Battle Worn

(Mike Smith)

One subject prompts a more animated response, though, rousing him to noticeable anger: the U.S. Army.

Like any member of the armed forces injured in the line of duty and no longer able to serve, Twohig has been grappling with a complicated disability system that determines whether he merits military retirement. Thousands of other soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines are dealing with the same process. With U.S. troops still in Afghanistan and the war in Iraq entering its fourth year, the annual caseload of troops injured severely enough to be considered for retirement has climbed nearly 53 percent since 2001, to about 23,000 a year. The great majority don't get it, which has made the disability system the object of confusion, apprehension and suspicion among injured veterans and their advocates.

In Twohig's case, an Army Physical Evaluation Board ruled in 2005 that he wasn't disabled enough to qualify, a decision that deprived his wife and children of health insurance through him. He and his family have been battling the finding since.

To Twohig, the fight is based not only on finances but also on principles. He enlisted; he trained; he followed every order "to a T," he says. He paid the price, and now it feels as though the Army is abandoning him.

"I have a son, and I wouldn't let him join the Army," Twohig announces, agitated. "They don't really care about soldiers. They got their mission, and if you're hurt, oh, well."

His voice tightens: "After we're no good to them, they just get rid of us."

RICHARD TWOHIG REMEMBERS LITTLE ABOUT HIS TIME IN IRAQ. His commanding officer, Capt. (now Maj.) Jeffrey Burgoyne, says that Bravo Company saw "a lot of firefights" in Fallujah and other towns as it made its way to Baghdad in late April 2003. But what Twohig can summon up from Iraq aren't battles but the heat and the odd quality of the sand ("it had been cooked so long that when you stepped on it, it broke into pieces") and the occasional K rations, "in big old metal things they heated up," that tasted better than meals-ready-to-eat.

Nor is much recorded about the accident that damaged Twohig -- not even the exact date it occurred. The Commander's Performance Statement, signed by Burgoyne, says Twohig was "on combat patrol" aboard a Bradley armored fighting vehicle, "going approximately 45 mph when it turned a corner in downtown Baghdad, causing Cpl. Twohig to be thrown from the vehicle. He fell on his head and lost consciousness."

Burgoyne now says that the vehicle wasn't a Bradley but a smaller, older M113 about to leave the unit's walled compound and thus going far more slowly. But Burgoyne was at a forward operating base five miles away and only heard of the accident by radio. In any event, "the guy fell off a moving truck; that's significant." And when the battalion learned that Twohig was being helicoptered to Germany, Burgoyne says, "that's when we realized it was more serious than we thought."

A neurology consultation at the Army hospital in Landstuhl, dated May 20, 2003, is the first record of Twohig's injuries, noting his head trauma, throbbing headaches and other symptoms, including memory loss. "I didn't remember my Social Security number or my unit or people I worked with," he says. He even, temporarily, forgot that his son had been born a few months earlier.

He was flown back to Fort Bragg a couple of weeks later. As he made the rounds of doctors at Womack Army Medical Center, Twohig says, his memory improved somewhat, but the headaches and psychiatric symptoms persisted. Belinda Twohig felt her hopes for a speedy recovery sink. She accompanied her son to a neurology appointment in which the doctor told them that when Richard's migraines struck, he should just take his meds and lie down in a quiet, dark room; there was no purpose in going to the emergency room, because nothing else could be done, no stronger medication prescribed. The prognosis was uncertain. After a concussion, the brain needs time to heal, the neurologist cautioned; it could take a year or two to see any improvement.

Meanwhile, Twohig's marriage was fraying under the strain. He says he was vomiting frequently, sleeping a lot and feeling depressed. He could no longer mow the lawn or help with errands; the house, despite his two young children, had to remain quiet. "It just changed the relationship," Twohig says. "She didn't understand and want to deal with my problems." His wife, Sang, did not respond to phone calls seeking comment. At times, he felt so lousy that he wouldn't even come to the phone when his mother called. "We had a close relationship; he always talked to me," Belinda says. "So the withdrawal was the first thing I noticed." When they did talk, she was aware of "confusion. I'd ask him something -- 'How was your day? Have you taken your meds?' 'Yeah, I think so' . . . Just a slow, lethargic answer. And this is not Richard."