Soldier of the Year

By Scotty Smiley, Durham, North Carolina

As appeared in

It had been dark for days when I finally heard the doctor’s voice. “Lieutenant Smiley?” 

I knew from his tone that the news wasn’t good. How could it be? I was lying in a bed in Walter Reed Army Medical Center. I had memories of an explosion in Mosul, in northern Iraq—a car driving toward my armored combat vehicle, me waving it back, shouting. Then hot, white light and loud noise. Then nothing.

“We performed the final surgery last night,” the doctor told me. Since my injury two weeks before, military doctors in Iraq, Germany and the U.S. had operated on me several times, removing shrapnel from my head and eyes and cutting my skull open to relieve the swelling in my brain. For most of that time I had been in a medically induced coma. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Smiley,” the doctor continued. “There’s nothing more we can do for you. Your blindness is permanent.”

I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, staring hard toward his voice, as if somehow I could capture light by a sheer force of will. I knew my wife, Tiffany, was in the room. I sensed my mom out in the hall—she must have left to cry. I wasn’t going to cry, though.

“Scotty,” said Tiffany softly, laying a hand on my arm.

I jerked my arm away. “I’m fine,” I said gruffly. I tried rearranging the doctor’s words: Blindness. Nothing more we can do. Permanent. No, it wasn’t true. Why would God have taken me so far—only for this to happen?

It had been just five years since I had entered West Point, and its beautiful campus high above the Hudson River. I felt on top of the world. I was certain, maybe even cocky, about my future. I majored in engineering management, planning to hone leadership skills during my five years of mandatory Army service, get an MBA at a top-ranked school and, to be frank, get rich. Yes, there had been some changes to that plan. For one thing, I hadn’t met many teachers at West Point who thought getting rich was a laudable goal. They believed in service, to their country and their students, and it showed. Then September 11 happened, and Afghanistan and Iraq, and I realized I’d probably be going into combat. I was nervous about that, but excited too. Joining the Army is like joining a big family. The 45 men I commanded in a Stryker armored combat platoon were loyal, brave and as close to each other as brothers. I had wanted that leadership experience, and here it was.

Lying in that hospital bed, though, all I could think was, What for? What was the point of leadership experience, my degree, my plans, if all of it was simply going to be washed away in darkness? Do you hear me, God? What was the point?

Tiffany again laid a hand on my arm, and again I brushed it away. I struggled to get out of bed and fell back in pain. My leg was injured too, and I was still hooked up to machines, a big bandage around my head. A feeling of vertigo came over me. Blindness! There was Tiffany, beside me. Quick, remember, what does she look like? Big smile, cute nose, that delicate face I had loved since high school. We had dated all through college while she went to nursing school in Spokane, Washington, seeing each other on vacations. I had shipped out for Iraq less than a year after we married. I would never see her again! Would I forget what she looked like? What must she think of me, lying here so weak?