I just finished reading an excerpt of Blood Brothers, an unflinching and engaging account of Time senior correspondent Michael Weisskopf's experience covering the war in Iraq in 2003. He lost his right hand as he instinctively grabbed a grenade that landed on the back of a US Army Humvee and tried to throw it away.
It is a story of courage I will never forget. I came across sentences like these:
"I rose halfway, leaned to the right, and cupped the object.
I might as well have plucked volcanic lava from a crater. I could feel the flesh of my palm liquefying. Pain bolted up my arm like an electric current.
In one fluid motion, I raised my right arm and started to throw
the mass over the side of the vehicle, a short backhand toss.
Then everything went black.
"The loss of my writing hand launched an assault of my self-image.
If I couldn't be a reporter, then who was I?...."
I might as well have plucked volcanic lava from a crater. I could feel the flesh of my palm liquefying. Pain bolted up my arm like an electric current.
In one fluid motion, I raised my right arm and started to throw
the mass over the side of the vehicle, a short backhand toss.
Then everything went black.
"The loss of my writing hand launched an assault of my self-image.
If I couldn't be a reporter, then who was I?...."
