THEY NEED OUR HELP

Chairmen of the bored: Idle days take toll on disabled vets
By CHRIS VAUGHN
McClatchy Newspapers
Article Launched: 05/24/2008 01:45:12 AM PDT


FORT WORTH, Texas — John Chrzanowski heads to the horse barn first thing in the morning most days.
He brushes, cleans out horseshoes, saddles and then grimaces to get up on top of his favorite, a sand-colored palomino named Sally, to ride around his property east of Dallas. Horses are new to Chrzanowski, who grew up in a Detroit suburb and spent most of his adult life as an Army infantryman.
But a roadside bomb in Iraq ended his combat tour early and left him a very different man, scarred and unfit for continuing duty.
What he was left with is a wife, a baby girl and five horses, all that he has to spend his time on. Every day is a day off.
He would prefer something else to occupy his mind, somewhere to go other than doctor's appointments and the feed store. He's 24 years old and can't fathom the rest of his life spent in leisure.
But no one, not even defense contractors who profit from the war, has expressed interest in hiring him.
"There really isn't much out there for a 24-year-old grunt fresh out of the Army with no college education," he said.
This kind of fallout from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan has largely been overshadowed by the more outrageous tales of lapses in military medical care, inadequate death benefits and bureaucratic bungling in the Veterans Affairs Department.
When severely disabled veterans get forced out of the military, as thousands have since the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, they face the very sobering
realization that they may have nothing more to look forward to than a government check for the rest of their lives.
Government statistics from the Labor Department issued last month state that the unemployment rate in 2007 for disabled veterans from all wars was 3.4 percent and that almost 9 out of 10 disabled Iraq war veterans were working, both of which indicate there is not a problem at all.
Experts in the field, however, say that is not their experience. One recent report prepared by a disability advocacy group for the Army said there are no reliable statistics for the most severely injured, but that their unemployment rate was "staggering."
The government statistics "seem counterintuitive to me," agreed Dave Autry, a spokesman for the Disabled American Veterans group in Washington, D.C. "I don't think those numbers are really reflective of what's happening. Historically, severely disabled veterans have fared less well in the work force, and the higher the disability rating, the higher the unemployment."
Frederick Williams, a former noncommissioned officer in the 1st Cavalry Division with burns, shrapnel wounds and partial deafness and blindness, found out what it was like when he started calling and applying for jobs in Killeen.
He never received a single phone call from the private sector and never received a job offer from any government agency. Eventually, Williams, 46, a Louisiana native, landed a job with a nonprofit company that hires only severely disabled people, a job he loves.
But he hasn't forgotten how the private sector snubbed him.
The American people "don't owe us anything," he said. "This was our decision. But we did stuff they did not want to do, so morally, they should think about that and give us a chance. If we're OK to fight for you, it might be OK for us to work for you."
A week before Christmas last year, the Chrzanowskis closed on a two-story house and 16 acres in Hunt County, a bit north of Greenville.
Neither of them knew much about North Texas. Chrzanowski knew even less about life in the country.
He grew up in a place called St. Clair Shores, a small city outside Detroit and just across Lake St. Clair from Canada.
His wife, Tanis, called Corpus Christi home, 1,300 miles away and a lot closer to the United States' other border.
But after the Air Force had brought Chrzanowski to Texas on June 21, 2005, in the belly of a C-17 transport, so bandaged up he looked like the Michelin man, he couldn't very well leave.
"I wanted to go to Georgia," he said. "But I married a Texan, and they don't take kindly to leaving Texas."
The two met outside a barracks on Fort Sam Houston, where hundreds of sick and injured soldiers and Marines were going through rehabilitation and recovery.
Tanis, a medic in Iraq, had ended up at Brooke Army Medical Center because of a medical problem. Seven months later, they wed in a small and short ceremony at the Bexar County Courthouse, celebrating afterward at a Mexican restaurant on the River Walk with a handful of family members. (Seven months after that, they would ask a Catholic priest to bless their marriage to make it more official with God.)
Chrzanowski went under for 13 surgeries and endured thousands of sessions with rehab specialists. His medical charts coldly described his injuries — 62.5 percent of his body with third-degree burns, 15 percent with second-degree burns.
Only the top of his head, his face and the top of his feet escaped.
Two, sometimes three times a day he would go to rehab, trying to release and stretch the yards of scar tissue that formed all over his body. He still cannot find the words for the pain, only that it was "beyond any human comprehension."
"Bless them, the rehab people never give up on you," he said. "You could cuss them, and they'd always come back."
Twenty-three months after his flight landed in San Antonio, the Army cut Chrzanowski loose and retired him for medical reasons. They also made him a corporal.
"Pity promotion," he said.
Chrzanowski sometimes breaks things around the house so he can fix them.
He bought a boat so he could go fishing. He rides around in his tractor looking for a fence to mend.
When it's too hot outside, or too cold, or too windy, he has to come inside. He will forever be limited in how much exposure he has to extreme weather.
Maybe he will turn on the History Channel or play with his 10-month-old daughter, Audrey.
"I was raised in an old-fashioned family," he said.
"A man goes to work in the morning and comes home in the evening. He provides for his family. But when every day is Saturday ..." His voice trails off.
He won't say it but the truth is that Chrzanowski is bored, physically and mentally. It has been eight months since he has done anything but hang out with his wife and daughter every single day.
But trying to land a job has so far proved fruitless. He worked with job-placement centers, and he sent his resume to businesses in Greenville, McKinney, Bonham and Sherman. He applied for several jobs with area defense contractors L-3 Communications and Raytheon.
If the applications asked about his disability status, he told the truth. If the application didn't ask, he didn't advertise it.
But nothing has come of his job hunting, not an interview, not a phone call.
In the last couple of weeks, Chrzanowski has started to think about college, perhaps at Texas A&M at Commerce. He can see himself getting a degree in social work and helping returning veterans with problems they might have.
"I still would like to serve my country," he said.
He doesn't think he's college material, though. He is worried about whether he can learn in a classroom and do well, and he is concerned that he won't be able to take notes in class because of his hands.
Chrzanowski won't bow, he won't beg and he balks at anyone's pity. He didn't work so hard to live, to father a daughter, to get up on a horse to have it any other way.
"I refuse to let my enemies win," he said. "I can still do everything I could the day before I got hurt. It just takes me a little longer."
Reluctantly, Williams made a phone call one day to a business his wife had heard about.
He was sick of rejection, mad at just about everyone, but he called anyway and left a voice mail.
Later that day, the man called back.
Williams has not been the same since.
When he retired from the military, Williams began to fill out a lot of applications. He called a lot of businesses and talked to managers or human resources directors. He interviewed with a couple of places on Fort Hood.
He dutifully rattled off, either orally or in writing, his limitations — "I can't stand too long. I can't lift much. I can't hear well. I sometimes have memory problems. I can't travel a lot. I have VA appointments." On and on it went.
It was full disclosure to Williams. He wanted to be honest.
For nine months, though, nothing happened.
At first, Williams got mad.
"As much as I gave this country and they won't even give me a chance," he would mumble.
Then, he just flat gave up. He sunk into a depression and found himself needing therapy more and more. "I felt like I was a burden to my family," he said. "I always told my kids, 'Work hard, and you'll get things out of life.' But what kind of example was I."
When the project manager called him back that day in late 2006, Williams once again went through all his special needs.
"He said he'd work with me," Williams said.
Silence.
"What do you mean you'll work with me?" Williams finally said.
Williams is now a valued member of the team at TRDI Inc., a nonprofit company that has a government contract to monitor security at Fort Hood's airfield.
Surrounded by fellow disabled veterans, Williams watches TV screens much of the day, looking for unauthorized vehicles or people in a secure area.
He enjoys a newfound type of camaraderie, almost as good as the Army, he said, because they "ain't got to run."
"I've been in a place where you can't go any lower," he said. "To find a job after what I've been through ... I've overcome it all."