Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him by Luis Carlos Montalvan

Author:Luis Carlos Montalvan [Montalvan, Luis Carlos]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Military
ISBN: 9781401303761
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 2011-05-03T06:48:17+00:00

CHAPTER 13

THANKSGIVING

And I will put my father to the test,

See if the old man knows me now, on sight,

or fails to, after twenty years apart.

—HOMER, THE ODYSSEY

I buried the evening in my mind. This wasn’t easy to do with PTSD, but something told me I needed to rid myself of the bad thoughts to survive. My mind was full enough with the memories of Iraq and our betrayal of Ali, Maher, and so many others, and that fall I was becoming increasingly anxious about Afghanistan, even publishing a piece on “endless Army mission creep” there. The piece noted that the Marshall Plan, the Allied effort to rebuild Europe after World War II, had been run by the State Department. The rebuilding effort in Iraq, because of State Department deference and incompetence, was being run by the military and staffed by soldiers. With so much of my time focused on military disaster, both real and surmised, I needed stability in my life.

And besides, Tuesday and I had a far more important mission to prepare for than a college class. That Thanksgiving, we were going home to spend time with my family.

Family had always been the bedrock of my life. I didn’t join the Army because of family issues or even as a means of escape. Ronald Reagan, and his vision of a society founded on morality and hard work, made me want to enter public service. When the nation needed us, Bush told us to shop for washing machines; Reagan, like Kennedy before him, challenged us to set a personal example. I chose the Army as my means of service, perhaps as an answer to my papá. He was an economist, and he fought the Cuban dictatorship with words and numbers. As a teenager, I joined street rallies against Castro and supported Hermanos al Rescate (Brothers to the Rescue), which supported “the efforts of the Cuban people to free themselves from dictatorship through the use of active nonviolence.” If I challenged my papá’s methods, though, I never questioned his integrity, intelligence, or honor. He was the man I admired. I grew up wanting to be like him, but in my own way.

When I returned from my first tour in Iraq, the only people I wanted to see were my parents. For me, they were life in America. But they weren’t at the armory at Fort Carson to greet me like all the other families. This was my fault. I told them it wasn’t necessary to fly all that way, that it would be fine to see them in a few weeks in Washington, D.C. I was wrong. Stepping off the transport plane after a combat tour was a profound experience, simultaneously exhilarating and disorienting. It was impossible not to be overcome with relief and joy. Everyone was rushing to hug their wives, husbands, children, girlfriends, parents, but as I moved alone through the crowd I felt that joy turn into disillusionment. I was cut off from the world I had known in Iraq, but without someone to welcome me home I didn’t feel a part of this world either.

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