Miracles at Walter Reed

After so many years, why type this story now? Read on.

By Tom Kovach

A little background is needed to begin this story. I've lived a blessed life. Despite hardships and struggles, I've enjoyed blessings far beyond what I "deserve" by earthly standards. When I was a boy — inspired by the deeds of history, and by the song "The Ballad of the Green Berets" — I decided that I wanted to become a soldier. Then, when I was too old to do that anymore, I wanted to become a writer. By the grace of God, I've done both.

This column goes a little longer than average. Despite its length, and the level of detail, I've left out some notable points from this column version. To read the complete story, you'll need to wait for the book version.

If there is a recurring theme to my life, it is best typified by the story of David vs. Goliath. That is why my first book (a collection of investigative columns) is called Slingshot. For more than twenty years, people have told me to write an autobiography. It's in the works, and the title will be Five Smooth Stones. Why? When David crossed the creek to fight Goliath, the Bible specifically mentions that he stopped to pick up five smooth stones. (Now, here's the essence of the book...) Most people think that he simply grabbed a handful of stones, so that he wouldn't miss. Not so! A deeper reading of the books of the Kings and the Chronicles reveals that Goliath had four sons! David wasn't hedging his bets in case he missed with the first shot. David was planning to kill five giants that day! But, the Bible also says that, when Goliath fell, the entire Philistine army ran away. That included the four sons of Goliath. (Don't worry. David eventually killed the other four, in four different battles.)

giant pain

I've always loved adventure. That led me into the Air Force. My original goal was to become a Pararescueman — the EMT-trained commandos that jump into hostile territory to rescue downed pilots, etc. (They wear a maroon beret, and were featured in the movie "Air Force One," which starred Harrison Ford.) Although I wasn't tough enough for the PJ selection process, I was able to go into the Security Police. After my combat training, I was awarded a blue beret. At two different bases (one Stateside, one in Korea), I was the ranking member of an SP Emergency Services Team. They are the local counter-terrorist unit — the Air Force's SWAT teams.

The Air Force gave me opportunities to do many of the things that I had aspired to as a boy. Besides rappelling down cliffs and buildings, navigating through forests and swamps, becoming skillful with various weapons, and practicing the martial arts, I got to do the one thing that had inspired me to join in the first place: jump out of moving aircraft. I learned to "close last" in a freefall formation, and have landed within inches of a six-inch target disc after freefalling from thousands of feet up. My peers said that I was "pretty good." That's why I was not expecting what happened one afternoon in October of 1985.

After nearly ten years of active duty, I had recently left the Air Force and joined the Air National Guard at a base in Upstate New York. But, I made arrangements to keep up my parachuting skills by jumping at West Point. They had two drop zones then, and I had jumped at both of them. But, one day, things just didn't go right.

At previous bases, I had jumped with "piggyback" rigs — both parachutes are in a dual pack on one's back. There was a grumpy jumpmaster at West Point, and he issued me a chest-mounted reserve system. I had used this old-fashioned system for static-line jumps during training, but not in freefall. I specifically asked him if there was anything special that I needed to know. His memorable reply, "Naw ... just get up there and jump."

What the jumpmaster failed to tell me was that, on this rig, it is important to pull the main ripcord handle perpendicular to one's body. I was accustomed to pulling the ripcord "down and out" on the piggyback rigs. In a few minutes after that exchange with the jumpmaster (he was later booted from the Army for cocaine distribution), I would discover just how important that little detail really was.

On a clear and brisk afternoon, more than ten thousand feet above the Lower Hudson Valley, we could see the World Trade Center and the glimmer of New York Harbor — more than 30 miles away, as the crow flies — from the open doors of the UH-1 "Huey" helicopter. The hills were awash with the full colors of the autumn leaves. My goal on this jump was to "close" on a less-experienced jumper. We had "dirt dived" the plan. We would both get stable at terminal velocity (about 120 mph), he would give me a thumbs-up, and then I would close in on him. We would link arms, let go, each drift back from the other about ten feet while keeping eye contact, perform one flat spin, link arms again. Then, we would let go, turn away from each other, "track out" for a few seconds, and then open our parachutes 3,000 feet above the Lake Frederick drop zone. That might seem like a lot of stuff to do while falling out of the sky, but it is a fairly simple maneuver for experienced freefall jumpers. The eye contact and the thumbs-up were confidence builders for "the new guy."

Everything went great, just as we had planned. We "broke off," and then "tracked out." (Tracking is when a jumper pins his arms to his side in a special position, increasing lateral speed. "Tracking out" is how jumpers prevent becoming entangled in each other's parachutes after freefalling in formation. From the ground view, it produces the "starburst" that spectators see while watching the Army's Golden Knights or the Navy's 'Chuting Stars.) I tracked out, made the "arch count," looked at the ripcord handle, and gave it the usual down and out pull. Then, it happened. The incident that changed my life took less than two seconds.

Because I did not know to pull the main ripcord handle perpendicular, and because I was not told that the chest-mounted reserve rotates upward in the wind of freefall (especially when the arms come in for the "pull sequence"), the main ripcord handle hit the reserve ripcord handle on the way out of its pocket. In a split-second, I knew that something didn't feel right. Then, I saw a blurred image of the chest-mounted reserve pack opening — literally right before my eyes. Even as the rapidly-opening reserve canopy hit me in the face, I was still in the midst of the standard opening routine. One step is to look at your right hand, to ensure that the ripcord is there. (If it isn't, then it's definitely time to find it.) As I looked at my right hand, and heard the sudden pop of the reserve canopy opening (it is designed to open much faster than the main canopy), I saw the calf of my leg fly past my forearm. I knew that this would not be a good day.

The normal procedure for deploying that type of reserve is to assume a "sitting position" in the sky. But, because I had not intended to deploy the reserve, I was still in the normal freefall position: face-to-earth. Thus, when the reserve did what it's designed to do, it stopped my freefall with such force that I got folded in half backwards around the belly band that holds the reserve pack. A split-second later, the main canopy opened. The suspension lines tugged the risers at my shoulders, and I was pulled upright again. That second "opening shock" was much less violent — partly because the main is designed to open more slowly, and partly because of the "drogue effect" of the reserve canopy that was already out. That second opening shock pulled me back upright. In retrospect, it kept me from hanging there in that folded-back position. That second opening shock was the first in a series of miracles. It kept me from already being a paraplegic by the time I landed on the ground.

My troubles were not yet over. While still in a state of mental shock from the sudden bad turn of events, I had to look up and make sure that my canopy was fully inflated. But, there were two inflated canopies above my head. And, because of its built-in "forward drive," my Dash-1-Bravo round main canopy was beginning to slowly turn a circle around the reserve canopy. I had to get rid of the main now, or it would wrap around the reserve like a vine around a mailbox. If that happened, both parachutes would collapse, and I would go back into freefall, thus hitting the ground at more than 100 miles per hour. I reached up to my shoulders, flipped open the covers, put my thumbs into the Capewell release latches, said a very fast prayer, and pulled — hard and fast. (If both of the Capewells are not pulled simultaneously, then one side of the main risers will not release. It will then become impossible to release it, due to all the weight being on one side.) The second miracle occurred: despite the pain and confusion of my injury, the main canopy released successfully, and drifted off into the woods above Lake Frederick.

The reserve landing was normal. But, I was a half-mile away from the truck. I stood up, looked to see if anyone was coming to check on me, and realized that they were not. I field-packed the reserve, and carried it back to the truck. I knew that I was hurt, but had no idea how badly. It had all happened so fast. My adrenaline had gone into overdrive, and was keeping the pain at bay. The best comparison is that I knew what the quarterback felt like after being sacked in a football game. Although I was quite sore, I functioned for the remainder of the day. But, the next morning, I couldn't move my legs.

A lot happened in the wake of that injury. There are stories within stories. But, the essence of this story is what happened during my stay at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, DC. I had been sent there, instead of to an Air Force hospital, for two reasons. First, the Air National Guard base to which I was assigned did not have its own hospital. For anything above what their clinic could handle, people were sent to Keller Army Hospital at West Point. Once there, though, the doctors kept me in the Army system, because their doctors have more experience with parachute injuries.

Upon arrival in a four-man room in the Orthopedic Ward, the man at the opposite end of the room was the first to greet me. He was a Green Beret, and had experienced the exact same type of malfunction during a jump in another country. When his buddies picked him up off the ground, he had two skid marks on the back of his helmet. Those marks were made by his boots! During the six weeks that I was assigned to that room, six of the eight men that rotated through were there for parachute injuries. (One captain was a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division, but had injured his back while weightlifting. The other was a retired major, who was there for a knee replacement.) All of the spinal injuries were destined for "fusion" surgery: the insertion of two parallel steel rods, held in place by screws driven into the adjacent vertebrae. I don't scare easily, but that scared me.

Being assigned to strict bed rest in an orthopedic ward can either drive one stir-crazy, or give one an opportunity for a lot of reading. The guy next to me, in Bed 3, was a PsyOps specialist. He spent much of the day listening to heavy-metal music, and bragging about how he could drive people crazy. He was right. But, he snoozed a lot from the morphine (he was already post-op), which gave the rest of us some peace. I used his naptime to catch up on my Bible reading.

The pain in my legs was phenomenal. My L-5 vertebra was broken in two places, and was out of alignment with the rest of my spine. The disc was herniated, and put 30 percent compression on the sciatic nerves. Have you ever backed up to a campfire to warm up, but got much too close? Imagine that feeling, from your lower back to the bottoms of your feet, 24 hours per day. And, the bottoms of your feet feel like someone hit them with a hammer. When I compared my situation to the crucifixion of Jesus — who had direct compression on the nerves in both carpal tunnels and both feet, with His full body weight hung upon rough steel spikes that hit those nerves — my medical situation made clear just how much He had paid in agony for my sins.

Jacob had wrestled with the angel of God, and had made a bargain. I decided to make a bargain with God. "Lord," I prayed, "if you get me out of this pain by Your hand, then I'll tell the story at every opportunity, so that You get the glory." One of my favorite sayings is from a preacher to whose radio program I've often listened. Dr. Charles Stanley said, "Pray as though it all depends on God, and then work as though it all depends on you." Between the two, you are likely to succeed. Having been trained as a scuba diver, I asked my doctor (the chief neurosurgical resident of Walter Reed at that time) if I could go to the building next door and participate in an ongoing scuba class in the pool to exercise my back. He said that it couldn't hurt, and gave his approval. The instructor thought it a novel approach, and (after some skills testing) allowed me to use an extra scuba rig to work out independently on the other side of the pool. According to the schedule, my back would be operated upon two weeks later. The better the muscle tone, the better the surgical recovery. Scuba diving is great for muscle tone. I had four sessions in the pool with the tanks on, walking on the bottom with weights around my ankles, and it seemed to strengthen my back.

giant miracles

After two weeks of mostly bed rest (augmented by the scuba sessions), I was sent for the pre-op tests. These consisted of a myelogram (spinal tap) and a CT scan. Thank God, they had begun to use local anesthetic by that time, because I've heard about the excruciating pain of an old-fashioned spinal tap. The plan was to extract fluid from my spine, and then inject an iodine dye that would provide better contrast for the CT scan images. As I was hunched forward on the special table, with a huge needle sticking out of my back, the big miracle happened. The doctor used the needle to suck the fluid out of my spine. As he did, I suddenly declared, "Doctor, my legs don't hurt anymore!"

He replied, "That's just the anesthetic." I said, "No, doctor, I can feel my legs. They just don't hurt anymore." He mumbled some big medical words, with a tone of strong doubt in his voice. Then, I was rolled down the hall for the CT scan.

After the dye is injected, there is a danger that the iodine can travel up the spinal column to the brain. If it does, then it produces a "spinal migraine." That happened to me, and I was continuously dizzy for two weeks until my body eliminated the last of the iodine. At some point toward the end of that period, I had an unusual episode. I was awakened from a nap by a pain like I had never experienced before. It felt as though my head would explode, and my dizziness got even worse. I pushed the call button for the nurse. The charge nurse ran down the hall after I described my symptoms over the intercom. She asked a rapid series of questions, and then shined a light in my eyes. The look on her face told me that there was no reaction in my right pupil. Another nurse had come in by then, and the charge nurse had a rapid-fire conversation with him in urgent whispers. He ran from the room. I passed out.

Sometime the next day, I woke up. My doctor was standing over me. He asked how I was feeling, and I said, "Much better." The headache and dizziness were gone, and I was hungry. "Good," he said. "Come to my office at 1400 hours." He left the room.

It actually took a few more days before we were able to have that conversation. A brain surgeon in the most famous military hospital in the world (the hospital where the president of the United States has a permanent suite) can be a pretty busy person. Various emergencies delayed our meeting. Eventually, in his office, the doctor told me that, while I was unconscious I had presented all the symptoms of a cerebral aneurysm. "A lot of people that get one of those are dead before they hit the ground," he explained. "Yours just went away ... all by itself." I blurted, "Thank God." He paused for a moment, but said nothing.

Next, he put up a set of X-ray films on the light box on the wall. He said, "Here is your spine before you came to Walter Reed. The vertebra is pushed forward, the disc is herniated 30 percent, pinching the sciatic nerves here and here." I replied, "Yes, doctor, I'm familiar with that. I hear it in the presentation to the interns every morning at 0530." The doctor put up a second set of films, and turned on the other light box. "Here is your spine during your CT scan two weeks ago. The disc looks normal, and there is a clear space around your sciatic nerves." I replied, "Well, that would explain why my legs don't hurt anymore."

The doctor stared straight into my eyes, and had an expression of anger. It was the look of the "bad cop" during a tag-team interrogation. Only, I did not sense one bit of theatrics in his face. Was he trying to press me for the "truth," or was he genuinely angry? I did not know. Out of his throat came words in a guttural growl, "It is physically impossible for a disc to be manipulated back into place. What happened?!"

I thought to myself, "You're the chief neurosurgical resident of Walter Reed, and you're asking me?" I dared not to even think it too loudly. Then, with scarcely a thought, these words from Scripture came from my mouth. "Doctor, with man this is impossible. With God, all things are possible." His look was crestfallen. There really wasn't anything else to say. He stood there, silently. This was a gifted, articulate man, with whom I'd had several spirited conversations. He was quick-witted and sardonic. Yet, there he was at a loss for words. I walked out of his office ... normally.

I remained at Walter Reed for two more weeks, mostly for observation. (Apparently, despite having showed me the proof himself, the doctor wanted to make sure that my spine was really healed.) An odd thing was discovered while I was there, due to a continuing pain in the bottom of one foot. It turned out that I had developed some arthritis in that foot, from dragging it around behind me. (One sciatic nerve was pinched more than the other. Thus, I often had to drag the worse leg behind me at an odd angle.) The neurosurgeon sent me to a podiatrist. He did something to my foot that made it click like an old, manual typewriter. Then, he prescribed some pills. My foot already began to feel better after he had manipulated it, and the pills had an effect within a day or two. By that weekend, I was out on a "day pass," and I danced at the annual festival of a Greek Orthodox parish near the hospital.

During that final two weeks, I went out on several day passes. I got to know my way around the DC area. I walked to a Korean restaurant in nearby Silver Spring on several occasions, and enjoyed conversations (in Korean) with the staff there. I rode the Metro trains, ran after buses, and took the guided walking tour of The Pentagon. (Another of the many American jewels stolen by the terrorists in the "9-11" attacks.) There was no doubt that my ability to walk normally had been restored — miraculously, without surgery. Before I left, my medical records were annotated to explain — as well as medical terms could — that my spine was healed. The annotation ended, in military succinctness, with the two words that were proof of the extent of the healing: "worldwide deployable." God had answered my request for a bargain.

In the many years that have passed since then, God has been good to me through good times and bad. Despite an accident that could've crippled me for life, I returned to full military duty. After my Air Force career, I've worked as an insurance salesman (walking door-to-door), a machine repairman (lifting batteries that weighed 120 pounds each), a postal clerk (tossing bundles of magazines all night long), and a horse wrangler on two different ranches ... among other things. Yes, I've had some problems with my back during those years. Arthritis has appeared, and the disks are not what they used to be. But, if someone should ask skeptically if those facts negate the validity of my story of divine healing, I would simply tell that person, "Hey, even Lazarus eventually died again."

giant task

Over the years, God has given me many opportunities to tell this story. I have never told it in a broadcast, despite having been a talk-radio junkie since my youth. (My signature "gung-ho greetings" identify me as G. Gordon Liddy's most loyal caller.) Despite having been active at church wherever I've lived around the country, I have also never told this story before a large group. Up until typing this column, this story has mostly been told one-on-one. (On rare occasions, there has been more than one person present — such as around a family dinner table.) I do not seek opportunities to tell this story. But, when I sense an opportunity for the story to encourage someone, then I tell it. God provides those opportunities. He opens the doors; I merely walk through them. He has honored His end of the bargain; so, I do not shirk my end of it — not even when telling the story has subjected me to ridicule. (And, it has!)

giant opportunity

So, why have I typed this story for publication now? Simple. The news media is having a field day smudging the name of Walter Reed Army Medical Center. It makes me sick every time I hear it. (For that reason, I have purposely not read the details about the unsanitary conditions alleged at Building 18 of the Walter Reed complex. Even if true and not exaggerated, I'm sure that the stories are driven by someone's political agenda.) During my stay in the now-famous Ward 57, the conditions were spotless, the staff was magnificent, and even the food was pretty good. (It was the only hospital that I've ever known to serve the Korean dish bulgogi; and, they did a pretty good job with it.) Like many civilian hospitals, the staff faces difficult situations on a daily basis. Unlike civilian hospitals, the staff at Walter Reed knows that the most serious injuries were usually done to their patients on purpose. That element makes the injuries all the more heart wrenching.

Not every patient at Walter Reed is divinely healed. I certainly cannot explain why God chose me. It was not my bargaining skills, and it certainly was not any lack of sin. The only reason that makes any sense to me is simply that ... well, He is God, and He can do as He pleases.

When lining up all the aspects of human history from beginning to end, God made it a point that one of the four people to write the Gospel stories would be a physician. God created the human mind to be smart enough to handle all the knowledge required of doctors and other medical professionals. He also gave the human mind enough wisdom to use that knowledge in ways that heal people ... and families. Those are two examples of the "everyday miracles" that take place all around us. I've been near death several times, and try to notice those everyday miracles every day — because tomorrow is not guaranteed.

So, as all the negative allegations continue to spread, accompanied by Congressional bombast about oversight and budget cuts, I would simply remind our elected officials that a lot of miracles still take place every day at Walter Reed.

© Tom Kovach