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suicide—they should be going to college, meeting new girlfriends or boyfriends, and looking forward to the rest of their lives.
    One really compelling fact jumps out from another Department of Defense screening. Combatants all fill out Pre- and Post-Deployment Health Assessments (PDHAs) when we deploy and when we come home. We’re then supposed to complete another (the PDHRA—can you guess?—“reassessment”) three to six months later. I included copies of these forms in the back of this book. Returning troops reported problems with interpersonal relationships four times more often between the first and second assessments in 2005. 5
    You can add my name to the broken relationships board. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering that in 2007 divorce among Army officers was up 78 percent from 2003, the year of the Iraq invasion, and more than 350 percent from 2000. The Army explains: “The stressors are extreme in the officer corps, especially when we’re at war, and officers have an overwhelming responsibility to take care of their soldiers as well as the soldiers’ families. There’s a lot of responsibility on the leaders’ shoulders, which, I can assure you, takes away from the home life.” 6 Label me Exhibit A, over here in the corner.
    When I left for my second tour in Iraq in September 2004, my then girlfriend, whom I’ll call Jane Doe, lived in one of the most affluent communities on the West Coast (not La Jolla, though). It wasn’t the first time we’d been apart for an extended period—I’d had a two-month deployment to Qatar at the end of 2003—but it would be the first separation during which we knew there was a strong likelihood I’d see combat. As you can imagine, the stress of that alone—not knowing whether I’d return—can signal the end of a relationship for many people. Jane and I managed to keep the dream alive throughout my tour, but it was the beginning of the end, as I can now see. Neither of us wanted me to go into combat with a breakup hanging over my head, and we certainly weren’t going to acknowledge the possibility before I left.
    It didn’t take long for things to go very wrong when I got back. Maybe—okay, definitely—I just wasn’t ready to sign on with her for life, or maybe—again, definitely—I just didn’t feel entirely comfortable in the relationship anymore. I was different. Not a different person, per se, but I’d definitely developed a different point of view about what’s important in life. My priorities had changed. I think I’d be worried if they hadn’t, after my experience. I’d never planned on being a gung-ho, tough-guy Marine out to kill. Nor did I have any altruistic dreams of saving the planet from one evil empire or another.
    Consider this passage from Jarhead by Anthony Swofford, who knew in his heart from the age of fourteen that he’d be a Marine when he was old enough. After all, his father, uncle, and grandfather had all served.
    Finally my mother peeled away the backing and steam rose from my shirt and on the shirt the glorious Eagle, Globe, and Anchor pulsed like a heart.... I ripped the shirt off I’d been wearing and poured my body into the USMC shirt, and the heat from the icon warmed my chest and my chest grew and I had become one of them, the Marines! At the ripe age of fourteen I’d decided my destiny ...
    Now consider yours truly at fourteen. I no more knew what I wanted to do with my life than I knew how to perform neurosurgery while flying a rocketship. At fourteen all I could think about relative to growing chests was the girls in my class. I don’t think I was even aware what the Marine Corps was. One of our neighbors, Mr. Woehleber, was in the air force reserve, but he was still a corporate executive with one of the conglomerates that dominated the Pittsburgh business community back in the day.
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