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Robinson is incensed about the Pogany case, which he finds extreme but far from unique. "Pogany is the public face right now of a bigger problem," says the burly Robinson, a former Special Forces ranger. "We as a society don't understand that there are consequences when we send young men and women off to war. We have to expect that they're not going to act in a robotic manner and they will be affected by what they see and do over there."

The military has refused numerous requests for comment. "The military will not address the Pogany situation," says Rick Sonntag, an Army Medical Command spokesman. Maj. Rob Gowan, a Special Operations Command spokesman, says that because of pending legal matters, his command will not comment on the specifics of Pogany's case, either. Martha Rudd, an Army spokeswoman, says, "We certainly want soldiers who need help to ask for help and to receive help."

As for Pogany, he isn't going down without a fight. "They frigging labeled me a coward in front of the entire goddamned country," he says. Despite having run through his savings to pay mounting legal fees, he continues to challenge an institution with a $400 billion annual budget. "If I can help so one other soldier doesn't have to go through what I've been through, it'll be worth it."


Pogany believes that his behavior may have been affected by the drug cocktail that the military gives its soldiers, especially the antimalarial drug Lariam (also known by its generic name, mefloquine hydrochloride, which is what Pogany took). Lariam or its generic equivalent has been associated with the suicides of, or murders committed by, several Ft. Bragg soldiers; and several advocacy groups, as well as Congress, are investigating claims that adverse drug reactions are much more common than the military has acknowledged. "They give soldiers a little anthrax, a little yellow fever, Larium, smallpox, Ambien to help you sleep, antidepressants, whatever," Pogany says. "Any normal person would say, 'Hold on there, Hoss.'"

In late March, I met with Pogany and his wife Michelle at their friend's house in Colorado Springs, where the proximity of the Air Force Academy, Ft. Carson and Peterson AFB encourages a Taco Bell marquee to proclaim, "Thank You Troops! Welcome Home!" After work at the base, Pogany sits on a couch and painfully, deliberately, relives his story. He keeps his 3-inch-thick three-ring binder next to him, filled with legal documents, letters, sworn statements. Following his lawyer's standing advice, Pogany is careful about what he tells me, knowing that if he reveals operational security details, the military will use it against him. Next to the three-ring evidence binder sits his medical file, 2 inches thick.

He is dismissive of his biography, eager to get to his documents and his recent story. Pogany, a naturalized citizen, grew up in Germany and moved to America in 1990 as an exchange student at the University of South Florida. In 1998, at age 26, he enlisted in the Army, but he missed the initial deployment to Iraq after he injured his shoulder in an attempt to get his "jump wings" at the Army Airborne School. In late September, he was attached to a 12-man Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha, or ODA, one week before being deployed.

As we talk, his cellphone beeps the "Mission: Impossible" theme as a steady stream of other soldiers calls to lend him support and to share intel, before he finally shuts it off. I ask why he sounds like he's from New Jersey despite growing up in Europe and spending so much time in Florida. He shrugs. Pogany looks a little like a beefy John Cusack with shorter hair, flecks of grey coming in at an accelerated rate these days.

He also displays a similar wry sense of humor as he describes the first words of the team sergeant when Pogany was introduced to his 12-man A-team: "Who da fuck are you?" As they waited in silence for a transport plane, Pogany says there was little chance to bond with his new squad. "It wasn't necessarily the time to sit around the campfire and sing 'Kumbaya.'"