Letter to the Homefront

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In this 2007 photo, Sgt. 1st Class Randy Henk is shown with an American flag in the background. The flag was flown over Henk's army unit's base camp in Iraq and sent to Courier-News staff and their readers in appreciation for support of the troops. | Sun

Updated: October 3, 2011 12:45PM

As if the light switch had been slowly fumbled for, I awoke. Although I anticipated the images and thoughts to be haunting, they were peaceful memories, without sound or color. I’d been tossing and turning most of the night, sometimes giving in and staring at the ceiling, images slowly coming into focus. A tear. A smile.

I crept downstairs and decided to make a cup of coffee a few hours before my normal routine, cowering as I pressed the “brew” button. Senseo machine sounding like a freight train. A sip. A temporary, yearned-for comfort. Pause, listen. Whew, did not wake anyone. Silence.

After a few more sips, I sat down at the table and opened my laptop. I’d guess that is what I was yearning for — not the coffee, but just to see. Scrolling through posts as if I were traveling back in time. A picture posted. A profile picture changed.

But the status all the same. “RIP Sheff.”

Sgt. Joshua Sheffield was one of my soldiers while I was assigned to 1-36 Infantry as the Scout Platoon sergeant. He was the driver of my tail gun truck in our EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) section, so I grew to know him pretty well.

He spent most of his down time reading. When the book would have a funny episode, he would laugh aloud, sort of awkward-sounding, as he had a very deep voice. He was sort of an odd mixture. Loved death metal, yet could quote the scriptures of the Bible as if he’d read it a thousand times.

I would laugh to myself sometimes. We would receive a call, and all of us would scurry to the trucks to roll out. I used to think old Sheffield left part of his pattern of thinking on his bunk (laughing), as it took him a little longer for his full alertness to kick in sometimes. He was loyal, eager, duty-bound in every aspect. A soldier.

I began to notice his worsening symptoms about two months before our redeployment. What began as mumbling in his sleep transitioned into screams deep from within himself. He’d had a few episodes earlier, even before he was under my charge, but the frequency seemed to worsen those last weeks. I would talk to him as I did with all of them, prying into his head and reasoning with him personally to get all of us through it. But I began to worry about him more than the others.

Upon our redeployment back to Germany, we were all screened for PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). A few of the guys with extreme symptoms also were screened for TBI (traumatic brain injury). He, along with two others, began a regimen of counseling and medication. Within three months, we all left Germany to different duty stations, some of us losing contact with the others — normal being in the Army.

Sheff struggled with the TBI/PTSD for four years. He developed a brain tumor that was cancerous and passed away last January at the home of his parents. Most of us first learned of his passing on May 3, now a day that I dread in the future. Upon hearing the news, I am sure a part of all of us died with him. The connection soldiers have with one another that is forged in combat through blood, sweat and tears is a bond stronger than that of family.

I had taken great pride in the fact that all of us made it through the deployment, many of us wounded during its course, but we all were able to board the CH-46s out of Al Hit with the comfort of the feeling of survival.

I sit in front of an antique mirror as I write these last few lines. I gaze into it every day and often have wondered how many souls have been captured in it through the years. I look into it now, in a sort of blank way, my eyes look so heavy. Thoughts of the realization now sinking in. I began to lose Sgt. Sheffield in Iraq, because of Iraq.

Keeping the candle burning.

Randy Henk

SFC, USA (Ret)

Randy Henk can be
contacted at
randy.henk@us.army.mil