Little Relief on Ward 53

I spent most of my time watching the rooftops and side roads, looking into my rearview mirror to make sure no one was creeping up on my car from behind. . . . Every time I saw someone sitting contently inside a coffee shop or restaurant, I wanted to yell at them, wake them up.

A social worker with a clipboard came to his room the next afternoon. "The surgeon general is concerned about all the soldiers coming home with smoking habits," he said.

Calloway said he never smoked before Iraq but smoked three packs a day in theater.

"Have you ever considered a patch?" the man asked.

By his fourth month as an outpatient on Ward 53, Calloway had learned breathing techniques to ease his panic. He had been asked to recite statements of self-love in group therapy. He had learned to cook in occupational therapy. But his core anger was as high as ever, made worse by the relationship with his psychiatrist. They met once or twice a week, mostly to discuss meds and argue. "Why don't you ever come in here and smile?" the doctor asked, according to Calloway. "Why don't you ever come in here and think today will be a good day?"

Walter Reed officials refused to discuss individual patients for this story, citing privacy concerns.

Calloway wanted to scream. Disillusioned, he stopped faithfully attending the combat-stress group he first found helpful. In the cold of winter he went down to Capitol Tattoo on Georgia Avenue, where the milky skin of his arms became a canvas of colors and death poetry. In honor of Vosbein, he had a silhouette of a soldier drawn on, with the words: "Lay down your armor. And have no fear. I'll be home soon."

Even with his nihilistic markings, Calloway still saw himself as a soldier. On Sunday mornings he attended a VFW brunch in Arlington, feeling at home with the snowy-haired veterans who sipped coffee under an American flag. As an Iraq vet, he was treated as part of the newest generation of warriors. One Sunday, he was accompanied by a girl from Ohio who'd come to visit him at Walter Reed. She wore his dog tags, and his eyes were full of light. "Thank you, ma'am," he told the waitress who brought his biscuits and gravy.

But the girl went back to Ohio and Calloway came to the next brunch alone, secretly terrified that in 30 years he'd be sitting in a support group like the Vietnam guys. With his nightmares and balled-up fists, what woman would want him?

"I'm not getting any better," he told his mother on the phone.

His step-grandfather in Ohio spent a morning making calls, trying unsuccessfully to reach anyone at Walter Reed. "He's meeting with people 15 minutes a day, he's been written off," said Greg Albright. "Josh has not been cooperative, he's been insulting to the doctor. But that's a function of the place he's been." Albright met with an aide from the district office of Rep. John A. Boehner (R) in Ohio. He wanted help bringing Josh home for treatment, and the family was willing to pay for it. But Calloway was still in the Army.

One night in his room, Calloway put in a DVD and watched the opening scene of "Saving Private Ryan," the American G.I.s coming onto Omaha Beach, retching in fear as they unloaded from the boats and faced a rain of German bullets. Limbs severed, necks punctured, foreheads blown open, but the grunts kept charging.