CPL Michael Oreskovic 14th Cavalry 2002 – 2005

          How do these stories go again? Ah, that’s right… No sh*t, there I was waist deep… Thank god I was waist deep in that gunner’s hatch, because if I wasn’t, I’d be missing something else. But before we go into that day, we need to talk about the day before.

         There I am with a group of ten or twelve guys from Bravo troop, 1-14 Cav, getting our purple hearts pinned on us. I was not a happy camper that day. To be honest, I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I didn’t lose a limb, get shot or seriously wounded. I didn’t want it. I mean really, who wants to get one of these enemy marksmanship badges?

          The first time I got blown up was October 5th, 2004. An IED went off and I received some shrapnel in my left forearm and right hip. I pulled both pieces out myself. We’re talking about tiny slivers of metal, about an inch a piece. It was really no big deal. I returned fire with my MK19 (automatic grenade launcher), getting off nineteen rounds before we got out of the kill zone. Not gonna lie, it was a rush to go through it and survive with just a few pieces of shrapnel.

          But here I am a few days later getting my first purple heart. Ugh. Oh well. We only had one more mission then we were all going home. October 11, 2004 was the day. It was a joint operation with some of the infantry companies. I think they called it a block party. Basically, we cordoned off a section of downtown Mosul, Iraq. Not letting anyone in or out while we searched every building and every room for insurgents, Al Qaeda, weapons, etc. It was our brigade’s last mission as well as a welcome mission, right seat ride, for our replacements, the 1st brigade 25th infantry division.

          We started out super early that morning. If I remember right, the mission took like six or seven hours. After the mission was over and we were all preparing to head back to base. A discussion was being had… Why the hell are we going back the same way we came in? Everyone remember rule one? Never go out the same way you came in. Well, we broke that one. And by we… I mean certain officers. So, here we are heading back the same way. Boom! I never saw it coming because my area of concern was to the left side of the Stryker. Everyone who’s been in a convoy knows, lead vehicle’s main gun points forward, every other vehicle alternate’s left or right, while the last vehicle in the convoy covers the six. We got word over the net a possible VBIED (vehicle born improvised explosive device) in the area. My position as a MK19 gunner on our reconnaissance variant Stryker, requires the gunner to stand really high out of the gunner’s hatch. We were supposed to ride name-tape defilade (where your name-tape would be on your uniform) out of the hatch. The problem with being that low in the hatch is the MK19 would be almost a foot over your head and trying to engage the enemy in a quick matter wasn’t going to happen. You were behind the power curve in that position. So, I rode waist (I used a more colorful term) defilade. Just high enough to stay behind the sights of the Mk19 as well as my M4 (7.62mm carbine w/folding stock), with access to my spare mags. I spent the last four months as gunner on Bronco 24. This is where I could fight from the best. 

          You don’t always see the one that gets you. This one was no different. My memory is fuzzy from that day. I had to talk to the guys years later to piece together what happened. It was as suicide bomber coming out of an ally or side street that detonated between my Stryker and the Stryker in front of me. It rocked me pretty hard. So hard I couldn’t see. I was trying to call out status checks that were SOP during contact. I could barely hear anything through my CVC (Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet). Well, that’s because shrapnel shredded my CVC cable and the CVC itself was mangled. I could feel a lot of warm blood pouring down my face. My left eye hurt real bad. I knew to keep it closed. I always rode with my left hand on the MK19. But after the detonation, I lost track of that damn thing. At the same time, I was using my right hand to figure out why my comm’s were down and also checking my groin to make sure everything was still there. My left hand was reaching out frantically for the MK19 to get it up into the fight. Boy, did my left arm hurt. It felt like someone took a sledge hammer to it. No matter how hard I tried to reach for the MK19, I couldn’t find it. I could feel the blood pouring down the left side of my body. I yelled out, to whoever could hear, that I was hit bad. You have to realize that this all happened in a matter of seconds. It was at this point that my platoon sergeant saw that I was messed up and had the guys pull me down into the Stryker. Sargent Lavinge jumped up to take my position, while corporal Jankowiacs rendered me aid. I still wasn’t sure what had just happened to me. Both my eyes were closed because I knew that if you have shrapnel in one eye, you’re supposed to keep both closed. Because both eyes move in unison, if one has shrapnel in it, looking around would damage it further. Janko helped bandage up my eyes and half my face. Sergeant Hegadush, our platoon sergeant, told them to throw a tourniquet on my left arm. I was losing blood fast. I thought I just broke my arm, maybe an exposed compound fracture? I lost so much blood that they couldn’t give me morphine for the pain. I couldn’t even have any water. Every minute that passed the pain was building and getting worse. I don’t know how long the ride back to base was, but it felt like forever.

          When we got to base, my brothers carried me into the CASH (Combat Support Hospital) for help. I could feel them cutting my clothing off. Thank god I wore clean underwear. I could hear a girl’s voice talking to me reassuring me that it was going to be okay. I remember saying, “Hey, you sound cute” then I was out cold. 

          Funny little side note, I’m sitting in the hospital waiting room a year later at WRAMC and this really cute nurse walks by. I flirted with her for a second. She looked at me quizzically, asking where I got injured. I told her and she smiled saying she was the one that was cutting off my clothes reassuring me it was okay. I asked her out. She told me she was married. Bummer. I told her thanks for helping me that day and that her husband was a lucky man. Anyways, I woke up really disoriented and not knowing what had happened. I tried to sit up. When I did, I saw that my left arm was completely bandaged up and was a lot shorter than it should be. Well shit, I said to myself right before passing out again. Now I know why I couldn’t grab the MK19 during the fight, my arm was blown off. I guess the MK19 was gone too. The explosion tore the top of my Stryker to shreds. Either the VBIED tore my arm off, or the MK19 exploded from the impact taking my arm with it. No one knows. I lost my favorite watch that day too. I’d like to say it was something cool like a Rolex submariner, but it wasn’t. It was a Timex Ironman I bought during basic/infantry school. I had that damn think through basic, infantry school, jump school, all the training at Ft Irwin and Ft. Polk and even through my whole deployment in Iraq. I’m still to this day really bummed about losing that watch. I woke up a second time to both sergeant majors, CSM Shover and the one (I forget his name) from our sister unit, standing at the end of my bed. I remember telling CSM Shover I can still do my job. He told me he knows and to just get better. A little while later all the guys from second platoon and the mortar platoon came to see me. It was during this interaction that I found out SGT Thibodeaux was seriously wounded and SSG Michael Burbank didn’t make it. I was gutted. Everyone told me that they loved me and that they’re glad I made it.

           I was scheduled to be on the next flight to Germany. The rest of the guys would be heading home a week or so later. I don’t remember much from that flight to Germany. The drugs they gave me were very, very effective. I was knocked out. I don’t remember much of anything from my two-week stint in Germany, except for two things. The first thing was, I woke up in excruciating pain, not from the arm but from having to pee so bad it felt like my bladder was going to explode. I called for the nurse for help. Something was wrong with my catheter. The NFL linebacker that walked in pretending to be a nurse asked what’s wrong. I told him my situation and he took a look. “Yup,” he said with a serious look on his face. “Your catheter slipped halfway out. I’m gonna have to reinsert it.” You’re gonna what? “Yeah bro, it’s gotta happen.” So are you gonna put me out for this? “Nope,” he said. “I’m just gonna push it back down into place. I’m gonna be honest with you, it’s not going to feel good.” Well, no shit it won’t. This being my first time experiencing it, awake at least, I stopped him for a second and asked if I could at least get his name first before he muscles the garden hose back down into place. He told me his name at the same time he reinserted the catheter back into position. Then… sweet release. I filled up two bags really quick. Forgot his name though.

          The second thing I remember was getting Burger King for the first time in over a year. Yeah, that lasted all of one hour, before I blew chunks all over myself. Apparently fast food didn’t agree with me. At least not with all the narcotics in my system. That same nurse had to help clean me up. Ha payback.

          The flight from Germany to Walter Reed Army Medical Center wasn’t as pleasant as the one from Iraq to Germany. In fact, to this day, it was the worst flight of my life. Nothing ruins a flight across the Atlantic quite like when your pain meds wear off when you still have an open wound. Yes, I said open. You see, in Germany the surgeons could only stabilize the amputees and clean out the wounds. It’s the surgeons at WRAMC that decide how much you lose and how much you get to keep. So, here I am sitting in a C5 Galaxy, open arm with drain tubes sticking out and no pain meds. Of course, I asked for some but apparently, according to my records, I had to wait two hours for my next dose. The pain was so bad that this was the first instance of me cussing out an officer. It wouldn’t be my last. The flight doc did what he could and understood my situation and current mental state which was confrontational, to say the least. Right when we landed I was taken into surgery. I had eleven surgeries total to work on my arm.

          The last three shouldn’t have even happened, but they were my fault and it almost cost me my rank. You see, they don’t want you to just stay in bed for months on end if you don’t have too. They always get us up and moving a day or so after surgery. The physical therapist comes to get you and take you for a walk down to the Physical Therapy lab. For me this meant walking on a treadmill. Well this didn’t work for me. I still felt like I was going back to my unit. So, when the PT (Physical Therapist) left the room to go get the next guy, I would start running on the treadmill. I was hard headed about it. The problem was that I was over doing it, which was causing infections to develop in what was left of my arm.

           You know what that means? You guessed it, more surgery to remove the infected tissue. This happened a few more times before the floor, Ward 68, commander came in to talk with me. This was my first ass chewing from a Lieutenant Colonel. He made it very clear that If I keep overdoing it I would never heal properly and my life would be at risk. If I were to do more than what was asked of me during PT, without asking permission to do so, than article 15 would be in my future. I’d be busted down to private. Roger that sir. He understood why I was doing what I did. He respected it. I just needed to recover first. 

          It was during my inpatient status at WRAMC that was the hardest for me. New realizations were entering my mind. What would I do for a living? Who would want to marry a one arm guy? Would I just be one of those homeless vets on the streets begging for money? There were plenty of days where I wished I would have just died In Iraq. I was really lost during this time. Not to mention in a butt load of pain. Having an arm blown off and having constant surgeries really hurts. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the massive TBI (traumatic brain injury) with short term memory loss. I couldn’t for the life of me remember anyone’s name or what appointments I was supposed to go to. Thank god my dad was there for a few months to help me and take notes. My anger was starting to become a problem though. I don’t remember what pissed me off, but one day when they rolled me back from surgery, I was livid. I think It was because they had moved some of my belongings in my room. I was in my surgical gown, bare ass hanging out, telling the staff to f**k- off as I stepped into an elevator. I went down a few floors and just walked around trying to cool off. One of the PTs saw me and asked if I was okay. With tears in my eyes, I told him no I wasn’t.

          He walked me to the PT labs apartment. It’s a mock apartment that’s fully furnished so amputees can learn how to do stuff around the house again before they’re released from the hospital. I would be spending more time than I ever wanted in this place in the months ahead. After about two hours talking to him, I told him what happened and how I just left the ward right after surgery. Boy, did his eyes get big. “You just got out of Surgery?” Yup, I said. “Doesn’t that hurt right now?” Very much so, I told him. During my two- hour absence from ward 68, my parents were furious at the staff and wondering why the hell they would just let their son just walk off, especially with my TBI and memory loss. In hindsight it’s pretty funny. I’m very thankful for the PT that stayed and talked to me that day. It really helped.

          The next day, a major came into my room to address my insubordination. I’ve got to give it to her. She was very understanding about my situation, but I needed to remember that I was still in the Army and this sh*t won’t fly for long. She suggested that I talk to someone. Soon after, there was a therapist in my room every couple of days to talk about my anger issues. It was during this time that more than a few Vietnam veterans from the Washington DC area came to visit us. This also helped me a lot. The sharing of stories and bonding over our shared experiences made it easier to think about what to do next, but especially what not to do. They talked about alcohol and drug use, multiple failed marriages and loss of careers. They told us these things to keep us from making their mistakes. They wanted us to get help and take advantage of the services provided by the VA. In the end they wanted us to live our lives and know that there is so much more life available to us. After these conversations with the Vietnam veterans, as well as the counselors and therapist, I pulled my head out of my ass and got back to being a soldier. It was also this time that I was released from the hospital as an inpatient and would be moving across the road to the outpatient facility called the Malone house. I would be staying there for the rest for my recovery and rehab.

          Every grunt knows what garrison life is like on base. But garrison life at Walter Reed Army Medical Center is a different story. After my stint as an inpatient on ward 68 I was sent to the Malone house, which was a nice Victorian style (but modern) hotel on post. It was three floors with two soldiers per room. It’s just a fancy barracks. This is where the vast majority of out-patients stay until they’re discharged.

          The majority of amputees stay 12-18 months here for recovery and rehab. I was only at the Malone house for about a few weeks when new orders came down from the higher ups. From now, on all service members will be in uniform (BDU’s/ACU’s) and at formation 0600 as well as 1700. You see, before this we all just lived in our comfy civilian sweats and t-shirts. As long as you were making it to your appointments every day, you were pretty much free. But freedom comes with responsibility and that was squandered by a few people who took advantage of that freedom. Military bearing was lost and needed to be corrected. 

          It was during the first formation that I was made platoon sergeant. No shit, right?! Apparently, there were two E6’s and two E5’s that were assigned to my platoon. But all of them were seriously injured and too heavily medicated to assume the position. So here I am E4 Corporal, sitting in on my first ever, first sergeant’s meeting, across from two E7s and the top himself. To say they were shocked to see me was an understatement. After the meeting, I was pulled aside and told my new roll and responsibilities and reassured that as soon as one of the E6s or a new E7 showed up, I’d be demoted. Thank god. This position lasted a few months, I had fifteen Joes to look after. Trying to keep track of fifteen heavily medicated, wounded men was like herding cats. It tried my patience numerous times. To be quite honest, seeing what non- combat arms in the Army was like was really demoralizing. Seeing the lack of care and respect, not only for each other but for themselves is what ultimately made my decision to leave the Army.

          You see, a few months prior, a bunch of us were taken to the Pentagon for a welcome home parade around the outer ring. Apparently, this happens every now and then. Everyone in the Pentagon gathers to the outer ring and lines the corridor applauding as we walk, or roll through. I believe there were about a dozen of us this time. After the parade, we were given a tour of the place and finishing up at the general’s cafeteria. I know, I didn’t know they had their own cafeteria either, but honestly, I wasn’t surprised. Funny part was, the day we were there the US Army Chief of Staff, General Schoomaker, was there too. He sat down in the booth right across from me. “Why do they always want to sit with me?” I mumbled under my breath. Because a week prior it was the Sec. Dev. Rumsfeld. He walked into my room and sat down next to my bed. He kicked up his feet and asked, “Whatcha want to talk about?”

          Two weeks before that, it was President Bush. At least I knew he was coming a few days before. So, here I am sitting in the Pentagon, right across from the Chief of Staff and at a loss for words. He asked what I wanted to do. You see, everyone else he had asked the same question said they were looking forward to going home. But not me. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to get back to my unit and pick up right where I left off. So, I told him that. He proceeded to tell me the Army was lucky to have me and there would be a place for me. But it wouldn’t be in a line unit. My days as an infantryman or any hopes of ever going to SF selection are over. I’ll never be a war fighter again. Well shit. I’m only two and a half years into my first three- year contract. So, that means riding a desk for seventeen more years. Roger that sir. He stood up, coined me, shook my hand and moved on to the next soldier. I still have that coin. It’s in a box with the President’s coin as well as everyone else down the chain of command, over thirty of them thanking me for my service.

          Well, after sitting with what he told me, my micro stint as a platoon sergeant, and seeing how non-combat arms army life was like, I made the decision to leave. Yeah, like I had a choice. The army had already made the decision for me… med boarded, severely disabled and medically retired. Sounds quick, right? Nope this process took months. It took so long that I had two, separate, three-month extensions added on my contract. In total, I spent thirteen months at that place. But to be honest, I was ready to leave. I out processed in one day, this was before all the classes you’re supposed to take now days. I grabbed my DD-214, cashed out my accrued leave and bought a plane ticket back home to Oregon. All of this on my father’s birthday, November 7, 2005. My Army career of 3.5 years was now over. Now what?

          I went back home to my parent’s place in Eugene, Oregon, and stayed there for about a year. I was desperately trying, the entire time, to get out of their house and on out my own. But, I found it hard to find a rental, especially in the areas I wanted to live. They all wanted an entire year’s worth of previous rental history. I didn’t have it. How could I? For the last thirteen months I was living on WRAMC. The year before that was eleven months in Iraq. Before that, I was living the barracks life on Ft. Lewis. I even showed them my bank account statements with my SGLI money, which I received for losing my arm, proving that I could pay for an entire year up front, they still said no. “Sorry, corporate policy.” Fine, I’ll go and buy a house then. And I did.

          I moved in with a few duffle bags of clothes, my sleeping bag and the TV that I had in the barracks. It was during this time that I finished getting signed up through the VA; that was a goat rope. Still is to this day. I also enrolled in the local community college to work on my degree in history, with the hopes of becoming a middle school history teacher.

          While I was going to school, I realized I still needed a mission. Even though I was missing an arm, I still felt like I had a lot to offer with my military experience. So, I signed up for my county’s sheriff search and rescue unit. I spent over four years there as a team leader, as well as an instructor and mentor for the high school group. It was really rewarding and I felt like I still had a purpose. After my first two years in college, finishing up with an associate degree, I started to get calls about hunting and fishing trips for wounded war veterans. So, I took a break from school and went on a few trips. 

          It was during this time that my perspective changed. I started going on fly fishing trips. I went fly fishing when I was younger, but never really appreciated it. Now, it was different. I received a phone call from a man named Dan Cook. He was a former energy commodities trader from DC. He was born and raised in Montana. But went to college and worked in DC. Bored with the way his life was turning out, and remembering how he grew up in Montana, he quit his job and traveled around the world fly fishing for about two years. When he came back from his travels he started connecting with combat veterans and taking them fishing. He then started the nonprofit organization, Rivers of Recovery (ROR). 

          Dan invited me out to the Green River in Utah for three days of fly fishing. It was amazing. I hadn’t been this relaxed, inspired, and passionate about anything in years. I was totally hooked on the trout bum lifestyle. I spent the next few years taking the vets, and friends I had made at the local VA, out on fly fishing trips. I started fundraising and peer mentoring for ROR for a few years as well. I really enjoyed helping veterans reconnect with the outdoors. It’s this kind of recreational therapy that has been instrumental in helping a lot of wounded veterans move forward in their lives with a positive direction. 

          Something else that has helped me immensely is Operation Second Chance. I met the founder, Cindy McGrew, while I was still an inpatient at WRAMC. Over the years her organization has grown and spread across the country. One thing they do is, sponsor week long retreats in Red Lodge, Montana for veterans and their spouses. My wife and I went on one of these trips to Montana years ago. It made such an impact on both of us that we asked if they needed any help for future events.

           We have gone back every summer for the last eight years to help run the program. The organization flies couples out to Red Lodge for a week of horseback riding, ATV rides, fly fishing, and a trip through Yellowstone National Park. It’s been really amazing seeing the changes that happen for the veterans and their spouses on these retreats. It’s always for the better, and helps give them a new perspective on life. It makes them realize they’re still living and there is purpose beyond military life. Over the last eight years of us driving out to help run the program as event coordinators and peer mentors, we’ve made a lot of friends in Montana and we stay in contact regularly.

          There was no silver bullet for helping me move on. It was a series of small steps in different directions which helped me out of the dark places in my mind after October 11th, 2004. Learning from the Vietnam veterans, seeing a therapist at the VA on a regular basis, as well the group meetings with fellow combat veterans has helped. But getting outside, fly fishing, is my therapy, it’s what I still continue to do the most. You see, fish don’t live in ugly places. Wading in a river and swinging flies for steelhead is my state of flow. Trying to make the perfect cast, floating down a river looking at my surroundings, fly fishing for rainbow trout and just appreciating all the beauty that I get to enjoy every day, is my happy place. Even on those days when it’s mid-February, 30 degrees outside, raining sideways with high winds, I just look at my friends and smile. I always say to them that it beats sitting on the couch watching Netflix.

          So, that’s what I’m doing these days. I’m trout jousting just about every single week. I’m also taking jiujitsu classes about four days week because, why not?! I try to be a great husband to my beautiful wife of almost ten years, Breeana. As well as helping out my friends and family when they need it. In the end, I’m just a dude. Trying to enjoy my life and be a good example for those around me, like those Vietnam veterans were to me all those years ago. 

Michael Oreskovic

Corporal, USA (Ret)

2004 –