Until Tuesday by Bret Witter, Luis Carlos Montalván Page A
Authors: Bret Witter, Luis Carlos Montalván
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change-of-command ceremony. I hadn’t run for more than a year because of my injuries, but I figured one short run couldn’t hurt. Fortunately, there was a rehearsal the day before. I sprinted one hundred yards before stepping in a sprinkler hole, slamming my head to the ground (another concussion), and ripping the patellar tendon from my right knee. My kneecap was floating six inches up my thigh as they loaded me into a truck, wincing in pain. We were heading to Evans Army Hospital at fifty miles an hour when a fire extinguisher exploded and started whipping around the truck, spraying foam in all directions. The driver swerved violently, shouting “I can’t see!”
“Pull over! Pull over!”
“I can’t see to pull over!”
“Do it anyway!” I yelled.
When we finally careened to the side of the road, the two soldiers tumbled out, coughing and puking, leaving me lying in the back yelling, “Get me out! Get me out! I can’t breathe in here.” By the time I found the door handle and threw myself onto the street, my lungs were burning and my skin and uniform were toxic-white. I could taste the fire retardant in my mouth, and believe me, it was worse than Tuesday’s toothpaste. And more relentless. The more I tried to spit it out, the more it clung to my throat, choking me. It would have been funny, really, if it hadn’t been my life.
CHAPTER 7
HARD DECISIONS
The most hateful grief of all human griefs is this, to have
knowledge of the truth but no power over the event.
—H ERODOTUS , T HE H ISTORIES
The reality of war wounds is that they’re worse when you’re out of the combat zone. That’s why so many psychologically scarred service members end up back for second and third tours, telling people they “couldn’t adjust” to civilian life. That’s probably why I volunteered to spend extra months embedded with Iraqi troops in south Baghdad, the point of the Triangle of Death. I had almost been killed by traitorous Iraqi allies, and yet I put myself back in Iraqi hands, in one of the most dangerous sections of Baghdad, partly out of responsibility and guilt but mostly to quiet my mind. I ignored my physical injuries, engaging in combat clearing operations and raids despite debilitating pain. I needed the adrenaline rush, the distraction of action, more than I needed personal security.
The worst thing you can experience is time to think, and that’s exactly what I had during the two months I was bedridden while recovering from patellar tendon surgery. My body was a mess. My knee was immobilized. My fractured vertebrae had, in two years without treatment, developed “wedge deformities” that threw off my alignment and rubbed nerves, causing numbness, soreness, and shooting pain. Headaches from my multiple concussions developed suddenly and lasted for days. Sometimes I was afraid to move. Even opening my eyes in a lighted room could bring on stabbing pains.
My mind was worse. Flashbacks, black thoughts, bad dreams. I woke up almost every night in a sweat, convinced I was back on the ground at Al-Waleed, awaiting the assassin’s knife. During the day, without duties to distract me, I dwelled on the war. I walked step-by-step through battlefields and relived my anniversaries: my first combat, my first dead body, my first kill the day I escaped death, and all the other dates that never leave a soldier’s mind. Eventually, I started researching. I was unable to turn away from the war, so I started reading everything I could about the war planning and objectives, from soulless Department of Defense (DOD) documents to combat reports to soldiers’ blogs from the battlefield. I was driving myself crazy, but there was no way I could stop. The search for answers was keeping me sane.
After my two-month recovery, the Army sent me to Fort Benning as the executive officer of B Company, First Battalion, Eleventh Infantry. It was a recovery assignment, because it was clear by then to everyone that I was
“Pull over! Pull over!”
“I can’t see to pull over!”
“Do it anyway!” I yelled.
When we finally careened to the side of the road, the two soldiers tumbled out, coughing and puking, leaving me lying in the back yelling, “Get me out! Get me out! I can’t breathe in here.” By the time I found the door handle and threw myself onto the street, my lungs were burning and my skin and uniform were toxic-white. I could taste the fire retardant in my mouth, and believe me, it was worse than Tuesday’s toothpaste. And more relentless. The more I tried to spit it out, the more it clung to my throat, choking me. It would have been funny, really, if it hadn’t been my life.
CHAPTER 7
HARD DECISIONS
The most hateful grief of all human griefs is this, to have
knowledge of the truth but no power over the event.
—H ERODOTUS , T HE H ISTORIES
The reality of war wounds is that they’re worse when you’re out of the combat zone. That’s why so many psychologically scarred service members end up back for second and third tours, telling people they “couldn’t adjust” to civilian life. That’s probably why I volunteered to spend extra months embedded with Iraqi troops in south Baghdad, the point of the Triangle of Death. I had almost been killed by traitorous Iraqi allies, and yet I put myself back in Iraqi hands, in one of the most dangerous sections of Baghdad, partly out of responsibility and guilt but mostly to quiet my mind. I ignored my physical injuries, engaging in combat clearing operations and raids despite debilitating pain. I needed the adrenaline rush, the distraction of action, more than I needed personal security.
The worst thing you can experience is time to think, and that’s exactly what I had during the two months I was bedridden while recovering from patellar tendon surgery. My body was a mess. My knee was immobilized. My fractured vertebrae had, in two years without treatment, developed “wedge deformities” that threw off my alignment and rubbed nerves, causing numbness, soreness, and shooting pain. Headaches from my multiple concussions developed suddenly and lasted for days. Sometimes I was afraid to move. Even opening my eyes in a lighted room could bring on stabbing pains.
My mind was worse. Flashbacks, black thoughts, bad dreams. I woke up almost every night in a sweat, convinced I was back on the ground at Al-Waleed, awaiting the assassin’s knife. During the day, without duties to distract me, I dwelled on the war. I walked step-by-step through battlefields and relived my anniversaries: my first combat, my first dead body, my first kill the day I escaped death, and all the other dates that never leave a soldier’s mind. Eventually, I started researching. I was unable to turn away from the war, so I started reading everything I could about the war planning and objectives, from soulless Department of Defense (DOD) documents to combat reports to soldiers’ blogs from the battlefield. I was driving myself crazy, but there was no way I could stop. The search for answers was keeping me sane.
After my two-month recovery, the Army sent me to Fort Benning as the executive officer of B Company, First Battalion, Eleventh Infantry. It was a recovery assignment, because it was clear by then to everyone that I was
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