A Wounded Soldier Strives to Return

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If he sounds like a kid at heart, he is. A science-fiction fan, he has all the tapes of the original Battlestar Galactica TV show from the '70s. In Iraq, he used his reputation as an auto mechanic to play practical jokes on the unsuspecting. "I'd tell 'em to go get a flux capacitor," he says, laughing that his Guard buddies didn't catch the Back to the Future reference. His favorite game remains Warhammer, a tabletop battlefield game in which real-world strategies are played out with miniature soldiers. He builds his own figures, mixing Warhammer components, like its Imperial Guard ("the National Guard of the future," he says) with the game's Space Orks. "It's a way of acting like a kid and getting away with it," he admits. But he is a serious history buff too and has visited every mission church near San Antonio, including the Alamo. "Just don't get him talking about World War II," warns his mother.

This is a guy who joined the Oregon National Guard in 2003, having found little else that engaged him--including his full-time job as a grain inspector. His grandfather served in the Air Force, and two of his uncles were Navy men. (His dad left home when he was young.) Because of his dyslexia, Braddock had trouble in school. But he thought to himself, Where else can you shoot a fully automatic weapon--legally--and get paid for it? A lengthy conversation ensues about guns (he owns an M1A and wants an AR-10 for hunting) and ends with this odd observation: Iraqis, he says, are more afraid of pistols, which they associate with executions, than automatic weapons.

Is Braddock avoiding bigger issues in his life? Probably. He went to see a military psychologist. Didn't like him. He has no time for pity, his own or others'. While fellow amputees were offering encouragement to other survivors at Brooke, his bedside talks were sometimes brutal. "I made it a point to bitch out people who are giving up on themselves," he says. "I told them, 'You know the difference between amputees and cripples? A cripple is someone who gives up.'" Last May, three months after his surgery, he hiked up Washington's Mount St. Helens with his prosthetic leg just to prove that he could do it. "You suck it up and drive on," he says. His mom says he is blessed in his positive attitude. "One of the things that always helped Matthew is he never looked back," she says.

What worries him now is the waiver he needs to get into the Army with a prosthetic leg. Failing that, he might return to Texas, learn some Spanish and try for a border-patrol job. There is no girlfriend in his life. "With this chubby Irish mug?" he asks, noting the 20 lbs. he has put on since his accident. But the ladies do take notice, he admits. "I tell girls I got blown up by an antitank mine in Iraq. It's cheesy, but it works." And he really has drunk out of his prosthetic leg--although he has learned to use a spare one so he doesn't have to walk around with a beer-soaked sock. "Made that mistake once," he says. How much beer does a leg hold, we ask, suspecting a trick. "More than a pitcher," he answers with a perfectly straight face.