Corporal Ankarlo brought this photo home from Fallujah, Iraq, where he fought in one of the bloodiest battles of the Iraq War in late 2004.

When bullets whiz past your ears, the sound isn’t the stuff of Hollywood, with the whistling of air and an echo-chamber ricochet. In real life, when bullets blast past your ears faster than the speed of sound, they pop, kind of like mini sonic booms. Pop. Pop. Pop. Our frontline soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, including my son Adam, have shared the same description with me.

Imagine rounding a corner, opening a door or climbing a flight of stairs while those “pops” are sounding off in every direction. And just as you lock, load and take the offensive, a pregnant woman waddles by. Do you pull the trigger? After all, it might not be a baby she’s carrying – she may be strapped with explosives for her one-way trip to “paradise.” Or maybe a child jumps out. What if you’re set to blow up the window where the bullets are hailing from and a 10-year-old boy wanders into your sights? Then, an Allah-praising middle-aged man with a machine gun stands behind the kid and opens fire. Do you kill them both?

And let’s not forget Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs), grenades, roadside bombs and suicide bombers. There are the lungs full of powdery desert sand, the loneliness, an America that has moved on. Oh, and the dead and severely wounded comrades who steal every ounce of your joy. Soldiers live this 24/7, and even if they do get to return home, they’re easily transported back to the death and mayhem before supper even hits the table, set off by an evening news flash or a mind left to wander during a moment’s relaxation.

Enter Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Our men and women who have fought in Iraq and Afghanistan have been plagued by this violent disorder more than any other veterans due to the intensity and the “always on” conditions they routinely endured in battle. I recently spoke with an expert on military endeavors and a noted psychologist from a Valley hospital, and they both agreed why PSTD is so bad this time around: These recent wars have had no real frontlines, so the brain and body are always on high alert. Rest never comes, and even the certainty of battle is confused by ever-present civilians and round-the-clock media coverage.

PTSD changes the once even-keeled and happy-go-lucky young soldiers into fidgeting, sad, broken, anxious, violent insomniacs who slowly spiral out of control when they come home. Relationships die. Friends are kept at bay. Without help, booze and drugs numb the pain and, ultimately, murder, suicide, homelessness or jail await some of these once strong and capable warriors. I know these things because I have seen them up close and personal.

My son, a Marine Corps corporal who served in the first and bloodiest assaults in Fallujah, Iraq, in late 2004, suffers from PTSD. As he and others describe it, “You just can’t get the war out of your head.” The images of body parts after a bombing, the sound of popping bullets and the humid, salty smell of fresh-flowing blood – for the past couple years, these things have assaulted my boy’s every dream, and though he has struggled for salvation, it has so far eluded him.

This past Christmas Eve, I slipped into my son’s room to find him sleeping; I decided to watch for a moment. He twitched, convulsed and talked jumbled nonsense. The lids of his eyes revealed nothing but rapid movement underneath as his breathing shifted between deep and none at all. Suddenly, his training kicked in. He sensed that he was not alone, and in the blink of an eye he was up and prepared for battle – with me. I quickly brought him back to reality. “It’s Dad,” I whispered. “You’re OK, it’s Dad.” He slumped onto his floor. “Are you OK?” I asked. His eyes welled with tears as the saddest look I’ve ever witnessed owned his face.

Slowly he looked up and right through me. His voice was low and shaky as he confessed, “I’m so lost. I have no clue what happened to me. What am I doing here?” I moved down to my knees and looked him in the eyes, asking, “What can I do to help? Are you thinking suicide, son?” His answer was deliberate, “If suicide was the answer, if I thought it would end this pain, I would have done it already.”

My heart sank and the soul of a father wept. I did what my dad, a pastor, taught me to do – I pulled the entire family together, and we prayed for him. We were determined to reach into his pain and rescue him. Our tears puddled at our feet.

Millions will attest to the fact that war is never romantic, and it is certainly not civil.