Read Online Thank You for Your Service by David Finkel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Finkel
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interview. That time it was a promotions board, long before the explosion. “He was like an M&M in a cardboard box. Nervous as shit. I said, ‘You gotta calm down, killer.’ ” This time, though, it isn’t nervousness he is seeing, it’s bewilderment, so he walks over to Tausolo, reminds him of that day, and then tells him: “This is different. They’re not asking you what you know. They’re asking you how you feel. Just be honest. The straight-up shit.”
Tausolo watches as the first soldier is called into the room. Ten minutes later he is out, and a woman is approaching him with the decision. She shakes her head. He’s a no.
In goes the second soldier. He’s limping and wearing a cast.
He’s a no, too.
In goes the third.
A yes.
In goes the fourth.
No.
Tausolo is the ninth.
His turn now.
“Okay. Take a deep breath,” he tells himself.
In he goes.
Is it forty people in there? He won’t remember. Did he salute the right officer, sit in the right place? He won’t remember that, either, or the first questions, which couldn’t have been more accommodating.
“What do you hope to gain by coming into the WTB?” someone whose name he won’t remember asks. “In your understanding of things, what can we do to help facilitate your healing process?”
Everyone in the room has a packet of papers to help them make sense of this soldier who has suddenly appeared before them, number nine, who followed number eight, who precedes number ten, who is saying something about how he hopes the WTB will prepare him for what might come next in his life. Which is what every soldier says. There’s his military record for them to consider, his record of mental health appointments, details even of a bar fight he got in one night when he was drunk, and how many times have they seen versions of that? There’s also something called a “Warrior Screening Matrix” that scores a soldier’s need for help. Anything above a score of 1,000 is supposed to be a shoo-in, or as it says on the form, “Failure to assign or attach Soldier to WTU likely to decrement the medical plan of care.” Tausolo’s score is 1,400. A formality, then, it would seem. Except the questions become more probing and the way they are asked shifts, too.
“You were put in the hospital?” someone asks. “Okay, tough one to answer, but I gotta ask you: Have you thought about hurting yourself since then? Have you thought about suicide?”
“Uh, negative,” Tausolo says.
So much for the straight-up shit.
“Talk to me about alcohol,” someone else says.
“I’m … I’m not drinking anymore. I stopped at Topeka.”
“Is your family here at Fort Riley?”
“My wife is here, and, um, I just found out last week that my brother passed so I’m going home on emergency leave.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And home is American Samoa.”
“Where was that?”
“American Samoa.”
“Is your wife going home on emergency leave with you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Is she also from American Samoa?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, with the alcohol use, what are you doing to keep from using it? Other than just sheer willpower? Are you involved in AA? Are you using any of the support channels?”
“Just my wife.”
“Everybody has to have a whole bunch of tools in their toolkit, and if you only have one or two tools, you don’t have a lot to choose from,” someone now lectures Tausolo, and instead of offering the assurance that he has plenty of tools, that he came home from Topeka with a folder of information titled “Self Esteem,” and a folder titled “Relationship,” and folders titled “Healthy Living” and “Core Issues” and “Stress Management” and “Seeking Safety,” sixteen folders in all of tools, and more tools in the form of therapy, and more tools in the form of medications, he just listens with that look he has had since the explosion.
Sometimes Tausolo sees Harrelson in the daytime, too, just for an instant. Sometimes he
Tausolo watches as the first soldier is called into the room. Ten minutes later he is out, and a woman is approaching him with the decision. She shakes her head. He’s a no.
In goes the second soldier. He’s limping and wearing a cast.
He’s a no, too.
In goes the third.
A yes.
In goes the fourth.
No.
Tausolo is the ninth.
His turn now.
“Okay. Take a deep breath,” he tells himself.
In he goes.
Is it forty people in there? He won’t remember. Did he salute the right officer, sit in the right place? He won’t remember that, either, or the first questions, which couldn’t have been more accommodating.
“What do you hope to gain by coming into the WTB?” someone whose name he won’t remember asks. “In your understanding of things, what can we do to help facilitate your healing process?”
Everyone in the room has a packet of papers to help them make sense of this soldier who has suddenly appeared before them, number nine, who followed number eight, who precedes number ten, who is saying something about how he hopes the WTB will prepare him for what might come next in his life. Which is what every soldier says. There’s his military record for them to consider, his record of mental health appointments, details even of a bar fight he got in one night when he was drunk, and how many times have they seen versions of that? There’s also something called a “Warrior Screening Matrix” that scores a soldier’s need for help. Anything above a score of 1,000 is supposed to be a shoo-in, or as it says on the form, “Failure to assign or attach Soldier to WTU likely to decrement the medical plan of care.” Tausolo’s score is 1,400. A formality, then, it would seem. Except the questions become more probing and the way they are asked shifts, too.
“You were put in the hospital?” someone asks. “Okay, tough one to answer, but I gotta ask you: Have you thought about hurting yourself since then? Have you thought about suicide?”
“Uh, negative,” Tausolo says.
So much for the straight-up shit.
“Talk to me about alcohol,” someone else says.
“I’m … I’m not drinking anymore. I stopped at Topeka.”
“Is your family here at Fort Riley?”
“My wife is here, and, um, I just found out last week that my brother passed so I’m going home on emergency leave.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And home is American Samoa.”
“Where was that?”
“American Samoa.”
“Is your wife going home on emergency leave with you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Is she also from American Samoa?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, with the alcohol use, what are you doing to keep from using it? Other than just sheer willpower? Are you involved in AA? Are you using any of the support channels?”
“Just my wife.”
“Everybody has to have a whole bunch of tools in their toolkit, and if you only have one or two tools, you don’t have a lot to choose from,” someone now lectures Tausolo, and instead of offering the assurance that he has plenty of tools, that he came home from Topeka with a folder of information titled “Self Esteem,” and a folder titled “Relationship,” and folders titled “Healthy Living” and “Core Issues” and “Stress Management” and “Seeking Safety,” sixteen folders in all of tools, and more tools in the form of therapy, and more tools in the form of medications, he just listens with that look he has had since the explosion.
Sometimes Tausolo sees Harrelson in the daytime, too, just for an instant. Sometimes he
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