Washington Post Staff Writers Sunday, February 18, 2007; Page A01
Behind the door of Army Spec. Jeremy Duncan's room, part
of the wall is torn and hangs in the air, weighted down with black mold. When the wounded combat engineer stands in his shower
and looks up, he can see the bathtub on the floor above through a rotted hole. The entire building, constructed between the
world wars, often smells like greasy carry-out. Signs of neglect are everywhere: mouse droppings, belly-up cockroaches, stained
carpets, cheap mattresses.
This is the world of Building 18, not the kind of place where
expected to recover when he was evacuated to WalterReedArmyMedicalCenter
from Iraq last February with a broken neck and a shredded left ear, nearly dead from blood loss.
But the old lodge, just outside the gates of the hospital and five miles up the road from the White House, has housed hundreds
of maimed soldiers recuperating from injuries suffered in the wars in Iraq
The common perception of Walter Reed is of a surgical hospital
that shines as the crown jewel of military medicine. But 5 1/2 years of sustained combat have transformed the venerable 113-acre
institution into something else entirely -- a holding ground for physically and psychologically damaged outpatients. Almost
700 of them -- the majority soldiers, with some Marines -- have been released from hospital beds but still need treatment
or are awaiting bureaucratic decisions before being discharged or returned to active duty.
They suffer from brain injuries, severed arms and legs, organ
and back damage, and various degrees of post-traumatic stress. Their legions have grown so exponentially -- they outnumber
hospital patients at Walter Reed 17 to 1 -- that they take up every available bed on post and spill into dozens of nearby
hotels and apartments leased by the Army. The average stay is 10 months, but some have been stuck there for as long as two
Not all of the quarters are as bleak as Duncan's, but the
despair of Building 18 symbolizes a larger problem in Walter Reed's treatment of the wounded, according to dozens of soldiers,
family members, veterans aid groups, and current and former Walter Reed staff members interviewed by two Washington Post reporters,
who spent more than four months visiting the outpatient world without the knowledge or permission of Walter Reed officials.
Many agreed to be quoted by name; others said they feared Army retribution if they complained publicly.
While the hospital is a place of scrubbed-down order and
daily miracles, with medical advances saving more soldiers than ever, the outpatients in the Other Walter Reed encounter a
messy bureaucratic battlefield nearly as chaotic as the real battlefields they faced overseas.
On the worst days, soldiers say they feel like they are living
a chapter of "Catch-22." The wounded manage other wounded. Soldiers dealing with psychological disorders of their own have
been put in charge of others at risk of suicide.
Disengaged clerks, unqualified platoon sergeants and overworked
case managers fumble with simple needs: feeding soldiers' families who are close to poverty, replacing a uniform ripped off
by medics in the desert sand or helping a brain-damaged soldier remember his next appointment.
"We've done our duty. We fought the war. We came home wounded.
Fine. But whoever the people are back here who are supposed to give us the easy transition should be doing it," said Marine
Sgt. Ryan Groves, 26, an amputee who lived at Walter Reed for 16 months. "We don't know what to do. The people who are supposed
to know don't have the answers. It's a nonstop process of stalling."
Soldiers, family members, volunteers and caregivers who have
tried to fix the system say each mishap seems trivial by itself, but the cumulative effect wears down the spirits of the wounded
and can stall their recovery.
"It creates resentment and disenfranchisement," said Joe
Wilson, a clinical social worker at Walter Reed. "These soldiers will withdraw and stay in their rooms. They will actively
avoid the very treatment and services that are meant to be helpful."
Danny Soto, a national service officer for Disabled American
Veterans who helps dozens of wounded service members each week at Walter Reed, said soldiers "get awesome medical care and
their lives are being saved," but, "Then they get into the administrative part of it and they are like, 'You saved me for
what?' The soldiers feel like they are not getting proper respect. This leads to anger."
Soldiers Face Neglect,
Frustration At Army's Top Medical Facility
This world is invisible to outsiders. Walter Reed occasionally
showcases the heroism of these wounded soldiers and emphasizes that all is well under the circumstances. President Bush, former
defense secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld and members of Congress have promised the best care during their regular visits to the
hospital's spit-polished amputee unit, Ward 57.
"We owe them all we can give them," Bush said during his
last visit, a few days before Christmas. "Not only for when they're in harm's way, but when they come home to help them adjust
if they have wounds, or help them adjust after their time in service
Along with the government promises, the American public,
determined not to repeat the divisive Vietnam experience,
has embraced the soldiers even as the war grows more controversial at home. Walter Reed is awash in the generosity of volunteers,
businesses and celebrities who donate money, plane tickets, telephone cards and steak dinners.
Yet at a deeper level, the soldiers say they feel alone and
frustrated. Seventy-five percent of the troops polled by Walter Reed last March said their experience was "stressful." Suicide
attempts and unintentional overdoses from prescription drugs and alcohol, which is sold on post, are part of the narrative
Vera Heron spent 15 frustrating months living on post to
help care for her son. "It just absolutely took forever to get anything done," Heron said. "They do the paperwork, they lose
the paperwork. Then they have to redo the paperwork. You are talking about guys and girls whose lives are disrupted for the
rest of their lives, and they don't put any priority on it."
Family members who speak only Spanish have had to rely on
Salvadoran housekeepers, a Cuban bus driver, the Panamanian bartender and a Mexican floor cleaner for help. Walter Reed maintains
a list of bilingual staffers, but they are rarely called on, according to soldiers and families and Walter Reed staff members.
Evis Morales's severely wounded son was transferred to the
NationalNavalMedicalCenter in Bethesda for surgery shortly
after she arrived at Walter Reed. She had checked into her government-paid room on post, but she slept in the lobby of the
Bethesda hospital for two weeks because no one told her there is a free shuttle
between the two facilities. "They just let me off the bus and said 'Bye-bye,' " recalled Morales, a Puerto Rico
Morales found help after she ran out of money, when she called
a hotline number and a Spanish-speaking operator happened to answer.
"If they can have Spanish-speaking recruits to convince my
son to go into the Army, why can't they have Spanish-speaking translators when he's injured?" Morales asked. "It's so confusing,
Soldiers, wives, mothers, social workers and the heads of
volunteer organizations have complained repeatedly to the military command about what one called "The Handbook No One Gets"
that would explain life as an outpatient. Most soldiers polled in the March survey said they got their information from friends.
Only 12 percent said any Army literature had been helpful.
"They've been behind from Day One," said Rep. Thomas M. Davis
III (R-Va.), who headed the House Government Reform Committee, which investigated problems at Walter Reed and other Army facilities.
"Even the stuff they've fixed has only been patched."
Among the public, Davis
said, "there's vast appreciation for soldiers, but there's a lack of focus on what happens to them" when they return. "It's
Soldiers Face Neglect, Frustration At Army's Top Medical Facility
Maj. Gen. George W. Weightman, commander at Walter Reed,
said in an interview last week that a major reason outpatients stay so long, a change from the days when injured soldiers
were discharged as quickly as possible, is that the Army wants to be able to hang on to as many soldiers as it can, "because
this is the first time this country has fought a war for so long with an all-volunteer force since the Revolution."
Acknowledging the problems with outpatient care, Weightman
said Walter Reed has taken steps over the past year to improve conditions for the outpatient army, which at its peak in summer
2005 numbered nearly 900, not to mention the hundreds of family members who come to care for them. One platoon sergeant used
to be in charge of 125 patients; now each one manages 30. Platoon sergeants with psychological problems are more carefully
screened. And officials have increased the numbers of case managers and patient advocates to help with the complex disability
benefit process, which Weightman called "one of the biggest sources of delay."
And to help steer the wounded and their families through
the complicated bureaucracy, Weightman said, Walter Reed has recently begun holding twice-weekly informational meetings. "We
felt we were pushing information out before, but the reality is, it was overwhelming," he said. "Is it fail-proof? No. But
we've put more resources on it."
He said a 21,500-troop increase in Iraq
has Walter Reed bracing for "potentially a lot more" casualties.
The best known of the Army's medical centers, Walter Reed
opened in 1909 with 10 patients. It has treated the wounded from every war since, and nearly one of every four service members
injured in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The outpatients are assigned to one of five buildings attached
to the post, including Building 18, just across from the front gates on Georgia Avenue.
To accommodate the overflow, some are sent to nearby hotels and apartments. Living conditions range from the disrepair of
Building 18 to the relative elegance of Mologne House, a hotel that opened on the post in 1998, when the typical guest was
a visiting family member or a retiree on vacation.
The Pentagon has announced plans to close Walter Reed by
2011, but that hasn't stopped the flow of casualties. Three times a week, school buses painted white and fitted with stretchers
and blackened windows stream down Georgia Avenue. Sirens blaring, they
deliver soldiers groggy from a pain-relief cocktail at the end of their long trip from Iraq
via LandstuhlRegionalMedicalCenter in Germany and Andrews Air Force Base.
Staff Sgt. John Daniel Shannon, 43, came in on one of those
buses in November 2004 and spent several weeks on the fifth floor of Walter Reed's hospital. His eye and skull were shattered
by an AK-47 round. His odyssey in the Other Walter Reed has lasted more than two years, but it began when someone handed him
a map of the grounds and told him to find his room across post.
A reconnaissance and land-navigation expert, Shannon was
so disoriented that he couldn't even find north. Holding the map, he stumbled around outside the hospital, sliding against
walls and trying to keep himself upright, he said. He asked anyone he found for directions.
Shannon had led the 2nd Infantry
Division's Ghost Recon Platoon until he was felled in a gun battle in Ramadi. He liked the solitary work of a sniper; "Lone
Wolf" was his call name. But he did not expect to be left alone by the Army after such serious surgery and a diagnosis of
post-traumatic stress disorder. He had appointments during his first two weeks as an outpatient, then nothing.
"I thought, 'Shouldn't they contact me?' " he said. "I didn't
understand the paperwork. I'd start calling phone numbers, asking if I had appointments. I finally ran across someone who
said: 'I'm your case manager. Where have you been?'
"Well, I've been here! Jeez Louise, people, I'm your hospital
Soldiers Face Neglect,
Frustration At Army's Top Medical Facility
Like Shannon, many soldiers with impaired
memory from brain injuries sat for weeks with no appointments and no help from the staff to arrange them. Many disappeared
even longer. Some simply left for home.
One outpatient, a 57-year-old staff sergeant who had a heart
attack in Afghanistan, was given 200 rooms to supervise at
the end of 2005. He quickly discovered that some outpatients had left the post months earlier and would check in by phone.
"We called them 'call-in patients,' " said Staff Sgt. Mike McCauley, whose dormant PTSD from Vietnam was triggered by what
he saw on the job: so many young and wounded, and three bodies being carried from the hospital.
Life beyond the hospital bed is a frustrating mountain of
paperwork. The typical soldier is required to file 22 documents with eight different commands -- most of them off-post --
to enter and exit the medical processing world, according to government investigators. Sixteen different information systems
are used to process the forms, but few of them can communicate with one another. The Army's three personnel databases cannot
read each other's files and can't interact with the separate pay system or the medical recordkeeping databases.
The disappearance of necessary forms and records is the most
common reason soldiers languish at Walter Reed longer than they should, according to soldiers, family members and staffers.
Sometimes the Army has no record that a soldier even served in Iraq.
A combat medic who did three tours had to bring in letters and photos of herself in Iraq to show she that had been there,
after a clerk couldn't find a record of her service.
Shannon, who wears an eye patch and a visible skull implant,
said he had to prove he had served in Iraq when he tried to
get a free uniform to replace the bloody one left behind on a medic's stretcher. When he finally tracked down the supply clerk,
he discovered the problem: His name was mistakenly left off the "GWOT list" -- the list of "Global War on Terrorism" patients
with priority funding from the Defense Department.
He brought his Purple Heart to the clerk to prove he was
Lost paperwork for new uniforms has forced some soldiers
to attend their own Purple Heart ceremonies and the official birthday party for the Army in gym clothes, only to be chewed
out by superiors.
The Army has tried to re-create the organization of a typical
military unit at Walter Reed. Soldiers are assigned to one of two companies while they are outpatients -- the Medical Holding
Company (Medhold) for active-duty soldiers and the Medical Holdover Company for Reserve and National Guard soldiers. The companies
are broken into platoons that are led by platoon sergeants, the Army equivalent of a parent.
Under normal circumstances, good sergeants know everything
about the soldiers under their charge: vices and talents, moods and bad habits, even family stresses.
At Walter Reed, however, outpatients have been drafted to
serve as platoon sergeants and have struggled with their responsibilities. Sgt. David Thomas, a 42-year-old amputee with the
Tennessee National Guard, said his platoon sergeant couldn't remember his name. "We wondered if he had mental problems," Thomas
said. "Sometimes I'd wear my leg, other times I'd take my wheelchair. He would think I was a different person. We thought,
'My God, has this man lost it?' "
Civilian care coordinators and case managers are supposed
to track injured soldiers and help them with appointments, but government investigators and soldiers complain that they are
poorly trained and often do not understand the system.
One amputee, a senior enlisted man who asked not to be identified
because he is back on active duty, said he received orders to report to a base in Germany as he sat drooling in his wheelchair
in a haze of medication. "I went to Medhold many times in my wheelchair to fix it, but no one there could help me," he said.
Soldiers Face Neglect, Frustration At Army's Top Medical Facility
Finally, his wife met an aide to then-Deputy Defense Secretary
Paul D. Wolfowitz, who got the erroneous paperwork corrected with one phone call. When the aide called with the news, he told
the soldier, "They don't even know you exist."
"They didn't know who I was or where I was," the soldier
said. "And I was in contact with my platoon sergeant every day."
The lack of accountability weighed on Shannon.
He hated the isolation of the younger troops. The Army's failure to account for them each day wore on him. When a 19-year-old
soldier down the hall died, Shannon knew he had to take action.
The soldier, Cpl. Jeremy Harper, returned from Iraq
with PTSD after seeing three buddies die. He kept his room dark, refused his combat medals and always seemed heavily medicated,
said people who knew him. According to his mother, Harper was drunkenly wandering the lobby of the Mologne House on New Year's
Eve 2004, looking for a ride home to West Virginia. The next morning he was
found dead in his room. An autopsy showed alcohol poisoning, she said.
"I can't understand how they could have let kids under the
age of 21 have liquor," said Victoria Harper, crying. "He was supposed to be right there at Walter Reed hospital. . . . I
feel that they didn't take care of him or watch him as close as they should have."
The Army posthumously awarded Harper a Bronze Star for his
actions in Iraq.
Shannon viewed Harper's death
as symptomatic of a larger tragedy -- the Army had broken its covenant with its troops. "Somebody didn't take care of him,"
he would later say. "It makes me want to cry. "
Shannon and another soldier decided to keep tabs on the brain
injury ward. "I'm a staff sergeant in the U.S. Army, and I take care of people," he said. The two soldiers walked the ward
every day with a list of names. If a name dropped off the large white board at the nurses' station, Shannon
would hound the nurses to check their files and figure out where the soldier had gone.
Sometimes the patients had been transferred to another hospital.
If they had been released to one of the residences on post, Shannon and his buddy would pester the front desk managers to
make sure the new charges were indeed there. "But two out of 10, when I asked where they were, they'd just say, 'They're gone,'
" Shannon said.
Even after Weightman and his commanders instituted new measures
to keep better track of soldiers, two young men left post one night in November and died in a high-speed car crash in Virginia.
The driver was supposed to be restricted to Walter Reed because he had tested positive for illegal drugs, Weightman said.
Part of the tension at Walter Reed comes from a setting that
is both military and medical. Marine Sgt. Ryan Groves, the squad leader who lost one leg and the use of his other in a grenade
attack, said his recovery was made more difficult by a Marine liaison officer who had never seen combat but dogged him about
having his mother in his room on post. The rules allowed her to be there, but the officer said she was taking up valuable
"When you join the Marine Corps, they tell you, you can forget
about your mama. 'You have no mama. We are your mama,' " Groves said. "That training
works in combat. It doesn't work when you are wounded."
at Every Turn
The frustrations of an outpatient's day begin before dawn.
On a dark, rain-soaked morning this winter, Sgt. Archie Benware, 53, hobbled over to his National Guard platoon office at
Walter Reed. Benware had done two tours in Iraq. His head
had been crushed between two 2,100-pound concrete barriers in Ramadi, and now it was dented like a tin can. His legs were
stiff from knee surgery. But here he was, trying to take care of business.
At the platoon office, he scanned the white board on the
wall. Six soldiers were listed as AWOL. The platoon sergeant was nowhere to be found, leaving several soldiers stranded with
Benware walked around the corner to arrange a dental appointment
-- his teeth were knocked out in the accident. He was told by a case manager that another case worker, not his doctor, would
have to approve the procedure.
"Goddamn it, that's unbelievable!" snapped his wife, Barb,
who accompanied him because he can no longer remember all of his appointments.
Not as unbelievable as the time he received a manila envelope
containing the gynecological report of a young female soldier.
formation, one way Walter Reed tries to keep track of hundreds of wounded. Formation is also held to maintain some discipline.
Soldiers limp to the old Red Cross building in rain, ice and snow. Army regulations say they can't use umbrellas, even here.
A triple amputee has mastered the art of putting on his uniform by himself and rolling in just in time. Others are so gorked
out on pills that they seem on the verge of nodding off.
"Fall in!" a platoon sergeant shouted at Friday formation.
The noisy room of soldiers turned silent.
An Army chaplain opened with a verse from the Bible. "Why
are we here?" she asked. She talked about heroes and service to country. "We were injured in many ways."
Someone announced free tickets to hockey games, a Ravens
game, a movie screening, a dinner at McCormick and Schmick's, all compliments of local businesses.
Every formation includes a safety briefing. Usually it is
a warning about mixing alcohol with meds, or driving too fast, or domestic abuse. "Do not beat your spouse or children. Do
not let your spouse or children beat you," a sergeant said, to laughter. This morning's briefing included a warning about
black ice, a particular menace to the amputees.
Dress warm, the sergeant said. "I see some guys rolling around
in their wheelchairs in 30 degrees in T-shirts."
Soldiers hate formation for its petty condescension. They
gutted out a year in the desert, and now they are being treated like children.
"I'm trying to think outside the box here, maybe moving formation
to Wagner Gym," the commander said, addressing concerns that formation was too far from soldiers' quarters in the cold weather.
"But guess what? Those are nice wood floors. They have to be covered by a tarp. There's a tarp that's got to be rolled out
over the wooden floors. Then it has to be cleaned, with 400 soldiers stepping all over it. Then it's got to be rolled up."
"Now, who thinks Wagner Gym is a good idea?"
Explaining this strange world to family members is not easy.
At an orientation for new arrivals, a staff sergeant walked them through the idiosyncrasies of Army financing. He said one
relative could receive a 15-day advance on the $64 per diem either in cash or as an electronic transfer: "I highly recommend
that you take the cash," he said. "There's no guarantee the transfer will get to your bank." The audience yawned.
Actually, he went on, relatives can collect only 80 percent
of this advance, which comes to $51.20 a day. "The cashier has no change, so we drop to $50. We give you the rest" -- the
$1.20 a day -- "when you leave."
The crowd was anxious, exhausted. A child crawled on the
floor. The sergeant plowed on. "You need to figure out how long your loved one is going to be an inpatient," he said, something
even the doctors can't accurately predict from day to day. "Because if you sign up for the lodging advance," which is $150
a day, "and they get out the next day, you owe the government the advance back of $150 a day."
A case manager took the floor to remind everyone that soldiers
are required to be in uniform most of the time, though some of the wounded are amputees or their legs are pinned together
by bulky braces. "We have break-away clothing with Velcro!" she announced with a smile. "Welcome to Walter Reed!"
A Bleak Life in Building 18
"Building 18! There is a rodent infestation issue!" bellowed
the commander to his troops one morning at formation. "It doesn't help when you live like a rodent! I can't believe people
live like that! I was appalled by some of your rooms!"
Life in Building 18 is the bleakest homecoming for men and
women whose government promised them good care in return for their sacrifices.
One case manager was so disgusted, she bought roach bombs
for the rooms. Mouse traps are handed out. It doesn't help that soldiers there subsist on carry-out food because the hospital
cafeteria is such a hike on cold nights. They make do with microwaves and hot plates.
Army officials say they "started an aggressive campaign to
deal with the mice infestation" last October and that the problem is now at a "manageable level." They also say they will
"review all outstanding work orders" in the next 30 days.
Soldiers discharged from the psychiatric ward are often assigned
to Building 18. Buses and ambulances blare all night. While injured soldiers pull guard duty in the foyer, a broken garage
door allows unmonitored entry from the rear. Struggling with schizophrenia, PTSD, paranoid delusional disorder and traumatic
brain injury, soldiers feel especially vulnerable in that setting, just outside the post gates, on a street where drug dealers
work the corner at night.
"I've been close to mortars. I've held my own pretty good,"
said Spec. George Romero, 25, who came back from Iraq with
a psychological disorder. "But here . . . I think it has affected my ability to get over it . . . dealing with potential threats
After Spec. Jeremy Duncan, 30, got out of the hospital and
was assigned to Building 18, he had to navigate across the traffic of Georgia Avenue
for appointments. Even after knee surgery, he had to limp back and forth on crutches and in pain. Over time, black mold invaded
But Duncan would
rather suffer with the mold than move to another room and share his convalescence in tight quarters with a wounded stranger.
"I have mold on the walls, a hole in the shower ceiling, but . . . I don't want someone waking me up coming in."
Wilson, the clinical social worker at Walter Reed, was part
of a staff team that recognized Building 18's toll on the wounded. He mapped out a plan and, in September, was given a $30,000
grant from the Commander's Initiative Account for improvements. He ordered some equipment, including a pool table and air
hockey table, which have not yet arrived. A Psychiatry Department functionary held up the rest of the money because she feared
that buying a lot of recreational equipment close to Christmas would trigger an audit, Wilson
In January, Wilson
was told that the funds were no longer available and that he would have to submit a new request. "It's absurd," he said. "Seven
months of work down the drain. I have nothing to show for this project. It's a great example of what we're up against."
A pool table and two flat-screen TVs were eventually donated
But Wilson had
had enough. Three weeks ago he turned in his resignation. "It's too difficult to get anything done with this broken-down bureaucracy,"
At town hall meetings, the soldiers of Building 18 keep pushing
commanders to improve conditions. But some things have gotten worse. In December, a contracting dispute held up building repairs.
"I hate it," said Romero, who stays in his room all day.
"There are cockroaches. The elevator doesn't work. The garage door doesn't work. Sometimes there's no heat, no water. . .
. I told my platoon sergeant I want to leave. I told the town hall meeting. I talked to the doctors and medical staff. They
just said you kind of got to get used to the outside world. . . . My platoon sergeant said, 'Suck it up!' "
Staff researcher Julie Tate contributed to this report.