Read Online Thank You for Your Service by David Finkel - Free Book Online
Authors: David Finkel
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around him.
“Irritation. Hypervigilance. Anger. A lot of depression. And personally, from what I’ve noticed, a lot of lethargy, a lot of I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude” was the commander’s list of the symptoms most common to the soldiers filling the place to capacity, and it got more complicated from there. Inspections revealed that one soldier was decorating his barracks room with snakes; another was stockpiling cats; another was selling his pain meds, which was quite a feat considering that just about every soldier had his own legally prescribed stash. Just like the other soldiers, the WTB soldiers wore uniforms, and just like the other soldiers they began and ended the day with formation. But the truth was that they had little in common with the other soldiers, including the soldiers they had once been themselves. Formation wasn’t an exercise in discipline as much as taking attendance to see if everyone survived the previous twelve hours. “Before I forget, there’s a breakfast tomorrow, right here, for all you warriors,” a sergeant might announce to the crooked lines of softening bodies and darting eyes, and then dismiss them into another day of doctors, nurses, social workers, and therapists, all to prepare them for their eventual place among the country’s five hundred thousand glowing dots.
This is the world Tausolo is being pushed toward, and he wonders: How much will the WTB be able to help someone like him get ready for life after the army? He wants to work on improving his memory, which has been getting worse since the explosion. He might enroll in college courses to learn a skill other than the singular infantry skill of closing in on an enemy and killing him, which he suspects has limited applications outside of war. And he wants to bring his dreaming under control. Despite Topeka, Harrelson continues to visit him, asking that same question. “There’s no way of stopping dreams,” Tausolo had said one morning, looking exhausted, sounding resigned. But maybe, with the help of the WTB, he can.
Entry isn’t automatic, however. So many soldiers are trying to get into the WTB—most with legitimate injuries, some willing to fake it for an easy paycheck—that there is an application process, and an interview of some sort that Tausolo hears can be difficult. “Get your hair cut,” one of his old sergeants advises as the day of the interview arrives, and he knows that’s a good idea and means to write it down so he won’t forget it, but he has become distracted by family news from Samoa. His oldest brother has died. The first word, which came in a brief phone call the night before, was that he might have killed himself. Then came an update: someone shot him. Then another update: it’s unclear what happened, but Tausolo’s large, sprawling family would like him to come home.
So on the day of the interview, instead of preparing, he runs all over Fort Riley, trying to arrange for a plane ticket back to the impoverished island in the South Pacific where he grew up, a place of no job options other than the tuna cannery he worked at until, sick of the work and wanting more out of life, he went to see the army recruiter on the island who always made his numbers.
He goes first to his old unit, the 2-16, for the official Red Cross message confirming a death, which he will need to get a plane reservation, only to find out that the message was sent mistakenly to another unit, the 1-16. He sorts that out and drives to another building he’s been directed to, where he waits to talk to a man who is busy on his computer looking at a website for mail-order meat. Wrong office, the man finally says, barely glancing up from a photograph of raw steaks, and directs Tausolo to another building. “Building 212,” he says.
“Building 212,” Tausolo repeats.
Two entrances, the man continues. Go to the one on the far left.
“The far left,” Tausolo repeats.
He goes outside, reaches to put on his beret, and
“Irritation. Hypervigilance. Anger. A lot of depression. And personally, from what I’ve noticed, a lot of lethargy, a lot of I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude” was the commander’s list of the symptoms most common to the soldiers filling the place to capacity, and it got more complicated from there. Inspections revealed that one soldier was decorating his barracks room with snakes; another was stockpiling cats; another was selling his pain meds, which was quite a feat considering that just about every soldier had his own legally prescribed stash. Just like the other soldiers, the WTB soldiers wore uniforms, and just like the other soldiers they began and ended the day with formation. But the truth was that they had little in common with the other soldiers, including the soldiers they had once been themselves. Formation wasn’t an exercise in discipline as much as taking attendance to see if everyone survived the previous twelve hours. “Before I forget, there’s a breakfast tomorrow, right here, for all you warriors,” a sergeant might announce to the crooked lines of softening bodies and darting eyes, and then dismiss them into another day of doctors, nurses, social workers, and therapists, all to prepare them for their eventual place among the country’s five hundred thousand glowing dots.
This is the world Tausolo is being pushed toward, and he wonders: How much will the WTB be able to help someone like him get ready for life after the army? He wants to work on improving his memory, which has been getting worse since the explosion. He might enroll in college courses to learn a skill other than the singular infantry skill of closing in on an enemy and killing him, which he suspects has limited applications outside of war. And he wants to bring his dreaming under control. Despite Topeka, Harrelson continues to visit him, asking that same question. “There’s no way of stopping dreams,” Tausolo had said one morning, looking exhausted, sounding resigned. But maybe, with the help of the WTB, he can.
Entry isn’t automatic, however. So many soldiers are trying to get into the WTB—most with legitimate injuries, some willing to fake it for an easy paycheck—that there is an application process, and an interview of some sort that Tausolo hears can be difficult. “Get your hair cut,” one of his old sergeants advises as the day of the interview arrives, and he knows that’s a good idea and means to write it down so he won’t forget it, but he has become distracted by family news from Samoa. His oldest brother has died. The first word, which came in a brief phone call the night before, was that he might have killed himself. Then came an update: someone shot him. Then another update: it’s unclear what happened, but Tausolo’s large, sprawling family would like him to come home.
So on the day of the interview, instead of preparing, he runs all over Fort Riley, trying to arrange for a plane ticket back to the impoverished island in the South Pacific where he grew up, a place of no job options other than the tuna cannery he worked at until, sick of the work and wanting more out of life, he went to see the army recruiter on the island who always made his numbers.
He goes first to his old unit, the 2-16, for the official Red Cross message confirming a death, which he will need to get a plane reservation, only to find out that the message was sent mistakenly to another unit, the 1-16. He sorts that out and drives to another building he’s been directed to, where he waits to talk to a man who is busy on his computer looking at a website for mail-order meat. Wrong office, the man finally says, barely glancing up from a photograph of raw steaks, and directs Tausolo to another building. “Building 212,” he says.
“Building 212,” Tausolo repeats.
Two entrances, the man continues. Go to the one on the far left.
“The far left,” Tausolo repeats.
He goes outside, reaches to put on his beret, and
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