Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

  And all of those scenarios, played out every day in this country, have devastating real-world consequences.

  But the article heartened me, too. Not the article itself, of course, but the reaction. Veterans and their loved ones from across the country, and from all our modern wars, stood up and said no. We’re not going back to the horror of Vietnam, when our battle-scarred veterans were mocked and shunned. We’re not going back to the image of the returning soldier as a shiftless burden on society. We’re not going to stand at a safe distance and judge trauma by the shots fired or the blood on the uniform; we’re not going to engage in intergenerational pissing contests over who had it worse; we’re not going to allow society to dwell on a few negative examples when a million men and women have given everything to this country and have come back damaged by what they’ve done and seen. Maybe PTSD really is triggered by a single incident, a stressor, as it’s known in the psychiatric community, and maybe the attack at Al-Waleed was that stressor for me, but as I have learned in the intervening years, I was not damaged by that moment alone. In fact, while there are specific memories that resurface with some frequency, like the suicide bomber in Sinjar or the border riot at Al-Waleed, I find myself most traumatized by the overall experience of being in a combat zone like Iraq, where you are always surrounded by war but rarely aware of when or how violence will arrive. Like so many of my fellow veterans, I understand now that it is the daily adrenaline rush of a war without front lines or uniforms, rather than the infrequent bursts of bloody violence, that ultimately damages the modern warrior’s mind.

  War isn’t like regular life. In war, every soldier routinely experiences trauma and makes judgment calls beyond the pale of civilian existence. In January 2004, for instance, Iraqi border police arrested a young man driving a truckful of fake medicine. A two-man U.S. Army counterintelligence unit—a category three translator and a military intelligence staff sergeant—rotated through Iraq’s western border posts on a regular basis, and they happened to be in Al-Waleed when the man was brought in. The two men interrogated the driver for about an hour, but when he wouldn’t cooperate, they threw him on the concrete floor, elevated his legs, blindfolded him, stuffed a rag down his throat, and poured water into his mouth. For ten minutes, I watched as U.S. Army interrogators waterboarded a truck driver, his screams of agony and terror muffled by the wet cloth in his throat.

  That incident is a scar on my mind. I still hear the splashing of the water, and especially those muffled, desperate screams. I still see the way his head thrashed against two strong hands, and the way the tendons clenched and the blood vessels popped in his neck. It is a black mark on coalition forces. I wish we hadn’t done it. But it doesn’t haunt me, not like so many other things I did and saw. I don’t blame myself for not stopping it. The act didn’t violate Army protocol, as I had learned it, and in the absence of orders to the contrary I deferred to the interrogators’ judgment. After all, they were professionals. They knew what they were doing. They didn’t worry about consequences or calling headquarters to request permission to use strong interrogation techniques. Waterboarding, it seemed, was a regular tool of their job.

  This truck driver was no terrorist. After months at Al-Waleed, I knew fanatics. I had stood toe-to-toe with them, and I could recognize the hatred in their eyes. They were different from you and me. This was just a young man paid to drive a truck from Syria to Iraq. A mule. I doubt he even knew what was in it. Does that make waterboarding him wrong?

  I don’t know. Fake medicine, after all, was lethal. That truckload, especially in Iraq’s squalid conditions, might have contributed to dozens of deaths. Innocent children might have died. How many? I don’t know. How many other trucks were there in the criminal ring? How far did the black market extend? The driver may not have known, but the guy he was delivering the bogus medicine to probably did. This driver might have been the key to stopping hundreds of innocent deaths.

  Is that a hard call, to balance civilized behavior against innocent lives? Well, it wasn’t even close to my hardest call in the war zone. I probably made harder calls that same week. In September 2005, at Tal Afar’s Joint Communications Center (JCC) during Operation Restoring Rights, we received word from Iraqi police that the women running from a suspected terrorist holdup weren’t women at all but armed insurgents in disguise. As the officer in charge of the JCC, I gave an order to cordon off the building, then helped coordinate a U.S. Air Force strike to level it to the ground. I don’t think there were civilians in that building, there weren’t supposed to be civilians in that building, but there might have been, and that’s why I shy away from Muslim women in head scarves and still see that building sometimes in my dreams.

  Again and again, I turned over detainees to our Iraqi allies, even though everyone knew they were torturing, ransoming, and executing prisoners. Waterboarding was nothing—nothing—compared to what the Iraqis had endured over the past twenty years. I spoke with dozens of Iraqis during my two tours, and every single one had either been tortured by Saddam Hussein’s men or had a friend or relative who was tortured or disappeared. And I’m not talking about ten minutes of hell, as in Al-Waleed, I’m talking about weeks of being punched in the face or beaten with metal rods, months of living in a small dark hole. That’s why waterboarding never worked in Iraq—because the average Iraqi had already endured much more.

  And that’s why the waterboarding doesn’t haunt me, but I am deeply conflicted about walking away from a military jail full of Sunni prisoners in south Baghdad during my second tour. The tortured become the torturers; you can never experience that act from either side without being changed. I knew some of the guards in that Iraqi Army jail had been tortured, and I knew their prisoners were being tortured in return, probably with techniques Saddam Hussein had perfected. I knew some would be executed when I turned my back. I also knew there was no paperwork on any of these prisoners, no official interviews, and no evidence for their guilt. Some were no doubt insurgents; some were innocent men arrested in street sweeps mainly because of their religious sect. To sort them out would take days, and even then it was probably impossible. Any real court would almost assuredly have let them go. But I couldn’t do that. And while I worked on this problem, other units of my Iraqi battalion would be arresting other men, holding them in other cells, and executing them without trials. Other Iraqi units would go into combat without adequate training, planning, or backup, leading not just to their own deaths but to the deaths of civilians because of panic and sloppiness. We had six American advisers for two hundred and fifty barely trained Iraqi soldiers, which was fine on a military base but ridiculous in the middle of the Triangle of Death.

  So I made a decision to walk away, justifying it by telling myself this was the decision the highest officers in the U.S. Army had already made. I looked those Sunni men in the eye, then left them in the Iraqi Army’s hands with a hollow admonition to treat them well. Those men in the cell didn’t blink, but I did, and that’s why I can still picture them sitting in their neat rows, muttering prayers as the flies buzz around them, waiting patiently for their fate.

  That’s war. It’s messy. It’s violent. It’s traumatic. It’s more real than ordinary life because death makes life tangible, and the closer you are to death’s presence the more you experience life’s pulse. In Iraq, people died every day because of soldiers’ decisions. People died because of decisions my men and I made, and I could feel that power and responsibility pounding through my veins every day. So question my actions if you want. Demand an honest accounting by all means. But please don’t tell me the attack at Al-Waleed wasn’t traumatic enough or my wounds weren’t severe enough or the details weren’t solid enough for me to still feel psychological pain. Don’t tell any soldier that, especially a friend or your child.

  The AP reporter’s actions hurt, I admit. The negative insinuations ripped into my psyche and wore me down. It made me angry and confused to have my wounds and service record mocked and to have the pa
in and effort of the last seven years dismissed as a hoax. At times, the negativity almost tipped me over the edge. But by then, thanks to Tuesday, I was resolute. By then, I had good memories to mix with the bad ones: Tuesday’s lick in the spring; our summer at the dog run; the way we laughed, like a real family, when Tuesday shoved his nose under Papá’s arm. I took heart in the veteran community’s clear commitment to changing attitudes; and I had my father’s about-face to prove that change was possible, powerful, and real. When the slander started, after all, it was Papá I turned to for help. And he was there. Always. During the worst of those times, we talked on the telephone every night.

  And then, calm in my heart and mind, I could resist dwelling and think back to better times. Times like Christmas Eve, when Tuesday and I visited my sister’s house in Manhasset for Noche Buena, the large family meal that celebrates the season. I had been estranged from my sister since my first tour in Iraq, but that night we reconnected somewhere in our hearts, and it felt good. Really good. For hours, we laughed with her in-laws, drank wine, ate traditional Latino favorites like pernil (roast pork), tamales, and black beans and rice alongside traditional American dishes like sweet potatoes, carrots, and corn. I had missed the birth of her two children, Lucía and Lucas, while in Iraq, and we hadn’t seen each other much in the intervening years, but that night the candles blazed, the decorations shone silver and gold, and we were a family again. I watched the children’s exuberance with affection, and I laughed loudly as they played hide-and-seek with Tuesday around the Christmas tree.

  By the time Tuesday and I exited the train in Manhattan, long after midnight, it had started to snow. The streets were deserted, and Tuesday walked quietly beside me with his snout in the air so the snow would fall on his face. His fur was sparkling with snowflakes, and the way he shook his head and shoulders into the soft white falling reminded me so much of the Snoopy dance that I could almost hear the Charlie Brown music on the quiet streets as we walked toward home. Inside the apartment, my three-foot plastic Christmas tree was sitting on top of Tuesday’s kennel, twinkling with LED bulbs. I didn’t say a word or even turn on a lamp. There was no need. I rubbed down Tuesday’s feet with baby wipes, slipped off my shoes, and then, by the glow of my Christmas tree’s synthetic light, snuggled happily into bed with my great big dog.

  CHAPTER 24

  A QUIET LIFE

  Students achieving Oneness will move on to Twoness.

  —WOODY ALLEN

  My last semester at Columbia wasn’t easy—this was when most of the false accusations flashed around the Internet, after all, and that was a dark, dark time—but it was calm, at least compared to my previous years. Public advocacy became less of my life, and my time was used more for one-on-one interaction with active soldiers and veterans, almost always by email. Many had heard of me through articles, interviews, and events, but others had gotten my name from fellow veterans.

  That spring, for the first time, I also started to hear from soldiers I had served with overseas. They had been in denial about the effects of combat, but four years after returning from Iraq they found their lives in disarray. They had lost girlfriends and wives, even children, and some were no longer speaking to their parents. They told me about arguments they didn’t understand, jobs they walked out on because they couldn’t stand being in the building anymore. They were anxious, wary, and angry about things they never would have been angry about before. They dwelled. They questioned themselves. They were isolated and confused, unable to sleep, disappointed. Several were considering reenlisting, mostly because they were lost in civilian life.

  I emailed them all, and I spoke with many on the phone. I suppose that was the U.S. Army captain in me. I felt a responsibility to these men and women, especially brothers I had known in Iraq, and I would never leave them alone in pain. It wasn’t easy, but then again being a captain never was. These soldiers were talking about the kinds of experiences that had haunted me since my first tour, and the echoes brought back terrible memories. With guys I knew, it was worse, since the conversations often revolved around events I struggled with, too. Often I could feel their anxiety creeping over the phone like a contagion; sometimes I felt like I was relieving some of their burden by taking it on myself.

  In a sense, this was another form of personal therapy. I was lonely, even after six months in Manhattan, and I had fallen back on the solidarity of soldiers. Looking around my apartment now, that’s not a surprise. I may have wanted to be part of a university, to be a writer and scholar, but I have always been a U.S. soldier first. I have bookcases full of books, but 80 percent are about the military or war. In my bathroom, I have several framed rum advertisements with pictures of Cuba, but in the main room of my apartment the wall hangings are all mementos of my service, including several certificates and awards. On my dresser, I keep my rack of service medals, including the Bronze Star with an oak leaf cluster, the Purple Heart, the Army Commendation Medal with Valor device and several oak leaf clusters. In the kitchen, out of sight, I keep three knives, including the razor sharp three-inch fixed double-edged blade I carried every day for three years after leaving the Army.

  My studio apartment, to an astonishing degree, is a microcosm of my life. To look at it, even once, is to understand me. It is one small room, plus a tiny bathroom and kitchen. The only window looks out on a ten-foot-wide interior airshaft, and because I am on the second floor, it is covered by a heavy-duty security gate. The space is dominated by the queen-sized bed I bought in anticipation of adopting Tuesday, with only a few feet to walk on each side. My desk is in the corner, between my bookshelves and my dresser, but there is no sofa or lounge chair. There is no space, and no need. Sofas are for guests, and I have had few social visitors to my apartment. I don’t even have a kitchen table. Most of my life is spent on my bed, with either a laptop or a book and, of course, Tuesday.

  I’ve known some soldiers to leave the Army and become slobs, vowing never to make their bed again with a military fold. I am exactly the opposite. I may have left the Army, but the Army never left me. I still make my bed every morning with a military fold, the corners of the sheets and blankets creased and tucked. I still coil and store my socks in combat rolls. I align my books neatly. I put my laptop back in the center of my desk. I keep my medals in neatly bound rows, right on the corner of my dresser. I sweep the apartment every few days (it’s only a hundred square feet) and roll a lint brush over my bedspread to pick up unsightly dog hairs. This is partly because of my mother, who has always been obsessive-compulsive about cleaning. But it is also discipline and pride, two virtues that the Army instilled in me and I have always cherished.

  Despite these efforts, Tuesday is everywhere. He is there in the dog bowls on the kitchen floor, and the oversized tennis ball with the thick rope sticking out each side (which he never puts away, the filthy slob). My night table, under which Tuesday sometimes curls on a blanket to nap, is a large dog kennel with the door ripped off. Tuesday’s three red service dog vests hang from pegs like an art installation on the wall behind my front door. I have pictures of golden retrievers stuck in the frame of my mirror, but they aren’t pictures of Tuesday; they’re just cards from friends and family who know how much he means to me. I have hundreds of pictures of Tuesday in my camera and computer, but the only ones in the apartment hang in the bathroom. I don’t know why. I guess even in my moment of privacy, I want to know Tuesday is there.

  We spend much of our lives in here, Tuesday and I, relaxing on the bed, playing tug-of-war with socks, holding long grooming sessions late into the evening. One morning, while making the bed, I threw the covers over his head, then held them down. I thought it was a joke, but Tuesday thrashed madly, and when I released the blanket a few seconds later he shot out, rolled onto the floor and stood looking at me in a wide stance, panting like he’d just survived a cat attack or an atomic bomb. He stared at me for a minute, as I tried to apologize, then slunk off for a refreshing lap at his water bowl. Ten minutes late
r, he was back by my side. I don’t have a television, but that morning I let him watch all the YouTube videos he wanted: dog popping a room full of balloons, dog riding a skateboard, dog accidentally falling into a lake, dog pulling a little girl’s pants down at her birthday party. He loved them all.

  I guess I forgot how much he truly hated the blanket trick, though, because a few mornings later I did it again. Tuesday came out of the covers like a scalded cat, huffing and crazy-eyed. He paced the apartment for a few minutes, clearly angry, then lapped down a bowl of water and plopped down in my tiny bathroom, the only private place in our one-room home. It took dog videos and horse videos on YouTube to soothe him that time. Since then, he always darts into the bathroom when I make the bed and peeks his head out to watch for me. Ah well, such is life with a dog.

  I soothe him with, among other things, mornings in the mulch-covered dog run a few blocks away in Morningside Park. Tuesday loves it not only for its freedom, I think, but for the bizarreness of its characters. Most of the dogs just run circles, but there are definite archetypes. The Odd Couple are the toy poodle and the rottweiler, who can never get enough of each other. A Westie named Louis, owned by an older British woman whose reserved classiness puts us all to shame, is the Humper. That dog would hump a popsicle until it melted, and then he’d hump the stick. Tuesday patiently but firmly nudges Louis away from his back legs, again and again, but sometimes when Louis is too persistent, Tuesday gives me an exasperated look, as if to say, Hey, alpha dog, can you do something about this? So I get up and push Louis to the other side of the dog run, then limp back to my bench before he starts humping my cane.

  The purple-eyed giant poodle is the Cute One. Two Yorkies who do nothing but chase a ball and argue with each other are the Bachelor Brothers. Sidney, a Chihuahua-dachshund mix, is the Smart One. (He happens to be the Funny-Looking One, too.) I love smart dogs, so Sidney and I are buddies. When he comes tearing toward me on his impossibly small legs, I can’t help but laugh, much to Tuesday’s displeasure. He’s jealous of Sidney, I can tell. As soon as I pick up the little stubby-legged Chihua-shund (or Dach-hua, if you prefer), my big golden retriever comes running.