Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(83)

That afternoon I was at Walter Reed for the first time. I visited with so many wounded heroes that day, including the first of many triple amputees I would meet in the coming years. Just twenty-one years old, US Army Specialist Hilario Bermanis was serving with the 82nd Airborne Division in Baghdad. On June 10, just ten days before I would be in Baghdad myself, Specialist Bermanis and a fellow soldier came under attack while guarding a weapons turn-in point. A rocket-propelled grenade killed his friend and took both Bermanis’s legs and his left hand. As Bermanis lay in his bed, his father stood by his side and told me what had happened and how Hilario was from one of the tiny islands in the Federated States of Micronesia. Three years earlier, wanting to be an American soldier, he had gone to Guam to sign up for the US Army. The week after my visit, in a ceremony at Walter Reed on September 17, 2003, Bermanis was awarded US citizenship. I will always remember that first visit, meeting Specialist Bermanis and so many others, seeing this young man in a hospital bed missing three out of four limbs. It made a lasting impression on me.

In the spring of 2004, I was back at Walter Reed on a Thursday evening and learned that every Friday a local Vietnam veteran named Hal Koster hosted free dinners for wounded veterans at a nearby steakhouse. Hal sponsored those dinners himself—the bills ran into the thousands of dollars—and his motivation was simply to get our wounded vets out of the hospital for an evening to relax and enjoy a good dinner. The vets I met that Thursday invited me to attend the next day along with them in the big private room Hal provided. Not every wounded vet was able to leave the hospital, but those who could really looked forward to the evening out. I stayed an extra day. I tried to pay for my own dinner, but Hal refused. After I got home, I sent some money to Hal to help pay for one of the Friday-night dinners. From then on, whenever I visited Bethesda, I’d try to attend a dinner if I could. Hal’s actions are another wonderful example of gratitude from one of our citizens. Hal eventually named his program the Aleethia Foundation, and it’s still running to this day.



For several years, my schedule prevented me from visiting the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, our nation’s primary burn center for wounded troops. But in 2009 I made a commitment to get there and flew myself from California without the aid or invitation of any supporting agencies.

The hospital’s chaplain agreed to escort me around to the various rooms. Burn injuries are very tough. I introduced myself to each service member I met and tried to spread a bit of cheer. Troops were burned on their faces, hands, arms, legs, and torsos. Some were missing an arm or leg, or pieces of their scalp. I ordered myself not to show any reaction other than support and gratitude. One young soldier looked badly burned on her face and arm, and I met her as she walked down the hallway, tugging her IV behind her. We talked for some time, and I tried to offer a bit of encouragement. Today’s wounded troops are not only our nation’s sons, but our nation’s daughters too.

The chaplain wanted me to visit one family in particular. They were caring for their severely wounded service member, a marine master sergeant named Eden Pearl, who’d been part of the Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC). I’d met a lot of severely wounded vets by then, but the severity and extent of Eden’s wounds set him in a category by himself. His family, especially his wife, Alicia, remain some of the strongest, most courageous people I’ve ever met.

Eden was muscular, tattooed, and once sported a bushy red beard. They called him “The Viking.” Other marines knew him as an exemplary combat leader. He’d served in Kosovo from 1999 to 2001, helping to prevent ethnic cleansing. In 2003, he was one of the first marines on the ground in Iraq. He redeployed to Iraq in 2004 and 2005, then deployed to Afghanistan in 2009.

In August 2009, Eden and his unit were involved in a massive gun battle against terrorists in the area surrounding a small Afghan village. The battle raged so intensely that the marines made the difficult decision to leave the village so they could return at a more strategic time. As they left, the Humvee that Eden rode in struck a hidden roadside IED, exploded, and burst into flames. An interpreter and the driver, Army Corporal Nick Roush, were killed immediately. The remaining four troops inside the vehicle received severe burns, but none as terrible as Eden. Here’s the remarkable thing. Eden was finally pulled from the vehicle and placed under a burn blanket. Still coherent, the first thing he did was ask if his troops were okay.

The family asked me if I’d go into the intensive care unit for a while to sit with Eden. I nodded, and a nurse fitted me with a gown, gloves, and booties, and placed a nylon hat over my hair. The family stayed outside while the nurse led me in. All was quiet in the ICU. My footsteps made no sound as I approached the marine in the bed.

I stood for a moment, taking in what I saw. Eden was burned on more than 90 percent of his body and was covered by bandages. Burn gel covered any exposed areas of skin. His eyes were slightly open, with burn gel covering his face. He’d suffered a traumatic brain injury and was missing both legs and one arm. I’d seen many, many badly wounded service members by then, but Eden was the most severely wounded I’d ever met. He did not move.

The nurse whispered to me that they weren’t exactly sure what Eden could hear or comprehend, but they were fairly sure some messages were getting through. I drew closer to Eden and told him he wasn’t alone, that his family was there with him, that they loved and cared for him deeply, and that as a country we were immensely grateful to him for his service.