Commentary: I was an Army grunt at the pointy end of the American spear. But no longer

I'm one of the lucky ones. Leaving the madness of U.S. Army life with a modest pension and all of my limbs intact feels like a genuine escape. Both the Army and I knew it was time for me to go. I'd tired of carrying water for empire and they'd grown weary of dealing with my dissent and with footing the bill for my PTSD treatment.

I entered West Point in July 2001, a bygone era of relative peace, the moment, you might say, before the 9/11 storm broke. I