ignores them.
“Montana Bear Attack Survivor Played Dead” is another, and that’s the one he reads until he makes a decision to answer his ringing phone.
In Washington, D.C., meanwhile, in conjunction with the release of the suicide report, the army is holding a press conference.
“General, you’ve been looking at this for a long time now. You’ve overseen this report. The army today, your bottom-line assessment: How good a job is the service doing at preventing suicides?” a reporter asks. “Are they doing a better job today than they did fifteen months ago when you started this task force?”
“Well, I happen to believe we are,” says Peter Chiarelli, the army’s vice chief of staff, who has come armed with charts and statistics about the 242 soldiers who killed themselves the previous year.
“Sir, how did the army get so far behind the curve on all of this?” another reporter asks.
“What in simple language does the army need to do?” another asks.
“So everybody understands this is a priority now?” another asks.
“That’s exactly right,” Chiarelli replies, and of all the answers he gives, this is the most wishful by far.
The fact is that suicide prevention, and the wider issue of mentalhealth, has never been the most urgent of priorities in the army, and if there’s any single person who knows this, it is Chiarelli. Before becoming the vice chief of staff, he was in charge of all the ground forces in Iraq during a time when fighting was nearing its worst. That was the priority, the fighting, and if there was a medical priority, it was getting injured soldiers back into the fight. Only after he came home and was promoted to vice chief of staff did he begin paying close attention to mental health issues when he was assigned to look into the rising suicide numbers. He had other assignments, too. Force modernization. Dealing with the budget. He understood that mental health was a back-burner issue. But soon he was spending half of his time on it as he realized how strained and ineffective the system had become.
Soldiers were breaking apart but were reluctant to ask for help because of the stigma, and in some cases the consequences, of doing so. For those who did ask, there was a shortage of therapists and an over-reliance on medication that led to secondary issues of addiction. As the number of military suicides for the first time rose above the rate for civilians, Chiarelli would say to anyone who would listen, “I’ve got to try to change the
culture
,” and to that end he began traveling to army posts around the country, including, one summer day, Fort Riley for the dedication of the WTB.
There, after the ribbon cutting, where the guests included Adam, who had never seen a four-star general before, Chiarelli was asked by an interviewer about the significance of the day. “I think a facility such as the one behind me shows our total commitment to our wounded warriors and our willingness to do everything we possibly can,” he said, and his earnestness made an overly rosy answer seem entirely believable, at least momentarily.
That earnestness is what always has separated Chiarelli from the other generals who have been running these wars. The pleading in his voice as he practically begs soldiers about to deploy to “please, please,
please
” ask him any questions they might have, the emotion he makes no attempt to hide as he tells their commanders, “If you do anything, help me eliminate the stigma,” the furrow lines in his forehead, the way his eyes droop a little at the edges—all of it suggests someone with wounds under hisskin. And now there is the way he is throwing himself at this impossible assignment.
His wife, Beth, says this isn’t so, that there are no wounds to speak of. Yes, she mentions to people at a dinner party one night, he weirdly leaves cabinets open all the time now, and drawers, and he never did either before going to Iraq, but that’s probably because
“Montana Bear Attack Survivor Played Dead” is another, and that’s the one he reads until he makes a decision to answer his ringing phone.
In Washington, D.C., meanwhile, in conjunction with the release of the suicide report, the army is holding a press conference.
“General, you’ve been looking at this for a long time now. You’ve overseen this report. The army today, your bottom-line assessment: How good a job is the service doing at preventing suicides?” a reporter asks. “Are they doing a better job today than they did fifteen months ago when you started this task force?”
“Well, I happen to believe we are,” says Peter Chiarelli, the army’s vice chief of staff, who has come armed with charts and statistics about the 242 soldiers who killed themselves the previous year.
“Sir, how did the army get so far behind the curve on all of this?” another reporter asks.
“What in simple language does the army need to do?” another asks.
“So everybody understands this is a priority now?” another asks.
“That’s exactly right,” Chiarelli replies, and of all the answers he gives, this is the most wishful by far.
The fact is that suicide prevention, and the wider issue of mentalhealth, has never been the most urgent of priorities in the army, and if there’s any single person who knows this, it is Chiarelli. Before becoming the vice chief of staff, he was in charge of all the ground forces in Iraq during a time when fighting was nearing its worst. That was the priority, the fighting, and if there was a medical priority, it was getting injured soldiers back into the fight. Only after he came home and was promoted to vice chief of staff did he begin paying close attention to mental health issues when he was assigned to look into the rising suicide numbers. He had other assignments, too. Force modernization. Dealing with the budget. He understood that mental health was a back-burner issue. But soon he was spending half of his time on it as he realized how strained and ineffective the system had become.
Soldiers were breaking apart but were reluctant to ask for help because of the stigma, and in some cases the consequences, of doing so. For those who did ask, there was a shortage of therapists and an over-reliance on medication that led to secondary issues of addiction. As the number of military suicides for the first time rose above the rate for civilians, Chiarelli would say to anyone who would listen, “I’ve got to try to change the
culture
,” and to that end he began traveling to army posts around the country, including, one summer day, Fort Riley for the dedication of the WTB.
There, after the ribbon cutting, where the guests included Adam, who had never seen a four-star general before, Chiarelli was asked by an interviewer about the significance of the day. “I think a facility such as the one behind me shows our total commitment to our wounded warriors and our willingness to do everything we possibly can,” he said, and his earnestness made an overly rosy answer seem entirely believable, at least momentarily.
That earnestness is what always has separated Chiarelli from the other generals who have been running these wars. The pleading in his voice as he practically begs soldiers about to deploy to “please, please,
please
” ask him any questions they might have, the emotion he makes no attempt to hide as he tells their commanders, “If you do anything, help me eliminate the stigma,” the furrow lines in his forehead, the way his eyes droop a little at the edges—all of it suggests someone with wounds under hisskin. And now there is the way he is throwing himself at this impossible assignment.
His wife, Beth, says this isn’t so, that there are no wounds to speak of. Yes, she mentions to people at a dinner party one night, he weirdly leaves cabinets open all the time now, and drawers, and he never did either before going to Iraq, but that’s probably because
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