NEW YORK You probably recall the iconic photograph, published on the front page of several newspapers, and inside many magazines, early in the Iraq war: a weary, proud, American soldier with a dirty face, perhaps smeared with blood, helmet in place, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was dubbed “The Marlboro Man,” and eventually identified as Lance Cpl. Blake Miller and hailed.

But his story did not end there, or end happily. Miller survived Iraq, but what has happened since has not been pretty. Nearly two years ago, in January 2006, E&P interviewed the photographer who snapped that picture, Luis Sinco of the Los Angeles Times, who revealed that Miller had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and having trouble adjusting to normal life back home in Jonancy, Ky.

Now Sinco has returned to the American he knows he will be linked to forever.

A two-part article he wrote for the Times appeared Sunday and today, and the paper’s Web site, www.latimes.com, has put up a remarkable multimedia section that includes video, audio, photographs and more.

Among other things, it details how Sinco has repeatedly tried to help Miller cope with his demons. Here is a passage from the Sinco article which captures some of its content and tone.
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The local newspaper had been calling him about rumors that he was getting divorced. It was a major local story. Finally, he wrote a statement. He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle's house. He told me that he had come close to committing suicide the night before. He had thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain road.

He showed me the morning newspaper. His divorce was the lead story.

I felt torn. I didn't want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close the book on Iraq. But if I hadn't taken Miller's picture, this very personal drama wouldn't be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield. It creates a space for me to work -- and distance to keep my eyes open and my feelings in check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Fallouja. In the rattle and thunder, brick walls separated me from the world coming to an end. In the tight spaces, we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes.

Above the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: This is the end.

I've never felt so completely alone.

I snapped back to the present, and before I knew it, the words spilled out.

"I have to ask you something, Blake," I said. "If I'd gone down in Fallouja, would you have carried me out?"

"Damn straight," he said, without hesitation.

"OK then," I said. "I think you're wounded pretty badly. I want to help you."

He looked at me for a moment. "All right," he said.

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