Music has been a constant in Navy veteran Shannon Book’s life, from his Kentucky upbringing to his time in Fallujah and throughout his recovery, as he details in the new Tango Alpha Lima episode.
Shannon Book grew up in Hazel Green, Ky., where you either figure out how to fix things yourself or you don't get anywhere. It’s a place where everybody picks a flat top, neighbors are 20 minutes away by road but can still throw a rock at your porch, and his grandmother sat on the front porch chewing tobacco while everyone around her played bluegrass.
Music would also play a pivotal role in keeping Book alive as he discusses in the new episode of Tango Alpha Lima, The American Legion’s podcast for servicemembers, veterans and military supporters.
Book joined the Navy in the mid-1990s, inspired by his grandfather. He was determined to be a corpsman, the closest thing to a profession as a doctor which he dreamed of becoming after losing two and a half toes in a lawnmower accident as a kid. He spent 17 years as a Fleet Marine Force corpsman, serving two tours in Iraq and embedding with Marine infantry units through some of the most intense combat.
"If your artery is severed, I'm probably going to put my hand in there and grab hold of it," he said. "I'm going to hold it until I get you home."
A standard battalion is allotted 77 corpsmen for combat. Book's unit went to war in Operation Iraqi Freedom with 42. When others rotated off patrol and got a break, the corpsman didn't. The relentless pace in Fallujah led to sleep deprivation and blurred into something more dangerous.
"You start to see things after day four and five,” he recalled. “Things that are not there. It’s exhausting. You're putting coffee grounds in your eyelids just trying to stay awake."
As a stress reliever, there was music. He played guitar. He wrote. He sang.
When the Navy medically retired him in 2010, the music that had been a welcome distraction in the field became a life-changer. His marriage fell apart. He lost his house. He lost daily access to his children. And the brothers he thought would always be there were understandably consumed by the relentless pace of active-duty life.
"I always thought we're always going to be brothers," he said. "What I forgot is that they're constantly moving. People in the civilian sector have absolutely no idea how fast-paced our lives are."
His first serious song was called "I Need to Breathe." It was, he says, furious — a howl of anger at a society that didn't understand what veterans carried home. Writing it let the pressure out, and somewhere in that release he found a reason to keep going. Music became therapy before he ever called it that.
Book eventually connected with other veteran musicians and co-founded the band Vetted, which began gaining traction. They played veterans events, military installations, and clubs in Houston, Austin, Dallas and Los Angeles. They were on the edge of something big. But a van full of combat veterans, none of them taking care of themselves, with alcohol and unaddressed trauma running just below the surface, can only hold together so long.
What followed was a years-long descent. Alcohol. Drugs. Darkness.
Once, in a studio alone, Book pressed a handgun to his forehead hard enough to leave a bruise the size of a silver dollar. He made phone calls that night, the same phone calls he'd been telling other veterans to make from stages across the country.
On Oct. 12, 2020, Book got his fourth DUI. He woke up while doing 70 miles an hour, somehow managing to peel his Hyundai Tucson off a guardrail, then sitting in the road afterward staring up at the sky.
"God, I can't do this anymore," he said out loud. "I need you to solve this. I can't do it. I am not what I thought I was."
What followed was an unlikely chain of grace. A compassionate officer. A magistrate who asked him about Veterans Court. A judge and her staff who, Book says, helped him walk out of "that dark alley" one step at a time. Therapy — done sober, which he calls the hardest thing he has ever done. His fiancée, who showed up to bond him out, drove home in silence, and eventually stayed.
"I had to look inside myself without flinching," he said. "How hard is it to do that?"
Today, Book is sober, grounded and creating some of the most personal music of his life. He recently returned from Nashville recording four new songs: "Little Things" — a song he wrote in his darkest hour, about his children being the reason he stayed alive — "Walking," "American Made," and a re-release of "No Man Left Behind," the first song Vetted ever wrote together.
His message for any veteran at their lowest point is direct and doesn't require polish.
"No matter how broken you feel, how hurt you sound, how sad you are, how lonely you live — you are never alone," he says. "If you just stop and take a second and say, God, I need you, and give it a few seconds — just be patient enough to see the light come on — your whole life will change."
Also, Tango Alpha Lima hosts Adam Marr and Joe Worley discuss:
• Why traditional military field screenings fail to detect TBIs in combat zones.
• A food that proved to be a secret weapon for fighter pilots.
Don’t miss this inspiring conversation. Subscribe to the Tango Alpha Lima Podcast on Spotify, YouTube, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen. Join a community that celebrates authentic veteran stories and proves that service is a lifelong commitment.
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