By Christian Davenport in the Washington Post
The doctor begins with an apology because the questions are rudimentary, almost insultingly so. But Robert Warren, fresh off the battlefield in Afghanistan and a surgeon’s table, doesn’t seem to mind.
Yes, he knows how old he is: 20. He knows his Army rank: specialist. He knows that it’s Thursday, that it’s June, that the year is 1020. Quickly, he corrects the small stumble: “It’s 2010.” He knows that his wife is Brittanie, that she’s due with their first child any day now, and that they “got married two to three weeks before I went to that country.”
Stumble No. 2: “That country.”
David Williamson doesn’t let it slide. “Which country?”
“Whatever country it was that I got blown up in,” Warren says.
In a conference room at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, he purses his lips, and as he searches for the word “Afghanistan,” he slides his hand over the left side of his head, which is cratered, like an apple with a bite taken out of it.
“Crap, I can’t remember,” he says finally.
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