With my son's impending deployment, I've read every book I could get my hands on about the Iraq and Afghanistan war. This is the only book so far that has literally reduced me to tears multiple times throughout the book. I've heard of PTSD and I knew in general what it was about, but never in a million years did I understand how deeply and how long it affected our soldiers. This book was outstandingly and brutally honest in the author's own words, his own thoughts, his bare soul. I had to put the book down several times because it was just too much to take in--too difficult to believe that these guys have to live with something like this. I wanted to hug the author and never let go. As a military mom, I highly recommend this book to other military moms and wives to understand what your son/daughter or husband/wife may go through and how to spot the signs of PTSD.
I loved the way the author interlaced past and present throughout the book. This really put you inside his head both here at home and there in combat. Thank you, Jeremiah, for sharing this most intimate part of your life. You are a hero in many more ways that you realize. God bless you and thank you for your service, your pain, your sweat, your tears, and the fight that you will always face.
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![Shadow of the Sword: A Marine's Journey of War, Heroism, and Redemption by [Jeremiah Workman, John Bruning]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/51pYHDzsS3L._SY346_.jpg)
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Shadow of the Sword: A Marine's Journey of War, Heroism, and Redemption Kindle Edition
by
Jeremiah Workman
(Author),
John Bruning
(Author)
Format: Kindle Edition
| Jeremiah Workman (Author) Find all the books, read about the author, and more. See search results for this author |
Awarded the Navy Cross for gallantry under fire, Staff Sergeant Jeremiah Workman is one of the Marine Corps’ best-known contemporary combat veterans. In this searing and inspiring memoir, he tells an unforgettable story of his service overseas–and of the emotional wars that continue to rage long after our fighting men come home.
Raised in a tiny blue-collar town in Ohio, Jeremiah Workman was a handsome and athletic high achiever. Having excelled on the sporting field, he believed that the Marine Corps would be the perfect way to harness his physical and professional drives.
In the Iraqi city of Fallujah in December 2004, Workman faced the challenge that would change his life. He and his platoon were searching for hidden caches of weapons and mopping up die-hard insurgent cells when they came upon a building in which a team of fanatical insurgents had their fellow Marines trapped. Leading repeated assaults on that building, Workman killed more than twenty of the enemy in a ferocious firefight that left three of his own men dead.
But Workman’s most difficult fight lay ahead of him–in the battlefield of his mind. Burying his guilt about the deaths of his men, he returned stateside, where he was decorated for valor and then found himself assigned to the Marine base at Parris Island as a “Kill Hat”: a drill instructor with the least seniority and the most brutal responsibilities. He was instructed, only half in jest, to push his untested recruits to the brink of suicide. Haunted by the thought that he had failed his men overseas, Workman cracked, suffering a psychological breakdown in front of the men he was charged with leading and preparing for war.
In Shadow of the Sword, a memoir that brilliantly captures both wartime courage and its lifelong consequences, Workman candidly reveals the ordeal of post-traumatic stress disorder: the therapy and drug treatments that deadened his mind even as they eased his pain, the overwhelming stress that pushed his marriage to the brink, and the confrontations with anger and self-blame that he had internalized for years.
Having fought through the worst of his trials–and now the father of a young son–Workman has found not perfection or a panacea but a way to accommodate his traumas and to move forward toward hope, love, and reconciliation.
Raised in a tiny blue-collar town in Ohio, Jeremiah Workman was a handsome and athletic high achiever. Having excelled on the sporting field, he believed that the Marine Corps would be the perfect way to harness his physical and professional drives.
In the Iraqi city of Fallujah in December 2004, Workman faced the challenge that would change his life. He and his platoon were searching for hidden caches of weapons and mopping up die-hard insurgent cells when they came upon a building in which a team of fanatical insurgents had their fellow Marines trapped. Leading repeated assaults on that building, Workman killed more than twenty of the enemy in a ferocious firefight that left three of his own men dead.
But Workman’s most difficult fight lay ahead of him–in the battlefield of his mind. Burying his guilt about the deaths of his men, he returned stateside, where he was decorated for valor and then found himself assigned to the Marine base at Parris Island as a “Kill Hat”: a drill instructor with the least seniority and the most brutal responsibilities. He was instructed, only half in jest, to push his untested recruits to the brink of suicide. Haunted by the thought that he had failed his men overseas, Workman cracked, suffering a psychological breakdown in front of the men he was charged with leading and preparing for war.
In Shadow of the Sword, a memoir that brilliantly captures both wartime courage and its lifelong consequences, Workman candidly reveals the ordeal of post-traumatic stress disorder: the therapy and drug treatments that deadened his mind even as they eased his pain, the overwhelming stress that pushed his marriage to the brink, and the confrontations with anger and self-blame that he had internalized for years.
Having fought through the worst of his trials–and now the father of a young son–Workman has found not perfection or a panacea but a way to accommodate his traumas and to move forward toward hope, love, and reconciliation.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherPresidio Press
- Publication dateSeptember 4, 2009
- File size1803 KB
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"A raw, heartfelt story of how a man of valor lost his bearings and eventually found the courage to share his story. Shadow of the Sword leaves you hoping and cheering for the happy ending that Workman deserves."—Bing West, author of The Strongest Tribe
"In writing this moving and incredibly honest book, Workman shows at least as much courage as he did in Fallujah. His story gives hope to anyone who struggles that they, too, can overcome if they just keep fighting—one day at a time, one battle at a time, one victory at a time."—Donovan Campbell, author of Joker One
"Workman shows unflinching honesty and gut twisting bravery by sharing with us his complicated journey to normalcy after his seemingly endless battle through hell. This may be the most important book of our Warrior generation and proves that Workman deserves to be in a separate class of American hero." —David Bellavia, author of House to House
"A searing account…In its depiction of combat, Shadow of the Swordranks with Marcus Luttrell's Lone Survivor."—Wall Street Journal
"This superior addition to the literature on the Iraq War is an exceptionally vivid account of combat and its aftermath…[Workman] provides a harrowing level of detail about the combat…Workman's testimony gives hope that those suffering the nightmare of PTSD can free themselves sufficiently to avoid becoming additional casualties of the current war."—Booklist
From the Hardcover edition.
"In writing this moving and incredibly honest book, Workman shows at least as much courage as he did in Fallujah. His story gives hope to anyone who struggles that they, too, can overcome if they just keep fighting—one day at a time, one battle at a time, one victory at a time."—Donovan Campbell, author of Joker One
"Workman shows unflinching honesty and gut twisting bravery by sharing with us his complicated journey to normalcy after his seemingly endless battle through hell. This may be the most important book of our Warrior generation and proves that Workman deserves to be in a separate class of American hero." —David Bellavia, author of House to House
"A searing account…In its depiction of combat, Shadow of the Swordranks with Marcus Luttrell's Lone Survivor."—Wall Street Journal
"This superior addition to the literature on the Iraq War is an exceptionally vivid account of combat and its aftermath…[Workman] provides a harrowing level of detail about the combat…Workman's testimony gives hope that those suffering the nightmare of PTSD can free themselves sufficiently to avoid becoming additional casualties of the current war."—Booklist
From the Hardcover edition.
About the Author
Jeremiah Workman is a military service coordinator with the Department of Veteran Affairs. John R. Bruning is the author or coauthor of ten books, including How to Break a Terrorist and Bombs Away!: The World War II Bombing Campaigns over Europe. Carlton W. Kent served as the sixteenth Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps. --This text refers to the paperback edition.
Review
"A raw, heartfelt story of how a man of valor lost his bearings and eventually found the courage to share his story. Shadow of the Sword leaves you hoping and cheering for the happy ending that Workman deserves."—Bing West, author of The Strongest Tribe
"In writing this moving and incredibly honest book, Workman shows at least as much courage as he did in Fallujah. His story gives hope to anyone who struggles that they, too, can overcome if they just keep fighting—one day at a time, one battle at a time, one victory at a time."—Donovan Campbell, author of Joker One
"Workman shows unflinching honesty and gut twisting bravery by sharing with us his complicated journey to normalcy after his seemingly endless battle through hell. This may be the most important book of our Warrior generation and proves that Workman deserves to be in a separate class of American hero." —David Bellavia, author of House to House
"A searing account…In its depiction of combat, Shadow of the Swordranks with Marcus Luttrell's Lone Survivor."—Wall Street Journal
"This superior addition to the literature on the Iraq War is an exceptionally vivid account of combat and its aftermath…[Workman] provides a harrowing level of detail about the combat…Workman's testimony gives hope that those suffering the nightmare of PTSD can free themselves sufficiently to avoid becoming additional casualties of the current war."—Booklist
From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
"In writing this moving and incredibly honest book, Workman shows at least as much courage as he did in Fallujah. His story gives hope to anyone who struggles that they, too, can overcome if they just keep fighting—one day at a time, one battle at a time, one victory at a time."—Donovan Campbell, author of Joker One
"Workman shows unflinching honesty and gut twisting bravery by sharing with us his complicated journey to normalcy after his seemingly endless battle through hell. This may be the most important book of our Warrior generation and proves that Workman deserves to be in a separate class of American hero." —David Bellavia, author of House to House
"A searing account…In its depiction of combat, Shadow of the Swordranks with Marcus Luttrell's Lone Survivor."—Wall Street Journal
"This superior addition to the literature on the Iraq War is an exceptionally vivid account of combat and its aftermath…[Workman] provides a harrowing level of detail about the combat…Workman's testimony gives hope that those suffering the nightmare of PTSD can free themselves sufficiently to avoid becoming additional casualties of the current war."—Booklist
From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
REFLECTION OF THE DAMNED
Spring 2006
Parris Island , S . C .
The dream was bad, the worst in weeks. The ceiling comes into focus. I blink the sleep out of my eyes. My heart races, sweat stains my sheets. I’m burning up. Every morning, it is always the same. I remember everything. Every move, every unearthly sensation and disorienting noise. It is the most vivid dream I’ve ever had, and I have it night after night after night.
A year ago, when the nightmare first invaded my sleep, I drowned it in liquor. At the time my unit, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, or 3/5, was stationed at Camp Pendleton in Southern California. One night, I wandered into a tavern called The Harp in Newport Beach. On one wall rested a plaque commemorating the achievements of 3/5. Right then, I knew I had my watering hole. In the first month after I got back from leave, I ran up a three- thousand- dollar tab at The Harp.
I discovered that Jack Daniel’s did what nothing else could. I’d drink until I passed out, and in that darkness the nightmares and memories could not find me. Every morning, I’d peel my eyes open, unsure of who I was or where I’d ended up. Self- awareness only gradually penetrated the crushing hangover. I didn’t mind that; it gave me time to slip into myself and prepare for the shock of who I’d become. By noon, I’d be up and about, focused only on that night’s binge, longing for its numb sanctuary.
Not anymore, not for the last five months. That’s when I started drill instructor school and had to devote everything I had left to graduate. Ever since I was a raw recruit, I’d wanted to be a drill instructor.
A year removed from my tour in Iraq, I fulfilled that dream and graduated tenth in a class of sixty. Be careful what you wish for. That cliché has become the story of my life.
I’ve always been an achiever. Varsity football, baseball, and wrestling back home in Ohio taught me to compete without reservation. I came of age in a tiny town of about twenty- five hundred people called Richwood, where Tractor Days was the year’s biggest event.
My friends and neighbors all hailed from hardworking, blue- collar stock; the kind of Americans who have quietly held this country together generation after generation. They aren’t revered as they should be anymore, and the blue- blood Eastern city folk look down their noses at us Red- Staters, but the fact is, the heart of America beats in towns like Richwood, whether the elites want to admit it or not. We lived a sort of Varsity Blues existence in our little town. Football games dominated the fall weekends, baseball dominated the spring. In between, there were school dances, Saturday- night dates, and cruising after we got our driver’s licenses.
I had come to Richwood after living in Marion, Ohio, until seventh grade. When I was six, my parents divorced. Dad moved to Richwood, Mom stayed in Marion and remarried a man I came to despise. When I could, I escaped to live with my dad, who worked in a local steel mill. I was the new kid in a town of less than a thousand surrounded by corn and wheat fields. Everyone knew everyone’s business. I dropped in from what folks considered a big city—Marion’s population is about 40,000—and was instantly put on probation by my peers. Where would I fit in? Would I be an outcast?
I threw myself into sports, and my football and baseball skills gained me acceptance. Soon everyone knew my name, and I could walk downtown after a Friday- night game and receive backslaps and attaboys from people who months before were total strangers.
I’d never been accepted before, so the attention just fueled my desire to excel, do better, grow faster and stronger. I didn’t mind the hard work that that required. I didn’t mind pushing myself to exceed, and I always had the drive to achieve my goals.
That’s why I became a Marine. The Corps harnessed that drive in me and let me explore it in ways college never could have. I finished boot camp, endured Iraq, and came home to graduate from DI school and from Swim School a few weeks later. The latter is the second toughest school Marines can attend. For me, it was the aquatic equivalent of the Bataan Death March.
It started with three weeks of conditioning. I thought after drill instructor’s school that I was in the best shape of my life. I’ve always been lean and muscular. In high school I was an all- conference running back until I broke a collarbone and suffered a knee injury. Swim School knocked all the arrogance out of me. We started with a sevenhundred- meter swim. That’s almost a kilometer. It nearly killed me, and I thought I was a good swimmer.
They made us tread water while holding bricks. We dragged them across the pool again and again, the instructors pushing us like nobody had ever done. From four to midnight every day we tortured our bodies in the huge pool at Parris Island. By week four, I could hardly bring myself to continue. Instead, I’d sit in my pickup truck in front of my apartment and will myself to go through with another night of agony. In slow motion, I’d see my hand turning the key. Twenty minutes later, I’d be in the pool wondering if they’d let me drown as all the gear kept pulling me under. Every night for six weeks, I’d flail my way to the side and puke in the scum gutter that skirted the pool.
It was the toughest thing I’ve ever endured. Well, next to Fallujah. That’s why I love the Corps—there is always a new challenge awaiting those with the desire to push a little harder.
I slide out of my rack. When I hit the floor, I feel clammy and off. I haven’t felt right in months. Now that the booze remains in the bottle, the memories and nightmares plague me every night. What little rest I get is always interrupted.
Beside the bed, I stretch and yawn. A typical morning routine, but the engine’s not firing. Something’s missing.
Hope. Faith.
Oh yeah. The realization wipes out the last of my sleepy grogginess. I shamble over to the bathroom sink and find my razor. Water running, I start to lather up.
My eyes focus on the sink. I know I’ll have to look into the mirror, but I avoid it as long as I can. I dread this time. I cannot hide from myself. In my reflection, there is no escape.
My eyes flick up. I stare at a gaunt and haggard face that could once have been mine. It looks sunken, like my cheekbones are about to cave in.
I’ve lost so much weight my ribs are visible.
Were you a prisoner of war?
No. I am a veteran of close- quarters combat. I fought. I survived. At Fallujah.
Guilty as charged: I survived.
I make eye contact with my reflection. Eyes are a window to the soul, right? I see nothing. It scares me. I want to avert my gaze, but I’m frozen in place.
Why are you still alive?
I can’t answer my reflection. It is the shell of what I once was. The jawline is still the same, my hair color hasn’t changed. The remnants are there, visible to those who really knew it. My mother. My wife Jessica. Her folks. They once looked upon my face with love and endearment. So did the people in my small town. I was the star running back for our high school football team. I was somebody once.
This new face is different. What I have left only inspires fear. Those vestiges of the past I see in the mirror serve now as a cruel reminder of all I’ve lost.
You should be dead, Jeremiah.
I want to pick up the razor and shave. I want to get through this morning ritual of hate.
You should be dead.
My reflection is right. I should be. I wanted death. I yearned for it. Why are you still here?
I can only say, “I have every right to be here.”
Three dead Marines. That’s what I see every time I dare to look into my eyes.
I wanted to be with them. That house in Sector 19 should have been my tomb. Now I live on in limbo, cheated of my destiny. I did not leave the fight willingly. They dragged me out of it screaming. There was killing left undone, vengeance unsecured. I yearn for a reckoning that will never be made.
You didn’t deserve to live.
My reflection pulls no punches. I drop my eyes. I can’t bear to look at myself any longer.
I take a long breath. The air is stale and I smell my own sweat. Another breath. Exhale. Breathe. Calm down.
I am here. At least, what’s left of me is here. The best of me was burned away inside that house, lost forever on December 23rd, the last firefight American forces would fight in that shattered city during the Second Battle of Fallujah.
The memories flicker by like reels on a slot machine. Nothing makes sense.
Then I see Phillip Levine, bloody and shocked, shouting for a pistol. For a moment it seems so real that I want to reach out for him. I’ve never seen a man do what he did that day.
I open my eyes as gunfire echoes around me. A moment later, the vision of my best friend passes and ... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
REFLECTION OF THE DAMNED
Spring 2006
Parris Island , S . C .
The dream was bad, the worst in weeks. The ceiling comes into focus. I blink the sleep out of my eyes. My heart races, sweat stains my sheets. I’m burning up. Every morning, it is always the same. I remember everything. Every move, every unearthly sensation and disorienting noise. It is the most vivid dream I’ve ever had, and I have it night after night after night.
A year ago, when the nightmare first invaded my sleep, I drowned it in liquor. At the time my unit, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, or 3/5, was stationed at Camp Pendleton in Southern California. One night, I wandered into a tavern called The Harp in Newport Beach. On one wall rested a plaque commemorating the achievements of 3/5. Right then, I knew I had my watering hole. In the first month after I got back from leave, I ran up a three- thousand- dollar tab at The Harp.
I discovered that Jack Daniel’s did what nothing else could. I’d drink until I passed out, and in that darkness the nightmares and memories could not find me. Every morning, I’d peel my eyes open, unsure of who I was or where I’d ended up. Self- awareness only gradually penetrated the crushing hangover. I didn’t mind that; it gave me time to slip into myself and prepare for the shock of who I’d become. By noon, I’d be up and about, focused only on that night’s binge, longing for its numb sanctuary.
Not anymore, not for the last five months. That’s when I started drill instructor school and had to devote everything I had left to graduate. Ever since I was a raw recruit, I’d wanted to be a drill instructor.
A year removed from my tour in Iraq, I fulfilled that dream and graduated tenth in a class of sixty. Be careful what you wish for. That cliché has become the story of my life.
I’ve always been an achiever. Varsity football, baseball, and wrestling back home in Ohio taught me to compete without reservation. I came of age in a tiny town of about twenty- five hundred people called Richwood, where Tractor Days was the year’s biggest event.
My friends and neighbors all hailed from hardworking, blue- collar stock; the kind of Americans who have quietly held this country together generation after generation. They aren’t revered as they should be anymore, and the blue- blood Eastern city folk look down their noses at us Red- Staters, but the fact is, the heart of America beats in towns like Richwood, whether the elites want to admit it or not. We lived a sort of Varsity Blues existence in our little town. Football games dominated the fall weekends, baseball dominated the spring. In between, there were school dances, Saturday- night dates, and cruising after we got our driver’s licenses.
I had come to Richwood after living in Marion, Ohio, until seventh grade. When I was six, my parents divorced. Dad moved to Richwood, Mom stayed in Marion and remarried a man I came to despise. When I could, I escaped to live with my dad, who worked in a local steel mill. I was the new kid in a town of less than a thousand surrounded by corn and wheat fields. Everyone knew everyone’s business. I dropped in from what folks considered a big city—Marion’s population is about 40,000—and was instantly put on probation by my peers. Where would I fit in? Would I be an outcast?
I threw myself into sports, and my football and baseball skills gained me acceptance. Soon everyone knew my name, and I could walk downtown after a Friday- night game and receive backslaps and attaboys from people who months before were total strangers.
I’d never been accepted before, so the attention just fueled my desire to excel, do better, grow faster and stronger. I didn’t mind the hard work that that required. I didn’t mind pushing myself to exceed, and I always had the drive to achieve my goals.
That’s why I became a Marine. The Corps harnessed that drive in me and let me explore it in ways college never could have. I finished boot camp, endured Iraq, and came home to graduate from DI school and from Swim School a few weeks later. The latter is the second toughest school Marines can attend. For me, it was the aquatic equivalent of the Bataan Death March.
It started with three weeks of conditioning. I thought after drill instructor’s school that I was in the best shape of my life. I’ve always been lean and muscular. In high school I was an all- conference running back until I broke a collarbone and suffered a knee injury. Swim School knocked all the arrogance out of me. We started with a sevenhundred- meter swim. That’s almost a kilometer. It nearly killed me, and I thought I was a good swimmer.
They made us tread water while holding bricks. We dragged them across the pool again and again, the instructors pushing us like nobody had ever done. From four to midnight every day we tortured our bodies in the huge pool at Parris Island. By week four, I could hardly bring myself to continue. Instead, I’d sit in my pickup truck in front of my apartment and will myself to go through with another night of agony. In slow motion, I’d see my hand turning the key. Twenty minutes later, I’d be in the pool wondering if they’d let me drown as all the gear kept pulling me under. Every night for six weeks, I’d flail my way to the side and puke in the scum gutter that skirted the pool.
It was the toughest thing I’ve ever endured. Well, next to Fallujah. That’s why I love the Corps—there is always a new challenge awaiting those with the desire to push a little harder.
I slide out of my rack. When I hit the floor, I feel clammy and off. I haven’t felt right in months. Now that the booze remains in the bottle, the memories and nightmares plague me every night. What little rest I get is always interrupted.
Beside the bed, I stretch and yawn. A typical morning routine, but the engine’s not firing. Something’s missing.
Hope. Faith.
Oh yeah. The realization wipes out the last of my sleepy grogginess. I shamble over to the bathroom sink and find my razor. Water running, I start to lather up.
My eyes focus on the sink. I know I’ll have to look into the mirror, but I avoid it as long as I can. I dread this time. I cannot hide from myself. In my reflection, there is no escape.
My eyes flick up. I stare at a gaunt and haggard face that could once have been mine. It looks sunken, like my cheekbones are about to cave in.
I’ve lost so much weight my ribs are visible.
Were you a prisoner of war?
No. I am a veteran of close- quarters combat. I fought. I survived. At Fallujah.
Guilty as charged: I survived.
I make eye contact with my reflection. Eyes are a window to the soul, right? I see nothing. It scares me. I want to avert my gaze, but I’m frozen in place.
Why are you still alive?
I can’t answer my reflection. It is the shell of what I once was. The jawline is still the same, my hair color hasn’t changed. The remnants are there, visible to those who really knew it. My mother. My wife Jessica. Her folks. They once looked upon my face with love and endearment. So did the people in my small town. I was the star running back for our high school football team. I was somebody once.
This new face is different. What I have left only inspires fear. Those vestiges of the past I see in the mirror serve now as a cruel reminder of all I’ve lost.
You should be dead, Jeremiah.
I want to pick up the razor and shave. I want to get through this morning ritual of hate.
You should be dead.
My reflection is right. I should be. I wanted death. I yearned for it. Why are you still here?
I can only say, “I have every right to be here.”
Three dead Marines. That’s what I see every time I dare to look into my eyes.
I wanted to be with them. That house in Sector 19 should have been my tomb. Now I live on in limbo, cheated of my destiny. I did not leave the fight willingly. They dragged me out of it screaming. There was killing left undone, vengeance unsecured. I yearn for a reckoning that will never be made.
You didn’t deserve to live.
My reflection pulls no punches. I drop my eyes. I can’t bear to look at myself any longer.
I take a long breath. The air is stale and I smell my own sweat. Another breath. Exhale. Breathe. Calm down.
I am here. At least, what’s left of me is here. The best of me was burned away inside that house, lost forever on December 23rd, the last firefight American forces would fight in that shattered city during the Second Battle of Fallujah.
The memories flicker by like reels on a slot machine. Nothing makes sense.
Then I see Phillip Levine, bloody and shocked, shouting for a pistol. For a moment it seems so real that I want to reach out for him. I’ve never seen a man do what he did that day.
I open my eyes as gunfire echoes around me. A moment later, the vision of my best friend passes and ... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Product details
- ASIN : B002NXOQGG
- Publisher : Presidio Press (September 4, 2009)
- Publication date : September 4, 2009
- Language : English
- File size : 1803 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 272 pages
- Lending : Not Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,055,816 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #248 in Biographies of the Iraq War
- #301 in Biographies of the Marines
- #303 in Iraq War History (Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
About the authors
Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations.
John R. Bruning's latest book, "Race of Aces: WWII's Elite Airmen and the Epic Battle to Become the Master of the Sky" will be published by Hachette Book Group this January 14th. It chronicles the extraordinary story of five fighter pilots who competed furiously in the national spotlight to become America's ace of aces during World War II.
John is the collaborating writer or author of twenty-two non-fiction books, including four New York Times best sellers. A graduate of the University of Oregon, John was given a Department of Defense's Thomas Jefferson Award for best article by a photojournalist in 2010 after he wrote about a forced landing in the Hindu Kush region of Afghanistan. He was embedded with 2-162 Infantry, Oregon National Guard during the stability and support operation in New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina in September 2005.
John lives in Independence, Oregon with his two kids, a couch-eating Jordanian dog and a cat who enjoys swimming, hiking in the Cascades, and bossing everyone around.
John can be found at Instagram at:
https://www.instagram.com/john_r_bruning/
and
https://www.instagram.com/sylvie_the_caninecat/?hl=en
and writes about great Americans here:
https://theamericanwarrior.com/
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Reviewed in the United States on October 8, 2011
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Reviewed in the United States on November 3, 2010
This is a gut-wrenchingly personal account of a man, a Marine, who experienced the worst possible kind of combat and has been trying to resolve the consequences of that event ever since. If you have a loved one suffering from PTSD, and PTSD isn't necessarily a combat thing, or if you work with victims of PTSD, this book is for you. Mr. Workman ably describes his symptoms, the triggers, what goes on inside him, and what he's tried to do to cope with his situation. I think every counsellor should have this in his reference collection. I wish I had the words and skills to describe how much this book affected me and how important I think it is. There are so many men and women out there who are needlessly suffering alone. In the military, we're slowly coming around and recognizing the need to vigorously treat this psychic wound but there is still often the "macho" mentality (this affects women as well) in both the individual and the command that it's "pussy" to "whine"! Hopefully, this book, by a Marine no one in their right mind would describe as either a pussy or a whiner, will lead to a sea change in attitudes. Please, buy this book and pass it on to others who can benefit from it's insight.
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Reviewed in the United States on April 19, 2012
This was a difficult book to get through. Workman and Bruning do a exemplary job defining PTSD and ground combat in Iraq. Other reviews cover the book better than I could.
If the pain of combat wasn't enough, losing friends, stressed to the max, Workman got little support from his wife while he was gone. I could understand what it was like to be in combat (Marine, Nam, Infantry) and recognize the PTSD's after effects.
I could not understand being in a relationship with a woman who would not accept phone calls, stating she was ''in the shower and he should call back,'' hanging with the ''wild crowd'' at Pendleton, and admiting to taking his phone call -- while she's in a limo with men headed to Vegas. Maybe the forgiveness needed will be an ongoing process. I know I wouldn't have it in me to forgive at the level he outlines.
He deserved better.
You've made us proud, Staff Sergeant -- thank you for serving. It's a miracle you survived. Wish you the best on your Path. Semper Fi.
If the pain of combat wasn't enough, losing friends, stressed to the max, Workman got little support from his wife while he was gone. I could understand what it was like to be in combat (Marine, Nam, Infantry) and recognize the PTSD's after effects.
I could not understand being in a relationship with a woman who would not accept phone calls, stating she was ''in the shower and he should call back,'' hanging with the ''wild crowd'' at Pendleton, and admiting to taking his phone call -- while she's in a limo with men headed to Vegas. Maybe the forgiveness needed will be an ongoing process. I know I wouldn't have it in me to forgive at the level he outlines.
He deserved better.
You've made us proud, Staff Sergeant -- thank you for serving. It's a miracle you survived. Wish you the best on your Path. Semper Fi.
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Reviewed in the United States on January 1, 2010
As a civilian I have had some stressful emotional experiences, of course nothing compared to the magnitude of the firefight-description nicely interleaved with his personal accounts of flashbacks triggered by literal-pattern-matches. For example having difficulty climbing a stairwell because the firefight involved a stairwell so this triggers a flashback, though today's stairwell be thousands of miles removed from the conbat zone.
I also like Laurence Gonzales's "Deep Survival" book for the insight it provides into our Emotional Brain, you've probably heard the term "Amygdala Hijack". Getting a scientific-grade handle on the PTSD mechanism is important for anyone, because anyone can "snap" -- the idea that by thinking hard enough you're always going to be able to override your emotions is just false, as you'll understand from these personal and insightful diary-moments.
"Interpolate" is such a precise word for analyzing my little stresses in the light of his big stresses that I chose it even though you may need to look it up.
I also like Laurence Gonzales's "Deep Survival" book for the insight it provides into our Emotional Brain, you've probably heard the term "Amygdala Hijack". Getting a scientific-grade handle on the PTSD mechanism is important for anyone, because anyone can "snap" -- the idea that by thinking hard enough you're always going to be able to override your emotions is just false, as you'll understand from these personal and insightful diary-moments.
"Interpolate" is such a precise word for analyzing my little stresses in the light of his big stresses that I chose it even though you may need to look it up.
Reviewed in the United States on September 21, 2009
I wasnt sure why I bought this book and then I couldnt put it down. I am a former Nam Marine sniper with PTSD, only diagnosed since the Iraq War started. And this guy hit the nail on the proverbial head. Dont make the mistake of just thinking this is another war story. While it is a war story, of a Marine who was awarded the Navy Cross, it is a raw and gripping story of honesty. Extremely well written from one who has lived what he is talking about, he just put it in print better than I ever could.
What is most impressive and helpful is his honesty, he bared his soul and that of his wife and family. He outlines their struggles in the most honest way imaginable. If you have PTSD, know someone who does, or know someone who is counseling people with PTSD, this is a must read. If you dont 'get it' after reading this book, then you wont ever get it.
I commend the Author for his courage and know this book will make a difference. Read it!
What is most impressive and helpful is his honesty, he bared his soul and that of his wife and family. He outlines their struggles in the most honest way imaginable. If you have PTSD, know someone who does, or know someone who is counseling people with PTSD, this is a must read. If you dont 'get it' after reading this book, then you wont ever get it.
I commend the Author for his courage and know this book will make a difference. Read it!
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Reviewed in the United States on August 1, 2020
This work is an excellent read that helps anyone who has not endured the battle of PTSD to understand on some level what our warrior sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, and fathers and mothers have fought long after they’ve left the battle field. I’m thankful for this book and for the men and women it represents. Thank you for paying the price you have paid and continue to pay.
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