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The Good Soldier

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The two men, first at the NGWRC, then at Veterans for America, discovered that they had their work cut out for them. While soldiers were no longer returning with apparent Lariam side effects — the drug is still commonly prescribed to people traveling to regions where malaria is resistant to some other anti-malarials, but the Army has stopped using it — they were coming home with other problems, like PTSD and TBIs.

More than 1.6 million soldiers have been deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, and they've been finding that these battlefields are very different than those of their predecessors. In Vietnam, one soldier was killed for every two and a half wounded. Now the survival rate is one killed for every sixteen wounded. The Veterans Administration is expecting to treat an estimated 333,000 Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans in 2009 alone, and many of these injuries will be mental, brought on by constant, omnipresent danger dotted with brain-rattling roadside bombs.

"Combat in Iraq is 360-365," says Paul Sullivan, executive director of the non-profit Veterans for Common Sense. "That means our service members are completely surrounded, all day, every day, for a year."

The undersecretary for health at the Veterans Health Administration recently noted that of the 300,000 veterans of the wars treated at VA hospitals, more than half were diagnosed with a mental health condition, 68,000 of which were PTSD. In addition, 30 percent of veterans treated at Walter Reed Army Medical Center have been diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury. These are injuries that aren't as gruesomely simple to treat as a lost arm or leg — and much easier for the Army to overlook or ignore.

Pogany put his Army interrogator training to good use tracking down and helping soldiers with these injuries. He began digging into Army regulations — military justice volumes, medical manuals — and hanging around Fort Carson, finding those who needed help as well as those who could help them.

He worked within the system, making sure to distance himself from anti-war groups. "It's not an issue about the war, and it never has been for me," he says. "When that question is brought into the picture, it becomes very political. And when it becomes very political, you tend to not open as many doors."

While Robinson helped document abuses at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., leading to front-page headlines and several prominent military leaders stepping down, Pogany trained his sights on his former Army post.

"Andrew has proven to be a tireless and dedicated advocate for troops suffering from invisible injuries such as PTSD," says Republican senator Kit Bond of Missouri, whose office has used Pogany as a resource. "He knows the challenges these warfighters face in getting the care they need because he has lived the experience."

Pogany, the "Puppet Master," as his girlfriend jokingly calls him, was soon traveling to other states, poking around their military installations. In upstate New York, he discovered soldiers at Fort Drum were waiting six to eight weeks to get a mental health appointment. In California, Pogany and Robinson reported to the press that at Camp Pendleton, Marines with post-traumatic stress disorder were being given little treatment or respect. And at Alaska's Fort Richardson, Pogany found only three social workers, two substance-abuse counselors and zero psychiatrists for almost 4,000 soldiers.

"Everywhere, I found the same problems: People left and right falling through the cracks," he says. "There was this huge disconnect between what happens in the trenches and what the Pentagon and Army put out."

Until he was hired full time by Veterans for America, Pogany worked for little or no pay, cramming his investigations into nights and weekends when he wasn't working a security job at Buckley Air Force Base. His new position with the NVLSP program is similar to his past work, with one major advantage: He can connect his cases with one of the NVLSP's network of 1,000-plus pro bono lawyers, many from major law firms. The Army has long had its phalanx of legal mavens; now Pogany has one, too.

Not everyone appreciates his crusade. "Chain of command doesn't like that I am talking to you," Nicholas says to Pogany as they wrap up their meeting. "They said you are out to bash the Army." Pogany gets this a lot. For a while, there were posters plastered around Fort Carson with his face on them, warning people to call military police if they spotted him. In 2005, Colorado Springs mayor Lionel Rivera withdrew his promised support of Operation Just One, a program Pogany created to connect soldiers with off-base therapists, reportedly because he was skeptical of Pogany's motivations.

"We aren't the bad guys. This is not about ending someone's career," says Pogany. "While they are calling me names, I am going to be presenting facts. We are going to keep moving the pieces across the chessboard, and one day it's going to be checkmate."

It's a beautiful day," Teresa Mischke tells Pogany as he pulls into her driveway, greeting him like an old war buddy. They've been through a lot together.

Her husband Darren's story is so long, so convoluted, it's sometimes hard for her to know where to begin. There was his first deployment to Iraq in 2003, before he met Teresa, when his soft-skin Humvee was rammed by an Iraqi truck. There was no blood, no obvious damage, so he went right back to work. Sure, when he got home and met Teresa, there were some headaches, but nothing to be concerned about. Then, during his second deployment in 2005, a mortar hit his vehicle, blowing a hole in the turret right by his head. At the time, Darren considered himself lucky to be alive. But back in Colorado Springs in December 2006, right around the time the two got married, he stopped acting like himself. He'd get real quiet, lash out at unexpected moments and forget the most basic things. Training simulators became impossibly mystifying, his hands and mind rebelling against him, and bright flashes plagued his vision.

Then there was the night he brought his battle demons home and shoved Teresa. She called 911 — not to have him locked up, but to get help. Still, he was arrested and pleaded guilty in exchange for counseling. When his superiors heard that he was on probation and could no longer carry a weapon, they had grounds for an administrative discharge.

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