Six-and-a-half years ago, a routine patrol in Afghanistan's Panjwa'i district turned into an ambush.

I can still hear my name, screamed — "Martin! MARTIN!" — as I turned and saw three members of my platoon under attack in the field behind me. We were taking fire from three enemy positions, some as close as 20 yards, the same short distance as a pitcher’s mound to home plate.

I, along with some of my fellow soldiers, returned suppressive fire. Just as the first of our men safely reached us, I was suddenly hit with what felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger swinging a sledgehammer into my leg.

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