Battle Scars : After Captivity in Gulf War, Anxieties Flood Life of Marine at Home

As one of the first hostages seized in the Gulf War, Guy Hunter lived through bombings of his prison and beatings that turned his skin raw. In a televised statement released by his Iraqi captors, he was forced to denounce the war. And, when no cameras were around, one interrogator threatened to cut off his fingers.

One year later, Hunter likes to say he survived his 46 days of solitary confinement unscathed. But the Marine’s new preoccupation with lines, crowds and the dangers of California tell a different story.

The chief warrant officer no longer can tolerate waiting in lines, because he cannot stand any waste of his time. He hates crowds, because he suspects people are watching him--and that makes him feel vulnerable. California, with its highway shootings and its crime, has become too dangerous, he says, and Hunter now plans to move east when he retires from 30 years of military service this summer.

“I am scared to death living out here with all the possibilities of bad things that can happen,” Hunter said. “You really value just seeing your family. Golly, they could just slip away and be gone. So you want to get into a sheltered place, more so than you did before.”

Hunter and his commanding officer, Lt. Col. Cliff Acree, were the first U.S. prisoners of war seized by the Iraqis when their plane was downed by a missile Jan. 18, 1991. Today, each man says the experience has colored the way they now live.

Hunter’s world has shrunk. He and his wife, Mary, don’t go out much anymore. If there are errands, such as buying chicken for dinner, they do them together. He savors simple things--a cup of good coffee with real cream. After a diet of broth in the Baghdad prison cell, he loves to pick up sausages, steaks and lettuce at the market here. Today, smoking a cigar while looking at the ocean from his back yard at Camp Pendleton is one of his pleasures.

But Hunter’s time there is not necessarily serene. Guy Hunter is loaded with small anxieties. He worries, for instance, when Mary drives alone. His anxieties don’t stop him from making plans and enjoying life; they are more like knots around which he wraps his mind.

“You don’t worry about making it through life, you worry about the people you are attached to. I think occasionally, ‘God, I hope they (his children) don’t come down with leukemia,’ ” Hunter said. “When I fly, for example, it’s much more in the forefront of my mind that I could have to eject. I’m sort of spring-loaded to get out of the plane if it goes bad.”

Hunter’s reactions are common to POWs, experts say. Mostly, behavior quirks fade as time softens the painful memories--a process that can take years.

“The sense of loss of control in one’s life is big when people have been held captive,” said Jeffrey Matloff, assistant clinical professor of psychiatry at UC San Diego. “It is not uncommon for people who are ex-POWs to want to control parts of their lives and to be somewhat constricted in their activities. . . . Many people who’ve been through traumatic events tend to pull back and will want to feel more in control of their lives.”

Hunter--described by some as a gregarious, lovable man--had always been at the top of his Marine friends’ party list. He has been known to jump PLFs--parachute landing falls--off the counter tops of bars and whomp any comers at “body contact” pinochle. A blue-eyed, soft-spoken man with a mild Southern accent, Hunter can tell stories until after the cows come home, friends say.

Today, he still gets plenty of invitations, but he no longer enjoys shooting the bull. In fact, Hunter doesn’t socialize much anymore.

“You feel a little withdrawn from things. A lot of get-togethers just aren’t that important,” said Hunter, 47, who was the oldest of the 23 American POWs held during the Gulf War.

“He loves to go out back, take a chair and sit out there and stare after dinner. He’ll be there for one hour,” said Mary Hunter, who cries frequently as she describes their life now. “There’s a lot to see. He just watches the sunset or birds. Everybody needs private time.”

The change has not gone unnoticed.

“He was definitely changed, he definitely had a different outlook on life,” said one friend. “He wasn’t as cheerful and outgoing as he usually was.”

Hunter and Acree, Camp Pendleton Marines, were among the last of the POWs to be released, on March 5. Today, their days in captivity almost seem like an ordeal that happened to someone else, a waltz with death that someone else danced. Still, with the distance of one year, each man can begin to assess the changes the experience has wrought.

“Every morning I wake up and realize I am a free man in my own country, I realize I am going to have a good day. I realize it’s much easier for me to sort out what’s important and what isn’t,” said Acree, who will undergo reconstructive surgery next month on his nose, so battered by beatings during his captivity that he now breathes through his mouth.

“Some things I was very concerned about in the past are just inconsequential now. I’m calmer, less intense,” said Acree, who points out that he has shaved 90 minutes off what had been a customary 12-hour work day.

Acree and Hunter were stunned by the heroes’ welcome that awaited them when they returned to the United States. Hunter had figured that his wife would fetch him from the Marine air strip in El Toro and they would grill some steaks at home in Camp Pendleton.

Instead, he hopped off the “Freedom One” military plane and onto a red carpet amid a cheering crowd of several thousand at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. There, he spent a week being debriefed by military officials and examined by doctors. Everywhere, he was hailed as a hero.

“I was shocked. I said, ‘My God, what’s come over these people?’ ” Hunter recalled. “I kept telling ‘em, ‘For crying out loud, I was the one who got shot down.’ ”

Shortly after Hunter returned home to California, he tried to pick up his old life. He and Mary attended some of the happy hours at the bars on base. At one, a number of Marines pounded down drinks as they swapped war stories. Spotting Hunter, they called out: “Hey gunner, how many missions did you fly in the war?”

Hunter chuckled and yelled back: “Two!”

They hooted: “Nah, it was 1.75!”

Hunter, who served four tours in Vietnam, had to agree that they were right. On the first morning of the Gulf War, Hunter and Acree, the pilot, flew north into Kuwait. Sitting in the observer’s seat, Hunter radioed the locations of targets, summoning fighter jets to bomb the enemy.

“You do feel invincible,” Hunter said.

On the second day, the two men once again flew north. Using binoculars, Hunter located several Iraqi rocket launchers and began talking to Acree about assigning jets. Neither man saw the missile that hit them.

It ripped the canopy off the plane, shredding Hunter’s left eyelid and knocking him out. He regained consciousness as he floated in his parachute, about to land in the area he had selected for bombing because it was thick with Iraqi soldiers and artillery.

“He thought he was invincible because of his years’ experience, his knowledge. He figured he could go out and do anything anyone wanted him to,” said Kerry McMahon, a former Marine who has known Hunter since 1979 when they flew together in a North Carolina-based squadron. “It was probably a rude awakening that yes, he could get hit; yes, he could get shot down, and yes, he could get killed.”

From the day of his capture until he was released, Hunter endured almost constant fear, numbing cold, gnawing hunger and occasional beatings at the hands of his interrogators. More than once, he thought he would never again see Mary and their children: Laura, now 13; William, 10, and Lily, 8.

So when he did finally come home, his family became the focus of his energy. Almost immediately, Hunter set about raising his children to be good, strong adults who would survive and thrive. That meant no more television or Nintendo during the week. It also meant more emphasis on schoolwork--as soon as the kids came home, they were to attack their homework.

Initially, the children rebelled. The family had purchased a 52-inch color television as a “POW” present and they couldn’t watch it. William would say he had finished his homework when he really hadn’t. It was bad enough that they lost their father for several months, but then when he returned, he was stricter than ever. But gradually, what seemed like harsh rules became routine.

Laura and William made the honor roll at their schools this past fall, said Hunter, smiling broadly. And he--like every parent--has plans for their future. Hunter hopes all three children will attend college while living at home.

The Marine Corps--facing force reductions--turned down Hunter’s bid to stay one more year. Hunter, whose call sign is “Great White”--after his white mop of hair--will retire in August. He figures he’ll attend college, too, and complete his undergraduate degree, perhaps specializing in education.

In mapping this scheme out, he figures he’ll need to move somewhere--perhaps to Pennsylvania--far away from what he sees as the dangers of freeways and crime in California, to a place with affordable housing and near a good college. Because Hunter is worried about his children, he wants to be with them as they attend college.

“We can keep them at home and ease their way through college,” Hunter said. “You worry a lot more. Boy, in the real world, there’s a lot of bad things that can happen to you.”

As he sits in his back yard, overlooking the ocean, he also likes to plot out his own future: What will he--a man with expertise as an aerial observer in a turboprop OV-10 Bronco--do after he retires? Perhaps he’ll teach grade-school children, he said.

“Your outlook becomes a lot more optimistic” after being a POW, Hunter said. “If I got through that, I can get through this.”

In the 10-by-14-foot cell in Baghdad, Hunter occupied his time by making mental lists of what he would do when he was free. He spent hours juggling and rejuggling the list. Today, Hunter realizes that he uses the same mental technique when he plans his retirement.

“It’s almost like we are back in the cell and I’d be revising plans,” Hunter said.

To his delight, the fanfare has faded. When he goes to the store on base, people don’t always recognize him. He figures that, when he settles in a new place, he will regain complete anonymity and blend into the community, like his family in Moultrie, Ga.

At age 17, Hunter, one of 11 children, asked his father for permission to join the Marines. A recruiter had come out to the family farm and won young Hunter over by promising him great adventures and travel opportunities if he enlisted.

For a young man who had seen mostly tobacco and corn fields, it was intoxicating to think of traveling to places such as Japan and the Philippines. And after watching World War II movies, Hunter figured that the Marines was the best branch of the military.

In his last full year with the service, Hunter has been inundated with requests from the media. He turned down most, including Time and People magazines, as well as television’s Sam Donaldson on “Primetime Live.” He also had to cope with dozens of invitations: Could he attend 18 Independence Day parades across the country, from Del Mar to Peoria, Ill.? Toss out the first ball at Angels and Padres baseball games?

“There were times when it was just like being on a fast-moving carousel,” said Mary Hunter, 42. “There was just so much going on.”

In fact, during his first baseball game since being a POW, Hunter suddenly realized he didn’t like crowds. After throwing out the ball on the Padres’ opening night, Hunter found himself gazing at the crowd, the thousands and thousands of people. Suddenly, it hit.

“I remember telling Mary, ‘I don’t want to be here. I’d just rather go home,’ ” Hunter recalled.

“You don’t have full control of what’s around you. You are better off with fewer people around. When you have any larger group of people, they are all watching you--it seems that way. I know it’s not true.”

Hunter believes he has this feeling because “every time the cell door opened, they were staring at you.” But Hunter, who likes baseball, has no intention of bowing to his anxieties. And he plans to attend more games.

“I can function; it’s not a dysfunctional thing. The final result is I feel a little uncomfortable. It’s not that I can’t do it. I’m sure it’s a passing phase like the dreams. . . . These quirks, too, will probably fade in three or four years.”

When Hunter first returned, he was plagued with dreams. At times, he would wake up and see his wife beside him and wonder how she’d gotten into the Baghdad prison cell. But he hasn’t had a Gulf War dream in three months.

Today, talk of the war being for naught irritates Hunter, who firmly believes that the United States stopped Iraqi President Saddam Hussein from taking over Kuwait and possibly Saudi Arabia.

“It doesn’t bother me that he’s still in power--that’s in his own country. His people are going to settle his hash sooner or later,” Hunter said. “And George Bush really didn’t have a mandate to replace him.”

It was a war, he maintains, that curbed Hussein and promoted the best interests of the United States as well as the rest of the world. If it were necessary, Hunter says he would return to wage war in the Persian Gulf again.

“Heck,” Hunter said, “they don’t pay me to sit out here in the back yard.”