Storlie is today is mourning for a friend he hopes didn't die in vain.

"Guys like Bill Howell are the guys who make operations like Iraq run," Storlie said. "They have a lot of responsibility.

"The Army has been revolutionary with how it treats people with combat stress. It now treats them close to the front and gets them back to the mission.

But that doesn't end when they come home."

At least it shouldn't.

Saving soldiers returning from combat is important, just like keeping them alive on the battlefield.

"It calls for a lot more vigilance," said Maj. Chad Storlie, "more than just saying, 'He filled out the form."'

Jim Spencer's column appears Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays in The Denver Post. Contact him at 303-820-1771.