Blasted By Adversity: The Making of a Wounded Warrior

PROLOGUE

It was a blazing July afternoon in 2006, but the rehab floor at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center near Washington, DC, was icebox cold. My hour of physical therapy was done and I had moved on to occupational. The arm amputees were working one-on-one with therapists across a desk, while I stayed with the hand weights to strengthen my wrists and grip, working from my wheelchair. It had been four months since the blast, and after twenty-six surgeries I was down to a scrawny 124 pounds, from my fighting weight of 193.

The atmosphere was a lot like a football locker room, except for the missing limbs. If you focused only on our faces, you’d see the determined look of athletes. You’d hear the grunting and forced exhales during exercises and pointed jabs between Army soldiers and Marines as we ragged on each other. It was like being with my guys again—my Joes—and I felt good.

Across the room, I saw a knot of uniforms and business suits. VIPs were flocking around a dark-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar, another celebrity tour, I guessed, visiting the amputee petting zoo. She scanned the room, as people around her tried to direct her attention. I kept moving, focusing intently on my workout, when I sensed her entourage closing in on me. Someone said, Hey, soldier, Cher wants to say hello.

I didn’t look up right away. I figured I’d give her a chance to take it all in. Here I was, a twenty-four-year-old with a bare stump covered in surgical staples where my right leg used to be, and wearing a giant metal cage on my left leg. I had two pins going straight through my left knee, another six from there to my ankle, and two more anchoring the foot. Every time I strained my upper body, my lower body leaked blood, so my left sock was stained reddish brown. Still, maybe I looked more inviting than the guys dragging IV poles, with tangles of tubes coming out of their veins, or the ones who were still discolored from iodine baths—new amputees, who had just arrived from Afghanistan and Iraq.

I looked at Cher sideways over the hand weight, and she met my eyes. So, what’s your story? she asked.

I could hear my dad’s repeated warnings from all the visits playing in my head: Please don’t say anything embarrassing. For once, Luke, can’t you just be nice? But before I knew it, the sarcastic me answered: Oh, I was just playing with matches.

So what is my story? I like to think I’m just a regular guy. A young kid from a small town in South Florida who watched Westerns and war movies and had a burning desire to be a soldier. A guy who convinced his dad to sign a contract that allowed me to enter the Florida National Guard as a junior in high school. And someone who, after 9/11, put college on hold to protect Miami International Airport in my first active-duty assignment.

At that time, I also had a curiosity that couldn’t be tamed. Veterans told me how wild and scary war could be, but I had to see for myself. I wanted to answer that calling I’d had since I was a little kid: to serve my country like my dad, my friend’s dad, and my grandfather. Growing up, my family called me Lucky Luke, and I guess you could say I added to that nickname by becoming a member of one of the most storied divisions in the US Army—the 101st Airborne—and, within the 101st, getting assigned to the most decorated regiment: the Rakkasans.

Since the injury—the blast—people see my fake leg and say they can’t imagine what it’s like. And they start asking questions. Many times, these are the same people who can’t watch an R movie, but when they see a mangled car on the side of the road, they have to look. They want to know the story. So I tell them, but I’m not doing it for me. I’m telling them for the soldier who can’t, the one whose injury goes beyond the physical. The one who feels awkward when someone stops him on the street to say, Thank you for your service.

That’s the main reason I wrote this book: to help give a voice to this new generation of wounded service members.

I’ve been telling pieces of my story as I travel around the country as a National Campaign Team (NCT) member for the Wounded Warrior Project. NCT members share their stories to raise awareness for the most recently injured servicemen and women while serving as an example of the successes one can achieve after injury. It’s therapeutic, a cultural shift from the generations before us, and I don’t mind talking candidly about my experiences. With this book, people can hear more of the story. There needs to be a face on the costs of that great American dream people are living. They need to know the human side of it, like the agonizing doubt and extreme loneliness I felt at night in a German hospital when I wondered, Why didn’t I just give it up? They need to hear about the pain of rehabilitation that a soldier goes through just to relearn the skills of daily living with what has become their new normal. I want you to meet the self-sacrificing medical personnel who helped put me back together again. I’ll introduce you to the crazy guy who came to the Army hospital and told the soldiers—some of whom were missing three limbs—that he wanted to take us skiing in Snowmass, Colorado. You’ll also meet the woman named Mary who saw me at one of my lowest moments in the hospital room and proposed I do a marathon. And you’ll hear how I answered that challenge about a year after my injury, eventually taking second place in a race in Costa Rica.

There’s another reason I wrote this book. I want people to know that while the injury deformed me and caused me unimaginable pain, it will never define me. I have no regrets. I’m thirty-three years old, and I’ve experienced more than a person could dream of experiencing in three lifetimes. I caught my first yellowfin tuna on Jimmy Buffett’s boat. I’ve climbed mountains in Utah and skied black diamonds, all after the injury. I’ve spoken to thousands of people at park gatherings and at the Pentagon. I helped start philanthropic organizations that allow service members to enjoy outdoor activities like hunting and fishing. I went back to college at age twenty-seven, pledged a fraternity, and graduated with a degree in less than three years.

Maybe hearing my story will inspire a person to get through whatever is challenging them at the moment. Maybe they’ll tell themselves, If he can do it, I can do it.

We have a motto in the Rakkasans, etched in our unit insignia: Ne desit virtus. Let valor not fail. It takes determination and boldness to face the kinds of dangers that service members face in battle. Some would even say heroic courage or bravery, especially in infantry. To me, it’s about attitude. That’s the only thing you have control over. And with the right attitude in life, you will not fail.

CHAPTER 1

Blown Up

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

My initial tour of duty with the US Army’s 187th Infantry Regiment was in 2003. I led a fire team during the invasion of Iraq, which contributed to the 101st Airborne Division’s success in liberating three key cities and establishing a free and democratic Iraq. I earned several awards and commendations for exemplary service during Operation Iraqi Freedom, but I came back to the States without some of my buddies. That’s war.

By the fall of 2005, my time was up. I had completed nearly six years of service, including a year in Iraq, so the last thing I expected was to be redeployed with twenty-eight days left on my contract. There was a troop shortage, though, so the Army instituted their stop-loss policy. They sent me back to Iraq on a mission leading up to the presurge of 2006. At twenty-four years old, I was still one of the youngest squad leaders in the Third Brigade Rakkasans, a unit of roughly four thousand soldiers.

By one o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, April 25, 2006, our twelve-man reconnaissance team had been working twenty-three hours straight without sleep; there were no set shifts with this job. Earlier in the day, we had been on a joint mission in the slums of Sadr City, Baghdad, guarding FBI and CIA agents while they tried to identify mass graves as evidence against Saddam Hussein. We were part of a company of a hundred, but we were grossly outnumbered. The population of the city was about two million with about forty thousand men in the opposition, mostly the Mahdi militia. It was exhausting work.

Patrolling the city might not sound that dangerous to most people, but it can actually be the deadliest kind of work. In the urban areas, you don’t know your enemy; you’re always getting shot at and dodging bricks thrown by kids. Three years earlier, a little seven-year-old girl walked up and handed a soldier to my left something while we were on foot patrol in Baghdad. It turned out to be an explosive. Four men were injured by the blast, and Sergeant Troy Jenkins from Alabama later died of his injuries.

After the joint mission in Sadr City, we managed to make it back to the base and were trying to wind down when we got the bad news: You’ve got to go back into the city. The brass wanted us to escort a vehicle that had to be out that night, an unusual mission for the Rakkasans.

We made it through the city and headed back to the forward operating base, driving in a convoy. I was the truck commander—the front right passenger—in the second Humvee, and my gunner Adam Jefferson was in the turret behind a .50-caliber machine gun. Neither of us saw the infrared laser. It was attached to the deadliest form of roadside bomb—an explosively formed penetrating (EFP) improvised explosive device (IED), known for its power to pierce almost any type of armored vehicle. It detonated on my side, immediately engulfing us in flames. The blast threw Jefferson’s head into the side of the turret, knocking him out temporarily in spite of his helmet; it also mutilated his leg. I felt a huge fireball at the back of my neck. I gulped for air, but toxic fumes burned my esophagus; I had to stop breathing or die.

Heat from the fire ignited chains of ammo that fed into the machine gun from inside the Humvee, causing random explosions. Boom . . . boom . . . boom. With nine grenades in the vehicle, it was only a matter of time before an even bigger explosion.

My M4 rifle, similar to an AR-15, was blown in half. I looked down and lifted my right leg, but my boot stayed on the ground; shrapnel had ripped my leg off at the knee. My left leg was up near my face, blown in half at the calf but still attached by skin. Not good.

The vehicle was still moving, so I ordered the driver to crash into a wall. When we stopped, I pushed on the door with my shoulder. It was caved in from the blast and was now blocked by a ten-foot brick wall. I kept slamming my shoulder into it, until I made enough space to crawl out.

The driver came around to my side and started beating back the flames, thinking I was still inside. I could see him dodging rounds from the machine gun as the heat set off explosions. Boom . . . boom . . . boom. I tried to yell to him, but nothing came out; my throat was singed. Finally, he looked over and saw me charred and black, lying in a pool of blood, helmet off and clutching my destroyed weapon. I was surrounded by large chunks of the wall that marked the boundary of Sadr City.

I could hear the yelling, the orders, the mass chaos. This time, I wasn’t part of it. I could feel myself going to sleep. I knew I was on the way out; I was dying. I started drifting into what felt like an unbelievably great sleep, until I saw an image of my mom. She was wearing a black veil. It looked antique, like the ones I’d seen at my grandma’s funeral. She was crying uncontrollably and holding my girlfriend, Kristine. I remember thinking, I can’t do this to my mom.

Those who have been to war can tell you that oftentimes the last thing a dying soldier will do is scream out for his mom. I guess you get in that vulnerable spot, like you’re a kid again. For me, it was a little different. I just remember thinking, Don’t die and do this to your mom.

So I fought to stay awake, to stay conscious. The medic offered morphine, but I knew he had only one or two doses. I wasn’t sure how badly the other guys were hurt so I turned it down. I also knew it would lower my heart rate, and I needed all the adrenaline I could get to stay conscious. As they loaded me onto a stretcher, I heard someone making a medevac request to meet us at the forward operating base.

Our vehicles aren’t built for transporting patients, so they balanced me on the backs of two soldiers in the backseat. Someone was trying to shut the Humvee door, but my head was partially blocking it. They didn’t realize it and kept slamming harder and harder, slicing into my skull. Nobody could hear my protests. After the third blow, Team Leader John Winton looked back from the front seat to see what was holding us up. He saw the door closing again on my head, screamed, Stop! Stop! and then got out and adjusted the stretcher. We went storming off.

Winton kept saying, Talk to me, Luke.

I groaned, I don’t want to talk, man. It hurts to talk. Nobody understood my esophagus was burned.

He said, Then just squeeze my hand once in a while. So I kept my eyes shut tight, trying to hold all the pain in one corner of my brain, and squeezed his hand.

Our drivers sped so fast on the dark city roads that we made it to the base in eighteen minutes. I could hear my guys screaming at the guards on the gate to get out of the way: We got wounded! We got wounded!

The medevac bird was landing as we pulled in, but they took our gunner, Jefferson, Sergeant Erik Roberts, and me, the only injured, to a tent to be stabilized first. They wanted to make sure we’d survive the flight. When the vehicle stopped, the pain from all the jostling was almost unbearable, maybe an eight on a scale often for me. As soon as they started to move me out of the vehicle, it shot to a twelve.

I knew all the medics coming into the tent to meet us; they had worked with us in the past. Now the one who’d gotten a Bronze Star for helping my buddy who was blown up by the little girl was working on me.

I was angry. Our company had dodged some major rounds, and finally our luck was out. But it was never supposed to be me.

I could hear Erik Roberts—like Winton, one of the fast-tracking sergeants in our company. He had been in the back left seat, and the round hit him in the thigh. Roberts was praying, one prayer after another. Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be. He was just cycling through prayers as they started the IVs, opened up avenues for blood, and cut off our clothes.

Ten minutes later, they started moving our stretchers to the bird. The soldiers carrying us moved with a purpose across the field, and my pain skyrocketed again. My mind automatically went to managing the action. I knew they would need to put the least wounded on the chopper first, and the guy with the worst injury would go on last, so he could come out first. They put me on last.

Over the roar of the helicopter, I could hear Jefferson moaning. I finally turned to him. Jefferson!

Yeah, Sergeant?

What’s wrong?

It hurts, Sergeant.

I growled, Quit being a little bitch.

Roberts started laughing and so did Jefferson.

First Sergeant Coroy was outside of the bird and heard us. The whole company is out here crying, and you guys are in here smokin’ and jokin’? He put my wallet under my head, and the bird took off on its way to Baghdad ER.

When we landed, I remember thinking, So this is where our soldiers were sent when they got blown up. They put my stretcher on the back of a John Deere Gator, for a short, bumpy ride to some tents. Tents? I thought. I wanted concrete walls. If I don’t have a weapon and I’m not in charge, at least give me a wall.

I looked around and saw severely wounded everywhere, typical of triage. Baghdad ER is the most state-of-the-art you can get in theater and serves all branches of the military. The next step up is Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, but they’ve got to stabilize you to make that four-hour flight. The medics kept me conscious for the next twenty-four hours while they pumped my body full of blood. It was pure agony. Finally, they prepped me for the flight via military aircraft to Landstuhl, and the medic said he was going to put me to sleep.

I woke up on a ventilator in the Landstuhl ICU. And that’s where I got my second chance at life.

CHAPTER 2

My Life Is about to Change

A little before nine in the morning on September 11, 2001, I was walking across the parking lot of what is now Indian River State College in Stuart, Florida. It was a bit cloudy, but still summer-like, with temperatures in the high seventies, and there was a decent breeze flowing through the queen palms. I was usually pretty relaxed heading into my speech class, as it never felt like work to me, unlike the rest of my subjects. The assignment the teacher had planned was a prepared improv. Since I was the only college student with military experience, I was supposed to play the soldier. Another student was expected to pose as a flight attendant; there would also be a cop and a news reporter. We were going to be simulating an airplane hijacking, and it was my job to take out the terrorist.

When I walked into the classroom, there was more confusion than usual, and I figured my fellow students had pre-presentation nerves. The teacher held a TV remote in her hand, and the twenty or so students had dropped their books and moved closer to the video monitor. I walked up behind them in time to see an image of the World Trade Center on fire. It was unreal, like a bad joke. Seconds later, we saw another plane crash into the south tower, and I knew something was wrong. Something was majorly wrong.

No one said anything, we just stared at the screen, until finally the teacher turned off the TV and said, I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to do our presentation today. Class is cancelled.

As I walked slowly back to my truck, I wondered what was going to happen to me. I mean, I was in the Reserves—and they get called up at times of war. Whatever had just taken place in New York City and, I later learned, the Pentagon was going to affect me personally.

I went straight home, walked into my dad’s kitchen, and saw a note on the counter: Call Army. I remember thinking, Here it comes. Do I need to go pack my bags? I finally reached my dad a few hours later, and he said, no, that note said to call Amy, who was a good friend of mine. But my mind was already getting ready.

It was everything I had been training for, yet not what I expected.

When I’d joined the National Guard in 1999, the US had not been in a significant military action for eight years, since Operation Desert Storm. So the chance of me being in a war seemed unlikely. The thought had crossed my mind, but I’m not the type to dwell on the unknowns. When I enlisted, I was only seventeen years old and mostly looking for a way to build my resume and maybe pay for college. It was my junior year in high school; everyone was talking about plans for the next step after graduation. My older brother had gotten an athletic scholarship for football and wrestling. I played sports, but not at the level that would get anyone’s attention. Some military recruiters started visiting our high school, and I always had a little more respect for those who fight for our country. I remember thinking that maybe one day people could look at me the way I always looked at those who served in the military.

My dad was a Marine, and a close friend’s dad was a Marine. They didn’t talk about their service; they didn’t have that secret high five. It was all unspoken, but I picked up on it early.

I related to military stories in my family. My dad was named after a great-uncle in the Marine Corps who was gassed by the Germans in World War I. Uncle Larry came home wounded and died at an early age. He had an amazing amount of cancer that I’m sure was caused by the mustard gas. He had so much cancer that the University of California, Berkeley, asked to have his body for research.

My grandmother’s brother fought with Patton in Africa and Italy and made it all the way to the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium. I had other relatives who served, too, and heard their stories as I was growing up. I just always wanted to be somebody who would stand up for what’s right. I wanted to be part of that club.

My junior year, my dad and I went to meet with a Marine Corps recruiter, and the guy immediately tried to sign me up as a forward observer. When we left, Dad explained the job. I would be working independently behind enemy lines most of the time, with minimal support. Missions could last for days or weeks. But the Marine recruiter didn’t tell me any of those details, so we kept looking.

The next guy was with the National Guard. I kind of liked the sound of the Army Reserves, and the unit was in Fort Pierce, about a twenty-five-minute drive from my home. I knew I could drill with the guys my senior year, then work one weekend a month and get full pay and benefits. My plan was to do the same through college. I enlisted, which took care of my immediate future—at least the next six years. My dad had to sign for me, since I wasn’t eighteen.

Joining the National Guard in high school was pretty cool. There were three of us from my high school and two from the school across town who were active. Several others had signed up, but were delayed entry. We got to wear a lot of camouflage, march around in combat boots, get trained on all kinds of weapons, and do drills that simulated live fire. I knew the really hard part would come after my senior year—basic training (boot camp). But I didn’t see how