Free Thank You for Your Service by David Finkel Page A

Vietnam veterans. Pueblo is entirely Iraq and Afghanistan. Topeka’s program has been running for years and is settled in. Pueblo’s is new, one of a wave of programs begun when the extent of psychological damage being caused by Iraq and Afghanistan was becoming apparent. Is one program better than the other? Is seven weeks better than four weeks? Is mixing up soldiers and veterans from different wars better than isolating them? Is a program established before Iraq and Afghanistan better than one started as a direct reaction to them?
    The answer, in Nic’s case: Topeka was full. Pueblo had a spot.
    “The following items are provided,” read the instructions Nic was sent before leaving Fort Riley. “Shampoo & Body wash. Deodorant & Body lotion. Toothbrush & Toothpaste …”
    He saw the theme here.
    “Contraband items:” the instructions continued. “Weapons or any object which could be used as a weapon. Razors. Hangers. Neckties, scarves, belts, shoe laces, strings in sweatpants. Any ropes, strings, or chains. Neck chains longer than 24 inches. Panty hose or long stockings. Glass of any kind. Any electrical appliance using an electrical cord. Any sharp object. Plastic bags—any and all …”
    He saw the theme here, too.
    Sascha drove him to the airport, and as she stood at the terminal window watching him walk toward the plane, she might as well have been Saskia watching Adam or Theresa watching Tausolo. She felt her heartsinking. They had met a week after Nic got home from the war, when she heard that some soldiers were back and went online to see who they were. She had a soft spot for soldiers. Her father had been one. Her grandfather had been one. Most of her uncles were either army or National Guard. When she met Nic, she liked that he was big and muscled and spoke thoughtfully and had a tattoo on his back that said “Unity and Peace.” He had gotten it when he was growing up, he told her, before he ever thought of becoming a soldier, and she liked that about him, too. As for the dark circles under his eyes, she found them intriguing. “You do know that something’s wrong with him,” a friend told her at one point. He didn’t like crowds. He had nightmares. Yes, she did know, she said, and she was concerned. She was coming out of a failed marriage to a soldier who had returned from Iraq angry and abusive. She had two young daughters to worry about. But there was something about Nic that made her want to stick with him, and so she did, through his flashbacks, and drinking binges, and a drug overdose that was his first suicide attempt, and then she married him, and now she was six months pregnant and hoping that Pueblo would make him realize he could tell her anything about the war, anything at all. That she wanted to hear it. That she could take it.
    “Report to the East Entrance by the flag pole and statue of Mary,” continued the instructions Nic had gotten, which he carried with him to Pueblo. “Go to the elevator, 6th floor, left out of elevator and pick up phone dial ‘0.’ ” He dialed “0.” A door swung open and was bolted behind him, and before long someone was explaining how the program worked. For the first three days he would be monitored day and night and could have no contact with anyone outside of the program. After that, he would gain privileges through good behavior, or lose privileges through bad behavior, up to what was called Level III, which included the privileges of computer use, cell phone use, trips to the Loaf ’N Jug convenience store on the far side of the parking lot, unsupervised shaving, wearing shoes with laces, and having visitors. Days would begin at 6:30 with physical therapy and end at 11:00 with lights-out. There would be group sessions with the other twenty-two people in the program ondealing with anger, setting goals, and, most essential of all, talking about what had happened, over and over. Finally, Nic would be expected to keep a journal—and out of