Lewis Damien - A dog called hope: a wounded warrior and the service dog who saved him

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ALSO BY DAMIEN LEWIS

The Dog Who Could Fly

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2017 by Jason Morgan and Omega Ventures Limited

Originally published in Great Britain in 2016 by Quercus

All photographs appear courtesy of Jason Morgan.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Atria Books hardcover edition May 2017

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Interior design by Michelle Marchese

Jacket design by Jarrod Taylor

Jacket photograph by Jnos Csongor/Getty Images

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016046725

ISBN 978-1-4767-9700-7

ISBN 978-1-4767-9703-8 (ebook)

For Napal

T his book is written from what memories and recollections I still have of the fateful events that took place over a decade ago. My story begins in the South American jungle, and most of what took place there I have only ever relived in my dreams, well after the memories were wiped from my mind by my injuries. It was a long timemany months, years, evenafter my injuries that I started to recollect anything at all and the memories started to bleed through.

The official military reports that I have seen state that my injuries were sustained in a car wreckwhich they werebut my dreams and my nightmares speak of so much more. Did these things really happen? I believe they did. In my flashbacks this is the way I remember it. It all makes sense, both to me and to my buddies and to other survivors of that mission. I will probably never know the full truth, but in a sense I have stopped worrying about that. The end result is the same: injuries, paralysis, life in a wheelchair. A life that I have had to learn to lead. I have reconciled myself to never really knowing what happened.

We had been sent to the South American jungle to train the Ecuadorian special forces to combat the scourge of drug trafficking in their country and in their neighbors countries. Believe me, the local special forces needed some serious improvement; they could not even be compared to an average NATO infantry airborne unit. And it was not as if they were operating in a classroom environment. To train the Ecuadorian special forces, we had to go with them on active operations. My injuries were sustained in the course of one of those.

My memory and my sense of time and place have been affected permanently by my injuries, I have no doubt about that. What is written in these pages comes therefore with that one caveat: It is as I remember it.

Jason Morgan

McKinney, Texas

Spring 2015

W e roll out to the waiting aircraft.

Its just after dawn.

A crisp winters sun with just a hint of spring brightens up the scene. Im dressed in a military shirt, with my U.S. Air Force and Army Special Forces patches proudly on display.

Paul, the tandem master whos going to jump with me, sticks close to my side. Hes a tall, muscled, tough-looking guy with cropped hair and mirrored shades, but despite his serious appearance, Ive quickly come to realize that hes got a heart of gold. As we near the plane, he bends to have a word in my ear. He has to shout above the noise of the roaring turbines. When I pull the chute, you good to do some real tight turns? Well fall real fast. More speedless time in the air. You good with that?

I smile. Sure, Im good. Sounds like fun. Lets do it!

He grins, his shades sparkling in the fine winter sunlight. Okay, buddy. Good to go.

Paul and the other guys help maneuver me onto the plane, getting me strapped in for the flight. Already I can feel the blood rushing to my head, my pulse pumping like a machine gun. Its always like this when you ready yourself for the greatest rush of all: free-falling from the heavens.

The aircraft hauls itself into the skies, and we begin the ascent to around ten thousand feet. The climb toward the roof of the world is a long and noisy one, and its too loud to talk much. Were all of us 100 percent focused, zoning into the jump.

In truth, Im feeling pretty relaxed. I figure there wont be any shooters lurking in some badass jungle below, preparing to open fire on us as soon as we bail out of the aircraft. And at least today were not leaping into the depths of the empty night, faces blacked up, going in under the cover of darkness. In my previous life, I was trained to feel at one with the night. To welcome it. To see darkness as my friend. I was trained to embrace what others feared because that would enable me to outwit, outfight, and defeat my enemy.

But today, on this jump, theres no need for any of that.

We reach altitude, and the jumpmaster gives us the hand signal: five fingers flashed twice before our eyes. Were ten minutes away from hurling ourselves out of the planes open door.

Paul steps across to me. He manhandles me into a position where he can strap me to the front of his jump rig, with both of us facing the same way. Like that, well free-fall from the burning blue and drift to earth under one chute, in what is known as a tandem jump.

As you might imagine, the two most dangerous moments when making a parachute jump are exiting the aircraft andmost of alllanding. As my military parachute instructor used to tell me, Its not the jump that kills you, its the ground when it hits!

Paul and I pause at the open door of the aircraft. Outside its a wind-whipped howling void. He inches us closer to the exit, until Im right on the very brink. The last thing he does is grab my legs and strap them into the specially designed harness thatll hold them up so they wont smash into the ground.

Paul flashes the jumpmaster a thumbs-up. Were good!

I glance at the jump light, positioned to one side of the open doorway. It begins flashing red: Get ready .