"You are a hero," says a man, standing on a curb outside Walter Reed Army Medical Center, as Army National Guard Maj. Ladda "Tammy" Duckworth walks slowly by, on artificial legs, a cane in each hand.

"I'm just trying to survive, man," she laughs.

"You're a hero, a survivor, you're. ... "

"That's right," Duckworth interrupts, "too stubborn to die."

Duckworth, 37, a Black Hawk helicopter pilot in the Illinois National Guard and service manager for Rotary International, is among the most prominent of wounded U.S. soldiers from Iraq. She was thought to be dead and today she thrives. The pain was so intense at one point, she didn't sleep for five days and counted the seconds of every minute to show herself she could survive, a moment at a time.

I met her last April, at a press club luncheon, and was struck by her grace and strength and courage.

I wanted an interview as Veterans Day approached to learn whether Duckworth's thoughts on the war were changing, perhaps like the nation, reshaped either by her own loss, the rising casualty count, or opinion polls showing support for the Iraq war continues to slide.

Duckworth suggested I shadow her through a day at Walter Reed Army Medical Center, in Washington, D.C., starting in the third-floor physical therapy gym for amputees — the "Miracle Room."

Duckworth is out of her wheelchair, lying on an exercise bench, a weighted ball in her hands. She extends her arms and turns her torso to the right, then back, in steady repetitions. Her left leg, severed below the knee, rests on a cylindrical cushion. Her right leg is a mere 3-inch stump, covered now by her gym shorts.

Duckworth told doctors to leave the right stump, despite the difficulty fitting a prosthetic to it, so that she might one day fly helicopters again. Flying wouldn't be an option with only one leg moving independently. Bunnie Wyckoff, her physical therapist, joined her on a visit to a Black Hawk cockpit to advise Duckworth on what muscles she needs to work on.

A year ago, the day after Veterans Day, a rocket-propelled grenade exploded against the chin bubble of the helicopter that Duckworth was co-piloting north of Baghdad. Duckworth fought to land the aircraft, not realizing her legs were gone, her right forearm was pulverized and her pilot had the controls. Only after the helicopter landed in a clearing did Duckworth lose consciousness. Slippery with blood, she was pulled to a second helicopter and presumed to be dead. Her wounded crew chief, lying on the deck beside her, felt the warmth of Duckworth's blood and advised the next crew, of a medical evacuation flight, to administer aid.

Ten days later. she awoke at Walter Reed, husband Bryan Bowlsbey at her side to explain her injuries. She assumed for a few guilt-ridden days that she had crashed the helicopter and, having failed to shut off engines, tipped the aircraft and the blades sliced off her legs and injured her crew chief.

"I was devastated. I thought I deserved everything that had happened to me," she said. "When I found out that, no, I hadn't crashed the aircraft ... it resolved any conflicts that I could have had."

She hasn't had many down days since then, she says, though she concedes to being "a girly-girl" with the usual female vanities. That includes a love of shoes and fondness for high heels. Now she talks of properly programmed knees, stumble recovery systems, toe loads and vacuum seals.

She said her attitude toward the war has not changed. In her mind, it has always been about protecting America and, as a woman officer, sharing equally in the opportunity to serve and face the risks of war.

"My sacrifice was for my country. It wasn't for Iraq," she said.

"You say you work at Walter Reed and hear, 'Oh, that must be terrible!' No, it's not. It's great," says therapist Wyckoff. "It's an opportunity to do great things for people."

"It's the Miracle Room," says Maj. Duckworth, "the Miracle Floor."

With new arrivals here daily, more and more heroes need miracles.