Tom Kovach
Blood Brothers
An evening with author Michael Weisskopf
By Tom Kovach
There is a new book on the market, and it tells a compelling story. Actually, it tells several compelling stories. And, in the process, those stories explain the stories of thousands of other people whose stories might never make it to the printed page.
The book is called Blood Brothers — among the soldiers of Ward 57. It tells the story of lifelong journalist Michael Weisskopf, who was on an assignment to cover the war in Iraq for Time magazine. In fact, he was working on Time's annual "person of the year" cover story. That year, the person of the year was not a single individual; instead, it was "The American Soldier".
The book had only been on the market a couple of weeks when Mr. Weisskopf came to Nashville for a book-signing event at our centerpiece Main Library, downtown. Only a day or two earlier, I had read a brief commentary about the book. The title got my attention right away, because I had spent six weeks in Ward 57 after a high-speed parachute malfunction. I called the RSVP phone number. The publicist offered, and later provided, a personal meeting with Mr. Weisskopf. The book-signing event included a reception, a presentation by the author, a Q&A period, and then the signing.
In order to avoid stealing the book's thunder, this column will only tell the bare minimum about the story. On the evening of 10 December 2003, Weisskopf and his photographer, Jim Nachtwey, were riding in the back of a Humvee through the streets of Al-Adhamiya, Iraq. They were embedded with a platoon of the US Army's 1st Armored Division. The platoon's mission that night was to draw fire from Iraqi insurgents. In the parlance of Operation Iraqi Freedom, that was a "routine" mission.
From page 7 of the book: "At first, I thought it was a rock, the specialty of street urchins — a harmless shot against an armored Humvee. But, the clanking sound that interrupted my thoughts couldn't be ignored." Instead of a rock, a homemade grenade had landed in the back of the vehicle. Weisskopf instinctively picked it up to get rid of it, but it exploded before he could fully accomplish that task. It blew off his hand: his right hand, his writing hand. But, he had saved the other occupants of the vehicle.
That single moment set off a chain of events that became a compelling book that offers an inside look into life — and death, and the awful Twilight Zone between them — in the Iraq War, and in the aftermath of being in that war zone. Instinctively, in the immediate wake of the explosion, experienced combat photographer Nachtwey took two pictures of Weisskopf's mangled arm. One of those photos was included in the Time story. The other, considered too gory for publication, is posted above the desk in his office. It reminds him, and others, that tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Michael Weisskopf thus became the first civilian reporter to ever be admitted as a patient in Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He spent three months as an in-patient, followed by 18 months as a daily out-patient from his DC-area home. He spent that time in Ward 57, the ward reserved for amputees. (In 1989, at the time of my stay in Ward 57, it was the Orthopedic Ward — which included, but was not exclusively for, amputees. The change in the ward's focus has to do with the types of injuries incurred by our counter-insurgency operations in Iraq. The indiscriminant use of Improvised Explosive Devices [IEDs] in proximity to the civilian population has greatly increased the portion of combat amputees, as compared to prior wars.)
The book, Blood Brothers, details Weisskopf's recoveries — physical and emotional. Both of those are "works in progress," by his own presentation. The book also details the bonds that he developed with three other patients: young soldiers who had limbs amputated as a result of various injuries while on duty. Weisskopf explained that, at first, some of the soldiers in Ward 57 thought — because of his gray hair — that he was "a colonel or something." When they found out that he was a civilian journalist, it opened up some interesting dialogues. Buy the book, and read the details for yourself.
Here are some of Michael Weisskopf's comments, and my reactions, from his evening in Nashville.
connections...
At the time of the incident, Weisskopf had 35 years in the journalistic profession. He was the son of "a workaholic Chicago newspaperman, who dropped dead of a heart attack" when he was a young child. (My father died in my arms of a heart attack, prompted by medication interaction, when I was 14 years old.) Michael Weisskopf had started his career as a writer in the Chicago area, and then wrote for three years for The Montgomery Advertiser in Montgomery, Alabama. (I used to read the Advertiser when stationed, for three years, at Maxwell AFB, in Montgomery.) Weisskopf had always wanted to be a writer. (When I was young, I had wanted to be a soldier, and then become a writer when I got too old to be a soldier anymore.) Michael Weisskopf is respected by his profession as a man gifted with words. (People that know me say that I'm "a wordy guy.") When we met in person, though, neither of us was very conversational. It was as though we didn't need to be. I described enough physical details of Ward 57 for him to know that I was not a faker. After that, it was just a few "short bursts" of words. Later, he got on stage for his presentation.
The first striking commentary, of many, was his description of the incident, and of the thoughts that went through his mind at the time. Some of those thoughts had to actually be reconstructed later, during psychotherapy at Walter Reed. That is not uncommon for people that have suffered traumatic events, especially if the events go beyond what makes sense to the everyday mind. (e.g.: his hand was there a moment earlier...) In describing his instinctive reaction to grab the unidentified object that had landed near him, Weisskopf said, "There was no protracted thinking, no 'cost-benefit analysis.' I just reacted."
When asked by an audience member what was the most important thing that he got from his experiences after the attack, Weisskopf said, "The rest of my life — a prize worth pursuing."
Another audience member asked Mr. Weisskopf how he has been changed by the experiences, and especially by reliving them via writing the book. He answered, "The book has 'ruined me' as a journalist, in a sense, because I wrote it from the heart, and not from my mind."
There were a few more questions, and then Mr. Weisskopf got on his soapbox for a few moments. He spoke of achievements and regrets. He summed it up by saying, "Life is made up of moments. I realized that, in a single moment, my life could've been snuffed out." He went on to encourage everyone to savor every moment possible: time spent with spouse and/or children, friends, hobbies, reading, etc.
Based on the comment about his life being snuffed out, I asked whether there was any indication that his injuries, although severe, could've been any worse. He replied that, yes, his injuries could've been much worse if he had not been wearing body armor.
After the presentation, Michael Weisskopf sat at a table in the reception room and signed books. His publicist was kind enough to move me to the head of the line, because I had to leave to attend a taping session at a TV news studio. (To tape a 60-second answer to the question, "What should America do in Iraq?" Ah, politics. We'll watch a ball game for three hours, but want politicians to solve a sticky ethnic war in one minute.) At first, I winced while watching him autograph my book with his remaining natural hand. The writing was slow, awkward, and hesitant. Then, I thought about how he must've written, perhaps with lightning speed, for more than 35 years with the other hand. That's a lot of habit to transfer to the other side of one's body. Silently, I prayed for his continued recovery. Then, I read the inscription.
Like the brief, stilted conversation between normally wordy men, I knew that everything would be alright in the long run — just as I'm now able to walk normally (most of the time) after having been folded in half backwards while three thousand feet above the ground. The inscription read, "To a fellow Ward 57 warrior." Hoo-yah!
© Tom Kovach
There is a new book on the market, and it tells a compelling story. Actually, it tells several compelling stories. And, in the process, those stories explain the stories of thousands of other people whose stories might never make it to the printed page.
The book is called Blood Brothers — among the soldiers of Ward 57. It tells the story of lifelong journalist Michael Weisskopf, who was on an assignment to cover the war in Iraq for Time magazine. In fact, he was working on Time's annual "person of the year" cover story. That year, the person of the year was not a single individual; instead, it was "The American Soldier".
The book had only been on the market a couple of weeks when Mr. Weisskopf came to Nashville for a book-signing event at our centerpiece Main Library, downtown. Only a day or two earlier, I had read a brief commentary about the book. The title got my attention right away, because I had spent six weeks in Ward 57 after a high-speed parachute malfunction. I called the RSVP phone number. The publicist offered, and later provided, a personal meeting with Mr. Weisskopf. The book-signing event included a reception, a presentation by the author, a Q&A period, and then the signing.
In order to avoid stealing the book's thunder, this column will only tell the bare minimum about the story. On the evening of 10 December 2003, Weisskopf and his photographer, Jim Nachtwey, were riding in the back of a Humvee through the streets of Al-Adhamiya, Iraq. They were embedded with a platoon of the US Army's 1st Armored Division. The platoon's mission that night was to draw fire from Iraqi insurgents. In the parlance of Operation Iraqi Freedom, that was a "routine" mission.
From page 7 of the book: "At first, I thought it was a rock, the specialty of street urchins — a harmless shot against an armored Humvee. But, the clanking sound that interrupted my thoughts couldn't be ignored." Instead of a rock, a homemade grenade had landed in the back of the vehicle. Weisskopf instinctively picked it up to get rid of it, but it exploded before he could fully accomplish that task. It blew off his hand: his right hand, his writing hand. But, he had saved the other occupants of the vehicle.
That single moment set off a chain of events that became a compelling book that offers an inside look into life — and death, and the awful Twilight Zone between them — in the Iraq War, and in the aftermath of being in that war zone. Instinctively, in the immediate wake of the explosion, experienced combat photographer Nachtwey took two pictures of Weisskopf's mangled arm. One of those photos was included in the Time story. The other, considered too gory for publication, is posted above the desk in his office. It reminds him, and others, that tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Michael Weisskopf thus became the first civilian reporter to ever be admitted as a patient in Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He spent three months as an in-patient, followed by 18 months as a daily out-patient from his DC-area home. He spent that time in Ward 57, the ward reserved for amputees. (In 1989, at the time of my stay in Ward 57, it was the Orthopedic Ward — which included, but was not exclusively for, amputees. The change in the ward's focus has to do with the types of injuries incurred by our counter-insurgency operations in Iraq. The indiscriminant use of Improvised Explosive Devices [IEDs] in proximity to the civilian population has greatly increased the portion of combat amputees, as compared to prior wars.)
The book, Blood Brothers, details Weisskopf's recoveries — physical and emotional. Both of those are "works in progress," by his own presentation. The book also details the bonds that he developed with three other patients: young soldiers who had limbs amputated as a result of various injuries while on duty. Weisskopf explained that, at first, some of the soldiers in Ward 57 thought — because of his gray hair — that he was "a colonel or something." When they found out that he was a civilian journalist, it opened up some interesting dialogues. Buy the book, and read the details for yourself.
Here are some of Michael Weisskopf's comments, and my reactions, from his evening in Nashville.
connections...
At the time of the incident, Weisskopf had 35 years in the journalistic profession. He was the son of "a workaholic Chicago newspaperman, who dropped dead of a heart attack" when he was a young child. (My father died in my arms of a heart attack, prompted by medication interaction, when I was 14 years old.) Michael Weisskopf had started his career as a writer in the Chicago area, and then wrote for three years for The Montgomery Advertiser in Montgomery, Alabama. (I used to read the Advertiser when stationed, for three years, at Maxwell AFB, in Montgomery.) Weisskopf had always wanted to be a writer. (When I was young, I had wanted to be a soldier, and then become a writer when I got too old to be a soldier anymore.) Michael Weisskopf is respected by his profession as a man gifted with words. (People that know me say that I'm "a wordy guy.") When we met in person, though, neither of us was very conversational. It was as though we didn't need to be. I described enough physical details of Ward 57 for him to know that I was not a faker. After that, it was just a few "short bursts" of words. Later, he got on stage for his presentation.
The first striking commentary, of many, was his description of the incident, and of the thoughts that went through his mind at the time. Some of those thoughts had to actually be reconstructed later, during psychotherapy at Walter Reed. That is not uncommon for people that have suffered traumatic events, especially if the events go beyond what makes sense to the everyday mind. (e.g.: his hand was there a moment earlier...) In describing his instinctive reaction to grab the unidentified object that had landed near him, Weisskopf said, "There was no protracted thinking, no 'cost-benefit analysis.' I just reacted."
When asked by an audience member what was the most important thing that he got from his experiences after the attack, Weisskopf said, "The rest of my life — a prize worth pursuing."
Another audience member asked Mr. Weisskopf how he has been changed by the experiences, and especially by reliving them via writing the book. He answered, "The book has 'ruined me' as a journalist, in a sense, because I wrote it from the heart, and not from my mind."
There were a few more questions, and then Mr. Weisskopf got on his soapbox for a few moments. He spoke of achievements and regrets. He summed it up by saying, "Life is made up of moments. I realized that, in a single moment, my life could've been snuffed out." He went on to encourage everyone to savor every moment possible: time spent with spouse and/or children, friends, hobbies, reading, etc.
Based on the comment about his life being snuffed out, I asked whether there was any indication that his injuries, although severe, could've been any worse. He replied that, yes, his injuries could've been much worse if he had not been wearing body armor.
After the presentation, Michael Weisskopf sat at a table in the reception room and signed books. His publicist was kind enough to move me to the head of the line, because I had to leave to attend a taping session at a TV news studio. (To tape a 60-second answer to the question, "What should America do in Iraq?" Ah, politics. We'll watch a ball game for three hours, but want politicians to solve a sticky ethnic war in one minute.) At first, I winced while watching him autograph my book with his remaining natural hand. The writing was slow, awkward, and hesitant. Then, I thought about how he must've written, perhaps with lightning speed, for more than 35 years with the other hand. That's a lot of habit to transfer to the other side of one's body. Silently, I prayed for his continued recovery. Then, I read the inscription.
Like the brief, stilted conversation between normally wordy men, I knew that everything would be alright in the long run — just as I'm now able to walk normally (most of the time) after having been folded in half backwards while three thousand feet above the ground. The inscription read, "To a fellow Ward 57 warrior." Hoo-yah!
© Tom Kovach
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