"War Neurosis" in the 1920s (Part I)

A struggle toward healing from World War I

[This story is the first in a series of six stories about my character Francis Calderon’s struggle with his “war neurosis” — what we today call post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) — arising from his experiences in the First World War. Drawn from my 2022 novel Renaissance Radio. Set in Denver, Colorado, in 1928.]

As my wife Carmen and I finish eating breakfast, Myrna, wife for five years now of Carmen’s brother Francis, knocks on our front door.  She seems quite stressed and troubled.  Carmen and I welcome her in and sit with her in the parlor.

Once she’s seated, Myrna begins.  “I am divorcing Francis and moving out of the house today and I wanted you to know why.”

Carmen doesn’t seem as stunned as I do.  “Why?” I ask.

“His spells,” Myrna blurts out, “his spells!”

“At night?” Carmen asks.

“Yes!” Myrna exclaims.  “Most nights he takes to yelling and calls out in his sleep.”

“It’s getting worse,” Carmen observes.

“Yes,” says Myrna.  “And some nights he wakes up in a fright – screaming, shouting, shaking, sweating.   Sometimes he leaps out of bed and hides behind it or even under it.”

“I see how difficult this is for you,” Carmen says.

Myrna nods.  “Even in the evening hours, certain noises and lights make him jump.”

“We can get him medical care,” I venture.

“Fine, Riis, but for me it’s gone too far,” Myrna responds.  “Sometimes he wanders around, he walks around in his sleep.  He’ll start talking, crying out in alarm for someone: ‘Alfie!’  ‘Lawton!’  Or the names of Germans.  He jerks his head back and forth, agitated.  It’s like a pantomime, like he’s acting something out.”

“That’s dreadful,” Carmen says.  “That’s the worst I’ve heard of.”

“Oh, but that’s not the worst of it,” Myrna continues.  “When he wakes up or comes out of his stupor he doesn’t remember any of what he just did.  He can give no account for himself.  He doesn’t even recognize me for a few minutes, and I’m his wife!  And if you try to talk to him when he’s like that, he has no idea what’s real – what’s right in front of him – and what’s a nightmare.”

“We’ll get Francis the psychiatric care he needs,” Carmen declares.

“I’m glad you will, Carmen, I really am, but I can’t bear it any longer,” Myrna says.  “I’m sorry.  You may think less of me.  But I must think of my safety, and Ren’s.  Francis will grab a gun when he’s in a stupor and aim it at whoever he thinks is out there in the dark.  Last night he shot at one of his favorite mules.  He kept yelling in the mule’s direction – ‘Fritz’ and ‘Hun’ and ‘Bosch’ and ‘blood-thirsty German’ – and then he shot at the mule.  It’s no longer safe for me or for Ren.  It’s not safe.  I have no choice.”

“I understand,” Carmen says.

“You’ve been a good wife to him,” I tell her.

Myrna gets up, we hug her, and she leaves, grabbing Ren’s hand as she heads for her motor car.

“I’ll call our cousin Fernando,” Carmen tells me.  “Someone has to live with Francis.  He’ll be even more of a danger to himself and to others if he lives alone.”

“Good,” I reply.  “Fernando would be a great help.” 

The next evening, in the parlor, Carmen and I sit around talking with Francis and their cousin Fernando.

I look at my brother-in-law and friend with concern. “How are you, Francis?”

“My spells are getting worse and more frequent, Riis,” he tells me.  “And my arms tremble most days now – so much so that it’s interfering with my veterinary work.”

“Maybe you’re just fatigued, Francis,” Fernando says.  “Overstrained?”

“By what?” Francis asks.  “Giving shots to people’s pets?”

“Maybe Myrna was getting you down,” says Fernando.  “Maybe you just need to be around cheery people.”

“It’s not Myrna’s fault at all,” Francis replies. 

“Maybe a vacation to an island in the oceans, in the Caribbean, in the South Seas,” Fernando suggests.  “Maybe that will restore you to full health.”

“A rest cure?” Francis asks.

“Yes,” Fernando says with confidence.  “What do you think, Riis?”

I try to change the direction of the conversation.  “I think that those who sacrificed in the War effort need to be looked after by the rest of us.”

“Hmm.”  Fernando is only quiet for a few seconds.  “Francis, how did you end up with shell shock, anyway?  You weren’t in the trenches.  You weren’t in combat.”

“Four years and three months is a long time to be there, Fernando,” Francis responds patiently.  “I was just a dozen miles from the Front for three years of that War.”

“You gotta overcome shell shock with willpower!” Fernando tells him.

“Fernando,” declares Francis, “no one believes in free will more than I do.”

“All right then,” Fernando smiles.  “In a coward, fear triumphs over the will.  In a real man, the will triumphs over fear.”

“Just be more stoic and I’ll be fine?” Francis asks him.

“Yes,” asserts Fernando.  “Exercise more self-control.”

“Beyond a certain point, Cousin, self-control is no longer possible,” Francis replies.

“Cousin, you’ve got war-in-the-head,” Fernando says.  “But you can get it out.  Only a coward goes on reliving the past.  A real man masters his emotions and his past!”

Francis shakes his head.  “That’s not how it works for some of us.”

“Overcome fear with a more powerful effort of the will!” Fernando exclaims.  “Be manly.  Handle the stress.  Show us you’ve got strong nerves, a strong constitution.  Rely on your strength.  Stand on your own feet.  Just pull yourself together!”

Carmen’s finally had enough.  “Fernando,” she says as calmly as she can, “I love you, primo, but at this point you probably have no accurate knowledge to contribute to Francis’s medical care.  Perhaps you ought to keep your opinions on matters of psychology to yourself.”