Smash hit

There is no sentiment in his voice as he stares at what he used to look like and explains that Renee put that photo up because she liked it.

The face in that photo no longer exists. He was in a vehicle with six other marines, patrolling near al-Qaim, northwestern Iraq, when a suicide bomber drove into them.

His left arm is now a stump, having been amputated below the elbow. On his right hand his fingers were blown off – leaving only two remaining – and a big toe was grafted on in place of a thumb. He is blind in one eye and his ears were burnt off. Part of his skull is implanted in the fatty tissue in his torso, to keep it viable and moist for future use, and a plastic plate was fitted to cover where the bone on his skull used to be. He has shrapnel in his head, and above his brow there is a hole in his skull. His injuries are so serious that even a recent sinus infection, which meant a trip to hospital, is a huge medical ordeal.

It doesn’t upset him to look at photos of the past, although sometimes he feels nostalgic.

Ty’s younger brother, Zach, 22, is also a marine. He was in Iraq too, until March this year. He had been in the same unit as Ty, and Ty explains that Pete Carey, the marine who pulled him out of the truck when he was aflame, had been Zach’s squad leader. Ty is proud of his brother and doesn’t draw parallels. He feels that his brother’s decision to go over there should not have been influenced by what happened to him.

We go outside to the garage so he can show me his Harley-Davidson trike. It was a present built specially for him and it’s impressive. Last summer they rode as a group – his mum, dad and uncle Phil. They took a two-day trip.

Just then, he tilts his head to the left and shakes a single tear out of his eye. “I didn’t have a tear duct that drained, so I had an operation where they put a glass one in, but it irritated me, so I pulled it out.” Whenever he fills up, as he does now, in the cold weather, he has to tilt his head to dump out the salty fluid. He laughs mischievously. “I can use it to my advantage.” It is the same laugh, the same voice, and most likely the same sense of devilish adolescent humour that distinguish Ty as the person he has always been. Over the next few days, one thing I will hear over and over again is:

“Ty is still Ty.” It’s more than a glib line. People who knew him from before recognise that though the outside has been transformed, who he is remains unchanged.

Once we are back inside, he playfully instructs me to poke the side of his torso, near his waist, to feel where part of his skull is lodged. His laid-back personality defies his appearance. It’s easy to forget the extent of his injuries.

His mother, Becky, has taken over the medical care – dressings still need to be changed – but Ty isn’t keen to let her do domestic chores. He takes his laundry over to his parents’ house once a week and every so often he’ll let her vacuum.

We move into the sitting room. Despite the cold weather, Ty is wearing baggy jeans, open- toed sandals and an oversized T-shirt. He has some new tattoos and one, which snakes up his entire forearm, reads: “Yesterday was history.

Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift”. There is another one that says:

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