The Good Soldiers by David Finkel

Sassman’s medical condition was being sent to Kauzlarich, so was Emory’s.
    He was in Germany, sedated, critical, feverish, and in an induced coma.
    He was stable enough to be moved to Bethesda.
    His fever was dropping.
    His infection was clearing.
    He was being brought out of the coma.
    He was awake and almost able to breathe on his own.
    “That’s beautiful,” Kauzlarich had said in his office one day in mid-May, reading the latest update on Emory from Bethesda, which had just arrived by e-mail.
    “What, sir?” Cummings had said.
    “Sergeant Emory opened his eyes today,” Kauzlarich had said. “Maria said, ‘I want you to move your head,’ and he did. She said, ‘Look at me,’ and he did. She said, ‘I love you,’ and he started to cry.
    “It’s all good,” Kauzlarich had said.
    So went reality in Iraq—but here in Bethesda, on June 15, was another version:
    “Give me your hand, baby,” Maria Emory said to her husband, who was diapered, who could barely move, who had a ventilator tube inserted into his throat, who was looking in panic at his wife who was armored in a mask and gown and gloves, and when she took his right hand and wrapped it around hers, he emitted a high-pitched whimper.
    “Are you cold?” she asked.
    He didn’t answer. Just looked at her, less panicked now. His head was as misshapen as the moon over Rustamiyah.
    “Baby,” she said, leaning closer.
    “Sweetheart,” she said, even closer.
    She straightened up.
    He whimpered again.
    “So, this is what I do now,” she explained of what life had been since a phone call at 2:30 p.m. on April 28 in which the Department of Defense informed her that her husband had been shot, and now she added details by reading from a diary she had been keeping since then.
    “May the third. I kissed him on his lips. This was in Germany. I told him, ‘I’m going to kiss you on the lips, and if you can feel it, move,’ and I kissed him twice, and he moved both times.
    “May the sixth. We got on the medevac flight and we flew from Germany here to Bethesda.
    “May the seventeenth. He opened his eyes for the very first time.
    “May the nineteenth. He moved his fingers and his legs and I told him that I loved him and he started crying.
    “May the twentieth. He was just sleeping.
    “May the twenty-first. He slept most of the time.
    “May the twenty-fifth. The president came to see him . . .” and now she put the diary down as she thought about the day that President Bush came to visit. About what he had said to her: “He said, ‘Thank you for your husband’s service to his country,’ and he was sorry for what our family was going through.” About what she’d said to him: “Thank you for coming.” About what she wished she’d said to him: “That he didn’t understand what we are going through because he doesn’t know how it feels. And that I didn’t agree with what was going on with the war.” About why she hadn’t said it: “Because I felt it would not have made any difference. And my husband of course had his eyes open and I didn’t want him getting upset.” About what Bush didn’t understand: “I mean, when I saw him, I was so angry I started crying, and he saw me and came to me and gave me a hug and said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’”
    That was why he came over to her, she said, because he misunderstood the reason for her tears. He’d had no idea they were because of anger, and he’d had no idea they were because of him. And nothing was okay, she said, so he was wrong about that, too. Her husband was ruined. In seven weeks, she had lost so much weight that her dress size had gone from a twelve to a six, her daughter was now living with a relative, she was now living in a hospital, the doctors were saying it could be years before her husband was better, if ever, and hope, if it existed at all, had to be extracted from wherever it could, from the awful day, for instance, in which he lifted his right hand and