 In the busy, overcrowded, and highly competitive world of today, much of the story of mankind is recorded in terms of statistics. Statistics measure everything about us, from our average height to our average income. They compute the number of steps we will take in the course of one year, or the number of miles we will ride in buses and taxis. Much statistical data is inconsequential, columns of numbers evaluating trivia, measuring the unimportant fringe factors of life. But other statistics are all too significant, focusing a harsh light of reality on the grim shadows that dog humanity's footsteps. For example, statistics tell us that every year over 25,000 Americans take their own lives, and it is statistical fact that one of the ten major causes of death in the United States is suicide. The urge for self-destruction walks in step with thousands of those who make up our civilian population. And as a natural consequence, it also marches alongside some of those who wear the uniform of the United States Army. The stories of five such individuals will now be told, and the endings will not be happy. But the point and purpose to be made here is that such tragedies are not inevitable. Prevention is possible, for as you will see, the suicidal individual almost always provides clues that give advance warning of his intentions. Watch for these clues. Remember these clues. They could someday enable you to save a life. From his first day in uniform, private Philip G. Owens seemed totally unable to adjust to the new world in which he found himself. Even the relatively simple requirements of basic training were beyond him. He lagged behind his fellow soldiers, out of step in both mind and body. His failure to keep the pace quickly singled him out for attention. Many believed he just simply wasn't trying. Phil's awkwardness was not confined to military matters. What do you do with a misfit like Owens? Maybe the simplest thing is to ignore him, which is what his fellow soldiers did. They saw him as a loner who was always picking himself out of private corner, and it would make no effort to be friendly. When Owens started a regular chain of visits to the dispensary, the men in his platoon nodded knowingly and said, that figures. I don't know what it is, but I get these headaches, and I don't know, I can't stand it. Yeah, I know all about the headaches. You've been writing the sick book pretty good, Owens. Pretty good. I haven't been writing the sick book. Sometimes my head feels like it's going to explode. I don't know what to do. Okay, okay, go out in the hall and wait. The doctor will see you in a little while. His fellow soldiers were an unsympathetic audience. They felt that if good, wholesome Army chow wasn't up to Owens' high standards, well, that was just too bad. And if he was too delicate to sleep on an Army cot, Owens' apparent lack of interests, his seeming indifference to his surroundings, his apparent unwillingness to make any effort to get along, inevitably led to further difficulties. Good throwing position. Ready position. Put your finger in the pull ring. Look at your target downrange. Pull pad, throw the grenade, trainee. Trainee, get rid of that grenade. Hit the probe. On your feet. Pick up the container and move to your left until they're right behind a wall. On your feet, trainee. Move out. Come on, trainee, move out. Owens, get over here. I watched you from the tower. Can't you do anything right? I'm turning you in. What's the trouble, Owens? I don't know, sir. I try to do things right, but nothing seems to work. I don't know. He's not trying. Take a look at him, sir. I've spoken to him time and again about his appearance. He doesn't shave or take care of his clothes or anything. I do try. These headaches. He's just trying to work a deal, sir. I know about these headaches. You've been on sick call several times, and they haven't found anything wrong with you. I know, sir, but... You've just got to pull yourself together, and that's all there is to it. Sir, I don't want to make any trouble, but sometimes I feel so bad. I feel myself. I don't know what to do. That's stupid talk. Pull yourself together and act like a man. Something new has been added to Owens' torrent of troubles. A suggestion of suicide. It has been labeled as stupid talk, and perhaps it is. For isn't it true that if they talk about it, they never do it? Sandy Kofax. Sandy Kofax Owens, the man with the golden arm. Oh, boy. Well, time for lights out now. You got to get your rest now, Chow. Let's go beddy back. Portrait of a man deep in depression. Restless, apathetic, neglectful of appearance, indifferent to environment. A man alone in a crowd, isolated and maladjusted, opening his mouth only to complain of headaches, to confess his own helplessness, and, oh yes, to announce that he is contemplating self-destruction. Does he really need help or would a swift kick straighten him out? It's a little late for conjecture, for Phil Owens has found a solution to his problems. A solution that waits patiently under a fold in his blanket. The CQ should not be surprised to discover that Owens is not in his sack. For Owens' desperation has been announced in many ways. His inability to adjust, his drift into isolation, his loss of appetite, his insomnia, his growing depression. They were all clear signs. They were all clues, and an experienced eye could have seen that they added up to something more than absence without official leave. That they predicted an act of desperate finality. Oh no. Domen, get in here and give me a... It is not true that if they talk about it, they never do it. A suicidal threat, particularly when accompanied by insomnia, loss of appetite, complaints of illness, and other indications of deep depression should never be ignored. Picture of a confident, capable army instructor. His name is Chris Warren, and the external image he presents to the world is one that many could envy. But the brightly polished exterior is only a lid, held tight on a simmering cauldron. Though he doesn't show it, Chris Warren is a man under considerable pressure. Problem number one, money. He spends too much of it, and then saddles himself with high-interest loans that take huge bites out of his paycheck. Problem number two, an irresponsible, immature wife who lacks the discipline and restraint that could help Chris to work his way out of his difficulty. I wish he didn't have to go to work tonight. I'm tired of being alone all the time. I wasn't crazy about getting a second job either, Lil, but... I've got to get the money to pay these bills someplace. Don't blame me. It's not my fault. I'm doing the best I can. Right, Lil. Nobody's blaming you. But I know what I've got to do. Well, I know what I'm going to do. What's that, honey? Never mind. Chris reacts to her threat with smiling, good nature, and then follows up with a hurt puppy dog expression. Each attitude only increases her irritation and contempt and strengthens her determination. Problem number three, a very serious illness which strikes his daughter. Still, for her sake, he maintains the image, the smile, the confidence. But then comes a blow that catches him right on the button. Verification for his own disillusioned eyes of the fact that his wife is running around with other men, men with fat wallets, and trim audible bills. The pressure now has increased to a point beyond containment. Cracks begin to show. The image of a confident, cheerful soldier starts to come apart at the seams. Sudden excessive drinking, sudden neglect of appearance, sudden despondency. These are the first clues. His friends are aware of the dramatic change but avoid involvement, thinking perhaps that he'll get back to normal with a little time. But Chris Warren is headed down, not up, and is gaining momentum rapidly. He is now careless and neglectful of his work. Sinking into a deep pool of self-pity, he begins to feel that the world and his superiors are all against him. You were late for class this morning, Warren. That's the second time this week. I know. I ran into a little traffic and I'm sorry. Yeah, I know you're sorry. But if you don't snap out of it, you're going to find yourself in big trouble. I do my work. You don't have to lean on me. No, you don't. Your work's been sloppy. And you're on the phone with your wife all day. And you walk around here looking like an unmade bed. Look at yourself. I've had some pretty bad personal problems lately, and I guess I ought to talk to somebody about them. Maybe I'll see the chaplain. You see anybody you like, but I'm telling you this. If you don't shape up in a hurry, I'm turning you into the old man. Now, you remember that. As his problems mount, Chris Warren becomes correspondingly less able to cope with them. The internal pressure continues to build higher and higher. Alcohol temporarily minimizes the significance of his problems, but it also moves him closer to disaster. Women. Do it every time. One for the road, huh? I gotta get back to the post. There'll be two bucks, Sarge. And now he makes his most serious mistake. Hey, Sarge. Military police, please. It was unintentional. My wife's been running around with another man. I'm sorry, Warren. The case is out of my hands. Sir, my record's been good up till now. Not recently. You used to be one of our best non-coms. But the reports I've gotten from the sergeant here and from others lately have not been good. Sergeant, sir, I've got trouble. I can't pay my bills. I can't take any more trouble. Your offense is currently under investigation, Warren. The outcome of that investigation will determine how this matter is settled. That's all, Warren. Sergeant, take this man back to his quarters. He's missed. Chris Warren is now reduced to the silence of desperation. A desperation that flashed many unseen danger signals and shouted many unheard cries for help. Portrait of a man who's normally bright and confident exterior belied the fact that he too could be overwhelmed by troubles. But it was all there. The extreme change of behavior patterns, the drinking, the loss of efficiency, the inability to cope with family and professional problems, the physical deterioration, all clues predicting disaster. Never assume that an individual exhibiting the clues shown by Chris Warren will just suddenly snap out of it. By directing him to professional help, you may avoid a tragedy. This young lady is Laura Benson, specialist for Women's Army Corps. Laura is the new x-ray technician in the post hospital. That wasn't painful, was it? I guess that's all we can do right now. The results of your x-ray will be sent to your doctor. Since Laura is pleasant, pretty and friendly, personal overtures from the male population are inevitable. In fact, she sometimes seems to invite them. But when they come, her reaction is startling. Oh, Laura. Yes, Phil, what is it? Could you take over for me for an hour or so? Philips has to go back to his company for training. Oh, sure, Phil. Anything you say. Anything at all. Anything? Well, you just name it. Well, how about a date Saturday night? I'm afraid not. My cousin is coming in from Philadelphia, and I'll be tied up most of the weekend. You have more cousins than I have ever seen. Stop it! Stop it! Leave me alone! Okay, okay. Anything you say. Just don't get hysterical. I know what you want. I know. Laura's relationships with all her friends and co-workers are surface affairs only. Any attempt at closer contact brings a violent overreaction. Even an innocuous gab session at a nearby table triggers her sensitivity. Are they laughing at us? No, of course not. Stop bothering me. Laura, you get yourself all upset about nothing. Why don't you take it easy? They're probably laughing at some joke they can play up. Then she meets Roy. Mild-mannered, passive, and undemanding. Roy seems made to order for her needs. Laura has found her ideal man, and she holds tight. But the snug security she derives from a union in which she is easily the dominant force is not to continue for long. When will you be leaving? On the 22nd of August. Do you know how long you'll be over there? I don't know, Laura. You know how those things are. I suppose you'll be like the rest of the fellas. You'll forget all about me as soon as you get overseas. No, I won't forget about you, Laura. You won't write to me. I know. All right. Don't worry about it. I will write. Roy, are you sure? Of course, honey. Laura Benson, who is hypersensitive to imagined insults and overreacts hysterically to innocuous incident, will not be able to accept Roy's departure, likely. Look, this is no good. There's movement, and it's too dark. Captain, I'm terribly sorry, but I've just had so much work. Look, specialist Benson, you're just going to have to take this out and do it over again. Yes, Captain. I'll take care of it immediately. Laura. Yes, what is it? Now, wait a minute. Now, look, you're way behind on these referral slips. All right. All right. I'll have them ready for you as soon as I can. Laura has already begun to wave unconscious to stress signals. She's explosively irritable. Her job is suddenly too much for her. She feels that her coworkers are unfair and overcritical. And then comes the trio of clues that can signal deep, dreary depression. The significant combination of insomnia, loss of appetite, and physical complaints. Thank you for helping out. You're welcome, sir. Can you think of anything in particular that might have upset you? I guess it all began when my boyfriend went overseas. He left and, well, he hasn't even written to me. When did he leave? August 22nd. August 22nd? That's only two weeks. He's only been there a week. He hasn't written, Doctor. And I really don't think he will. You can hardly expect to have received a letter in that length of time. I know, Doctor, but just that I really don't think he will write. And I've been so worried. I don't know what to do. I'm just so mixed up inside. She bombards Roy with a rapid-fire series of angry, possessive, accusing letters. Compelled by her own hysterical, illogical evaluation of a personal crisis. But her overpowering letters trigger a polite response that, for her, is a disastrous rejection. And while I feel you're a wonderful girl, Laura, I think this thing has gotten too serious. Maybe you ought to go out with other fellows and learn to relax and enjoy yourself more. Laura's world is toppling. And she must step out from under the weight of a problem with which she cannot cope. None have responded to the clues that were evident in her behavior. And without help or guidance, she can see only one way to turn. As she begins to feel herself drifting into unconsciousness, Laura Benson attempts one last outcry. One last conscious call for help. Take it any longer. No. No, you don't care about me. You've never cared about me. Never minimize the significant trio of insomnia, loss of appetite, and physical complaints. For they can be an indication of deep depression. A human being in serious need of help. The soldier's name is Hal Whitney. He does not top the popularity polls. In fact, more than a few men in his outfit have toyed with the idea of pushing him off a roof in front of a speeding truck or maybe under an M60 tank. Hal's a wheeler dealer, a manipulator. A loudmouth braggart who's always looking to con himself into something good or out of something bad, always looking to clip the other guys. The trouble is, the other guys are smarter than Hal is. They get his number fast. And lately, in his not-too-subtle attempts to take advantage of his buddies, he is striking out with depressing regularity. How about doing me a favor, huh? Yeah? How about doing me a Fast 12 just till Tuesday, okay? Nothing doing. Oh, my gosh. Come on, just till Tuesday. What's the big deal? What am I asking you? $12 till next Tuesday? I'd do the same for you. I said nothing doing. Now, look, you put the fight on me too many times already. I'm getting sick and tired of it. Me? Me? How can you say that, Chuck? I mean, really, I'm surprised. I really am. Well, don't be too surprised. Look, you're in with half the guys in the company already. Money, equipment, something, anything. Boy, you guys are small. You know that? The last outfit I was in, you could depend on a buddy to do you a favor. You guys wouldn't lift a finger if somebody was dying right in front of you. Man, I got to get out of this outfit. Totally baffled by the world's unsympathetic response to the pressing problems of Hal Whitney. Convinced he is being taken advantage of, Hal counterattacks with all the fury he can muster. Yeah. All right, we'll see you. Goodbye. Sergeant, why am I on that KP list again? Forget it, Whitney. You're on KP, and you're going to pull the assignment. No funny stuff this time. Why me? 43 guys in the barracks, and you're always picking on me. And you're the next name on the duty roster. Nobody's picking on you. Well, I'm not going to hold still for it. Look, I'm tired of being pushed around. I want to see the old man. You suit yourself. His fellow soldiers grow increasingly contemptuous of Hal's aggressive, but futile attempts to outwit both the army and life in general. Then it is his turn, Sergeant. Yes, sir, it is. That's all. Sir? I pull my share of assignments, sir. This isn't fair. He's sticking it to me. This is the duty roster of Whitney. It is your turn. No one's trying to take advantage of you. He's always leaning on me. The whole outfit's down on me. I want out. I want a transfer. I won't recommend you for a transfer. That's out of the question. If you won't do it, I'll see somebody in the IG office who will. I can't get a fair shake around here. It's not within the jurisdiction of this office to give you a transfer. That's up to your company commander. That's why I came to see the IG, sir. I'm hoping you can help me out of this. Whitney, according to our investigation, you have not proved to be the most cooperative man in your outfit. You borrow money. You borrow equipment without returning it. I don't get a chance, sir. Month after month, the reports have come down. You have got to follow certain routines. I try, sir. I try, but I can't... If they're persecuting me, I can't do it. You can't drive a man and expect him to do his best job, sir. You're just like anyone else. You're on pots and pans, and that's it. So let's go. I got a cut on my finger. I don't want to get it infected. We got a special antiseptic detergent. It's great for infections. Move out. He's a big wheel. Everybody takes a crack at you. What a lousy deal. Hey, Whitney, you know, this isn't exactly a hobby with me. We're in on this detail together. Remember? Okay, okay. Come on. Cut the chatter. Let's get these pots and pans clean. You hear? I'm getting out of here, and I'm not coming back. If they want me, they're going to have to come and take me in a box. Later, Whitney is rounded up by the MPs in a local bar. The roaring lion hasn't been reduced to a lamb completely. But there's no denying that his big, bold gesture of defiance has turned out to be only a flurry of futility. Whitney loses again. I've just about had it with you, Whitney. I gave you an article 15 before. Now I'm putting you up for a summary court-martial. And in the meantime, I'm restricting you to your barracks. But, sir, you... That'll be all. It is true that Hal Whitney is now boxed into a corner, a man in serious trouble. It is also true that with his outbursts, his inability to get along with others, and his overreactions to frustration, he exhibits clues in common with Phil Owens, Chris Warren, and Laura Benson. But unlike that trio, doesn't Hal Whitney have the strength of his own aggressive nature, the energy of his own brash personality to keep him going? Wouldn't he, a man who has never taken anything laying down, continue to look for some way to outwit the world around him? Nobody's going to court-martial Hal Whitney. Hal, no. He's thought of a way to show them all he's not kidding when he says he's had it. An immature bid for attention, a true suicide attempt, or perhaps a combination of both. Hal Whitney's action verifies extreme emotional disturbance. It is the act of a man in need of professional attention. Now meet Charles Walters, an active man whose bounce belies his 50 years, a man who welcomes any physical challenge as an opportunity to demonstrate his agility and strength. But this exercise is his bid for disaster, a defiant flexing of muscle with which he seeks to thumb his nose at the unhappy events of recent weeks. Well, there's not much question about it, Chuck. You've got a mild case of angina pectris. Angina pectris? What, do you mean I'm a cardiac? No, I don't think labels like that mean very much, Chuck. You see, the problem is that sometimes your heart muscle doesn't get as much blood as it should. I've always been in such good condition. I don't feel like an invalid. You're not an invalid, Chuck. You've got this condition and you're going to have to learn to live with it. Now, it won't be all that hard. Now, go and get dressed, Chuck. With a few simple words, the doctor had erased an image that Charles Walters had been a lifetime building. The image of a vero-athletic, rugged individual, proud and self-reliant. What was left by his own set of values was a useless shell, something of which to be a shame. Did you get it? No, no, Chuck, no. All right, Chuck, you got it all planned? Going to get one of those high-paying executive jobs? No, nobody wants an old man like me. I think I'll just sit around and watch you young fellas take over. Young fellas. When friends and fellow officers had joked lightly about his forthcoming medical retirement, he had joined right in with a banter. But already he felt a growing sense of isolation. The phasing out process that gradually separated him from his duties and responsibilities drained him of self-respect. For him, the rapidly approaching end of a productive army career would also be the end of his useful life. His fellow officers thought a certain amount of despondency was normal. They were confident that he would adjust, that he would snap out of it. They did not know. They could not see that Charles Walters was drifting with steadily increasing momentum toward despair. Suddenly my life is over. That isn't so, dear. Why, there's a lot you can do. We're not going to starve. Yeah? Who wants a retired infantry officer with a bum heart? Well, you could do some coaching. You've always loved sports. Don said he'd get your job at his school. All you have to do is work up a resume for it. Yeah. A lot of things I can do. Let's be honest, Terry. I can't do anything. I can't even be a husband to you anymore. Chuck Walters and Invalid he'd rather die first. The intense flurry of exercise that precipitates Charles Walters' heart attack is unquestionably a suicidal act. Whether conscious or unconscious. Luckily, the attack is not fatal. And perhaps this close sideswipe with death will bring to him a new awareness of the joy of living. Perhaps now the fog of depression will lift and he will see the brightness that is possible in his future. There has been no torrent of enthusiasm or joy. But in the months since his attack, his wife has seen in Charles Walters a more relaxed human being, less frustrated by inactivity, more inclined to smile. Though still maintaining a watchful eye, she begins to feel that her vigil is no longer urgent. Her husband's desperate act is behind him, a black moment that has passed and can be forgotten. You sure you feel all right? Fine, Brian. Don't worry about me. Why don't you work on that resume now? She'll only take you an hour or so. Okay. I'll give it a whirl. No time like the present. Chuck, you seem so much better. You sure you feel all right? I won't disturb you now. You go on working. I have some water on tea. But truth, unvarnished by hopeful optimism, tells a different story. The improvement that follows a suicidal attempt is frequently misleading. A mask concealing the return of depression and thoughts of suicide. Nothing has really changed for Charles Walters, who still sees himself as an invalid, inadequate, defeated, a man without a future. His wife should be insisting that he seek professional help, but she has heard and believed that once a man attempts suicide and fails, he will never try again. She has been diverted by a myth, and this myth, like so many others concerning suicide, can be fatal. Suicide is not a remote, rare occurrence. It has, in fact, become one of our most serious national health problems. But most suicides are not inevitable. Prevention is possible if the potential suicide is recognized, and if we learn where myth ends and truth begins. Remember, suicide is not always sudden. It is almost always preceded by danger signs, clues indicating severe emotional disturbance and depression. Remember, too, that the potential suicide is not necessarily a meek, quiet, helpless mouse. He can appear to be an aggressive, assertive individual. It is not true that if they talk about it, they never do it. It is not true that an unsuccessful attempt is never repeated. A period of seeming improvement can be fatally deceptive, for real progress results from change of circumstance and professional help. Remember that most potential suicides can be helped. Assistance can take the simple form of friendliness, which might in some instances relieve unbearable depression and loneliness, and which we are all equipped to offer. Beyond that, we should direct the emotionally disturbed person to professional help. The chaplain. The general medical officer. The psychiatrist. These have been faces of fiction. But the tragedies they have lived in light and shadow are implicated daily by flesh and blood people in everyday life. You may know one of them today or perhaps tomorrow. If so, it is possible that his or her survival could depend upon your awareness of the suicide problem, your ability to recognize a serious emotional disturbance, your interest and concern in the troubles of another human being.