Walter Reed's World of Hurt, Hope

Shriver himself has more than two decades in the Army and two tours as a combat surgeon. At 47, he could retire tomorrow. The reason he stays: As long as the conflict drags on, and the buses from Andrews return with their damaged cargo, he feels an obligation "to finish the job."

The last several years at Walter Reed have been the most demanding of his career. They've also been among the most humbling and rewarding. He marvels at the soldiers' attitude, their gratitude, their perseverance.

"What this has taught me is, our youngest generation is magnificent," he says.

It has renewed his faith in America.

By 10:40 in the morning, Solomon Montgomery is halfway through a set of balance exercises with 20-year-old Pfc. Daniel Perry of Somers, Conn.

"Move the top of your body," he says. "Give it a good stretch."

Bluish traces of shrapnel dot the left half of the soldier's pale face, betraying the blast that left him unconscious in an Iraqi bunker 27 days earlier. Perry met Montgomery when he was barely able to stand, unable to walk, incapable of following all but the simplest commands and angry and confused. He tried to kick the big guy, more than twice his size and age.

"Looks like this boy is going to be fun to work with," Montgomery responded cheerfully.

His PT unit focuses on those with traumatic brain injury. Before the war, it didn't exist. No need for it.

"I didn't realize what I was getting into," concedes Montgomery, a civilian employee who came to Walter Reed in 2000. During their time together, he has watched Perry make steady progress. Other patients have not. Two years ago, he was assigned a brain-injured soldier in his early twenties, a father of three whose youngest child had just been born. The man could neither hold nor see his baby: He had lost both arms and his eyesight.

Montgomery drove home that afternoon and went to bed. He stayed home the next day. He couldn't go to work; he couldn't even get out of bed. The tragedy seemed too overwhelming.

He has since found deeper reservoirs of strength -- his church in Brandywine, his Bible study group, his high school daughter, who senses when to ask, "Daddy, is the war bothering you again?" The war has brought them closer. The war, in fact, "has helped me grow to be a better man."

He pauses. There is more.

"It's made me realize how precious life is," he says, "and the price you pay for freedom."