LOVE ME WHEN I’M GONE

Robert Patrick Lewis

Copyright 2012

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Writers Guild of America, West

Registration Number: 1408159

Effective Date: 01/29/2010

Expiration Date: 01/29/2015

Library of Congress Copyright

Txu 1-808-496

Effective Date April 29, 2012

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Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Spanish Class

Chapter 2: Arrival in Germany

Chapter 3: The Whirlwind Begins

Chapter 4: Balad, Iraq

Chapter 5: HAVE ACE

Chapter 6: Scotland

Chapter 7: Africa

Chapter 8: Battalion Ball

Chapter 9: CWT

Chapter 10: Bee-Sting

Chapter 11: Sneak Attack on Los Angeles and Afghanistan Orders

Chapter 12: Litzum

Chapter 13: 022 Heads to Afghanistan

Chapter 14: West to East

Chapter 15: Firefight with The Colonel

Chapter 16: Pat

Chapter 17: Move to FOB Shank

Chapter 18: Night Attack at FOB Kutschbach

Chapter 19: Operation Payback

Chapter 20: The End of an Era; Leaving 022, Back to Iraq

Chapter 21: Colorado

Chapter 22: The Wedding

About the Author

Glossary

Love Me When I’m Gone Website

If, during the process of reading this book, you find that there is more information you desire about characters, countries, locations, missions, or situations, I have developed a free website for you to access and delve further into the story. There are also hundreds more pictures, from every chapter, which unfortunately we could not include in this book. Be sure to check out:

www.LoveMeWhenImGone.com

www.facebook.com/LoveMeWhenImGoneBook

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USA Cares Veterans Organization

USA Cares is an organization that I am affiliated with, having recently been named as one of their spokespersons. USA Cares exists to help bear the burdens of service by providing post-9/11 military families with financial and advocacy support in their time of need. Assistance is provided to all branches of service, all components, all ranks while protecting the privacy and dignity of those military families and veterans who request their help. They help families of wounded service-members with the costs of visiting their loved ones and help veterans in dire financial situations. Since 2003, USA Cares has responded to over 36,000 requests for assistance with more than $9,000,000 in direct support grants.

www.usacares.org

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Special Operations Warrior Foundation

While I have no affiliation to this organization, I believe in and support them wholeheartedly. They are one of the most highly rated charities in the country for keeping their administration costs at or below 5% of contributions, and what they do is amazing. The Special Operations Warrior Foundation assists families of Special Operations personnel who lose their life in the line of duty, and severely wounded Special Operators and their families, and send their children to college. There are links on my website, but I implore you to please check them out, and make a donation if you can. I will also be giving part of the profits from Love Me When I’m Gone to their organization.

www.SpecialOps.org

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Dedications

As you will find throughout reading this book, I am a very passionate person and care very deeply about certain people, places and things, which have greatly influenced and affected me throughout my life. I would be remiss if I didn’t take the time to thank, dedicate and mention some of them here.

First, to my beautiful and amazing wife Cindy; you lived this whirlwind life with me, which unfolds throughout the following pages, and never let me go. There were times that I didn’t even think I could put up with myself, but you always stood by my side, and were the rock that grounded me. Now you’ve given me two amazing children and a life I could never have imagined would be so happy….thank you, I love YOU.

Second, to the men of ODA 022; this book was originally just a journal of notes, full of things I couldn’t tell Cindy during my time in service, either for security or her sanity. Once I discovered my first son was on his way, I began to expand on them, wanting us each to have a legacy for our children, for them to know the stories behind some of the greatest men I’ve ever been privileged to know. I know that each of you are too modest to ever brag about yourselves, or tell your children what fearless, dedicated heroes and patriots each of you are, so hopefully I’ve done you right and done it for you.

Third, to The Regiment and all of the men of Special Operations; at the time I’m finishing this, there is a whirlwind of discussion about these books, and even talk of a certain SEAL going to jail for writing his. There are many men, much greater than I, who have done amazing things for this country, things that will never be known unless their stories are told; it's it's about the men, not the missions. I know the type of man it takes to fill any of the jobs in our profession, and I applaud you all. Now that I’m a civilian again, I thank you for keeping my family, my country, and my brothers safe. De Oppresso Liber.

Fourth, to every military family out there, wives, husbands, children, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters; I know from experience that loving a soldier is one of the hardest things that a person can be asked to do. I know that it is tough, but I also know that if love is worth having, it is worth saving. I hope that this book will serve to give you strength, and help you to see things from the eyes of your soldier, and help to give you the resolve to give them your ever-loving support.

Finally, and most importantly, to those heroes and their families who have given all that they could give to the greatest country our civilization has ever known; there are no words which can be said or written to truly express your nations gratitude. Please know that you will always be in our hearts and thankful prayers, and I and many others will do all that we can to honor your memories with every breath we take. God bless each and every one of you, and God bless America.

Introduction

They say that your chances of surviving a dismounted near-ambush are less than two percent, and with those odds I’m not quite sure how I’m here writing this today. The terms “soldier” and “warrior” tend to get thrown around very loosely these days by rappers and athletes who get paid millions of dollars to play a game or sing a song; I’d love to see how they would react when it’s time to stop talking the talk and actually walk a mile in the boots of a soldier who barely gets paid minimum wage to go to war.

I knew it was coming when the hair on my arm and the back of my neck began to stand up. We knew we were going into the lion’s den, but we were so full of blood lust and wanted revenge for the death of our brother Pat that we welcomed it. As soon as the eye in the sky told us that forty to sixty fighters were massing not two kilometers away we headed right for it, knowing that we were outgunned several times over and our backup would take at least ten minutes to get there. Being a Green Beret means you win at all costs, against all odds, and with whatever you’ve got, so the idea of sitting around and waiting for the rest of the company to mass never even crossed our minds.

I heard the call of “Allah Akbar” as we began to cross a courtyard in the middle of the village, and saw the heavy machine gun open up before I heard it. As the foliage in front of their position started to be chopped away by the hundreds of rounds aimed right for us, the relentless training that had been seared into my muscle memory for the past four years kicked in.

I had been taught all the way from Infantry Basic Training that the first thing you do in reaction to a near-ambush was to throw a grenade and get the hell down; I had one better in the grenade launcher on the bottom of my rifle, and as soon as my round exploded in the face of the man firing at us, the whole world froze for an instant. I was down on the ground by the time I heard Jake screaming.

“What the hell was that?”

“That was me!” I yelled back as I sprinted across the alley to join the rest of my team, which was now trapped in the courtyard by the gunfire erupting all around us.

It’s a funny thing to look back on: I knew that the rest of my team was surrounded and pinned down by the hell of enemy fire on all sides, and I didn’t even hesitate to run to them and join in. I didn’t have a clear shot or much cover, but if we were going to die, then we were going to die together as men and warriors.

I obviously wasn’t the only one who thought that; before I could get across the alley to join my team in the courtyard, Matty and Johnson both ran ahead of me to jump over the waist-high mud wall to join J-Lo in the thick of it, less than ten feet from the building from which we were taking the most fire.

Once I was situated behind the rear wall with Josh, The Captain, and Jake, I began to seriously think that we might not make it out of there. In the span of just a few short minutes I had several dozen rounds either whiz inches away from my face and head, or hit the wall close enough to send pieces of rock into my face, and I knew that if we didn’t each do our job to its fullest, none of us would make it home that day.

It is something that cannot be explained or even understood until you’ve lived it: a man can’t know or fully appreciate his life until he’s been close enough to taste the end of it, and the bonds forged in battle are some of the strongest a man could ever have. We are brothers, the men of ODA 022, and though we didn’t have the same blood running through our veins, we had all shed the blood of others together, and we knew that none of us would hesitate to step in the way of fate and take a round or jump on a grenade to save one another.

I still don’t have any idea how long it was before the wall exploded, sending The Captain and me flying and knocking us both unconscious. I didn’t see it coming and don’t know what it was or where it came from, but in the darkness of my unconsciousness I got to see Cindy, my angel, again for a few brief moments, and for that it was worth it.

We were both up pretty quickly, and right back at it. Chris, one of our 022 brothers who was attached to another team and saw this unfold from another vantage point, loves to tell the story (after a few beers) of looking down through his scope and seeing me shooting back with everything I had, the entire left side of my uniform covered in my own blood. To be honest, at that point I didn’t even know I was bleeding; all I knew was that my brothers needed me in the fight, and as long as there was breath in my body, I still had the fight left in me.

Being a good old boy from Texas I try to explain pretty much anything in life using the wisdom imparted from my football coaches, and the beauty of the power that a Special Forces company can unleash can be explained by the simple Texas football wisdom: “The guy who hits the hardest feels the least impact.”

That was the only thing I could think about when I heard the fury of .50 cal machine guns, sniper rifles, and MK19 fully automatic grenade launchers unload when our QRF finally arrived on the road about a quarter-mile behind us and began to turn our world into absolute chaos. I remember hitting the ground and looking up to see nothing but tracers and rounds flying over my head and a tree that we were under chipped away in fist-sized holes until there was nothing left.

I’m not sure if it was more terrifying to be surrounded on all sides by enemy fire, or to know that the full force of a dozen heavy weapons are firing just feet above your head to save your life. I had been on the other side of unleashing that kind of lead fury more times than I could count, but to be just a few meters from the receiving end of it was absolutely beautiful and terrible in the same instant.

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I have been many things in my life: straight-A student and phenomenal athlete, troublemaking kid without a care of any consequences, lacrosse-playing and fraternity-partying college kid, concert promoter and young businessman, young buck Army recruit and finally a Green Beret. Of all these things I’ve done and the great people I’ve met along the way, none could walk a foot in the shoes of the great men I met during my time at 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) and as an operator on Operational Detachment Alpha - 022.

These are my brothers, and this is our story.

Chapter 1

Spanish Class

Thank God for Spanish. Well, not so much the language as the class, and the fact that in Texas, every Kingwood High School student has to take either Spanish or German, and most pick Spanish because it’s pretty useful in Texas. I didn’t get much of a choice at the time, but in hindsight the Spanish class from my freshman year of high school ended up being the most important class I’ve ever taken, even though I still can’t say a complete sentence in Spanish apart from ordering a beer, beef fajitas, or explaining to a border-town police officer that I am completely innocent. You see, even though I may not have learned much from that class, what I gained from it has forever changed my life. Let me go back a ways and explain.

When I was born thirty-two years ago in Florida my parents were extremely young. Because of that, they gave me up for adoption on the day I was born, and I thank my lucky stars they made that call. It did cause me quite an identity crisis while I was growing up, though, as I wouldn’t find out their true identities or life stories until I turned 18. Because they were smart enough to give me up and not ruin all three of our lives, I met my mom and dad when I was already a few months old, when they were definitely ready to start a family and welcomed me with open, loving arms.

Things went great for quite a while. My father had left his career as a Navy pilot for the commercial sector, not wanting his son to be raised as a military brat like he was (every male in my family has served in one branch of the military or another), and he was lucky enough to quickly find a job flying for Air Florida. We had a great little house on the river, and I still have memories of sailing along it without a care in the world.

When I was around the age of five Air Florida went out of business, and my dad was lucky enough to have some friends who were working for a small little company flying out of Texas named Southwest Airlines. We moved there before my dad had even officially been hired, but as he has an infectiously friendly and sociable personality, it didn’t take much deliberation for Southwest to decide to add him on.

Over the next few years that little airline grew and grew, and my dad moved further and further up in seniority. I still remember going to the Southwest parties as a young boy, watching as they slowly increased in size and stature of location. I remember going to the Ronald McDonald House in Houston every year, and thinking how great it was that my dad worked for such a caring company that would do so much for so many people in need.

It wasn’t very long, though, before we were the people in need. I can’t remember exactly, but I think I was around seven or eight the day my mom and dad came into my room to talk with me. It was the late 1980s, and this thing called cancer still wasn’t very big on my radar. From the way they explained it to me, as good parents always do, I really didn’t think that there was anything to worry about. So naturally the news they gave me six months later when the doctors gave my mom a clean bill of health and said it was all gone was the answer I’d been expecting all along.

I went along with my life as usual, being a very good student in all the gifted and talented classes, always playing one organized sport or another, and enjoying the museum visits, plays, or art classes with my mom on the weekends. Since my dad was a pilot and off flying quite a bit, my mother and I had grown very close and spent all of our time together.

A few years went by, and my swimming medals, football and baseball trophies had begun to take up a lot of space in our house when my parents came into my room once again. I was about twelve at this point, and both the news and the attitude with which it was delivered were much more serious this time.

As it turns out, medical technology in the early 1990s still wasn’t too much better than it was in the late 1980s. The doctors had not only failed to actually rid my mother’s body of cancer cells the first time around (despite the harsh mastectomy), but it turned out that what was once breast cancer was now cancer of brain, bone, liver, skin, and basically every other organ in her body.

Being the smart, young boy whose parents had never led him astray before, I decided to listen to their advice and keep a positive attitude, knowing that it always worked out in the end for good people who told the truth, kept their promises, did their homework on time, and ate all of their vegetables at dinner.

Even the nights that I spent at the hospital with my mom, sleeping on a cot the nurses would sneak in for me, being with her the day after they had to surgically insert a port into her chest because all of her veins were completely collapsed, and watching the chemotherapy turn her from a vibrant, upbeat blondish-redhead reminiscent of Princess Diana to the withered shell of a dying cancer patient, I still held on and tried to be a rock for her.

It wasn’t until we decided to bring her home and put her under hospice care, when we had to buy a hospital bed for her, and she became too weak to feed herself that I truly understood I was about to lose my mom. I still remember the day she finally lost her fight—and the complete numbness that washed over me as I watched the coroner wheel her body out of our house. It was the hardest day of my life, but in hindsight it prepared me for the struggles I would face later, as even the horrors of war can't match the darkness that day brought to my soul.

Because Southwest Airlines was such a family-friendly company, they had given my dad quite a bit of paid leave both before and after my mom passed. It seemed as if everyone in the entire organization visited us that week, bringing big pots of food or cakes, and saying whatever kind words they could. My little sister was five years younger than me, and my dad did his best to keep us in good spirits, but what can a single father do to console two young kids who’ve just lost their mother?

It was then, unfortunately, that I began to make his life immeasurably more difficult; not because I blamed him, hated him, resented him, or anything like that. Quite the opposite: he was an excellent father, and I still thank God every day for bringing our lives together—he is the sole reason that I am the man I am today. But a boy starting his teenage years is enough of a handful to begin with, and when you add watching his mom lose a battle with cancer, well, the problem obviously gets compounded.

So I went off the deep end. My dad eventually had to go back to work flying, and when he did I decided that I was going to do every bad thing I could. I quit playing sports, took up smoking cigarettes and pot, found ways to get booze, and basically got into as much trouble as possible. Instead of detention, my school would send you to an alternative school for all of the bad kids in the district for a day at a time, and it seemed like I was there at least once a week. Finally, it all came to a breaking point, and my dad decided to ship me off to military school to save me from eventually doing something that would destroy my life forever.

It was my first real brush with the military, and to my surprise the structure and strictness of the regimen brought me back to center. I’m not endorsing military school in any way, though; the one I went to in Florida was chock-full of troubled kids, and I probably learned more about how to do bad things there than I would have ever figured out on my own. From what I hear, it’s the same way at many other military schools.

But aside from all of the new, bad things I learned, I did come to appreciate certain aspects of the military, an appreciation which remains with me today. As I mentioned, I am from a long line of military men, and there was something about the rigorous standards and attention to detail that was enforced there that led to quite a bit of introspection and made me grow up a bit.

I started at Florida Air Academy during the last half of eighth grade in the early 1990s, and after a full year my dad decided that I was ready to come home. I still remember the first day back at school; my friend Travis was an office aide, so he was allowed to take me around and show me where my locker, classes, etc., were.

Of all the things that I was happy for, the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about was how great it would be to be in school with girls again. I was full-on girl-crazy, as any young teenage boy is, and when Travis dropped me off at my first classroom, I was ready. Getting there just before the bell rang, all I could see when I looked in was one empty seat in the front row, next to a stunningly beautiful Asian girl with long black hair and wearing a cheerleading uniform. I ran straight for the seat and started our first conversation, the only awkward one we have ever shared.

We immediately hit it off, and quickly became close friends. For some odd reason we weren’t attracted to each other at the time, but she loved to hook me up with her friends, and I actually introduced her to one of my friends, who she ended up dating all through high school. Even though I was still the wild child, always getting into fights and trouble and always caring more about being the cool kid above anything else, Cindy was the one person who I could be myself around.

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By our junior year we spent the entire summer together, and romantic feelings were starting to creep into the back of my mind about her. Unfortunately, by this time she and one of my friends were pretty serious, and if anything I am loyal, and wouldn’t dare do anything to destroy my friendship with either Cindy or her boyfriend.

I just let it go, trying to pretend that there was still nothing between us, secretly hoping that she would somehow hear the voice inside of my brain screaming at me to grab her in my arms and kiss her, and that the feeling would be mutual. But, as the years went by it never happened.

Our friendship grew, but when graduation came we left for opposite ends of Texas. We stayed in touch through letters, but those slowly drifted into infrequency. Our freshman year of college she actually came to visit me for a weekend, and as she was sleeping the first night I wrote her a long letter, professing my love for her and telling her that I had secretly been wishing she felt the same all along.

When the time came for her to leave, rather than sneaking it into her purse as I had planned I chickened out and threw it in the trash; I valued her friendship above everything, and would never want to jeopardize it with her thinking I was just another guy trying to get with her.

After college I left for Basic Training and she moved to Los Angeles to pursue her acting and modeling career; all communication stopped and we lost each other for eight long years.

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I was in my sophomore year of college on September 11, 2001, and that day forever changed my life. I was just as angry as every other young American man was, I’m sure, but for me it hit pretty close to home. With my father being an airline pilot, I was first worried and then filled with anger. My anger soon turned to deep feelings of guilt, as I was the only male in my family who had not given any of his time to defend this great country of ours.

My father had been a Navy pilot; my uncle was an Army Warrant Officer who served in Vietnam; my grandfather was an Army Infantryman in WWII and Korea and retired as an Intelligence Colonel; a great uncle was a Marine in WWII and retired as an Army Colonel; and the list goes on. It didn’t take long for me to find my way to a recruiting office, just as many other young men of my generation did after the attack.

At my father’s urging I enlisted in the delayed entry program, which would allow me to finish my college degree before leaving for boot camp, and so less than a month after I took my diploma from Texas State University in 2003 I was on a plane to Ft. Benning, Georgia, to learn how to be an Infantryman. Next I was off to Airborne school, then to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, for Special Operations Prep and Conditioning (SOPC, the first of many weed-out courses designed to convince the weak to leave of their own accord), followed by Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS), and the beginning of two years in the Special Forces Qualification Course (the SFQC or, more commonly, the Q-course). I was being assessed and tested every single day to determine if I had what it took to serve my country as a Green Beret.

I still remember the day I got Cindy’s first message on MySpace. I’d returned from SERE school the day before, and was bruised, battered, emotionally scarred, and emaciated from spending a month as a POW in the North Carolina woods. SERE is the Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape portion of the Q-course, and it was the very last part of my two-year journey proving I had what it took to wear the coveted Green Beret.

Both of my roommates were 18B’s, weapons specialists—Green Berets who can identify, fix, rebuild, and operate any weapon in use anywhere in the world—and had been finished with the Q-course for several months. I had been selected as an 18 Delta, Special Forces Medic, which, while it is one of the most coveted positions in all of Special Operations, adds a full year of medical training, testing, and hospital rotations to your duration in the Q-course. All three of us had been together since basic training, but since I was an 18D I was still in the Q-course when they were graduating.

I had the apartment all to myself, and when I woke up, sat down in the Lazy Boy recliner with my laptop and a cold Guinness (it was St. Patrick’s Day 2006) to check my MySpace account, I think I actually let out a yelp of excitement. I had only started the account because my friend Rob convinced me a few months earlier that it was a great way to catch up with old friends while in the military, and as I had been searching for Cindy for the past several years to no avail, it seemed like a great idea.

As luck would have it, she had been searching for me all along as well. Her first e-mail was about three pages long, and after a week of exchanging messages on MySpace we graduated to all-night phone calls. It was just like we were teenagers again, and night after night I would stay on the phone with her until just hours before I had to be on base and in formation; I was constantly operating on just a few hours of sleep.

It was only a few weeks later that my orders finally came down: I was being assigned to the elite 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group in Germany, with the first unit of Green Berets that had ever existed. It was the most bittersweet news I could get; I had been hoping and praying throughout my entire time in the Q-course that I would get this assignment to Germany, where my grandfather had been stationed after WWII and my father had spent his formative childhood years, but now that Cindy and I had found each other again, it meant our paths would once again separate. I could hear the disappointment in her voice the day I told her, and it made my heart sink.

The good news was that I was going to get a full month of leave before reporting to Germany, and that meant we would finally be able to see each other again! She had just finished filming Bring it On: All or Nothing with Hayden Pannettiere and Beyonce’s little sister, Solange, in Los Angeles, and would be going to the East Coast for a break and some family time. Her family, like mine, had moved away from Texas by that point.

As I began to pack my things and give away the stuff I didn’t want to take to Germany, we began to make plans for how we would spend our month together. First I would attend my sister’s wedding in Florida, spend some time with the family, then up to Philadelphia to meet Cindy at her parents’ house for her birthday, then off to Los Angeles for two weeks, and back to my parents’ house for my going-away party. I was so excited that I wasn’t even paying attention to anything that was going on. Rob volunteered to meet the movers at my apartment, and I got on a plane to Florida.

I was in Florida for a week, and Cindy and I were on the phone so much that it would die several times throughout the day and need recharging, much like when we were in High School, but now something was just...different. By the time I actually landed in Philadelphia I was so nervous and excited that I was sure I had completely lost the ability to speak English.

I hadn’t seen Cindy in eight long years, and we had been such good friends for so long, I wondered how it was that we had lost touch in the first place. I soon found myself pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside, unable to contain my excitement, and was surprised I hadn’t worn a tread into the concrete by the time her parents’ black SUV pulled up.

When the rear door opened she stepped out, our eyes met, and I instantly knew that everything was different. She ran to me and I picked her up and spun her around, and as I held her in my arms and smelled her long, black hair all of my old feelings for her suddenly rushed back, along with many of those that only come with maturity. When I finally set her down I could tell by the look in her eyes that she felt the same thing.

The rest of our lives began that day.

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It didn’t really even sink in that I was leaving until my going-away party in Florida. The last day it was only Cindy, my dad, stepmom, and I spending our last day together before I caught a plane to Germany and Cindy caught a plane to Los Angeles.

Since my parents have a very strict separate-bedroom rule for unmarried couples, Cindy and I went to sleep in our respective rooms at the end of the last night. After the month we had just spent together, and both of us being completely unsure about what the next few years had in store for us, I couldn’t let it end like that.

My sister’s wedding reception had been at my parents’ house, so there were still several cases of champagne lying around. Sometime after midnight I snuck downstairs, filled a bucket with ice, grabbed a bottle of bubbly and snuck into Cindy’s room.

She had been lying awake just like I had so it didn’t take much to get her out to the end of my parents’ dock to drink champagne and spend our last night together under the stars. I’m not sure what time it was when we decided to lay down and just hold each other as the sun rose over the water, but when I heard my father’s footsteps at the end of the dock I knew that life was about to change, and prayed to God we could find a way to make our newfound love work.

Chapter 2

Arrival in Germany

As the wheels touched down in Stuttgart I was awakened from the light sleep I had finally found. I hadn’t yet learned to set my watch to my arrival time zone as soon as I boarded a plane, and the early-morning sun streaming in through the windows just added to my tired confusion.

Before leaving the plane I did one last check to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, put my passport in my cargo pocket and headed off. Whoever had the great idea to make the hallways of international air terminals similar to the gates of an animal barn, herding everyone in the right direction in their bleary-eyed daze was brilliant.

I walked past the crowd waiting outside the baggage claim doors and headed straight toward a coffee shop to grab a bite to eat and figure out how I was going to make it to my final destination when I heard a voice over my right shoulder.

“Sergeant Lewis, I have a ride for you,” came the words in a thick German accent.

Standing just behind my right shoulder was a man who looked to be in his mid-forties wearing glasses, a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. How had I ever missed this guy? As I turned to get a better look, he continued.

“I got your picture from the B-team. I am here to take you to the base. Follow me.” With that he turned around and started walking.

I followed him into a small parking lot just outside the airport doors, and when he stopped at a red 1980s big-body Ford Bronco, I could hardly contain myself. Either this guy is some kind of spook trying way too hard to make me believe I’m safe, or he has great taste in trucks.

“Get in,” he told me as he hopped into the driver’s seat. I hesitated for a second before throwing my bag in the back, but finally heaved it in and took a seat. If he’s a spook, he’d have to be pretty damn brazen to do this at the airport, at the time and place where the Army knew I was coming in.

My first experience of driving in Germany was quite interesting. One of the main things Green Berets learn about driving in a foreign country is to fit in. Americans typically have a very hard time doing this, just as most Middle Eastern and Asian immigrants do in the States. Different regions have different driving styles, and the rule-oriented Germans are a very good example. Knowing all of this, it only took me a few seconds on the highway with this guy to realize that even if he hadn’t been born an American, he was definitely one of us.

Driving his Bronco around the steady stream of Audis, BMWs, and Mercedes with one hand on the wheel and the other glued to the horn, the constant stream of cursing—half in Deutsche and half in English—gave me quite a laugh. When he lit a cigarette, looked at me and yelled, “Anybody who thinks that these Goddamned krauts can drive is out of their Goddamned mind,” I knew I was in good hands.

After about an hour of waiting for my driver to have a heart attack while swerving, swearing, and honking, we arrived at the base in one piece. Unlike the enormous Ft. Bragg this base was quite small, and the buildings made it apparently obvious that there were no division- or corps-sized units there.

Aside from the shiny new welcome building immediately inside the gates, all the buildings seemed to be pre-WWII, if not older. Pulling up to the Bravo company building, one of a row of old, white three-story buildings with gray roofing, the driver parked in front, turned to me, and said in his thick German accent.

“This is the last stop. I will take you in to the B-team and to meet the Sergeant Major, and he will either put you on a team or on the B-team to figure out where you belong. Here’s my two pieces of advice: one, the B-team is torture. Everybody hates the B-team, but everybody has to do it at some point. If your time is now, just suck it up and do a good job, because how you do there is how they decide which team you go to. Be yourself, or you may very well end up on the wrong team and miserable.”

We stepped out of his car and he took one last drag of a cigarette, flicked it into the sparse grass next to the parking lot, and looked up at me.

“And second: if you do go to a team today, you are the FNG—the Fucking New Guy. If they don’t make you miserable until the next FNG shows up, then you’re probably not on the right team.”

“So I can pretty much expect to be miserable for the next few months?” I asked.

“You should only hope so, new guy. Nothing worth having ever comes easy.”

He turned around and started walking toward the building. He stopped when he came to the door, and when I caught up with him I saw the keypad on the wall.

“I will only show you this once, so learn it now,” he said.

He glanced to make sure I was watching his hand as he punched in the code. I was already repeating it in my head as the door buzzed, clicked open, and we walked past a set of stairs that led down into the dark, dungeon-looking basement from which lingered the distinct smell shared by all old buildings with an ancient secret.

We climbed up a short set of steps into the main hallway, which opened up to the front entrance, freshly painted white and decorated with giant murals of Green Berets from wars past. Inside the hallway we took a quick left, and I could see the stairs that led up to the team rooms.

“Remember what I told you,” he said, the fresh cigarette still breathing out from his lungs and into my nose.

“You are the FNG, which means that nothing you say or think matters. The rule is that today you need to stock the team fridge with a case of beer, which you can buy at the shopette, and keep your damn mouth shut. The guys will let you know when you can speak, but until then, keep it shut and do whatever they tell you.”

He turned and walked through a set of heavy metallic security doors and took a left into the operations room. As I rounded the corner and stepped in to the office, lined with desks, calendars, and whiteboards completely filled with writing, the German pointed me out to a tall, well-built man with immaculately groomed silver-gray hair standing in the middle of the room.

“Sergeant Major,” he said, “may I introduce Sergeant Lewis to you.”

Hearing “Sergeant Major,” I immediately snapped to parade rest as soon as I entered the room, and everyone laughed as the Sergeant Major walked over and stuck out his hand.

“Easy there, Sergeant Lewis,” he said in a loud but well-mannered tone that resembled a motivational speaker. “You keep acting like that and people may get the impression that you’re in the Army.”

“Roger that, Sergeant Major.”

“Sergeant Lewis, you’re an 18 Delta, aren’t you?”

“Roger, Sergeant Major.”

“Well, tell me something about yourself. What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Well, Sergeant Major, I like to work out, I read quite a bit and keep up with my medical skills, and in North Carolina I liked to do a bit of free climbing in my spare time.”

“Free climbing, huh? Well, I think I’ve got just the place for you then.” Looking past my shoulder, the Sergeant Major yelled into the hallway, “Hey Dennis, I’ve got something for you!”

A large surly guy with short messy brown hair, huge forearms covered with tattoos and decked out in North Face clothing stepped into the office doorway. “What’s that, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

“Dennis, meet Sergeant Lewis here, your new 18D. You guys can have him, take him up to the team room with you and introduce him to Josh; see if he wants to keep him. If not, we’ve got a place for him down here at the B-team.”

“Roger that, Sergeant Major,” said Dennis as he nodded at me. “Follow me.”

Walking up the two flights of plain, institutionally gray and drab stairs, my heart began to pound. As soon as we reached the landing on the second floor, Dennis stopped and began punching in another key code on the door immediately to the left of the stairs. I saw a closed circuit camera in the corner and a giant mural of a Green Beret standing over the doorway with a climbing rope slung around his shoulders and an ice axe in his hand. Below were the numbers and letters painted in black which would define me as a man for the next few years: ODA 022.

Dennis pushed open the door and motioned for me to follow. As soon as I was inside I was in another hallway, with doors on either side opening up into offices. Immediately to the right of the door was a small television that projected the closed circuit camera feed, and above that was a very large board on which hung many different sections of colorful climbing rope, each with a different type of knot tied into it.

As we walked past the first two offices, I could hear noise and voices coming from the middle room on the right, and I followed as Dennis passed a large black chalkboard on which a detailed picture of a mountain had been painstakingly drawn. When he turned the corner and stepped in the room my heart began to beat so hard that if felt as if it had jumped into my throat.

As I walked forward I could hear a voice from inside the room.

“What’s up, D?”

“I brought you guys something.”

As I stepped into the room I saw nine guys seated on the type of old furniture you’d find on the porch of a frat house. Each man was wearing purple medical gloves and cleaning various weapons. I saw a refrigerator against the wall, military maps of different areas and countries posted around the room, and various Hawaiian shirts hanging next to them.

“Let me introduce you to our new 18D. Introduce yourself there, new guy,” he said looking at me.

All I got out was a “Well, my name is—” before one of the guys jumped up from the couch and yelled, “Oh no you don’t!”

Puzzled, I started to ask what he meant.

“We don’t learn their names. You’re just Fucking New Guy, got it?”

Another short but stout guy with light-brown hair stood up behind him and stretched his thick arms above his head.

“Well, boys, I guess you know what this means-time to smoke the poor bastard. You got any PT’s with you, new guy?”

“Roger,” I replied.

“Good. Get ’em on and drink this; you’re gonna need it,” he said as he tossed me a bottle of water. “Get into your PT’s and meet us on the front steps in ten minutes.”

Each of the guys began to get up, and I took a step back into the hallway to let them pass. I changed as fast as I could, gulped down the bottle of water (thankfully, as I was pretty dehydrated from the plane ride), and headed to the bathroom before going downstairs. Before walking out of the room I noticed something very interesting hanging above the doorway: a large, wooden plaque, and burned into it were the characters “ODA 7” with a picture of a mountain warrior.

ODA 7, holy shit.

It did make sense; 10th Group was actually the first Special Forces Group to be created (after the OSS was dissolved into the CIA in 1946 and Special Forces was officially created in 1952), and this battalion was the first one in 10th Group, so it fit. I realized that I was in the presence of legends, and at that moment goose bumps ran all the way down my spine. I was on the front steps within a few minutes; six of them were already waiting for me.

“Thanks for showing up, new guy, take your damn time,” said the short, stout guy who had invited me downstairs in the first place.

“Where are the other guys?” I asked.

“Good observation, but the team leadership doesn’t need to be here for this. You’ve got two minutes to stretch, and then we’ll start. If you fall out and get lost in town, just take a cab back here to base, but don’t bother coming back up to the team room—they’ll have a place for you down on the B-team.”

As I bent over to stretch out my hamstrings in the grass I looked up to get an assessment of the men I was dealing with. Most people think that all Green Berets are huge, Viking-esque warrior types, like you might expect to see in a strongman competition. And while a lot of Green Berets are above-average size and extremely athletic, the truth of the matter is that brute strength can only take you so far in being an effective Green Beret. When it comes to carrying all the food, water, weapons, and ammo you’re going to need for a mission, on foot, for miles and miles on end, the bigger guys aren’t always the best.

The guys who spend all their time in the gym and none in the woods running and hiking get weeded-out in selection, because in the end they’re not who you want on a team. Looking around at these guys that fact was very apparent. This was obviously a mountain team, and in order to have a mountain team you needed a mixture that included some of the skinny, sinewy, all-muscle types who could solo up the sheer face of a cliff quickly and set in protection for the rest of the team. You also needed a few of the workhorses, guys with thick legs like professional athletes who could carry the mortars, sniper systems, and heavy ammo up that same cliff.

Just as I stood and stretched my quads I saw the stout guy turn and start running. The rest of the team took off in unison right behind him, and I fell in with them.

It felt pretty good to stretch my legs after the long plane ride, but I guessed this run would be as good a chance as any to loosen them up. I had noticed on the way in that it was a good half mile from the front of post to the company buildings, and realized that at this quick, six-minute mile pace I would be in serious trouble if this was just the warm-up and we went too far outside the gates.

By the time we hit the front gate I could see I wasn’t the only one who had broken a sweat— a good indicator for me. The stout guy was at the head of the pack, and as he ran through the front gates and across the street, everyone followed like sled dogs at the beginning of the Iditarod. It must have been a sight for the motorists coming in: all six team guys were wearing their civilian running attire, and I was the lone jackass wearing the standard Army black shorts and gray T-shirt.

Knowing I had to make a good first impression, I sped up to the front of the pack just in time to hit the top of the hill. The stout guy on my right looked over to see if I was struggling yet, and seeing that I was keeping up with him he quickened his pace to an almost full-out sprint, using the gravity of the hill to help him build speed.

Thanking God that I had spent so much time trail running the hills of North Carolina, I doubled my speed as well and was right next to him again. We kept up the breakneck speed for about three-quarters of a mile, all downhill, until finally the path leveled out and we were on flat ground again.

We throttled back, and the leader of the pack led us into the small German town surrounding the base. I only had a few minutes to catch the sights, however, as we took a left onto one of the side streets and then another quick left into a trail leading into the woods, which I would have surely missed had I been on my own.

The dirt trail turned into a hill leading almost straight up, and after about twenty meters I could feel the burning in my quads signaling that I couldn’t last much longer at this pace. My running partner kept glancing over at me to see if I was still keeping up, and once we reached the top of the hill he glanced back at the rest of the pack.

Having devoted all of my attention to keeping up I hadn’t even noticed how the rest of the team was doing, and when I glanced over my shoulder I could see I was doing pretty well. While the three smaller guys were right on our heels the big guys had fallen back a few steps, so we slowed down to let the others catch up.

“So, I take it you’re a bit of a runner, huh, new guy?” the stout leader of the pack asked between quick breaths as we followed the trail out of the woods and jogged back toward the base.

“Yeah, I actually run quite a bit; it’s how I clear my head and relax,” I replied, silently thanking God that we were cooling down the pace.

“Well then, keep it up and don’t let the Hefeweizen weigh you down too much and you’ll be in good shape. This is the mountain team, and we don’t cater to fatties around here. If you start getting chubby or losing your step, we may just have to kick you over to the mobility or ASOT team, got it?”

“Roger that, Sergeant,” I replied, thankful I had at least passed the first test.

“And cut that ‘Sergeant’ shit out. My name’s Tony; some people call me ‘Big Tone.’ Welcome to 022, brother.”

.

By the time we reached the company steps again my body was finally starting to feel normal after the past few days of booze, junk food, and the long plane flight. As the rest of the pack arrived we grouped into a small circle, and everyone started to stretch their legs again as Tony pointed to people and stated their names.

“This guy over here,” he said, indicating the salt and pepper, Pierce Brosnan-type, “is Matty. He’s probably the best climber, skier, shooter, and definitely best-looking man you’ll ever meet. He’s basically a ninja, and can do anything better than you.” Pointing to the guy who was closest to my size with the shaggy brown hair, he said, “And this is Ray. He was in Ranger Training Battalion for a few years until he came over to us. If you ever have any questions about 7-8, he’s the man, and he’s probably only second to Matty in climbing skills; even though he’s not quite built like a climber, that guy can scramble up anything with a finger hold.”

He then pointed to the menacing Mr. Clean-looking guy, who was stretching out his calves on the street. “And this is Chris,” he said. “He’s been on this team longer than any of us, and can teach you a thing or two about anything. This one,” he said, pointing to the guy who had jumped off the couch and yelled about my name, “is John. He was in the Infantry for a few years before coming to us. Not too big on the climbing, but a hell of a fighter.”

“What about the other guys?” I asked.

“Well, the guy that brought you upstairs, that’s Dennis. Big D doesn’t really like the whole climbing thing, so he’s leaving the team and going to another company. He was a great guy to have around when we were in Bosnia, and definitely the guy you want around in a street fight, bar fight, or shootout, but if a guy doesn’t want to be on this team, we’re not gonna force it. Tim is the Warrant Officer; he’s a Bergfuhrer [a graduate of the famous German mountaineering school-only a few Americans have earned the honor], and has been in SF about twenty years now. Josh is an E-7 but is your new Team Sergeant, and the skinny guy is the new Captain. He just showed up about a week ago, so we don’t really know too much about him yet.”

Tony then turned around and headed inside and up the stairs. Once we got into the team room, Chris smacked me on the shoulder.

“Grab your towel, new guy, I’ll show you where the showers are.”

As everyone went off to their respective offices to get ready for a shower, I began to pull off my shirt and walk back into the living room-looking area.

“Not there,” said Chris from over my shoulder.

He pointed to an office at the end of the hallway. “Your office is over there. Don’t get too comfy, though; if you step on your dick we’ll have you down on the B-team before you know it.”

I picked up my bags and walked down the hall. Taking a right and walking into my new office I could see four desks, two on each side of the room facing each other, each with two wall lockers behind it.

“That’s yours,” said Ray, pointing to the far back corner desk and locker.

I took off my sweaty clothes and pulled the towel out of my bag, wrapped it around my waist, and stepped out into the hallway just as Chris came out of his office.

“Come on new guy. Hope you ain’t embarrassed being naked around a bunch of dudes!”

.

The steam-filled room and hot water on my shoulders relieved any tension left from the flight, and as the water flowed over my head and washed the salt and sweat from my body, I quietly thanked God for putting me there.

So many trials and tribulations, three years at Ft. Benning and Ft. Bragg, being tested every single day both mentally and physically to ensure I had what it took to be Green Beret, and finally making it here to Germany, going immediately to a team. I must have done something pretty good in a past life, because there aren’t too many people who can do that.

I stepped out of the shower, dried off, and started walking back down the cold stone hallway to the team room the same time as Chris. When we got to the door, he stopped and did something I was getting familiar with.

“I’m only gonna do this once, so watch,” he said as he punched in the code to the door. “Did anybody show you the code to the building?”

“Yeah, the German guy who picked me up at the airport.”

“Good,” he answered. “But bro, that guy ain’t just some German. His name is Glen, and he's a Master Sergeant in the United States Army and a Special Forces legend. He was born a German, was an East German POW, and defected over to us way back in the day. He’s fought for us in more wars than you’ve ever heard of, so don’t let that accent fool you—he’s more of an American patriot than you.”

I went back to my office, put on a fresh set of clothes, and took a seat at my desk. Just as I reclined and looked up at the ceiling wondering what would come next, Tony and Dennis stuck their heads in the doorway.

“Hey, new guy!” Tony yelled. “Get your ass up, we’re going to eat. You like Chinese food?”

Laughing a bit, I smiled and said, “Sure, I love it.”

“Well, then maybe you can explain what’s so damn funny while we walk, because I’m starving.”

Tony and Dennis spent the next forty-five minutes trying to fill me in over a heaping plate of cheap German-Chinese food on everything I needed to know about Germany, the guys on the team, and what I should be prepared for. It was getting close to COB [Close of Business] when we got back on base, and after walking into the company building Tony stopped me.

“It’s almost quitting time, so you need to go ahead and get yourself situated. Go to the B-team and they’ll hook you up with a barracks room. Don’t forget to set your watch to this time zone; PT is at 0630 sharp, we meet in the team room and go from there.” Before I could say anything the two began climbing the stairs, so I walked into the Ops room.

There was only one person left there, a blonde guy with a smile, and as soon as I asked him how to get a room he stood up and introduced himself.

“My name’s Ernie, nice to meet you. I heard you’re gonna be a mountain God; hope you’re not too afraid of heights!” He stuck out his hand, and as I shook it he placed his perfectly creased Green Beret on his head. “Follow me and we’ll get you a room in no time. You must be exhausted.”

With that we walked across the parking lot and into an office in the bottom floor of the dilapidated transient barracks, where Ernie negotiated a room and handed me the keys.

“Good luck and get some rest, I’m sure you’re starting bright and early tomorrow, and sleep is the only real way to get rid of that jet lag.” After shaking my hand again, Ernie put his Green Beret back on his head and left.

As soon as I found my room and dropped my bags I went to snoop around a bit. It wasn’t long before I found the phone and was dialing the number for the DSN switchboard in Los Angeles.

“Los Angeles Air Base,” said the operator.

“Uh, yeah, can you connect me to a local number, please?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Stuttgart, Germany.”

“Name and rank?”

After giving the operator my name, rank, and Cindy’s number, it took a few seconds before I heard the phone begin to ring. Then I heard Cindy’s voice.

“Hello,” she said cautiously, obviously not recognizing the number on her Caller ID.

“Hey babe, it’s me,” I said.

“BABY!” she exclaimed with such enthusiasm that my heart melted. Her excitement at hearing from me made me the happiest man in the world, showing that her feelings hadn’t changed since we said goodbye at the airport in Florida.

She asked me how my flight was, how the weather was, and how tired I was…quite a bit to take in for my bleary brain. I went through the list, explaining just how tired I was and that the guys had already taken me for a run.

“Team, you already met your team?” she asked.

“Yeah, baby, they put me on a team as soon as I got here, and I got to meet them.”

We went on like that about the guys, the base, and the Chinese food we ate for dinner for about twenty minutes, until suddenly we heard a new voice chime in on the line unexpectedly.

“Sergeant Lewis, this is the operator. Your time is up. Please end your conversation and hang up.”

“OK. Baby doll, I gotta go get some shut eye. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I promise I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

“OK. I miss you so much already, be safe, have fun with your new team, call me as soon as you can. I love you!” Those words brought a smile to my face that didn’t go away when I said them back to her and hung up the phone, and it was still there when I finally fell into my bed.

.

.

I was still wearing that big, goofy grin just a few minutes later when I heard the pounding on my door. Who the hell could that be? I barely knew anybody in this country and I hadn’t even told the guys from my new team what room I was in yet. Opening the door I saw Ray standing there in a flannel shirt and jeans with a beer in his hand, giving me the “What took you so long?” look.

“New guy!” he yelled. “I have to get you downtown in thirty minutes, so let’s go.”

The look on his face told me that “no” wasn’t an option, so I locked the door to my dingy room and we were on our way.

There was no talking all the way to the train station, and when we sat down on the almost-empty train across from each other, Ray pulled two German beers from his pocket and handed me one. He suddenly stood up at one of the stops after about ten minutes without saying anything and I jumped up to follow. Discarding the beers in a recycling can as we walked, Ray finally decided to speak.

“You need to remember how to get where we’re going, because it’s going to be a very important landmark for you as long as you live here.”

I tried as hard as I could, despite my mind-numbing exhaustion, to remember the names of the German streets, landmarks, or anything possible, but by the time we stopped on the side of the street in front of a set of red tile stairs going underground with the large sign saying “Fiddy Late Nights” above it, I hadn’t been able to remember a single turn.

Descending the stairs, I immediately recognized a familiar face as we went through a door and into the smoke-filled Irish pub.

“Nice to see you again, new guy!” said Glen as he stuck out his hand. “Looks like you followed my advice.”

I shook his hand and smiled as I followed Ray to the long wooden bar.

“What’ll it be?” asked the barkeep in a thick Irish brogue.

“What do you want?” Ray turned to me and asked.

“Well, I’m a little too tired to drink…”

“Look, shithead,” Ray cut me off suddenly. “I don’t want to be here any more than you. Now we can drink what you want, or we can drink what I want, and that will not end well for you, so just put in your order already.”

“OK, Irish car bombs,” I said to Ray.

“We’ll take six car bombs,” Ray told the barkeep.

Just as I was about to protest drinking three car bombs here at the bar, Ray cut me off again. “Don’t be greedy, new guy. Take one to Glen, and take the rest over there,” he said, pointing to the corner.

As I followed his finger I noticed Tony, Dennis, and Matty sitting at a table in the dark recess of the room, looking at me and raising their glasses.

Might as well get started.

The night went along as you can imagine, and “Operation Get the New Guy Smashed” went off flawlessly. I hadn’t realized that German bars don’t really follow the pansy time limitations that our American bars do, and it was around 4 a.m. when I finally headed back to the base. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t ready for the morning run at 0630 like I had expected, but sensing the attitude when I got to work, neither was anyone else.

.

I was organizing my desk and putting my uniforms into my locker when Ray walked into our office.

“Josh wants to see you, new guy,” he said as he pointed down the hall.

Hoping I didn’t still completely reek of the whiskey which I had been bonding with the guys over the night before, I took a big swig of water and walked down to Josh’s office. He laughed a bit when I stepped into the doorway and stood at parade rest, and told me to sit down.

“So, how was last night, Sergeant Lewis?” Josh asked, reclining in his chair with a smile.

With a sheepish grin I said, “Well, the guys did a pretty good job of showing me around and getting me acclimated to my surroundings, Sergeant.”

“You boys weren’t up to no good, were you?”

“Oh, definitely not, Sergeant. Everyone was on their best behavior,” I said with a grin.

“Well that’s good, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. And by the way, cut the ‘Sergeant’ crap out, my name’s Josh, and from what the guys told me I can call you Rob, is that right?”

“Roger that.”

“Well good, then let’s get down to it. The last team sergeant is on his way to another job soon, so I’ve been given this team as interim team sergeant, and here are my rules.”

It was after he said that last sentence that I realized I was in my first initial counseling, the formal meeting where a team sergeant gives his expectations, the rules of the road, and asks the FNG his preference on schools and things of that sort.

“Do you have any questions?” Josh asked when he was finished.

When I answered no he slid my initial counseling statement in front of me to sign, and as I began to walk out of the office he said something that made my day get even better.

“Welcome to 022, brother. If I were you I’d start a journal today, because your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Chapter 3

The Whirlwind Begins

Monday morning began with a run that would leave most people in the dust. While the vast majority of units in the Army like to bolster their morale and unit cohesion by singing cadence while running, there is a saying in Special Forces: If you can talk or sing while you run, you ain’t running fast enough. Josh kept us to that motto every morning, and by the time we were on our final mile I felt as if I could barely breathe. While we were stretching out and cooling down in front of the company building afterward, Tony came over to give me a quick briefing.

“You’ve got a week of in-processing left, new guy, so hurry up and finish. As soon as you’re done we have a week of mountain training, followed by a week of climbing in Garmisch, and a full climb up the Zugspitze. You’ve already been approved and booked for your medical refresher training the following week, so you’ll be flying back to Bragg as soon as we get back from Garmisch. Today I need you to go to S-2 to get your travel vouchers in order, and make sure that you’ve got all the gear for the mountains, got it? Good.” With that, he finished stretching and headed in the company doors.

I pulled out my cell phone as soon as I got upstairs and sent a quick text message to Cindy.

Back at Bragg in three weeks, can you meet me there?

Not getting a reply, I put the phone back in my drawer and headed to the showers. I was delighted when I got back and saw I had a message, but standing there in my towel my heart sunk as I read it.

Just booked a movie in New York, start filming next week.

I headed off to the death-by-PowerPoint that was in-processing, and was lucky that my buddy Chad and I had arrived within hours of each other, so at least I had a partner in crime.

Chad hadn’t been as lucky as I; the company had been over-strength on 18C’s when he arrived so he went straight to the B-team rather than an ODA. We spent the first day listening as much as possible and were relieved when it was time to break for lunch. We made our way to the chow hall and ran into Tony.

“Do you guys have anything really important coming up?”

I pulled out the itinerary we’d been given that morning as Tony looked at me and grabbed it from my hands. He reviewed it for a second, then looked up at both of us.

“OK, change of plans, new guy. We need you with us now, so you’re going to be stepping out early.”

He looked at Chad and pointed at me.

“Give this guy anything important that he misses. New guy, give other new guy your info so he can fill anything out you need; we don’t have time for this shit,” he said while shoving the itinerary back in my hands.

I looked over at Chad, and with a quick nod it was agreed. At the end of the day I raced over to the S2 shop to arrange my flight back to North Carolina for SOCMSSC [Special Operations Command Medical Skills Sustainment Course, required of each 18D every two years], and then back up to the office to start getting ready.

Friday came quickly, and by close of business our task was to have all our equipment packed and ready to leave bright and early Monday morning. I made sure to pack everything the other guys were packing plus medical gear, and before long our desks were each covered in bags and equipment.

.

I took it pretty easy that weekend, and Chad and I spent our time wandering around the city. At the very last minute, Josh snagged Chad from the B-team to come with us on the trip to watch our gear. We would have all of the trappings of a deployed ODA, and with the classified radios and encryption we couldn’t let that stuff just sit at a campsite while we were climbing.

We were in the team room by 5 a.m. Monday to meet up, load the trucks and head out. Chad and I walked over together, and as the guys arrived we would grab their gear and move it downstairs. Ray had picked up the vans the day before, so as soon as he arrived with the keys we began to load them and were on the road by 0600.

.

When we arrived in Garmisch we headed straight to the campsite to begin setting up. We would spend the first days going to various climbing areas, including the Alpspitze as a warm-up to the Zugspitze and would have to pack everything for the final climb. The first day, however, was much more relaxed; we set up the tents, had a little barbecue, I gave a few basic, on-the-fly medical training classes, and when the sun set we headed into town to watch a soccer game at the local restaurant (this was the year the World Cup was held in Germany).

It was pretty hard for me to sleep that night; I was still trying to comprehend what my life had become over the course of just one short month. Less than thirty days before I had been with Cindy, traveling around the U.S., reconnecting with her, falling in love, and enjoying life. Now I was in a tent with two other guys, half a world away, an official Green Beret on an ODA—and about to climb the highest mountain in Germany.

By the morning of our final climb I was eager to go. Most mountains that have set climbing paths in Germany and Austria have Gasthauses (more typically called huttes), small mountain hotels that cater to climbers on their way up. The Zugpitz is a two-day climb, so it’s typical to climb halfway up, stay in the hutte, and ascent the following morning.

To make it to the hutte before sundown we couldn’t screw around, so we were heading out before dawn. We parked the van at the bottom of the mountain, grabbed our bags and gear, and started walking just after sunrise.

I will never forget the sight of Tony, all 230 pounds and 5 foot 10 inches of him charging up the mountain, team hat on his head, a 2-gallon jug of water in one hand and a climbing axe in the other. We ran into quite a few Germans who were out for a leisurely stroll up the mountain, and when they saw Big Tone coming straight at them, hard-charging like an Infantryman heading up the mountains while carrying an ice axe their expressions were priceless.

They would move as far over as possible without falling off the path and just stare at him as he passed. But, that’s Big Tone—you’re either in his way, getting trampled over, or you’re following him.

The guys set a pretty blistering pace, and I was fighting to keep up the entire way. I was already in great shape, running six-minute miles for as many on end as needed and doing squats in the gym every other day with massive amounts of weight, but climbing a mountain with a ruck on your back is a whole new animal if you’ve never done it.

Imagine how tired walking up a steep hill makes you; now imagine putting about sixty pounds of equipment on your back, doing it for three hours at a time with only short, five-minute water breaks, and having to keep up with a team of seasoned Green Berets who are a step away from running up the mountain; I kept up, but I was hurting.

Tony, leading the entire way, would just charge straight up the mountain and stop all of a sudden every few hours, turn to us with his face drenched in sweat, and bark: “Five minutes, drink water!”

He would then walk over to the side of the path and start chugging from his milk jug- sized bottle until it was time to go again. Our lunch consisted of small bites of Cliff bars during those water breaks, so we were ravished by the time we made it to the hutte.

The owner was sitting outside waiting and met us with a huge smile. Tim and Chris were fluent Deutsche speakers, so they spoke with him and he ushered us to a long, sturdy wooden table outside. He handed us menus and another man came out with armfuls of large, liter-sized beers. We smiled as he began to drop them heavily on the table.

We placed our food orders with the hotel owner, and then Josh looked at Matty and Burke, our 18E’s (the communications experts for an ODA, responsible for keeping us in touch with each other, other teams, HQ, and most importantly, back up when it’s available).

“We need to make comms to tell higher that we’re good for the night.”

Matty just gave a little “OK” shrug, but Burke got an annoyed look on his face.

“How in the hell are we supposed to do that?” he protested. “We’re in the middle of a valley here, there’s no way to get a signal out.”

He was right about one part: looking around, we were in the valley of a 360-degree mountain range, with all of the peaks towering above us. I had never seen Josh get mad before, and still to this day haven’t seen him lose his cool more than a few times, but this was one.

“What are you doing here, Burke?” he asked.

Burke, not knowing exactly what he meant, shot back at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what the hell are you doing here, besides wasting my oxygen? What are you doing here, on this mountain, on this team, as our commo guy, if you can’t make comms? Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?”

It looked like Burke was about to say something he would regret, but Matty was quick and smart enough to grab him before he could.

“Josh, I’m gonna get a radio and climb up a bit to make the call. I can get up there and make a shot in the right direction,” he said, pointing to a small ledge a few hundred feet up.

Josh was still burning a hole through Burke with his eyes as Matty pulled him away, grabbed his bag, and they headed out.

Josh took a long pull of his beer, and by the time the stein left his lips he was back to being the happy guy I knew. The relief was palpable as we settled into our chairs and had a drink.

Matty and Burke were back in about twenty minutes, and sure enough Matty reported that he’d made contact with higher, and we were good to go. The food arrived— hearty, spicy German goulash with thick, crusty bread to soak it up—and after that day’s workout I sopped it up like a man who hadn’t eaten in years.

.

The next morning I woke about thirty seconds before the rows of watch alarms started going off. It was pitch black in the large room of bunk beds, and as I was wishing it were a dream, Tim stood up and turned on the lights.

We had packed the night before, so within fifteen minutes we were charging back up the mountain. The view went from amazing to breathtaking as the sun rose, and the higher we climbed the more awestruck I was. The Zugspitz is the highest point in Germany and a famous tourist attraction, so when we summited the top we could see all of Austria, Germany, and then turned around and saw tourists photographing us!

The top of the Zugspitz has a large restaurant with shops, viewing areas, and gondolas, so when the tourists suddenly saw this group of scruffy guys appear a hundred feet away on top of the mountain, the cameras came out; we actually got a round of applause as well.

Tim and Josh gave us ten minutes to relax, take pictures, and admire the view before it would be time to go back down. Even though we were at 2,962 meters above sea level, the exertion had me wearing only an Under Amour T-shirt, so I threw on a jacket, grabbed my water, and sat down to marvel at the view. Tony and Chris came over to join me, and sat down on either side to take in the panorama as well. We passed my water bottle back and forth like it was whiskey around a campfire, smiling at the scenery.

“Bet you never imagined this would be part of your life, did you, new guy?” asked Chris with a smile.

“Berg Heil,” Tony said.

Chris looked at him and smiled. “Berg Heil, brother,” he added before taking long pull from the water bottle.

All I could do was smile back; I’m not the most tactful or poetic guy and didn’t want to say anything short of spectacular and ruin the moment, so I just kept my mouth shut. The fresh mountain air, the view for hundreds of miles in all directions, and the guys with whom I had just completed a major feat…it was a hell of a moment.

With a short “Let’s move” from Tim we were on our feet again and hooking up the ropes to head back down. Thankfully the climb down was easier on the back, but it was still hell on the legs. Most people don’t work the muscles you use when walking back down a mountain, and by the time we hit the vans at the bottom my legs were jelly.

The next morning we were up before the sun, packing our tents and loading the vans. Cindy was still a world away, so I was in no hurry, but the rest of the team had wives waiting for them to get home. We were on the road in no time, and back home as quickly as possible.

.

After the climbing trip I had about a week to get my bearings in Germany and then it would be back to North Carolina. The first day back at work, Josh called me into his office. He sat down very formally at his desk, which made me a little nervous. He watched me fidget uncomfortably for a second and then got a huge, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You leave this weekend for SOCMSSC back at Bragg, and will be there for two weeks and some change. I need you to go to all the S-shops immediately and start making plans—because you’re heading to Iraq a few days after you get back.”

I stared at him blankly for a second. “Wait. I’m going to Iraq—not all of us?”

He laughed a little. “Brother, we’ve all been around the block, and we can’t wait to get back to the sandbox, but you’re going for a different mission. Doc B, our physician’s assistant [every SF battalion has its own doctor and PA] worked out a deal to get the 1/10 medics over to the hospital at Balad Air Base for a month at a time. There is no hospital trauma rotation anywhere else in the world that will get you the experience you’ll gain in one day there, and unfortunately we can’t come with you. But, as our medic, it will make you an extremely valuable asset to the team, so I jumped as soon as I saw an opening. You’ll be freshly re-credentialed for all your 18D stuff, so you’re good to go. You’ll need the S-shops to arrange travel, country clearance, lodging, and the like. There’s a guy in Alpha Company who will be going with you, and I’ll get him up here this afternoon so you guys can talk. He’s been around for a bit, so he’ll steer you right.”

.

And that’s where the whirlwind started. Little did I know that for the next few years it would be extremely rare for me to know where I’d be the next day. I submitted everything needed for my follow-on trip to Iraq, and before I knew it I was landing back in North Carolina.

I booked a flight to NYC as soon as we were given our schedules, and when my plane landed at JFK, Cindy was in the middle of filming. The movie was about the Asian sex trafficking trade, so most of the filming was taking place in an old, rundown warehouse named the “Shanghai Hotel.” Movie crew members were walking all around the place with cables, cameras, and various pieces of equipment when I arrived, and it being my first time on a real film set I just did what I do best: pretend like I fit in and know what I’m doing.

I followed the steady stream of people down hallways toward the most noise, and when I finally reached the source I saw Cindy standing in a crowd of makeup artists, hair people, crewmembers, and the director. She was an absolute knockout wearing a bright red, extremely short Marilyn Monroe-style dress with bright red stilettos, fire truck-red lipstick, and her hair up and in curls. She saw me instantly, and I could feel the entire crew stare at me as I barreled across the room to reach her.

The hair and makeup people started yelling, “Don’t touch the makeup!!!!!!” But I didn’t care. I grabbed Cindy and scooped her up in my arms, giving her a big, deep kiss and letting the rest of the world disappear. We finally came up for air what seemed like an hour later, and everyone was still staring.

“Ga-ga man!” yelled Jerry, the director.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Ga-ga man! This girl has been going absolutely ga-ga about you ever since I first met her, bro. We’ve heard everything there is to hear about you!”

Our friend Ron Yuan, who was also starring in the movie, stepped out of the crowd and grabbed me. Ron knew that Cindy wouldn’t be able to work with me around, so he took me back to a small room where Cindy, he, and his wife, Hazel, had been hanging out between takes. I sat down on their couch and passed out immediately, finally in a place where I could be comfortable.

.

Cindy shook me awake a few hours later. She had changed out of the dress and was done working for the day, so it was time to head back to the hotel. We tried to make plans with Ron and Hazel to hang out together that night, but they just laughed.

“You guys go enjoy each other! There’s no point making plans you’re just going to break later!”

The weekend went by way too quickly, and by the time I was back in the car and on the way to the airport it seemed like I had been there only a few hours. Cindy would be able to get away the following weekend to visit me in North Carolina, and knowing that made the next week fly by.

Friday was the last day of our course, and the second we were done I was running out the door and to my car, driving to the airport to pick up Cindy. She had never been to Ft. Bragg, so I was excited to show her around my old stomping grounds.

As luck would have it, the hotel was very close to the Palomino, an old country bar I would go to from time to time during the Q-course. It looked like it was a pretty empty night for Friday, so we stopped in. We started to head to the bar for a drink, but were just a few steps into the place when the song “Strawberry Wine” came on, and we changed direction immediately.

We had the dance floor all to ourselves, but it wouldn’t have mattered if there had been a thousand other people there—we were all alone once we started dancing.

She put her head on my shoulder and held me so tightly that I probably had her handprints in my back. As we slowly swayed back and forth, I did everything I could to take in every bit of that moment: the way she smelled, the way her soft hair felt against my check, the way her arms held me, the way our breathing fell into sync. After the song was over, we knew it was time to go.

.

The airport that Sunday was another tear-jerker (which we were getting used to); she was heading back to New York to finish filming Shanghai Hotel, and I was going back to Germany and would be in Iraq within 48 hours. She knew better than to talk about it, and I knew better than to bring it up, so we just let it be. I will never forget the way her tears felt against my face at the airport that day, and it took every bit of willpower for me to stay strong and not break down with her.

By the time she was walking down the jetway to her flight I was in shambles inside, but kept up the tough appearance on the outside. Once she was out of sight I was off to my plane, and when I got to my seat I put on my headphones and played the loudest, meanest music I could find. I needed to be in a different place mentally, as I had no idea what the next month had in store.

Chapter 4

Balad, Iraq

Sitting on the C-17 en route to Balad I did my best to not show my nervousness. I was with Matt, a medic from Alpha Company, and because we were flying on a regular military flight into a large base we had to wear all our patches and tabs, which meant somebody was always watching. Every time I tried to get a few minutes of shut-eye in the airport at Rammstein a private would walk over to us, snap to parade rest, and begin with the typical questions that SF guys get whenever we are forced to wear our uniforms.

“Sergeant, is it true that they break one of your bones in SERE?”

“What’s it really like in SF?”

“My old buddy from high school has a second cousin whose friend is in SF, do you know him?”

You could never let your guard down, and never let any emotions show lest you ruin the SF image for all of these soldiers who might one day muster up the courage to go to selection. I appreciated their enthusiasm, but sometimes you just wanted to get some rest and not have all eyes on you; that’s just one of the many reasons SF guys loathe traveling in uniform and choose to wear civvies whenever possible.

As soon as the plane was airborne, Matt and I pulled out our sleeping bags for a nap on the floor, much to the chagrin of the other senior NCOs and officers on the plane who hadn’t enough foresight to plan for the long flight.

It was about ten hours on the nose when I felt the hand of one of the Air Force crew shaking me, telling me that we were landing and I had to get up. As I sat up in my sleeping bag I could see Matt across the plane with the same disheveled hair and sleepy face. We nodded and smiled at each other as we looked around the plane to see our obviously uncomfortable and sour-faced fellow passengers giving us the stink eye.

But I soon discovered that there was one thing my teammates had forgotten to warn me about: you could have been on C-130s or C-17s a million times before (as most Airborne soldiers have) but unless you’ve landed on a hot runway in a combat zone you’ve never experienced the gut-wrenching ride that is a landing in the desert.

As I stared at the book in my lap that I was pretending to read I suddenly felt a sensation akin to that of an amusement park ride that drops you straight down from a height of twenty stories. The plane lurched right and I could see the desert out of the window across from me as the plane became perpendicular to the ground; it quickly lurched right, down, and then finally settled into a normal landing sequence.

Well, that was interesting. At least I know about that now.

Stepping off the plane I saw Andy and Jason, two of our buddies from Charlie Company, sitting on the hood of their Land Rover Defender just fifty feet from the plane.

“How did they get a truck on the runway?” I asked Matt.

“Do not ask, young Jedi, you will learn the ways one day” was his reply.

We walked over to the guys, shook hands, and hopped in the back of the truck to pick up our bags from the rear of the plane. As we jumped out and began to load our gun cases and bags we got even more stink-eyed looks from our fellow passengers who didn’t have the luxury of a squared-away unit to pick them up.

As we were taken around the base and given the dime tour, Andy explained what was going on and gave us the timeline.

“We were supposed to fly out in a few hours, but there was a MASSCAL [Massive Casualty] yesterday and about a dozen surgeries scheduled throughout the rest of the day. We figured it would be a good chance for us to log a few more intubations, get our hands on some more surgeries, introduce you to the doctors at the hospital and try to give you a good handoff so you aren’t running uphill the whole time.”

“Well that’s mighty nice of you guys,” said Matt.

“So are you actually getting your hands dirty in the OR here?” I asked.

“Bro,” said Andy as he turned around and looked at me, “these guys are treating us like Gods here. It took a little while for them to realize what an 18D was, but once Doc B called from Germany and explained that we’re the primary care, trauma surgeons, anesthesiologists, physical therapists, and only medical care for a deployed ODA and our fighters, they took us right in. I’ve already got thirty intubations this month, Jason here has somewhere in the high twenties, and we both have a handful of chest tubes, central lines, you name it. I even got in as an assistant surgeon with the neurosurgeon last night—pulled a huge hunk of metal out of somebody’s friggin’ skull."

“Yeah,” added Jason, talking over his shoulder as he drove. “Our little secret here is the range at CJSOTF [Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force], where we’re taking you now. We take the docs and medics who want to go to the range once a week. You can take anything you want from the CJSOTF arms room, from Barret .50 cals to gold-plated AK’s, show them how to shoot them and run through a few drills. They never get to do this stuff in their medical units and they think it’s the coolest thing in the world. They get to train with us for a day, we get to train with them during the week, and everybody wins. We’ll take you to the range now and schedule one day a week over the next month, just so that it’s already handled.”

“Right on,” I said. “Thanks, guys.”

“No problem, brother, just do a good job here; all it will take is one rotation of bad 18D’s and this whole program will go away. This is by far the best medical training you will ever have short of medical school. You’ll get your hands on more multi-system trauma here than you could ever get in the States, so just keep your nose clean, eyes open, and when it’s your time to shine, shine like the sun so that the 18D’s who replace you will have some good training as well.”

Jason took a sudden turn to the left and drove through a small, unmarked corridor in the large concrete T-barriers. As we pulled forward I could see the corridor open up, and as Jason zigzagged around the waist-high concrete barriers in the road I realized from the security that we must have been at the CJSOTF HQ.

As Jason and Andy took us around to meet all the important people, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone I saw was in remarkably clean uniforms, clean-shaven, and looking pretty well rested and fed.

“Where are all the operators (another term used for Green Berets currently assigned to teams)?” I asked.

“This is CJSOTF HQ,” answered Andy. “The operators live out in the town in team houses; the only guys you meet here are the support guys and b-team guys—even though they’ll tell you otherwise.”

After an hour of introductions, we dropped our bags in a room on the CJSOTF compound and headed over to the hospital.

“You two sleep there tonight and come to pick us up at 0300 tomorrow. After you drive us to the airport, you’re on your own.”

“The truck?” Matt asked.

“It’s yours. These trucks all belong to 10th Group, but you’ll have to go every Monday and re-dispatch them. The CJSOTF command switches between 5th and 10th Group every six months or so and the 5th group auto shop guys that are here right now are a bunch of dicks, but as long as you get in there every Monday you can keep the truck.”

After we were finished at CJSOTF the guys took us to the hospital, and walking into the doors of the Emergency Room I couldn’t help but wonder why the dining halls were all hard, permanent buildings, but the main hospital for this region was still a tent; Andy spoke up.

“This hospital has the only neurosurgeon in theatre, and two out of the four MRI’s and CT scan machines. It keeps us pretty busy, but you can never tell what time of day it will get really crazy. The room that you will be staying in after we leave is only about a click [kilometer] away from here, and the MEDEVAC birds come in right over your roof so you’ll know when to get your butt in here fast. Just in case you’re in the gym or eating or something, here is the pager. The dispatcher has the number on speed dial, and whenever they get a call for a MASSCAL coming in they page us. If it has an ‘88,’ it means something cool you may want to get some experience in; ‘911’ means MASSCAL. Ramadan will be on your watch, so I’d find an empty bed and just sleep here for that week if I were you.”

The guys began all of the introductions when we got to the OR. We could immediately tell that our predecessors had become very close friends with the anesthesia staff, which made sense; the only medical staff guaranteed to be on every single surgery was the anesthesia team, and Green Berets are known to be infectiously sociable; after logging that many hours in the OR together it was no wonder that they were all so close.

“OK,” said Andy, turning to us after the last of the introductions. “The hooch isn’t very far from here, and we don’t really know when we’ll be done. As you can see, the surgery board is booked all night, so we’ll just hoof it back at the end of the shift and pack our stuff tonight. Can you find your way back to CJSOTF and be at our hooch by 0300?”

“No problem,” I answered. “I could use a run to help me get over that plane ride.”

“Good,” replied Andy.

“We’ll expect you in the morning. Try to get some rest and get on this time zone as quick as you can. It comes at you all hours here, so you need to stay on top of your sleep or it will run you down fast.”

We shook hands, said goodbye, and Matt and I headed back to the truck. While the hospital was safely located right in the middle of the base, CJSOTF was on the outskirts, so we hopped back into the truck and made our way back.

“It makes sense,” I said to Matt on the ride, as I looked out the window at the barren desert on the other side of the barbed wire fence. “I guess they want as few people as possible to see who’s going in and out of here, and at what times.”

The downside of the location hit me with full force as we pulled into the CJSOTF compound: the entire place was riddled with huge black marks and holes in the T-barriers, with random impact craters everywhere. I wondered how many direct hits this compound had actually taken, if this many still hadn’t been fixed.

“This used to be one of Saddam’s Air Force training bases,” said Matt, reading my thoughts. “When we came in, we took all of the airports over as quickly as possible and disbanded the military that we found. That means that there are a lot of people out and about in these towns who know every inch of this base, and it was only a matter of time until they figured out where we put all of our important stuff.”

We made it back to our temporary hooch, both immediately changed into workout clothes and hit the gym. The walls there were emblazoned with the crest and patches of every Special Operations unit in the U.S. military arsenal, from Special Forces, Delta, Rangers, and SEALs to British and Australian SAS. Every unit here since the formation of this compound obviously had support soldiers and operators sidelined from injuries or B-team time bored to tears, and used this gym to release aggression.

After the gym it was time for a shower, dinner, and sleep. Even though we were on the CJSOTF compound, the showers were made for a man who stood maybe five foot five and weighed about 120 pounds; not so much for Matt and I, typical barrel-chested freedom fighters each weighing in at over 200 pounds and standing around five foot ten.

The chow hall, however, was a different story. This was my first experience eating at a large American base downrange, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Even for the small CJSOTF compound where only SOF personnel were allowed, the dining facility was at least 30 yards long with a short-order grill, main line offering the cuisine of different countries every day, a sandwich station, and salad bars stretching the length of the building.

After a plateful of surprisingly tasty Indian food Matt and I were ready to hit the sack. When we got back to our temporary hooch, both of us pulled out the satellite phones to call our better halves.

As I tried to do the time zone math in my state of exhaustion, I realized I was just about twelve hours’ difference from Cindy in Los Angeles.

Wow, I really am on the other side of the world from her.

I walked around, trying to get full reception and freezing in place when I found the sweet spot. It took two rings for Cindy to pick up, and as always the sound of her voice made my face light up like a Christmas tree.

“Baby!” she yelled. “How was the flight? You guys doing OK? I looked up the weather today and it says it was well over 100. Is that true?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s not too bad. It’s not like Texas—it’s all dry heat here with no humidity, so it doesn’t feel quite as hot as it says. How’s the weather over there?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked, a bit of hesitation and sarcasm in her voice.

“Of course.”

“Well, today it looks like it’s going to be 76 and sunny all day-typical Southern California weather.”

Just as I started to grin I heard the sound that made every hair on my body stand straight up.

“Baby, I’m sorry, but I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Why, what’s going on?” she asked.

Hoping she wouldn’t hear the explosion in the distance, I added, “Don’t worry, I’ll explain later. I love you, baby doll. Talk to you later.”

I managed to press the “End call” button on the satellite phone just as the incoming siren started to wail. I ran to the front of the building and saw Matt hanging up his phone as well.

What do we do now? our eyes asked each other.

“Let’s get inside and wait it out,” said Matt. “We’ll head to the hospital as soon as it’s all clear.”

It was only about ten minutes before we were in the truck and on the way to the hospital.

“Nothing hit on our compound; do you think they actually hit anything?” I wondered aloud.

As if to answer, the black pager sitting in the console of the truck began to beep. I looked at the display and then at Matt.

“911.”

We pulled into the hospital parking lot just as a HUMVEE with a large red cross on it closed its rear doors and screeched off after unloading a casualty.

“I wonder how many more of those there are,” Matt said.

Walking into the ER gave us the answer: six bleeding, screaming soldiers lay in the ER beds as the medical teams busily worked around them.

“Anything we can do to help?” we asked the trauma doc, who was standing at the foot of one of the beds observing his team and barking orders.

“Get back to the OR; this guy and possibly two more will be back there very soon. The docs had a very busy surgical day, so it may take a few minutes for them to get here. You can help to prep and receive these guys.”

We walked as fast as we could, and were out of our clothes and into scrubs in about two minutes flat. We got to the OR area just as Chip, one of the anesthesiologists, was walking in.

“Hey guys, time to get your introduction to how we do things around here. These are all Americans, so it will probably get pretty crowded in here. I told Andy and Jason to finish packing and get some rest, so you two will get some work tonight if you’re up to it.”

“Definitely,” we replied in unison.

“Right on,” said Chip. “Matt, you get into the OR on the left and help the nurses set everything up. Rob, you come help me wheel this first guy back.”

Chip filled me in while we walked toward the ER.

“This poor guy was sitting in a port-o-potty on the airfield when a mortar round landed right on top of him. Bilateral amputations above the knee. What should you be concerned about?”

“Well, hypovolemia and infection from the toilet would be my first guess.”

“OK, so right now, without even seeing this guy, but knowing that he’s in the military so he must be relatively young and in decent shape with no major pre-existing conditions which would preclude him from deployment, what are your first questions for the ER staff in the handoff?”

Chip looked at me and stopped just shy of the ER doors.

“Well, I’d like to know if he’s been getting just fluids or volume expanders, what his BP looks like, if he has any allergies, what pain control he already has, and what if any wide- spectrum antibiotics he has on board.”

I couldn’t help but smirk a little bit and wish that my instructors from the 18D course could be there to be proud of the lessons well taught which led to the accurate assessment.

“Good job,” answered Chip. “Now let’s go try to save this soldier’s life.”

As we walked up to the same bed that Matt and I stopped at less than ten minutes before, the trauma doc turned to look at us and shook his head.

“Twenty-two-year-old male, double amp above the knee, wounds are extremely dirty. He came in unconscious and his BP has slipped from seventy to just above fifty systolic. He came in with a liter bag of normal saline in the left arm, and we’ve added 1000 mL’s of Hespan in the right. No morphine on account of his low BP, and a gram of Ancef hung in the normal saline IV.”

He looked at me and nodded.

“Any questions?”

As I walked around the side of the bed I could see that this guy was already in bad shape. The nurse gave me a frustrated look as I unhooked the oxygen line and briefly put my hand in front of the patient’s face to make sure he was still breathing. Feeling a very faint breath I looked up at the monitor and saw that his oxygen sat levels were well below 80 percent— starting to get pretty dangerous.

“Hook up the ambu-bag to the oxygen tank under his bed and breathe for him while we move!” barked Chip as he started to pull the bed.

With one hand pushing and steering the bed and the other slowly compressing the ambu-bag, I moved as quickly as I could. When we wheeled the patient into the OR, Matt and Gasko, the CRNA [Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist], already had the room set up and waiting for us. We set the gurney to the side, transferred the soldier to the OR table, and as I was checking his tourniquets I heard Matt’s voice.

“I got asystole, this guy’s going down.”

I looked up at Matt, who was at the head of the table with Gasko watching the heart monitor.

“I’m starting compressions!” yelled Chip.

With all of the commotion that ensued in the tiny OR, I had to look at the clock on the wall to realize that ten minutes had passed before the trauma surgeons walked in with their freshly scrubbed hands in front of their faces, waiting to be gowned up and briefed. They knew instantly what had happened, as only a doctor who has worked in a combat zone can.

“How long have you been doing compressions?” the first doctor asked Chip, who had been trading on and off with me every few rounds so that our arms didn’t give out.

“About twelve minutes,” he replied as he wiped the sweat from his brow with one latex-clad hand.

“Well then,” replied the doctor, “I’m sorry, but there are two other patients out there who need me. You were on scene, you call it.”

“2145,” Chip said in a quiet, solemn voice to an equally silent OR. “I’m calling it 2145.”

Nobody in the room moved for what seemed like an eternity. The silence told Matt and I all we needed to know: no matter who you are and how long you’ve been here, nobody gets used to seeing an American soldier die. The silence was finally broken when Gasko laid his hand on the soldier’s forehead and whispered his farewell. “Via con dios, brother. Happy trails.”

.

Lying in bed that night I knew I couldn’t let what had happened get to me. I had a month-long rotation at the hospital in Balad and wouldn’t make it very far if I let my guard down. But no matter what I told myself while I was awake, my subconscious was going to do whatever it wanted. My dreams were haunted by the face of that young soldier all night and the constant reminder that the grim reaper was everywhere in Iraq. When it came to mortars, it didn’t matter how alert you were; it was either your time or it wasn’t.

The next few weeks were a blur. There were up days and down days, sometimes the OR and ER would be jam-packed all day, sometimes only in the morning, sometimes in the middle of the night. It was an experience about ten days later, however, that would truly shake my foundation—and haunt me for the rest of my life.

It was a nice October afternoon by Iraq standards: the temperature had finally dropped below 100, and since the OR schedule was clear and the ER was quiet, Matt and I had decided to hit the gym before lunch. I was halfway through my set of squats when I heard the now-familiar high-pitched sound over my headphones. I looked down at the pager clipped to the outside of my gym bag and was slightly puzzled.

“911-88?” I asked myself out loud.

I walked over to Matt, showed him the screen, and looked at his puzzled expression.

“Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure that we need to get over there.”

We hopped in the Land Rover, still lightly coated with perspiration, and pulled into the hospital parking lot just as the first MEDEVAC bird was landing. Running in through the side door we found Bogey, an anesthesiologist, in the changing room.

“It sounds like an Infantry company got ambushed somewhere around Samarra. They’ve got some pretty bad casualties so hurry up and get in there,” Bogey told us as he finished putting on his scrubs. “Matt, meet me in OR 2. Rob, head to the ER to meet Gasko and see what we’ve got.”

I threw my scrubs and hat on and quickly walked out to the ER where I saw Gasko waiting in the middle. As we watched the ER teams hover around the beds we saw one of the teams immediately break for the door.

“That’s incoming,” said Gasko. “Let’s move!”

We moved outside of the ER doors just in time to see a Blackhawk with a red cross on the side lifting off the heli pad. As the ER medics got the stretcher onto a cart and moved to wheel it inside, I saw the casualty they were transporting and immediately knew he was done. Even though the young soldier was completely wrapped in blankets, I could tell from his gaunt face that he was far beyond expectant.

When I got to the side of the young soldier’s bed the blankets had already been removed and his skin was so pale that it was difficult to differentiate between the bed sheets and the soldier. Reaching for his arm to try and gain access for another IV, I felt the cold, clammy skin and immediately remembered the textbook definition of an expectant patient from the 18D course. Cold, clammy skin was definitely up there, but those black-and-white words from the textbook had done absolutely nothing to prepare me for the gut-wrenching feeling of holding another American’s arm and realizing just how accurate that description was.

Turning the soldier’s forearm over to search for a viable vein that wasn’t completely subdued from lack of blood flow, my whole world came to a screeching halt; what I saw was the saddest thing I could imagine.

About four inches long and two inches wide, almost completely covering his pale white forearm was a simple tattoo: in bold letters, colored green with a black outline, was the word “Army,” along with two rifles crossed behind the letters. Staring at this young soldier’s determination and patriotism emblazoned into his flesh, I heard the trauma doctor call the time of death from the foot of the bed.

All of the hands around the bed had stopped moving, but nobody was stepping back.

I reached up to the dog tags around the young soldier’s neck.

“Eighteen years and four months,” I said, just above a whisper. “He probably went to basic training on his birthday and came over here as soon as he reported to his first unit.”

I looked at the other blank faces surrounding the bed, then back to the young soldier’s face, complete with Army issued high-and-tight haircut. I slowly moved my hand up to his face, wiped his eyelids closed, and spoke the words that had become very familiar.

“Via con dios, brother. Happy trails.”

.

The next two weeks of the rotation were pretty uneventful, by an ER in Iraq standards, at least. After talking to Doc B the second week we were told that our replacements would be arriving soon to ensure the best handoff possible. One of the doctors at Balad had called him to let him know what a great job we were doing and how impressed he was with 18D’s and the program, so Doc B decided it was best to keep a good thing going.

“Good for our replacements,” Matt and I told each other. The final week of our rotation was during the Muslim holy week of Ramadan, which promised to be the busiest period yet.

I called Germany to get an assessment of what was going on from the team, as did Matt with his team. I got John on the phone, and he filled me in.

“We got some good news yesterday: the team has been approved to go to Florida for HAVE ACE. We’ll already be gone by the time you get back, but you and Ray get back to Germany on the same day, and will be flying out to meet us the next day. We’ve already booked your tickets, and they’ll be waiting, along with a packing list on your desk when you get back.”

“Roger that,” I said.

“Oh yeah, one more thing. We may be going to Scotland straight from Florida, so just in case you’re supposed to pack a bag of cold and wet weather gear and leave it with the B-team for them to bring along if that training gets approved.”

“Roger that. Anything else?” I asked.

“Yeah, one more thing. Enjoy Iraq. I’m going home to have a big Hefeweizen. See you in Florida, new guy!”

.

Shortly after picking up our replacements at the landing strip, the mortars began to fall consistently throughout the day and for much longer periods than normal. It was obvious that the same was happening all over the country, as the ER and OR’s were almost completely full all day, every day, with the MEDEVAC birds swooping in and heading right back out to pick up more casualties.

I met my favorite patient of the entire deployment with only two days left before my flight home, when Rama-dama-palooza (as we liked to call the constant stream of incoming mortars) was almost over. I spent the entire day in the OR, watching people outside in the unprotected hospital constantly having to don their body armor and take cover. I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all; didn’t they realize that this was a hospital inside of a glorified circus tent, and with the amount of oxygen tanks and flammable fluids around, there wasn’t a chance anyone would survive a direct hit, with or without body armor and Kevlar?

I was walking back to the hospital’s MWR (Morale, Welfare and Recreation, the room with computers and phones to call home) room to give Cindy a call when I saw a commotion in front of the ICU. A combat reporter and cameraman were interviewing some Sergeant Major as he recounted the heroics of the soldier inside the ICU. I decided to see what the fuss was about and took a step inside, as access is always granted to those wearing a stethoscope and gloves.

I saw Major Puhls, one of the flight surgeons I had become very close to during the rotation, on the other side of the bed.

“What’s up doc?” I couldn’t help but say, almost blowing the line with my huge smirk. “This young Marine was hit by an IED. He’s got serious burns on over 70 percent of his body and his eyes are full of the glass from his windshield. We’re flying him back to San Antonio in a few minutes to get him taken care of. We’ve got him on as much Fentanyl as possible, but I can only imagine how much pain this poor guy is still in.”

Just as Major Puhls was finishing his mini-brief, all eyes averted to the doors of the ICU as an extremely attractive blonde female Lieutenant Colonel walked in. She went directly to the young Marine’s bedside, putting her hand gently on his left leg, the only part of him not burned and completely covered by burn dressing. In a soft, sweet Southern voice that would put anybody at ease she asked the Marine a question. “Son, we’re about to start moving you out to the airfield to get you back to Texas. Is there anything at all I can do to make you feel better before we start this trip?”

The young Marine, face bandaged and lips cracked and burned, softly muttered something, but it was not quite loud enough to hear over the oxygen machines and commotion from the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Marine, I didn’t hear that. Can you speak up at all?”

Mustering everything he could, the young Marine, in a voice that was more opiates than anything else, used all of his strength to reply.

“I could really use a blowjob.”

It took a second for what he’d said to register, but as soon as it did the Lieutenant Colonel turned around to the ICU.

“My Lord, he said that he wanted a blowjob!”

The entire ICU erupted in laughter, and I immediately thought that he was the coolest person in the world. That was definitely the way to end my deployment! I gave a high-five to Major Puhls and headed out to the MWR phones, smiling to myself about how the good old American sense of humor will always prevail.

Chapter 5

HAVE ACE

Ray and I pulled into the HAVAE ACE team house on an Air Force base in Florida late Tuesday night. We had been given the access code to the front door so we let ourselves in, tiptoeing and expecting to find our team already asleep.

Ray made his way over to the office, and after turning on the bathroom light we realized that nobody was home. We picked out our bunks and found a few loose beers in the fridge to help us with the jetlag as we unpacked. I had been trying to call Josh’s cell phone since we landed but still wasn’t getting any answer.

As we unpacked and organized our gear for the next day’s training, we heard HUMVEES pulling into the driveway behind the team house. We made our way to the garage in the back of the building just as a short, stout, brown-haired guy walked through the back door in sweat-drenched BDU’s.

“Who the hell are you?” Ray asked the stranger, giving me an, “are we in the wrong place?” look.

“Hey guys, I’m Jason,” the young soldier replied. “You must be Rob and Ray. I just got to the company about a month ago and Josh wanted another Bravo to come along for this trip, so he kinda kidnapped me.”

Jason turned around, loosed the chain keeping the hangar doors down and threw the doors all the way up, revealing three HUMVEES full of bags, ammo, guns, and the team. We ran over to the trucks to say hello and help get the gear downloaded.

“Beer lights on, team meeting in five minutes!” yelled Josh as we were pulling the bags off the trucks.

Everyone headed to the kitchen to grab a beer and take a seat at the huge mahogany table in the meeting room. We started making small talk while waiting for Josh; everyone wanted to know how my Iraq rotation had gone.

Josh walked in and took his seat at the head of the table along with The Captain.

“OK, first things first, let’s AAR today’s training, guys.”

The next ten minutes consisted of a typical Special Forces team After Action Review, conducted after any event to detail what happened, positives and negatives, and how we could improve on the next iteration. As soon the last man had given his two cents, Josh looked at Ray and me.

“And I’d like to welcome our boys back and introduce you to the new additions. Stand up, new guys,” he said as the two new faces jumped up at parade rest.

“Now, rank, first name, and MOS,” he stated as he pointed to Jason.

“Sergeant, Jason, 18 Bravo.”

“OK. Now what’s your real name?” he asked, giving Jason the eyebrows-raised look and tone of voice that you give a kid who isn’t telling the whole truth.

“Uh, well, for some reason these guys started calling me J-Lo, so I guess that’s my name,” he said shyly, trying not to laugh.

“Right,” Josh replied. “Look at the back end of this little guy, he’s got a big old booty like J-Lo, so that’s his name. Now you, new guy,” he said as he pointed to the other one standing.

“Staff Sergeant, Corey, 18 Delta.” Josh gave me a look.

“So we finally got you a junior and I fully expect you to make his life a living hell. We kinda kidnapped J-Lo here from the B-team, and after his stellar performance the last few days we don’t plan on giving him back until we absolutely have to. Corey, however, is our fresh meat, so do with him as you please. Give him a few days; if he’s not up to snuff we’ll drown him in the ocean before we head home.”

“Roger that,” I replied, grinning and trying to give Corey the evil eye, which just ended with everybody erupting in laughter.

“Jeez Rob, we gotta get this nice-guy crap outta you and make you a cold-blooded killer,” laughed Chris.

As soon as the laughter died down, Josh gave his final word.

“It’s just about midnight now, PT is at 0600. We roll out to train no later than 0900; we have a pretty busy day tomorrow, and it looks like it may rain, so pack accordingly. Welcome back guys, see you in the morning.”

As the guys made their way back to get ready for bed I stayed behind in the office, taking a seat at the head of the conference table. After patching through with the operator at the Los Angeles Air Station, I got Cindy’s voicemail. I remembered that Christina, her sister, was in town for a visit, so I tried her number.

“Hey,” I heard Christina say on the other end of the line.

Immediately I could tell that something was wrong, and my brain and heart began to move at light speed, going through the worst possibilities.

“Hey C, is something wrong?” I asked.

“Yeah, let me go in to the other room really quick” was her response.

My jet-lagged brain began racing through all of the absolutely worst circumstances, as all soldiers know just how dark humanity can be.

“OK,” Christina said, bringing my pre-emptive daydreams of revenge to a screeching halt. “Are you sitting down?” she asked, not knowing that this was the worst way to begin a conversation with a Green Beret. “I just got here yesterday, and the reason I came out here, well, Mommy just came back from Houston, and told me that I should get Cindy and go to see Gon-Gon [Mandarin for Grandfather] because he was in really bad shape, and we just found out that he died this morning before any of us could make it out there to see him.”

I was relieved by the news—and a little disgusted at myself for feeling this way; I asked if Cindy was around.

“Yes, she’s in the other room,” answered Christina. “But she hasn’t been able to stop crying since Mommy called and told us this morning. Since Gon-Gon lived with her for a few years they were really close, and she’s taking it pretty hard.”

“So what are you guys going to do?”

“Jonathan [their brother] is flying here tomorrow, and we’re all going to Houston together for the funeral.”

I heard Cindy come into the room and ask Christina to have me call her phone.

“I already did, but I’m being patched through a DSN operator, so I can’t make another call tonight. Can you put her on the phone?”

I could hear the phone being passed from sister to sister, and then heard Cindy’s sniffling and tears.

“Hey, baby doll, how are you holding up?” I asked her in the gentlest voice I could muster.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him,” replied the voice from the other end of the line as the floodgates of tears opened.

Shit, I thought, looking down at my watch and realizing that the DSN operator would be kicking me off the phone soon.

“I’m really sorry to hear about Gon-Gon. What can I do to help?”

“I need you here,” she said as she broke down into another wave of tears. “I need you here right now. Why can’t you just be here to hold me?”

I clenched my jaw and silently pondered the same thing. “I can’t be there right now, my love, but I’ll get there as soon as possible.”

“But we won’t be here. We’re flying to Houston for the funeral, and I think we’re going to stay there for a while.”

“OK,” I replied, “then I’ll just have to find a way to get to Houston.”

Just as I was about to warn Cindy about the time limit on DSN phones, the operator chimed in.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Lewis, your time is up.”

“I’ll figure this out, baby doll,” I told Cindy.

“OK,” she said, “but please come to Houston. I miss you so much and really need you right now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way. I love you, so stop worrying and get some rest.”

“OK,” she replied between sniffles. “I love you too. Please hurry and find a way to get there.”

I made my way through the dark back to my bunk and tried to get into my sleeping bag as quietly as possible. When the springs in my bunk made the smallest squeak, Chris rolled over in the bunk next to me and turned on his headlamp.

“How’s Cindy doing?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied with the hesitation that comes before bad news, “her grandfather died this morning. They were really close, and she’s a total wreck right now.”

“Are you gonna go be with her?”

“I’d be there right now if I could, but what am I gonna do?”

“Don’t worry, bro,” Chris replied with the voice of experience. “We’ll talk to Josh tomorrow.”

“But I know he’s not gonna let me leave training just to comfort my girlfriend.”

“You love this girl, right? All that stuff you told us about her—you really love her, right?” Chris asked, looking at me in the dark.

“Yeah, of course. She’s the one.”

“Well, things are a little different here, bro. Josh has been around a while and he’s a good leader; he knows that if momma ain’t happy, Rob ain’t happy. It’s a good thing that you care about her—you’re going to need a rock to anchor to, and a guy that’s faithful to his woman will be faithful to his team. We’ll figure something out. Just get some sleep.”

With that, Chris turned off his light and rolled back over.

.

I felt like I had just fallen asleep when my watch alarm went off. I started to get up but saw that J-Lo was already at the wall, hitting the light switch. Smart kid—the more on the ball he was, the less new-guy hazing he would have to put up with.

Running was normally my time to clear my head and relax, but that morning was full of the same questions that had kept me awake the night before. Sensing that I was still pretty tense, Chris smacked me on the butt around mile three and gave me a big, goofy grin.

“You better cut that worryin’ crap out, bro. Do a good job today and we’ll sit down with Josh tonight.”

Rolling out of the team house parking lot an hour later I remembered just why I really loved my job. We had three HUMVEES, each with the doors off and the rear seats facing out. J-Lo, John, and Chris were on the big guns up top, and I was in the rear seat of the first HUMVEE with Josh. The feeling of the cool morning air and the bright Florida sunshine on my face made me feel more alive than I had in the last month in Iraq, and it was a good feeling.

Rolling down the main street I couldn’t help but look at my colleagues. The guys were all wearing body armor full of team patches and ammo, and of course the standard SF uniform Oakley sunglasses.

“First rule of SF,” I remembered our instructors teaching us in the Q-course. “Always look cool.”

The entire team had completely decked out and modified M4’s, with PEQ-15 lasers, ACOG sights for distance shooting and reflex sights for close-quarters battle, pistol grips, NOD night vision mounts, lights and IR tape on their helmets.

As we pulled up to a stoplight on our way out of town, a Jeep with its top down and full of attractive, tan, young co-eds pulled up next to us. Knowing that J-Lo was single, I looked around to see if he had noticed, hoping he would have the intestinal fortitude to say something to them. Being the new guy was a constant invitation for hazing, but getting a date or phone number out of a car full of hotties was a surefire way to deflect a little bit of punishment.

Facing forward again, I saw the girls giggle. Then all four of them turned around toward us, stood up, lifted their bikini tops, and saluted. Sitting up top, J-Lo saluted right back and smiled as the light turned green and the Jeep sped off. Everybody laughed out loud for a second as Josh came over the radio laughing.

“Man, I love red states!”

About ten minutes later the HUMVEES turned off the main road and drove along a tiny two-lane with crystal clear water on both sides. I heard Josh’s voice over the radio.

“Five minutes to the objective, Alpha team on point.”

I could see everyone looking down and feeling around to ensure that all of their gear was ready and in the right place. The wheels of the HUMVEE squealed as they turned the corner of a dirt road toward a village full of small, rundown, one-story buildings.

“Thirty seconds,” said Josh over the radio.

As the HUMVEE began to slow, everyone except the drivers jumped out and the trucks were empty before they screeched to a halt. Within a few seconds the entire team was formed outside of the door, separated into Alpha and Bravo teams, pulling security in every direction. As Josh and The Captain watched from the trucks, Ray looked back from the number two position to make sure everyone was ready. With his left hand on Chris’s shoulder, he gave the squeeze. The door disappeared instantly and the team was inside with a flurry of movement.

Chris rounded the corner to see a long hallway. “Porn star!” he yelled to let everyone behind him know what they were walking into.

By the time I was inside Ray and Chris were already inside the first room on the right. As I peeled off to follow Ray into the room, I fired three rounds at the target in the corner, already splattered with six perfectly placed paint rounds in the face and chest, and saw J-Lo, John, and Matty pushing further down the hall.

We looked at each other and shouted “Clear!” in the order that we entered the room, tore apart the furniture for any indication that we needed to give it special attention, and stacked back on the door to head out.

“Eagle coming out!” Ray shouted into the hallway.

“Come on out, eagle!” replied Matty.

By the time the three of us were in the hallway we saw the back of Matty disappearing into another room further down the hall.

Ray and I moved down the hall, side by side, rifles at the low ready prepared to neutralize any target that came up. As we neared the end of the hall we could see that there was a 90-degree turn to the right, and in one fluid motion Ray took a step around the corner at full height as I hopped to the other side of the hallway at a crouch.

As we realized that the room opened up into a large open gallery with multiple targets, we each fired off rounds at every target available from our view and yelled out “Support!” The squeeze on Ray’s shoulder meant that the rest of the team was behind him, so we moved into the gallery with one fluid motion and strong-walled the room, taking down all twelve targets in a barrage of rounds.

Everyone shouted “Clear!” before we moved forward to inspect our shots on the targets, as Josh and The Captain looked on from a large hole in the wall.

“I think I can live with that,” Josh said loudly. “Let’s take it again from the trucks, Bravo team on point this time.”

By dusk we’d hit every house in the small mock-village at least a dozen times, with several iterations going from one straight to another until we hit every single house in a row. We had gone through countless cases of paint-filled simulation rounds, and there wasn’t a uniform among us that wasn’t completely drenched in sweat. The only break we had taken was about ten minutes to scarf down a cold MRE while John and J-Lo checked our barrels to ensure we weren’t going to get any blockages from prematurely exploding paint rounds.

The ride to the airfield as soon as we were finished was extremely cold; the strong night winds along the road ripped right through our soaking wet BDU’s. By the time the team was loading onto the Chinook it was pitch black outside, but at least we were dry, not to mention salty and sticky from the wind roaring through the trucks. Our NOD’s [Night Optical Devices] were snapped into our helmet mounts and pulled down over our faces, and my world suddenly became an eerie green glowing wonderland.

Sitting down and hooking my safety harness into place, I looked around at my team and felt a rush of pride. Guys don’t always end up on the right teams; each team has a very distinct personality, and if you don’t fit in, especially as a new guy, it can really suck to be you. I could already tell that the bonds I was forming with these guys would stick forever, and hoped I could grow old and sore with all of them.

I was seated on the floor next to Josh, which meant I would be going down the fast rope second in line. After a few minutes airborne, Josh gave me a nudge and yelled into my ear.

“OK, you outweigh me by at least thirty pounds, so wait until my head disappears before you go down!”

“Roger that!” I screamed, giving him the thumbs-up to let him know I understood.

Josh stuck his head out of the gunner’s door on the side of the Chinook, stood up, and gave the signal as he yelled out to the team.

“Six minutes!”

As he stood in the doorway, head hanging out of the side of the helicopter like the family dog, I couldn’t stop smiling at how much fun my life had quickly become.

Josh stepped back into the middle of the Chinook and yelled to the team.

“Two minutes!” He unhooked his safety cable from the floor.

I did the same and began to scoot over to Josh as he sat down in the gunner’s door, legs flying in the wind.

“Thirty seconds!” he yelled back one more time, gave me a smack on the shoulder, and yelled, “Remember, give me a head start!” as he grabbed the fast rope with both hands and slid off into the night.

I counted to two, saw that Josh was about ten feet down the rope and hopped off the ledge, feeling the rope burn my hands through the fast-rope gloves.

I smacked flat onto the roof at what felt like fifty miles an hour and combat-rolled out of the way of the next guy coming down right on top of me. I jumped up and ran to Josh, already preparing to breech the door on the roof and head down the ladder to begin clearing the house.

As I stacked behind Josh I could see Matty begin to pull the PSC-5 radio from his rucksack and start communications with the gunships high in the night sky. As J-Lo and Corey sat down next to him for security, John ran up to cover the downstairs while Josh and I headed down the ladder. Just as I gave Josh the squeeze to breach the door and head down the ladder, I heard Matty talk into the radio.

“Spooky six-four, spooky six-four, this is bravo zero-two-two, fire mission over.”

Those words meant that we had about five minutes to clear the house before the fireworks started.

Down the stairs behind Josh I covered the hall as the rest of the guys descended the ladder. Josh and I had all three rooms on the right side of the upstairs cleared in about two minutes flat, and were already taking turns covering each other and moving down a flight of stairs as the other three fell in behind us. The downstairs was one huge room separated in two by flimsy walls, and we had all targets neutralized, cleared, and were back on the roof just in time to hear Matty speak into the radio. “Roger that. Spooky six-four, sparkle is good.”

I sat down next to Corey on the edge of the roof and adjusted my NODS just in time to see the bright IR spotlight shining down directly on the burned-out hull of an old tank.

“Shot out, fourteen seconds to impact,” crackled the pilot’s voice over the radio.

At the exact instant that my watch counted the fourteenth second my entire field of vision erupted in a shower of bright green sparks and flames as the round from the cannon thousands of feet above us scored a direct hit on the tank.

“Spooky spooky, you’re on target, fire for effect.”

“Roger that,” the voice crackled over the radio one more time. “Shot out, impact in twelve seconds.”

As the rounds began to impact directly on target like fire from the sky, I looked around and could see the explosions lighting up the grinning faces of my teammates just like the Fourth of July. After several dozen explosions, the voice came over the radio one last time.

“OK, Bravo zero-two-two, fire mission over. Beers are on you, Josh.”

We looked at each other in the darkness and said a unanimous “Hell yeah!” as we shared chest-bumps and high-fives.

.

Sitting around the crowded table at a local pub full of beer and pizza we looked pretty nice (but didn’t exactly smell great), having run back to the team house for ten minutes to quickly change into fresh clothes. While all of the excitement of the day had kept my mind well occupied, now that things were calming down I began to worry incessantly again about Cindy and getting to Houston.

Josh could sense that something was wrong and called me over to his table after a few slices of pizza and a beer. As I got up and walked over, Chris caught my eye and gave me a wink. Did he already talk to Josh?

I took a few nervous sips of my beer, then Josh decided to start the conversation.

“So how was Iraq?” he asked.

“Man, that was the hottest place I’ve ever been, and I’m from Texas, so its no wonder those people are so pissed off!”

“Yeah, no kidding, but at least you guys had air conditioning,” Josh replied before a long sip of his beer. “I was over there before the invasion and for OIF I, before the chow halls showed up. At least we were up north where it’s a bit cooler, but the Kurds’ chow wasn’t quite as nice as the huge, million-dollar KBR (the subcontracting company that supplies logistics to the large support bases in combat zones) chow halls.”

“Yeah, but I’d give up chow halls and A/C any day for a piece of that action,” I laughed.

We looked at each other over our beers for a second, and Josh apparently had had enough of the small talk.

“It seems like something’s bothering you. Is everything all right?”

“Well, I talked to Cindy last night, and it turns out that her grandfather passed away yesterday.”

“Wow, that’s too bad,” said Josh. “Was he in Taiwan?”

“No, he lived with Cindy for a few years in L.A., which is why they’re so close, but he’d been living with her aunt in Houston up until now.”

“When’s the funeral?” he asked.

“They’re going to have it this weekend.”

“Well, I think you should be there for that, don’t you?” he asked, looking across the table.

“Don’t we have training this weekend?” I asked.

“We have a few holes in our training because not all of the people on base will be here over the weekend, and I know that living in Germany is kind of tough on the guys who have close families, so I think I’m gonna give everyone the weekend off.”

“Can I do that? Can I go to Houston? Is there some paperwork or something I need to fill out?” I asked, my “new guy fresh from the Q-course” showing.

“You’re a grown man, right?” Josh asked.

“Well, I just came back from some seeing some pretty crazy stuff in Iraq, so yeah, I’d say I am,” I answered.

“Just give me your word that you’ll be back in time for training on Monday morning, and we’ll call it even,” Josh said with a smile.

“Shit, that’s great news!”

“Welcome to SF, brother,” he said with a grin as he winked at me.

“Roger that,” I said smiling.

“Just be back on time. Welcome home, make Cindy feel better, and come back ready to train.”

The next few days flew by, and I couldn’t believe I was having so much fun. Every day we would train sun up to sun down, clearing houses, giving the team med classes and tests on TCCC [Tactical Combat Casualty Care], learning various ways to breach doors, and going to intel briefings in the windowless buildings around the base.

Our nights were filled with call-for-fire training, spent on rooftops and in towers overlooking fields of tank and truck hulls, learning how to walk in every type of aircraft used to destroy an objective on a target, from the MC-130 airplanes down to helicopters with door gunners. By the time Friday came around we had been so busy that it felt like only hours had passed since my talk with Josh.

.

As excited as I was, my heart sank when I stepped off the plane and saw her. Somehow they had snuck their way into the concourse to meet me (while a beautiful woman may get whatever she wants, two of them are unstoppable), and Cindy and Christina were both waiting for me as soon as I arrived. Her puffy, obviously weary-from-crying eyes met mine and she erupted into tears, and I smothered her tear-streaked face into my chest with the biggest hug I could muster.

As I held her with her head under my chin, I looked at Christina and offered my condolences. I held Cindy there in my loving embrace until the tears stopped coming, and softly kissed her wet cheeks when they finally did.

“Hey,” I softly whispered to her, my forehead on hers, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Hey,” she quietly said back to me. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

“I’m glad I’m here,” I replied.

The ride to her aunt’s house was silent, with Christina driving and Cindy and I consoling each other in the back seat with her head on my chest. Seeing the family was rather quick, as everyone was obviously distraught. Cindy’s grandfather had been the patriarch, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. After briefly visiting and eating, Cindy and I headed back to our hotel.

Although I was extremely sore and tired from lugging around my body armor and med bag, jumping out of helicopters and climbing up ladders all week, I fought as hard as I could to stay awake while Cindy slept soundly with her head on my chest. Lying there with my arms around her soft, angelic body, I felt like I was floating. The fact that she was so comfortable with me that she fell asleep the second her head hit my chest and I wrapped my arms around her made me smile as I lay there, recounting the wonderful times we’d had together since that day we met in Spanish class.

I can always just double up on coffee tomorrow, I thought, knowing that no matter how tired it made me, I didn’t want to miss a single second of the time I had with her—even while she was sleeping. When the alarm sounded I was still lying in bed, fully awake, but lulled into a complete state of calm by the rhythmic sound of her gentle breathing and the sensation of her warm breath on my chest.

I had never loved another person as deeply as I did her, and I just watched her face the next day at the Buddhist funeral ceremony, so intently focused and concentrated on her prayers, the smoke from the incense gently swirling around her beautiful features. As was the case every time we were together, I had to constantly fight the urge to reach over, take her face in my hands and kiss her with everything I had. I was glad I’d been able to make this trip, and that I’d been able to refill my romance tank with her; I had no idea what was in store for me next, or when we would be together again.

.

I realized just how important that weekend had been when I woke up the next morning. I made it back to the team house a little after midnight, snuck into bed without making so much as a peep, and sent Cindy a text message to let her know I was safe and sound.

I slept better than I had in weeks, absolutely exhausted from switching time zones over and over, and from not daring to fall asleep lest I lose the memory of Cindy lying on my chest over the weekend. When my watch alarm finally sounded in Florida I was quickly filled in on what I had missed.

Josh had received a call from Tim, the former Warrant Officer from 022, now the Company Warrant Officer, informing him that the team would not be heading back to Germany. The company-training event in Scotland was approved, and the Sergeant Major had amended our orders.

The company would be spending a week in the hills of Scotland, in the same spot where the British SAS held a portion of their selection events, staying in the same barracks where the SAS candidates stayed. Hearing this I briefly thought back to the conditions of the barracks that we stayed in during our selection course, with bunk beds covered by a piece of plywood rather than a mattress, cold showers, and metal toilets that felt like ice cubes in the cold Carolina winters, and was not exactly thrilled about what we had in store.

The second week was just as exciting as the first, if not more. Josh had done what SF guys are famous for, and tapped himself directly into the network and now had the number of every important training NCO on speed dial on his cell phone. It seemed that every day people were calling to let him know about this or that unit that wanted a piece of his SF team, which resulted in us getting in on some of the best force-on-force aviation and infiltration exercise any of us had ever undergone.

Being at HAVE ACE was a totally different experience than back home in Germany; not only were we on American soil but we were on the Air Force’s Special Operations base, giving Josh the freedom to schedule whatever he could find the resources to facilitate, and having the vast store of knowledge one can only acquire from over a decade of Special Forces experience, his ideas were limitless.

I was in the garage with J-Lo and Ray putting the final touches on cleaning and storing the heavy guns for the trip when I felt my cell phone vibrate. I wiped the oil and gunk off my hands, pulled out the phone, and let out a loud yelp of excitement.

When I walked back into the garage, I could see I’d been a bit too loud by the expressions on the guys’ faces.

“Cindy’s coming here this weekend!”

“Uh, that’s great, Rob, but from what you’ve told me about Cindy, I don’t think she’s really gonna dig the whole barracks and bunk beds thing,” joked Ray.

“Yeah, good point,” I replied in a daze as I walked off to try to find Josh.

.

This time it was my turn to meet Cindy at the gate, and I was all smiles when my angel walked off the plane. I wrapped her up in a big bear hug and swirled her around, and as I held her the world stood still. Chris met us when we arrived at the baggage carrousel to retrieve her bags, and laughed out loud when he saw that this ninety-pound Asian woman had brought three huge suitcases, each completely stuffed and expanding at the seams, for a weekend trip.

He was leaving to see his parents for the weekend, so he gave me the keys to the team rental car and checked out his own from the airport rental desk. Cindy had heard all about Chris and how he had been acting as my older brother of sorts, showing me the ropes and helping me out when I got stuck, so I was very glad that the two of them could finally meet.

We said our goodbyes as Chris got into his car, and we left to check into our hotel for the weekend. We had dinner that night with the team, and it was great for Cindy to finally get to meet everyone; more for me, though, as the guys finally believed that I was really dating someone and that it wasn’t all a figment of my imagination!

After a dinner of oysters and seafood the guys headed off for drinks while Cindy and I headed back to our hotel, not to emerge until Sunday morning.

Chapter 6

Scotland

Cindy and I woke early Sunday morning to eat breakfast and finish the rest of our packing. When we met the team at the local civilian airport the man at the front desk looked truly amazed when he saw so many boxes for just under a dozen guys. His eyes got even bigger when Ray explained that he needed to declare some weapons that would be flying internationally with us.

The man hesitated for a second, speechless, and called for the supervisor. When the supervisor arrived and was briefed on the situation he did a double-take, assessing this information that not only were there weapons that needed to go on the plane, but huge boxes full of them.

“I need to take a look inside the boxes,” he told Ray.

“That ain’t gonna happen,” replied Ray as he handed over the official orders stating who we were, what we were carrying, and that the boxes weren’t to be opened because they contained our classified weapons and equipment.

After a short, heated debate, Ray, the supervisor, and one of the large boxes went into the back office so that Ray could show him what was inside. I’m not sure which box it was that Ray opened, but when they came back it was easy to see that the supervisor was impressed. It’s not every day that a civilian gets to peek inside the world of an ODA and understand the sheer amount of firepower we carry.

The supervisor looked around at us, back down at the half-dozen Pelican cases full of weapons and was clearly wondering what to do. He went behind the counter, emerged with a handful of cloth patches and a wand, and started to wipe down the boxes.

Josh asked him what he was doing.

“I have to check these boxes for gunpowder. You may have weapons authorizations, but we can’t take any explosives or HAZMAT on these planes.”

Josh laughed out loud and shot him a grin.

“Uh, hey there, bro, you DO realize that we just told you that these boxes are all full of guns we’ve been shooting all day, every day, for the past month, right?”

“Yeah, so what?” replied the supervisor.

“So, what the hell is the point of wasting your time when you know every one of those boxes, and most likely every one of us, is covered in gunpowder?”

The supervisor looked at Josh for a second, realized it was nothing more than an exercise in futility to use those swabs to check for explosives, and pointed at Ray.

“OK, but you need to help me get these boxes to the conveyor belt.”

“Actually,” replied Ray, “I need to follow those boxes until they’re on the plane; read those papers again.”

We sat around the terminal for about an hour, and Cindy and I got ourselves out of sight so as not to make any of the other guys jealous or homesick, as they wouldn’t get to see their wives and families for another few weeks.

We had become really good at airport goodbyes by this point and found a nice little dark corner to snuggle up in until we had to leave. It had been her first time to meet all of the guys, and I could tell she was a little more at ease knowing I had a great team watching my back.

Ray made his typical, boisterous entrance when he got back up to the gate, and he was just in time to hear the announcement that it was time to board. The next twenty-four hours were going to take us from Florida to Atlanta, where Cindy and I would part ways, then the team would travel on to Philly, have a five-hour layover and then on to Scotland for company training ending in a Full Mission Profile (FMP) to test our ability to plan, move, and execute an entire mission from receipt of intel to bullets on the target.

Cindy slept on my shoulder for the entire flight, and didn’t wake up until the wheels touched the ground in Atlanta. We only had about forty-five minutes to catch the next flight, and Cindy’s plane was departing from a different terminal so we had to make haste. She came with us all the way to our gate and must have been a sight to see; this gorgeous Asian woman, dressed to kill and speed-walking in a tight dress and high heels surrounded by a dozen rough, gruff, and scraggly SF dudes—she got more than a few double-takes.

When we finally made it to our gate, we only had a few minutes to say our goodbyes. Through the window we could see our big green Pelican cases being loaded onto the plane and, as always, the gate agents, sick of clearing their throats, had to break up Cindy’s and my kisses to let me know that the plane was leaving, with or without me. She gave me one last smile, one last kiss, and waited at the gate until I was down the jetway.

.

.

On the flight from Atlanta to Philly it was my turn to sleep, since I wouldn’t get any rest during our layover and was still pretty exhausted from not wasting our final night together sleeping. As it turned out, I was the only guy on the team who’d ever eaten a proper Philly cheesesteak from any of the authentic places in south Philly. We had about a five-hour layover, so while the team hung out, the plan was for Cindy’s brother Jon to meet Ray and I at the airport, drive us to get the cheesesteaks, and then bring us back in time for the flight.

Jon picked us up outside shortly after we landed, and we were downtown and back in just enough time to make it to the USO for everyone to inhale a cheesesteak and get moving to our next flight.

Once we were on the ground in Scotland it took us each a few minutes to clear our heads and get going. Off the plane, through the terminal, through customs, and as soon as we were at the baggage claim we saw a familiar face: Dan was waiting for us, a tall and heavily tattooed punk rocker in his former civilian life.

As always, Dan wore a big shit-eating grin and gave us a warm welcome. When we asked how it was looking so far, he just laughed.

It began to drizzle on us as soon as we walked outside, and when Dan saw us looking at the dismal, dark, traditionally nasty Scottish weather, he laughed again.

“Yeah, by the way, prepare for some of the ugliest terrain you’ve ever seen. Not only is it overcast here every day, it randomly rains constantly and the sun never seems to come out.”

“If it ain’t rainin’, we ain’t training,” answered Josh to the sky.

It was about an hour drive, and as always I marveled at the countryside. Even though the weather was absolutely miserable, the Scottish countryside was actually pretty amazing. We would frequently pass sheep, farmers herding their animals along the side of the road, and others working their land. As Dan reminded us during the last half-hour of the trip, we were going to some of the most God-awful terrain that Scotland had to offer.

Knowing that the place where we would be spending the next couple of weeks was the location where the British Special Air Service (or SAS, the British equivalent of Green Berets) hosted a portion of their selection, we knew what to expect.

A Green Beret has to be ready for any mission to come down at any time, which is one of the many factors that sets us apart from other Special Operations units; an ODA can be at their home base training one week, in an African country helping the government hunt rebels and terrorists the next, another African country helping the rebels overthrow their dictator the next, the desert hunting insurgents soon after, and then wearing a three-piece suit and giving an intel or planning brief to Kings, Generals, and Senators the next. We were in Scotland to prepare for the type of terrain that our job tends to take us to most frequently: shitty.

As we switched from highways to smaller residential roads and finally to small, one-lane roads we knew we were getting close, and fought to get a good glimpse of where we would be doing our training and FMP. Besides the gray skies, wet hills and terrain that would be a nightmare to ruck through it actually was quite pretty: lush, rolling hills, green vegetation—it seemed that every direction we looked in was straight out of a “Visit Scotland” poster or advertisement. That all changed when we turned off the main road, onto a dirt road, and then a quick left into the compound that would be our home for the next few weeks.

The first thought to enter my mind was SERE school. When we entered the compound, it was immediately obvious that none of these buildings had seen any improvement in at least 100 years. They were old stone buildings, complete with ramshackle cobblestone roads. We crossed over a small bridge and arrived in a courtyard.

“Let’s get out,” Dan said, “and I’ll give you a quick familiarization. The Sergeant Major wants to see Josh ASAP and I’ll show you your new digs.”

As we piled out of the van with our backpacks Dan pointed to three old, decaying stone buildings that we immediately recognized as barracks.

“The last building up the road to the right is for you guys. Sorry, you had a great time in Florida, you get last dibs. And just so that you know, the Sergeant Major is planning a suck fest for the last day that we are here, so I hope you guys didn’t do too much partying in Florida and are still down for the FMP.”

As Dan started walking us over to the chow hall to show us around, he got next to J-Lo to give him his heads-up.

“The Sergeant Major was not happy that Jeff cut you loose to go to HAVE ACE with these guys. Your bunk is in here with the rest of the B-team, you’re not officially on 022 yet!”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Josh piped in. “We’ve gotten our taste of J-Lo, and I’m not leaving that ass behind without a fight!”

We shot a quick glance at J-Lo and could see that he was devastated, but knew that it was out of our hands and would have to be a battle fought above our heads. After our tour of the compound we gave J-Lo a high-five as he grabbed his bags and headed for the B-team hooch, while we headed toward our barracks.

The building looked even worse on the inside, with cold concrete floors, leaking ceilings, an old 1920’s-era hot-water heater which would be our only warmth for the next few weeks, and a dozen rusty wire bedframes minus the mattresses set up around the room. Just as we were laying out our gear Dan poked his head in the door.

“Hey Josh, Sergeant Major wants to see you in the HQ in five minutes.”

Josh grabbed his green NCO book of power, shot us a grin, and headed out. “Don’t burn the place down before I get back, guys,” he said as he made his way down to get the scoop on what the next few weeks would entail for us.

Josh was gone for about an hour, and during that time we tried to make the best of the situation. Corey and I scanned the edges of the room for mice or rat droppings, while Ray and Chris scoured the area for any plywood we could use to cover the rusty bunks and at least sleep on something semi-comfortable.

That’s the great thing about an ODA: everyone has their “implied tasks” based on their job and position on the team, so unlike a standard Infantry company that has to sit around and wait for orders, we immediately get to task in any new situation, doing whatever we have to do to get the job done.

As soon as Josh walked back into the room we knew from his expression that it was going to be a pretty busy few weeks. We grabbed as many chairs as we could find, made a circle around him, and he filled us in on what we had in store: we would be working on CQB in both small residential houses and the huge warehouse behind our barracks, explosives training, land navigation, small unit tactics, hazardous terrain driving with both HUMVEES and ATV’s, and of course, the final FMP. Each day would start early and end late, and the training was set up in a station format that each team would be rotating to and from.

.

The next day began very early as always, and the days quickly became hard to tell apart. Our first iteration was CQB in a small house just a mile or so from the compound, and after taking down the house over and over for about six hours straight we moved on to explosives training, took just enough time for a quick dinner in town, and then more CQB in the pitch-black night inside an enormous, multi-level warehouse with several dozen rooms.

Every day was the same name but different game, utilizing different stations that the company had set up for us, starting as the sun rose on the horizon and ending long after it set. Just as at any point in a Green Beret’s career we were constantly being evaluated by the leadership, who would stop in from time to time to watch and remind us that the FMP would be coming at the end of the week.

Nobody on the B-team would share any info about what our actual mission would be, but that’s part of the job description for being a Green Beret: you have to be the jack of all trades, always ready to perform any task at the drop of hat…usually while hungry, tired, and worn down, running on nothing but sheer determination.

.

When the day finally came for the FMP, it was just as any of us had expected. Josh and The Captain came back from the mission brief, and we pulled out our local map and penciled in the grid coordinates—and then realized just how rough the mission would be. Our trek would entail a twenty-mile movement on foot, being hunted the entire time by a team that knew our exact hit points (but thankfully, not our route) and would be assigned the task of ambushing us. At the end of our trek through Scottish bogs, across hill ranges, and through rivers, our task would be to assault a compound labeled as a terrorist hideout.

As we began to prepare for our FMP, the typical arguments began; everyone on an ODA has a very important job, and with that territory comes quite a bit of baggage. One of the tensest times for an ODA is the packing time just prior to a mission, when every specialty is divvying up their goods for cross-loading.

In the grand scheme of things we cross-load for two reasons: first, you don’t want to have a guy killed, lost, or injured who has all of the required supplies for his job (be it medic, commo, engineering, heavy weapons, or intelligence) and have all of his supplies gone with him. Secondly, every bit of equipment benefits the team, their survival, and mission success as a whole, so there’s no reason to make one person bear the entire burden of that one specialty. Everyone gets radio batteries, medical blowout kits, ammo, and the like.

For 022, the agreed-upon method was to make piles in the floor for each member of the team in front of his rucksack. Everyone was tasked to divide up their items for the mission as evenly as possible between piles for everyone, and at the end Josh and The Captain would make the judgment on whether or not the piles were fair.

It was always a bit daunting at first glance when you would sit down in front of your pile, add the needed ammo, MRE’s, water, wet weather gear, extra socks, NOD’s, woobie (special lightweight Army blanket), and anything else special for the mission, load up your rucksack and realize that, in almost every case, not only was there absolutely no breathing room left but your rucksack was always well over a hundred pounds.

That’s not too bad for a simple ruck march down the road infantry-company style, but when you were heading for an SF mission (especially an FMP) you knew that there was going to be some pretty hefty terrain in front of you. Add body armor, your own double-basic load of ammo (fourteen magazines full of thirty rounds each), medical blowout kit, multi-tool, knife, camel pack, helmet, and whatever else you may be carrying, and that’s quite a bit of weight to be putting on your knees and back for what normally shape up to be very long missions.

Every team in the company was participating in this FMP, but these would be individual missions rather than a company-coordinated effort. Normally the FMP would involve multiple teams, either inserting together or linking up at some point during the mission to take down the final target. This one, however, was completely separate, but due to lack of resources each team would be assaulting the same compound at the end. We had separate insertion points and hit times, and were only given grid coordinates of the hit point to plan our own route with, so the company was basically staggering the same mission over and over all night.

We had the last insertion and hit times of the company, so we wouldn’t be loading the trucks until around 1900 hours and expected to hit our target around 0300. We were finished packing our rucks, cleaning our weapons, and doing commo checks before the sun went down, so we were lucky to have a few hours of shut-eye before we needed to start loading.

There is always one sure-fire way to pick a well-seasoned SF guy out of a group, and that’s by his ability to fall asleep any time, any place, for whatever amount of time it is that he’s got before a mission. The new guys, like me and a few others, usually lack that ability and can be picked out by the tossing and turning in our sleeping bags during the downtime before a mission. I was still wide awake when I heard the alarm on Josh’s watch start to beep, and was pissed at myself for not getting any rest before what I knew was going to be a very long night.

Within fifteen minutes we were up, fully dressed, loaded down with body armor, and doing our team-internal commo checks in the parking lot in front of our hooch. Once we heard everyone’s voice over the radio and checked in with the HQ it was time to roll. We threw our rucks in the back of an LMTV, jumped in, and waited for the driver to take us to our insertion point. It was cold and damp outside, and looking around the back of the truck you could tell nobody was expecting a fun night.

It was a fifteen-minute ride to our insertion point, and as soon as we felt the truck slowing we began to assemble on the rear gate. We knew we had a ten-minute grace period before the B-team started hunting us, and if they found us the night would get painful really quick.

Anytime you were ambushed on an FMP you were assigned casualties, regardless of how the ambush went and how you reacted as a team. You could pull off a perfect react to contact battle drill and still be assigned at least one casualty, which meant over a hundred pounds extra to cross-load among the team, the loss of a valuable team member, that team member’s body to carry for the rest of the mission, and precious time you could use to move toward your objective lost during the ambush and subsequent adjusting of the plan (and coordination of MEDEVAC, if you were lucky).

Josh pulled the lock off the rear gate of the truck, and we began to jump out and move. We were nearly to the first wood line before the driver of the LMTV was around to the back of the truck; apparently, we were supposed to wait for him to let us out—but we were never really good at waiting around.

Scotland has a lot of open terrain, so we knew we had to move fast; we were in the wood line for less than five minutes as Josh and The Captain did a quick map check to make sure we were in the right place and set us out on the correct heading.

As we got our spacing and headed out in our V-formation, we hit the first snag of the night. I was about ten meters to the left and behind John, who was carrying the M240 (a heavy machine gun), and I was alternately looking at him for any hand-and-arm signals and looking to my left and rear to check for any enemy, when he disappeared.

I was watching the top of his head one second, and the next second there was no John. Thankfully Ray, who was the point man of our formation, saw the same thing, and when he halted the formation we turned our heads as we heard the engines of the ATV’s speeding toward our insertion point.

I ran to where I saw John go down and when I got just a few feet away from the point where I lost him I felt the earth give under my feet. It wasn’t until I was flat on the ground next to him, face-down in the mud that I realized just how horrible the terrain we were in was; taking a good look around through my NOD’s I could see what looked like skiing moguls for several hundred square meters, and feeling the cold wetness creep into my clothes I realized it was also wet like a swamp.

John was outweighed by his body armor, rucksack, and M240, and was stuck on his back like a turtle, trying to rock back and forth unsuccessfully, with his rucksack buried about six inches deep in the mud and water, still trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to give away our location.

I could hear the sound of the ATV’s hunting us starting to circle around our insertion point, looking for any clue as to our general direction. They knew the location of our objective (and already had the experience of five other teams to learn the terrain and best areas of attack), so had a better idea than us of which routes would be the most efficient. Knowing we didn’t have much time, I tried to rock John harder to get him unstuck.

With my left hand I pushed up with everything I had to get as much leverage as possible, and then thrust my right hand as far as possible under his elevated ruck, going elbow-deep in the dank, cold, wet Scottish mud. With a “plop” the suction was broken, and I felt John pull out of the mud and break free.

I helped him to his feet, gave Ray and Josh the thumbs-high, and we were on the move again, with the ATV’s engines idling as they searched for any spore (the term used by trackers to describe any hints such as footprints, overturned and broken grass, or manipulated vegetation to lead in the direction of the hunted).

Within seconds we seamlessly formed into a movement meant more for speed than protection to put as much distance as possible between our hunters and ourselves. Moving through large, open terrain is bad enough with a hundred-plus pound ruck on your back, but Scotland is a true pain in the ass—every single step not only pulled us an inch or more into the wet, soft ground, endangering us of breaking an ankle, tearing an ACL, or twisting a knee, but also meant that less than ten minutes from insertion all of our socks were already soaking wet, a very bad way to start a mission with a long movement.

The soggy terrain was both a blessing and a curse; it took a few minutes for the trackers to find our direction of movement, and as we heard the engines of the ATV’s whir up and go from idle to full-throttle, we also heard a few spin out as soon as they hit the mud, and I laughed a bit as I heard the familiar sound of one go completely airborne, as the overzealous rider encountered the same mogul-like terrain that John and I had just suffered through.

The engine went back into idle after the unmistakable whir of the wheels spinning through the air, which meant there was a rider somewhere lying in the mud just as uncomfortable as us. Josh signaled up to Ray that we needed to alter our course, as they weren’t too far behind, and we high-tailed it into another wood line just a few hundred meters away. We took a knee and Josh did his map check with Ray this time. It was only about thirty seconds before we were back on our feet, moving out in a new direction.

After a few minutes we knew where we were headed; there was a set of train tracks that zigzagged through the entire map sheet of the area we would be traveling through, and although train tracks don’t offer much cover, they do offer speed. It was a toss-up between trying to move fast enough to outrun our hunters or take up a defensive position and counter-ambush, but with our hit time so quick and our movement so long, we opted for speed, hoping that the wood line and the rocks and wood of the train tracks would sufficiently reduce our spore.

.

It was another twenty minutes of running to the wood line that contained the tracks, and once we were in we knew we would be good. As soon as we stepped on the tracks we moved into a Ranger file for speed (two lines, each with half the team, lined up single file). Each file lined up on the outside of the tracks and started moving. The tracks were pretty wet and slippery so we couldn’t quite run, but we could move much faster than we had been.

Every long-distance movement has a part where you just put your head down and walk, trying your best to drown out just how much your knees and back hurt, how tired or thirsty you are, and anything else but accomplishing the mission. I liken it to a runner’s high or even a Zen-like meditation, where you just go, and the only thing you think about is placing one foot in front of the other. This was definitely that point of the mission, and we knew our success was going to be based on how much distance we could cover as quickly as possible while we still had the advantage of the tracks to travel on.

We must have been at least ten miles in, each with the water hoses from our camel packs in our mouths sucking down water before Josh signaled to Ray that it was time for a quick break and map check. As soon as the hand-and-arm signals traveled between the team we stepped off the tracks in our respective spacing to take a defensive position in the woods and rest.

Josh and The Captain met at the front of our formation and stepped into the wood line to pull out their map and do a quick assessment. As they disappeared under Josh’s poncho to conceal the light from their flashlight I looked around. The faces of the other guys showed that I wasn’t the only one in pain; all of our knees, hips, and backs were screaming by this point.

I pulled a Cliff bar out of my pocket and started munching to get some calories, and just as I was washing down the last bite I saw Josh emerge from the poncho to give Ray the word. After he was done he went back to the next man in line, as Ray moved back to John to pass along the info.

We were well over halfway to our objective, and at that rate they thought we might actually have some time for a bit of rest before the assault. That sounded great to me, and after John finished giving me the good news we shared a silent high-five.

As soon as the word was spread throughout the team we were back on our feet and moving. Head back down, trying to get the rhythm of the walk and my stride to be the only focus of my existence besides checking the wood line for threats and looking behind to make sure the rest of the team was OK, it was just a little over a mile before we heard what we had each been dreading: the soft hum of an ATV.

It was very faint, and with the corridor of trees along the train tracks there was no way to tell exactly how far away they were, but they were finally on to us. We had set up an alternate plan just in case they found us, and so without a word both teams headed into the woods to our left. As soon as we were inside the wood line we converged and headed into a ravine about fifty meters deeper into the woods.

We were each weighed down pretty heavy, and the wonderful Scottish weather had been a light drizzle for the past few hours, so as soon as Ray came to the side of the ravine it became a slip-and-slide. Ray disappeared suddenly accompanied by the sound of breaking branches. Josh signaled for everyone to take a knee, and for me to get up there to make sure he was OK.

I ran to where he’d slipped and saw Ray about twenty feet below, at the bottom of a trench his ass had buried in the mud, with torn tree limbs and vegetation in his wake. He wasn’t moving, so I immediately dropped my ruck and made my way down with my med bag, using my knees in the mud and holding on to any vegetation I could to stop from sliding.

I was thinking of the worst-case scenarios: broken back, broken neck, torn ligaments, broken bones—it could be anything. We wouldn’t be able to get a real-world MEDEVAC chopper in there under the canopy of the wood line, so I started going over the map in my head for where the nearest clearing would be that would suffice for an LZ [Landing Zone] to get him out of there if he was seriously hurt.

I finally got to the bottom and saw Ray, still laying there like a pile of rocks, looking up and grinning at me.

“That was pretty freaking awesome!” he laughed.

Looking down at him, covered from head to toe in mud with branches and leaves sticking out of his uniform from every which way I couldn’t help but laugh as well. I saw Josh about twenty feet above us at the ridge, and I gave him the thumbs-high. The next thing I knew my ruck was following Rays’ path down the ravine, and all I could do was get out of the way before being knocked over like a bowling pin.

Before my ruck had settled John was on his way down, moving very slowly and cautiously since he still had the weight of his ruck and the M240 on him.

John and Ray started to make a defensive perimeter, and I watched as the guys came down one by one, making sure that if anyone did fall I could at least see the point of injury rather than have to guess. Once the last man was down and in the perimeter we looked across the small creek at our next task; our alternative route was on the other side of the ravine, and the other side, not very well documented on the map, was about thirty feet high and much steeper than what we’d just come down.

We could still hear the ATV’s, far away but steadily advancing. Josh sent Ray in one direction up the creek and Matty in the other, looking for a more manageable area to climb. As they took off running we stayed in our defensive perimeter with their rucks, listening to the soft whir of the ATV’s in the distance.

Within five minutes they were both back with sour expressions. Without a word they pointed to the wall of mud and roots in front of us, not quite 90 degrees but pretty close. Matty began to pull his climbing rope and harness out of his ruck, sat in his harness, looped the rope around his shoulders and back, and started up the bank.

Matty is by far one of the best climbers I’ve ever met, and seeing him struggle without any ruck or body armor made me cringe. At least he brought a rope so he could belay us up, but with the M240 and M249 plus rucks and body armor it was not going to be easy.

Everyone stayed in the defensive perimeter until it was their turn to go up, hearing the ATV’s steadily making their way closer and closer to us. By the time it was down to just Josh and me they were easily less than a mile away, but now with most of the team up top helping to pull the weight it was going much quicker.

Josh gave me the nod to go up before him; it wasn’t easy, but with the tug from the rest of the team helping me with every step it was better than it would have been on my own. As we made the final few pulls to take Josh up and over the edge, we could see the lights of the ATV’s in the distance, but at this point there was no way they could follow us.

With Josh up, safe, and unhooked from his harness, we stowed the rope and made our way a few hundred meters away to do another map check and make sure we were headed in the right direction. We wouldn’t have the speed of the train tracks to help us anymore, but thankfully we were close to the objective.

Josh gave Ray our new direction of travel and we were off. Back in the zone we stayed in the Ranger file but gave ourselves a little more distance to make our profiles harder to pick up and to give us better defense and speed. We were used to rucking through mountains and tough terrain, so the Scottish farm fields we were now traversing were a cakewalk. We had to cross a few barbed wire fences, which may be no big deal for drunk kids going cow-tipping, but is quite a challenge when wearing body armor.

A few miles of farmland and half-dozen fences later Ray stopped and put up his arm to signal everyone to stop and take a knee. We faced out in a perimeter as Josh ran up to Ray; I could see him pointing to a low-lying wooded area about 200 meters away. Josh nodded and headed back to give the news to The Captain: we were at the objective.

On the horizon I could see the area we would be assaulting. In lieu of destroying some poor Scottish farmer’s house and barn, the B-team had set up chem lights (glow sticks) outlining what was supposed to be the perimeter and targets scattered all over the place.

Even though we had MBITR’s [Multi-Band Inter-Team Radios] for both team internal and HQ communication, we had previously decided to maintain radio silence as long as possible to give the hunters the least amount of info we could regarding our whereabouts. Now that we were at our hold point prior to the assault, however, we had to call HQ to report that we were there, just to make sure that we were good to assault at our hit time.

We moved into the small ditch we had designated as our ORP [Objective Rally Point] and took up a defensive perimeter while The Captain called HQ. We were all on the same net, so we heard the radio operator in the B-team HQ respond to The Captain’s report that we were in position to attack.

“Holy shit, are you serious?” was the reply.

When he explained that every other ODA had been ambushed several times en route to their objective that night, it made every ache and pain in our knees and backs worth it. Josh gave us all a grin, and we took comfort in being the badasses of the company for the night.

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We lay in the nasty cold, wet mess that was the Scottish countryside for longer than I could keep track of, but at some point I began to see a figure walk toward us very slowly, obviously not knowing exactly where he was going. I looked back to Josh and The Captain and pointed out the figure to them. The Captain knew immediately who it was and walked out to meet and bring him back to our perimeter.

I knew it was Tim as soon as they got within twenty feet of us just by the way he walked. He came into our perimeter, sat down with Josh and The Captain, and spoke just loud enough for us to hear him. The B-team was putting the finishing touches on the objective, and we should be ready to go in about a half hour. Before he left he gave a “Good job” handshake to both Josh and The Captain, telling them we’d get a call over the net as soon as the objective was clear.

As The Captain walked Tim back out of our perimeter, Josh went around the circle disseminating the instructions to the rest of the team. The ponchos and warm clothes went back in the rucksacks, fresh, dry socks came out, rifles and pistols got a last shot of lubricant, and we prepared ourselves for whatever would come next. It took about thirty minutes, but once we got the call that the objective was all ours it was go time.

John and Matty made their way to the left of our assault line to set up the heavy-weapons squad, and the rest of us began to crawl up to form the assault line. Our chosen initiation signal (the one letting everyone on the ODA know to open up) was a pin flare from Josh shot directly at the target, and as soon as we saw the red flare shoot across the sky a beautiful world of fire opened up.

We each had a double-basic load of ammo, and the idea was to expend two magazines on the target prior to assault with the idea being to kill everything possible before we got close, and then use our remaining ammo on the assault. If we had mortars, air cover or artillery assets in the area, this is when they would have started laying down their fury as well.

We had our NOD’s, and Matty and John had night optics on their heavy weapons, so we were laying down effective fire on the targets. As always, the view of the red tracers flying every second from the heavy weapons and the symphony of the firepower being laid down made me smile the wicked smile of a young boy playing with fire.

Josh and The Captain stayed behind us, taking turns firing from the knee and going up and down the line to lead the assault. Once the heavy weapons were about half way through their load, we got the signal to get up, get on line, and assault the target.

With Josh walking beside us, and The Captain staying behind for command and control, we quickly moved toward the objective, double-tapping (a Green Beret never fires just one shot unless he is on a sniper mission; a double-tap is a quick two-round succession of bullets fired at your target) as we came to the targets and violently throwing them to the ground as we passed.

Twenty meters past the last target we were still waiting for HQ to throw us a curveball when Josh stopped us. “Clear” was automatically echoed eight times over as we took a knee. Just as we had done hundreds of times before, each man starting with me all the way on the left of the assaulting force, counted off his status of self, ammo, and water to Josh.

“D01 green, yellow, red!” I shouted to tell Josh I wasn’t injured, was running low on ammo, and was almost completely out of water.

The same thing in various configurations was echoed all the way down the line until we reached the last man. We heard Josh make the call to The Captain, who echoed our report along to HQ. The Captain then called us back to the ORP to await further instructions.

We were still pretty on edge, waiting to hear the sound of the ATV’s again until we saw Tim meandering toward our perimeter, this time holding an illuminated flashlight. When he got to us he was smiling and let out a “Way to go, 022!” in his thick Southern California accent. The B-team had already gone over our objective, and we had decimated every target and taken the entire objective faster than any other ODA that night.

We threw on our rucks, adrenaline still coursing through our veins like a fresh shot of speed, and I didn’t even feel the weight of my ruck or body armor as we followed Tim back up to the road a half-mile away where an LMTV was waiting. We were all grins, laughs, and jokes the entire way back to the compound, but Josh instructed us to keep a lid on it and keep the noise down once we got out of the truck, as all the other ODA’s would be sleeping by that point.

We gladly obliged, pulling our stuff out of the truck and back to our building as quietly as possible. As tired as we were, we still had the priorities of work to complete before we could hit the showers and bed, so after another two hours of inventorying NOD’s, weapons, cleaning weapons, turning our ammo and maps back in, AAR’s and ensuring all of our sensitive items were turned in, we finally got cleaned up, hosing our boots and muddy uniforms off and leaving them outside to dry.

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The only thing worse than the pre-mission anticipation is the post-mission adrenaline, going over every last detail, things you could have done better, other ways to do things…the good, the bad, and the ugly, which always keeps you from sleep, no matter how much your body needs it. I tossed and turned until after the sun was up, praying for a bit of respite from my own mind, the torture of a man who takes his job seriously.

Thankfully the hardest part of the trip was done, and the next two days would be cleaning, packing, and getting ready to go home. The light was already beginning to creep in through the windows by the time I finally fell asleep, and immediately I was back home with Cindy.

Chapter 7

Africa

It was 2 a.m. on a cold German morning when the soft blue light and shrill beep of my alarm started up. Josh informed me on the flight back from Scotland that Corey and I had been tasked to go to Africa with 024 for a month, and would be leaving just a week after we got home. We had been planning and prepping every day since we touched down back in Germany, and although my body was utterly confused about where or when I was currently, I was thrilled about going to Africa.

It was a pretty common occurrence for ODA’s from 1/10 to make trips down to Africa, but this one was special. We would be going to Niger (bordering the Sahara desert, between Libya and Nigeria), where no ODA’s had been overtly for quite some time due to the Niger government choosing not to sign the SOFA agreement [Status of Forces, the agreement that says a soldier will be returned to his home government for punishment, rather than locked up and/or executed by whatever nation he was in] which most of the other African nations had.

There was a lot of intelligence telling us that the number of terrorist training camps was growing exponentially in the country, which may have been part of the reason for their refusal to sign; it was a well-known fact that the Niger government was easily paid off, and from the intel we had there were major players pumping money into the country for the government to turn a blind eye to the camps out in the desert.

Aside from that there was a well-known, large and relatively strong Al-Qaeda affiliate group operating throughout the country, as well as vast uranium and plutonium mines (a key ingredient to nuclear production); to say it was of strategic importance is a an understatement.

We had several tasks: 1) Collect on-the-ground information to confirm or deny whether the intel about the camps was true, and if so, where they were operating. 2) Establish and run several MEDCAP [Medical Civil Action Program] missions around the area, in uniform, to show our presence and win the hearts and minds of the populace. 3) Assess the local hospitals and area for the event that an American soldier was hurt in any future missions.

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“You gotta be kidding me!” I said out loud to my alarm clock. I hit the snooze button in my groggy haze as my watch alarm started to beep, another shrill sound echoing off the hardwood floors. I brought myself up to sit on the edge of my bed to once again contemplate why in the hell somebody would take a job that would require them to get up this early.

I didn’t have very long to contemplate before the phone in the living room began to ring. Chad had found a really nice condo not far from base that he couldn’t afford on his own while I was back at SOCMSSC, so we moved in together during my short time home. I knew that Cindy would be calling to make sure I didn’t sleep through my alarm, so I ran into the living room to grab the phone before it woke up Chad.

“Hey, babe, just calling to make sure you’re up.”

“Yeah, barely, it feels like I just got into bed.”

“Well, we were on Skype until midnight while you finished packing.”

“I’ll call you on Skype right now. I love you.”

“I love YOU!” she replied, as I opened up the laptop on my bed.

I walked with the open laptop into the bathroom, and as I sat it down on the über-modern German square sink I looked at my watch.

“I’ve gotta be leaving the house in no more than thirty minutes babe, not a lot of time to chat.”

“OK, I’m here,” she replied. I could see that she was busy doing paperwork at her desk, which was good since I didn’t have a lot of spare time to talk. I turned on the floor heaters and jumped in the shower, leaving the laptop sitting on the sink.

After my shower, stepping out onto the tile I angled the computer so I could shave and still see Cindy while I was getting ready.

“Still nervous?” she asked.

“Come on, babe, what in the world would I have to be nervous about?”

I finished shaving, threw on some jeans and a jacket, and headed into the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal before leaving.

“OK, baby, I gotta go.”

“Did you pack some snacks?”

“Yeah, babe. I’ll call you from the satellite phone as soon as I can. Sleep well, my love, sweet dreams. I’ll talk to you soon.”

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Within less than an hour I was on the bus that was to take us to the airfield as Sean, the 024 Team Sergeant stood up, did a quick headcount, and gave the bus driver a thumbs-high. As the bus was pulling out of the base gates onto the deserted early morning streets, the driver turned on the radio for the boys to have one last taste of civilization.

Germans have a real sweet spot for 1980s-era American music, and as luck would have it our driver turned on the radio just as Toto’s “Africa” started to play. It took our tired brains a second to realize the coincidence, and we looked at each other and erupted in laughter, followed by the worst ever Toto sing-along.

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Sitting down next to Tom, a fellow medic and friend from the Q-course, on the C-130’s strap-seats I tried my best to get comfortable.

“Well, we’ve got a few hours of this,” said Tom as he pulled out his woobie to catch some shut-eye. “I’ll see you in Africa, Robbie.” he smiled as he pulled it over his head and went to sleep.

I followed his example and pulled the woobie out of my backpack, pulled the ski cap down over my eyes, and faded off to the dull whirring of the C-130’s engines over my earplugs.

Several hours into the trip I found myself awake and bored, so I got up and went over to the window in the middle of the plane, near where our gear was stowed. Looking out over the vast Sahara, I couldn’t imagine what it must take for someone to think they could make it across that on foot.

“All the way from here to Timbuktu,” the Major said from over my shoulder.

“What’s that, sir?” I asked.

“The phrase, ‘All the way from here to Timbuktu,’ it comes from the Sahara. Timbuktu is in Mali, on the other side of the desert. It used to house the last outpost that a person could stop at to rest or refit before crossing the Sahara.”

“What in the world would convince somebody that they should walk across that, sir?” I asked the Major.

“You’ve never been on the other side of this desert. Ask yourself that question in a few weeks.”

As he walked away I continued to stare at the vast nothingness that is the Sahara. I had been hypnotized by the vast expanse for almost two hours when I finally decided to sit back down.

“Nice scenery?” asked Tom from over his book on Native American culture in the American Northwest.

I never ceased to be amazed by some of the people I met in SF. Tom, a little bit shorter than me but stout like a bodybuilder, had been a museum curator before 9/11. We had become friends in Basic Training and throughout the Q-course, and Tom’s quirky sense of humor always made me laugh.

“Makes you feel a bit insignificant. Strange that it makes me feel the same as looking up at the Alps.”

“Yeah, Robbie, that’s nature—she’s amazing.”

I threw my earplugs in and tried my best to sleep. I knew it would be pretty busy once we hit the ground, so sleep was best to get while the getting was good. As I lay across the uncomfortable web seats and pulled my woobie over my head, my thoughts began to drift back to our pre-deployment briefings.

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They always did a great job of making you nervous, and this was no different. We knew we would be way off the beaten path, but they made it absolutely clear that we would be the only legitimate American forces in the country besides the Marines stationed as Embassy staff, so there would be no backup if we got into trouble.

This was, of course, followed by the intelligence about the growing number of Wahhabi mosques in the places we would be operating, intent on keeping Western influences out of the area. We were told of the unknown number of training camps, growing daily, and the propaganda being spread of how the evil Americans were destroying the world and were the enemies of Islam.

Just as I was wondering what we would do should we get into a serious firefight with nothing but pistols I felt the plane begin its descent and sat up to get ready for landing. I looked around as I was stuffing my woobie back in my backpack and saw that everyone else was doing the same, except, of course for Tom, who was still reading.

As the plane touched down I started to get very excited; this was Africa, what the Chinese call “the wrong continent,” and we were going to the poorest of the poor countries, one known for corruption and poverty. Niger was so corrupt, it was told to us in our briefing that Gadhafi (the Libyan president/dictator at the time, and no stranger to political dirtiness) had stopped all aid when he discovered that 75 percent of all of his humanitarian aid donations were going into the pockets of the President and his cronies, with only a portion of the leftovers going to the actual people of the country.

When the plane finally stopped everyone jumped up to try to see what we were getting ourselves into. As the ramp of the C-130 was slowly lowered we could feel the nice, cool air conditioning replaced with the intense dry heat that is trans-Sahel Africa. Everyone clamored for a look at the scenery as the door slowly opened to its full view, and unfortunately the scene was just what we had expected. The landing strip had nothing on it: no control tower, no other planes, just one single hangar with an old Russian helicopter in various stages of decay.

Just as I stepped off the plane I saw a man sitting on the hood of an old, white Land Rover, watching us from the other end of the runway. I pulled out my binoculars to see a Chinese man looking right back at me through his. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and as soon as he saw me looking at him he slid off of his hood, got into his truck, and drove off.

As I followed his truck moving away and toward the city, he passed a train of SUV’s which were making a beeline for us. The procession came to a screeching halt about twenty meters away and out stepped Jeff, who had made the trip down a month ahead of us to get everything ready for our arrival.

Jeff made his way over to Sean to give him the game plan, and Troy (the 024 Warrant Officer) directed us to begin hauling our gear to the backs of the SUV’s. Just as we began to question how we were going to fit all of our tough boxes and medical gear into the trucks an old, beaten-down flatbed truck pulled up with a smiling African driver who said hello to Jeff like they were best friends.

“Gentlemen, meet Moussa. He’s the man to know around here and can get you anything you need. If you have any special requests, just ask him and he will get it taken care of.” With that, Moussa disappeared into the lone airplane hangar and quickly re-appeared driving a forklift.

“What did I tell you?” Jeff laughed. “He’s the man!”

After getting the heavy gear on the flatbed and smaller bags into the SUV’s, we made our way into the capital city of Niamey. If you’ve never driven in Africa before, let’s just say that doing it without killing yourself or anyone else is worthy of a medal. As we made our way through the streets past donkey carts, scooters, and pickups filled with either farm animals or people hanging off the sides, our two-way radios began to chirp to life.

“Go ahead and get your GPS out and set waypoints, men,” said The Major.

“Mark the airfield and the major landmarks along this route. We are going to the Ambassador Hotel, and you’ll want to know your way back just in case you get lost. Some parts of this city are relatively safe, but once these people see your white skin they automatically assume that you are rich, and, well, some people are nicer than others.”

Driving through downtown was an unforgettable sight; the level of corruption really hit home when we passed the shacks that were considered stores, three or four splitting their power from a single gas generator. After a few minutes of these shanty convenience stores we passed an enormous, sparkling high-rise government building, not even open for business but gleaming and towering above the rest of the city.

Pulling into the Ambassador Hotel gave much more of the same feeling; this was the hotel where diplomats and rich Westerners stayed during their visits, whether it be business, politics, or aid, and the contrast between the hotel and all of the surroundings was disgusting.

Was this why Westerners just don’t get it? We give our money to aid groups and think we are making a difference, when in reality most of that money is going to people to stay in these hotels and to the pockets of diplomats and the President.

I was full of disdain as we pulled into the parking lot and made a little huddle before unloading. As the last of us made their way in, Sean spoke up.

“OK guys, Jeff and The Major have arranged a safe place to keep the heavy gear. Leave nothing in these trucks, check into the hotel, and drop your stuff off in your room. We have to be out the door for dinner in just over an hour so let’s get moving. Meet back in the lobby at 1800 in some nice dinner clothes and we’ll head back out, got it? Good, see you then.”

With that it was a mad dash for everyone to grab their gear from the trucks and get into the lobby. I was in the middle of the pack when I arrived at the front desk, and marveled at the lobby while waiting to check in. It wasn’t anything too remarkable, but it did look like maybe thirty years ago it would have been a five-star place.

The floor was marble, the ceilings were enormous with bronze chandeliers, and there were plush sofas with tables arranged in various semi-private meeting areas all over the lobby. It would have really been something in its heyday, but even now it was an oasis compared to what we had seen during our drive in.

Tom and I both checked in at about the same time and made our way upstairs. It wasn’t until I reached my room that I realized I hadn’t packed any nice clothes; all I had were T-shirts and cargo pants. I showered and pulled out a clean set of clothes, and as soon as I was ready walked across the hall and knocked on Tom’s door.

“Robbie, what are you wearing?” he laughed at me. “I guess I forgot to tell you and Corey. Here, come in, I’ve got an extra collared shirt for you.”

“Forgot to tell me and Corey what?” I asked.

“Sean has this rule,” he answered, “anytime you travel in SF, pack at the very least one nice set of slacks and a Polo. You never know when you’ll be having dinner with an Ambassador, President or General, so always be prepared. Thankfully I brought a few extra, so you can borrow one tonight.”

When we reached the lobby I was very thankful that my buddy was so prepared. Besides the collared shirts, I was the only sucker who wasn’t wearing a pair of slacks, and mentally kicked myself for being such an idiot.

“Glad to see that you dressed up for us, Rob,” laughed Troy.

“OK, we’re all here, let’s get to the trucks,” directed Sean. “Don’t forget to set this place in your GPS, and follow my lead to the restaurant.” He turned and headed out the door, and we followed.

We left the hotel in the opposite direction of the airport and headed into the more residential and richer part of the city. The ride was only about twenty minutes, and took us from the crowded, polluted, and unhappy city to the outskirts, a much more rural and calm area for dinner with The Major.

It was our first meal in Africa and was a rather remarkable one. We spent the evening trying to practice our French on the waiters and enjoying the wonderful food they offered. As the evening came to a close, we piled into our respective SUV’s and made the trip back through town and to the hotel bar.

After the first round of Bier Niger was finished, Sean put out the word that the medics would be moving the next morning to check out the local hospital. As he and Troy retired to their rooms to go over plans for the next few days, Corey, the boys from 024, and I stayed downstairs in the bar to bond over a few more Bier Nigers.

After another round everyone seemed to be ready to call it a night, but Tom and I both had the same idea; he was a romantic at heart as well, and loved just as much as I did to surprise his girlfriend with late-night phone calls from all corners of the world. After some negotiations with the front desk we were led to a wall of phones; I couldn’t believe it had been less than twenty-four hours since I had talked to Cindy, and I was ecstatic when I heard her voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey baby!” she exclaimed. “How’s everything going with the guys?”

“Well, we’re just getting settled in now, but we’ll be moving out soon. How’s everything back there?”

“Oh it’s fine. I’m just doing some work and trying to get things taken care of. How’s the weather?”

“Well babe, have you ever heard the term ‘Africa hot’? Let’s just say it’s a bit warm down here! How’s the weather out there?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked.

After brief hesitation she responded with the answer I would hear quite a lot over the next couple of years: “It’s perfect—it’s Southern California!”

Before I knew it I looked down at my watch and realized that thirty minutes had passed. After a quick “I love you” and “Goodbye” I hung up and ran into Tom at the front desk, who was also paying for his time.

“Everything good, Robbie?”

“It is now!”

.

Our initial task was to assess the hospital in Niamey, so our first morning was spent looking it up and down to report just what their capabilities were, should an American get hurt anywhere in the vicinity.

As Tom, Ernie, and I walked out of the front doors to meet the rest of the medics we were immediately accosted by several locals selling various wares, from small leather boxes to large, ornate spears decorated with cheap jewelry and adorned with hand carvings. I was a 3/3 (near-perfect) French speaker as far as the DLPT [Defense Language Proficiency Test; every Green Beret has to train in a foreign language specific to his group, and can’t graduate the Q-course until he’s passed the DLPT] scores were concerned, but hearing those people talk threw me for a loop. I understood that it was based in French, but the accents and slang were like nothing I’d ever heard. I could make out the numbers and a few small words, but it was basically gibberish to me, and as we had somewhere to go I gave them a “Nous nais se pas” (“We don’t want any”) as we pushed past them and made our way to the trucks.

The engines were running with Jeff and Moussa waiting for us, and soon we were on the way. Driving through the city without the fog of jetlag and in the full light of day just cemented the feelings of disgust I had felt the evening before about the level of corruption.

We could see people making their way up and down the streets as we headed back in the direction of the airport; unlike the place we had gone for dinner we were headed directly into the throng of the city, and I could already hear the busyness of horns honking and see the crowds we would be fighting to try to get where we were going.

There aren’t many traffic lights (if any) in downtown Niamey, but there are a lot of traffic circles (roundabouts), and each one we came to would have five or six kids on the corners of the entrance selling phone cards. Matty had equipped me with several phone cards, a SIM card, and a drop phone before I left Germany, but every time the kids would see us they would run to the car yelling, and would be joined by dozens of others. Niger had lived as a welfare state for so long that barely any of the men knew how to work anymore, so they made most of their living from either selling wares to tourists or begging. As soon as anyone would see two vans full of white guys in civilian clothes they expected a handout, and came en masse.

What should have been a twenty-minute ride took over an hour, as some of the masses would get upset when we told them we weren’t there to give them handouts and would try to block our way until a few of us would get out with the telescopic riot batons we kept strapped to our belts for protection. We weren’t allowed to carry rifles on this trip, and pistols were to remain out of sight at all costs, so the batons were all we had to protect ourselves and “motivate” people to get the hell out of our way.

Pulling off the main road and into the parking lot reminded me of an American mall at Christmas. There were hundreds of people walking off the street and right into the parking lot (not giving too much mind to the cars), and the courtyard was packed with people sitting around, going in and out of the various buildings, eating, talking, and doing whatever. Some looked relatively healthy, while others looked minutes away from death. There didn’t seem to be any organization, so we followed Moussa, who seemed to know exactly where he was going.

We followed him through the courtyard and into a building, through a few halls, and around to an unmarked door in a back hallway, where he stopped and waited for us. Our group consisted of Dr. Maria, who was an Air Force internal medicine doctor, Steve, who was her medic, Ernie, Troy, Sean, Tom, Corey, Bobby, and myself.

Once we were all crammed into the narrow hallway in front of Moussa he gave us a quick lowdown, explaining that this was the office of a doctor friend of his who would show us around the hospital. He knocked on the door, and it was answered by a rather large man wearing a white medical coat and a very friendly smile, and upon seeing Moussa immediately welcomed us into his office.

After a brief introduction, the doctor pointed toward the door. “I understand that you would like to see our facilities. I have to warn you: This is not what you are used to in America, and you should be prepared for what you will see. Stay close to me and don’t wander off; if you haven’t noticed, you stick out here, and not everyone trusts Americans or white people to put it bluntly. If anyone tries to stop you, just keep going. Don’t touch your faces until you’ve washed your hands, and try to refrain from touching people or the walls. I hate to sound cold, but your immune systems are not quite adapted to most of the bacteria we have here, and as most of the people you will see here have no understanding of hygiene, I don’t want any of you to get sick.”

He then made his way around the desk and to the door, and as he walked out into the hallway Moussa motioned for us to follow. He took us on the grand tour of the national hospital in Niamey, but within a few minutes we had a pretty good idea of what our report would sound like.

We were taken to a radiology department with no radiologists, but a brand-new MRI machine donated from Japan. Next we moved on to their department responsible for cleaning medical instruments, in which we saw needles being cleaned to be re-used, a lack of sterilization machines, and none of the sanitary precautions one would expect from a hospital.

Our next stop was isolation, and the doctor stopped outside of a window, peering into a room with a dozen beds filled with people in various states of decay. There were no IV’s hanging from their bedsides, no nurses tending to them, and no charts visible to show any progress notes. It was fairly obvious from the doctor’s face that these people weren’t expected to last long, and once everyone had a look we moved on in silence.

The rest of the tour was much more of the same: overcrowded, understaffed, and unsanitary wards full of malnourished, impoverished, and suffering people. Everyone in our party that day had been trained both as Green Berets and as medical professionals to learn how to distance yourself, put on a cold face, and not get emotionally involved because you just can’t save everyone, but the human feelings deep inside never quite go away, no matter how hard you try. We were each pretty emotionally exhausted by the time we got back to the trucks.

Moussa led us to a café in the middle of town for lunch. None of us were in the mood to chat, but we had to record our assessment as soon as possible. Sean started the conversation, asking if we had any comments.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t care how bad it gets, I think between us we can do much better in a tent in the middle of the desert than sending one of our guys there. They re-use syringes in a country plagued by AIDS, for Christ’s sake!” I heard myself say before I even had time to process the question.

Dr. Maria immediately backed me up. “I’ve spent a lot of time in this area, and especially in these fall months the amount of nosocomial [hospital-acquired] infections that someone who’s already injured and in an immune-compromised state would get in a place like that would almost certainly do some damage. We have the Arch Angel [a privately owned Learjet fully loaded with medical equipment that will pick up wealthy foreigners or American soldiers injured or sick in Africa to take them to hospitals in Europe], and I think between us we can sit on anything long enough for a flight out.”

We nodded, and Sean pulled out his notepad to start working on the brief he would submit to higher. “Who can give me the specifics of any pertinent details that need to be noted?”

We finished eating as we recounted the details of what we had seen, and when we got back to the hotel I was immediately pissed off. The salesmen who had been waiting for us when we left that morning were still there, and had brought reinforcements.

One of them saw our trucks parking and immediately started toward us. Moussa chimed in before we got out of our truck.

“Don’t buy anything until we’re ready to leave here—it’s like blood to the sharks. As soon as you buy one thing and they see that you have money, they will tell all their friends and won’t leave you guys alone.”

As we climbed out of the truck, Sean started to assemble us to put out the plan for the night, but as soon as he saw the vendors running toward us, motioned everyone to the hotel lobby. The vendors didn’t mind bothering us in the parking lot, but they knew that if they took one step inside the hotel the security would not only rough them up pretty good, but they wouldn’t be allowed back on the premises to bother any future tourists.

We made our way into the hotel with the vendors at our heels, and sure enough as soon as we stepped in the doorway the security guards blocked their path and sent them packing. We took over one of the small alcoves and sat in a circle as Sean laid it out for us.

Our hit time to leave the next morning was 0800, and as we’d be driving most of the day he suggested we get plenty of rest. After he released us we headed upstairs to change, and then it was off to town for a quick dinner, a few Bier Niger, and a little exploring. By the time we parked the trucks back in the hotel parking lot I was basically sleep walking, and must have made it to my room on auto-pilot.

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My head was extremely foggy when my alarm clock went off at 0600 the next morning, but I finally started waking up after a quick shower and shave, and I did my once-over to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, tucked my pistol in its holster, threw on my uniform jacket (some SF missions are covert, where it’s mission-critical that people don’t know who or what you are; others, like this, were very overt, as part of the purpose was for the people to see that we were American, that we were Special Forces, and we were there to help), grabbed my backpack, and headed downstairs to link up with the rest of the guys.

Again, walking out of the hotel we were ambushed by the local vendors who were very disappointed to see all of us leaving with our bags, knowing the Americans would no longer be around to hustle for a quick sale.

The throng of salesmen followed us all the way to the trucks, shouting relentlessly in broken English, French, and Houssa, trying as hard as they could to sell their trinkets. When I got to the truck I’d be riding in with Jason and Tom I was introduced to our interpreter; he was a rather small man, a shade over 5 foot 5 and hardly 100 pounds (if that). He had skin as black as night, with a face that was riddled with pockmarks.

A few final preparations, a comms check with our radios, and we were on the road. Each driver was from 024, so they were very much in sync with their driving, but the Niamey traffic was not very accommodating. For about fifteen minutes we made our way through the mad traffic with kids darting in and out of cars waiting to go into the traffic circles, and as always, as soon as they would see a truck full of white faces they would mob the truck.

The interpreters were all over it, and as soon as they would see us getting ready to get out and yell they would roll down the windows and scream something—I’m assuming it was along the lines of “Get the hell away from the car or we’ll kill your family,” because the crowds would clear instantly.

We had only a few hundred kilometers to travel, but every fifty kilometers or so there would be a random checkpoint in the middle of nowhere, staffed by policemen. The police forces in most third world countries are nowhere near the organization that ours have, and once you’re outside of the big cities there is absolutely no communication regarding anything that is going on.

As the road we were traveling on was only one lane each way, and the checkpoints were very far apart, there would be at least a thirty-minute wait built up due to the police coming by, having a nice conversation with whoever was in the car, walking around it a few times, and then moving on to the next car.

As our truck full of white faces and one interpreter would pull up the cop would always do a double-take, but as soon as the interpreter would explain who we were and what we were doing they would wave us along. It took us until early evening to arrive at the military compound in Dosso, and as we circled the trucks and parked in front of the building that would become our first field hospital of the trip, the crowd started gathering.

Sean put out the plan: We would leave the large lockers full of medical supplies with huge locks on the front here under guard overnight. The locks wouldn’t last long in the hotel parking lot, and we were trying to keep as low a profile as possible for where we were staying during this part of the trip.

The medics were tasked with doing a basic inspection of the building to decide how we would set up the patient flow and clinic; the other guys would take a look around to figure out how to set up security and organize the people who would be coming to be seen. Jeff had arranged announcements over the local radio stations for the past week that we would be giving free medical care, so we were expecting thousands of people during the next few days.

After our inspection, as the medics made our way back to the trucks the rest of the team started returning from the outer perimeter. It would be a tough one to organize; we brought plenty of medicine and health supplies, but couldn’t spare the room to bring much in the way of crowd-control items.

As we gathered around the trucks to go over our plan for the next day more and more local soldiers began to show up, forming a small crowd. I say “soldiers” only as an assumption, because we were on what served as an Army camp, and since the leadership were the only people in actual uniforms it was more of a guess than anything. They kept their distance, carefully studying us, our trucks, and medical lockers, but not wanting to get too close. Sean asked if everyone had seen what they needed, and after getting nods all around he told us to follow him to the hotel.

We got back into the trucks, drove out to the dry, barren dirt roads of the camp and back onto the one-lane road that had brought us there. We made a quick turn onto a dirt road that led into a small village that featured some buildings that were whole and others crumbling from time.

There was trash everywhere in large piles on the sides of the road. It looked as if a hurricane or giant earthquake had just struck this village, with random dogs and goats picking away at the piles in hopes of finding food. I had seen relief-effort commercials for areas that looked better than this, but what else could you expect in the poorest country on the planet?

The sun was starting its slow descent and we could begin to smell the acrid scent of smoke from the dinner fires. The shadows of our trucks were beginning to cast on the short walls surrounding the small, crumbling compounds of brick and concrete as we pulled into a large dirt parking lot.

Everyone started to get out of the trucks as soon as we pulled into the open, dirt parking lot of the hotel, but Jeff motioned for us to stay put. As was the norm, he and Moussa would go in and make sure that everything was good before we started pulling our gear out of the trucks. I’m pretty sure the hotel clerk saw Jeff’s white face and immediately knew who he was because they were walking back toward us after he only briefly stuck his head into the hotel office.

He gave the thumbs-high to the trucks, and Sean yelled for us to bring all of our gear, emphasizing the “all,” to the courtyard to divvy up rooms. Once we got everything settled in the middle of the small courtyard, Jeff began to hand out room keys, Sean gave assignments for who would be responsible for storing each tough-box of gear in their room, and then gave us the hit time we had all been waiting for: dinner in the room upstairs in forty-five minutes. My stomach had been rumbling for the past hour or so, and I was ready for some food.

I grabbed the tough-box I was assigned and searched for my room. The entire hotel compound was only about 100 feet long by 50 feet wide, making a large, open rectangular shaped courtyard. This hotel had to be at least fifty or sixty years old and in dire need of a fresh coat of paint and some handy work, but still, a roof over my head was enough to make me happy.

As soon as I was in my room I washed off the sweat, dirt, and funk from being in a car all day, toweled off, threw on some clothes, and headed upstairs to meet the guys. By that point the sun had set, and I had to grab my flashlight to find my way through the dark courtyard.

The pictures from space of the African continent at night compared to the rest of the planet give you a small idea of how dark it gets, but they still don’t quite do it justice. The hotel compound had its lights on in the upstairs room where the team was meeting, but looking outside the compound walls all I could see was absolute blackness.

I could see the lights on upstairs, silhouettes of people already congregating and could hear local African music playing softly. I made my way up the steps as the music and voices bounced off the courtyard walls.

After a day in uniforms it was nice to see everyone back in their normal-people clothes, but it was even nicer to see that everyone was holding a Bier Niger. Walking in, the room was just like a scene out of Casablanca, sans Sam on the piano. The room was of North African/Moroccan architecture, with the off-white clay walls, high, arched ceilings, and low lights. There was a small bar immediately to my right as I walked in, and as soon as I began to take a step toward the bartender he popped the top off a fresh Bier Niger and gave it to me with a wide smile.

“Gooooood evening,” he said with his smile and thick, deep African accent as he handed me the cold beer.

I took a seat in one of the little alcoves along with our crew from the night before. People were congregating into their own groups, drinking beers and starting to loosen up from the long day of driving. I was just finished with mine and about to go to the bar for another when a waiter stepped out of the dining room to announce that dinner was ready.

Tom and I made our way into the dining room, and as we walked from the bar to the dining room we both noticed something very strange; there was a Chinese man sitting and eating with several rather large, out-of-place-looking locals, and it wasn’t until halfway through dinner that I realized it was the same man I had seen watching our plane land from the end of the runway. By the time dinner was finished he and his “friends” were gone, but I kept my eyes open for him the rest of the trip.

A few moments after we were seated in the dining room the hotel staff began walking in carrying plates of food. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was by seeing it, but I could smell the delicious, thick curry (which I loved). Once we were finished and the waiters were beginning to take the plates back away, Sean stood.

“We’ve got an early morning, so get some rest tonight. Grab another beer if you want, we’ll meet back in the lounge to go over the game plan for tomorrow. Medics, meet with Dr. Maria; everyone else, meet around me.”

Tom and I were halfway finished with our beers by the time everyone had gone through the line at the bar, grabbed their beer, and sat down in their respective circles. The whole medical brief took only about twenty minutes, and as we finished up and started walking back to our rooms it hit me just how tired I was. We had to meet for breakfast at 0600, and needed to get a good night’s rest to be prepared for a long day outside in the African sun and heat.

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Back in my room I fished my CRKT knife out of my pocket and placed it on the nightstand next to my bed, open and next to my 9mm Beretta pistol, along with an extra full magazine. I took the desk chair that had been placed along the wall and jammed it under the doorknob to serve as another failsafe lock should someone try to get in while I was sleeping. I went around the room doing another once-over of the windows, and while they didn’t have any sufficient locks on them, they had bars covering the outside so I felt at least mildly safe.

As soon as I turned off the lights and laid my head down I was out, and that was the first night I truly experienced the crazy Mefloquine dreams. Mefloquine is an anti-malarial (which has since been discontinued as a first-line preventative drug for malaria), and as a rule of thumb any military personnel going to an endemic country was given a malaria regimen starting two weeks before leaving and continuing after returning home.

They taught us in the 18D schoolhouse that one of the side effects of Mefloquine is vivid dreams, and the dreams are a common talking point for guys around 1/10th SFG(A), as most of the teams there have spent a significant amount of time in Africa. Some of my friends from Alpha company lived on Mefloquine for over a year at a time because they were gone so much, and if you have to take it for two weeks prior, a week after, and you only get a week or two break between trips down there, you never get a chance to come off. Not so good for the liver, but much better than the alternative of contracting malaria and dying in an extremely painful, miserable way.

As with most things, the lore I had heard around the team room didn’t quite do the reality justice. I can’t remember exactly what my dreams were, but I do remember getting up several times with my pistol and knife in hand to fend off monsters trying to break into my window, only to wake up and still be in bed, with my weapons still in the exact place I had set them when I originally laid down. It was a very long night, with my dreams being so real, vivid, and terrifying that it seemed I was waking up at least every hour, and by the time my alarm went off at 0500 it felt as if I hadn’t slept at all.

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I could smell the wonderful aroma of coffee wafting through the courtyard as I locked my door for the day, and by the time I made it to the dining room for breakfast my stomach was rumbling. We were back in the trucks and on our way to the Army camp as the sun began to rise, and it seemed like the same situation we had encountered on our way into the village.

As villagers were beginning to wake the smoky, acrid haze of their fires was filling the air, and the same dogs and goats were rummaging through the trash piles looking for food. When we arrived at the camp it was a ghost town with nobody but the guards out and about. As the trucks stopped, each of the medics went to our designated rooms to begin setting up and preparing for patients.

After our room was completely set and cleaned, and after Steve and I anxiously walked around the room a few dozen times looking at each other, we finally resorted to sitting on the beds and making small talk. Our interpreter was a college student in Niamey who had taken a lot of English classes and was fluent in English, French, and Houssa; Steve was an Air Force medic who was in the small Special Operations unit with Dr. Maria and a few other medics who routinely made trips to Africa, and whose primary mission was to do MEDCAP’s.

Several hours passed without a single patient, and a walk around the building told me it was the same for everyone. I finally came around the north corner of the building, where Sean and the non-medics were congregated with a few of the local soldiers. Sean saw me looking and gave me a smile.

“Slow start, but trust me, they’re coming.”

It was another hour before I saw Jason (one the 024 18 Bravos) walking around our open window with a local soldier in uniform. At our doorway, Jason pointed in and walked off, as the soldier nervously looked in and hesitated. Our interpreter spoke up, talking to him in Houssa and telling him to come in. Lucky for me he walked over to my bed, and as I motioned for him to sit down he did, obviously waiting for us to say something.

“Ce qui vous amène à moi aujourd'hui?” I asked the tall, skinny soldier, inquiring the basic “What brings you in today?” question. He settled a bit uneasily in his chair, and I swear it seemed like he was looking for the American devil horns on my head (thankfully I wear hats as little as possible and my horns weren’t sticking up through my thick hair that day), and after not seeing anything, looked to my interpreter.

After a brief exchange, my interpreter looked back at me…this was the first time, obviously, that he had done this as well.

“He only speaks Houssa, and says he’s here because his sergeant made him come.”

“Great,” I said.

I really didn’t want this to be a waste of either of our time, and as one of the greatest attributes that sets a good doctor apart from a bad one is bedside manner, and the ability to illicit a correct response, I took it as my mission to get this guy to give me something. The advantage of an 18D is that, along with the medical training we have the SF intelligence background, and are usually better-rounded than a doctor or medical student.

Looking him over I went back to the basics. I squatted down to get myself at eye level with him, rather than hovering above him while he sat on the edge of the bed; my interpreter followed suit.

“Are there any medical issues you would like to talk to me about?” I asked, looking straight at the soldier and then nodding to my interpreter to translate.

After a brief back-and-forth, the soldier looked around uncomfortably and decided he was going to give me something.

“He says he has a cough,” my translator shot at me.

“Well that’s a good start. How long has he had this cough?”

“He’s had it as long as it’s been cold.”

I had taken my jacket off because it was well into the high eighties by nine o’ clock that morning, and was already perspiring a bit, so I had to ask, “Does he consider this cold?”

“Yes,” replied the translator, “this is very cold for us.”

“Wow. OK, can you please cough for me?”

The soldier put his fist in front of his mouth politely and gave a sheepish cough. Listening very intently I didn’t hear any mucous congestion, but decided that some TLC was what the doctor ordered for this guy.

I took him through the entire series of tests and observations at my disposal, so he wouldn’t think I was just blowing this off, and at the end, when I couldn’t find even the faintest hint of a cold, I gave him a few menthol cough drops. He smiled as I put them in his hand, my translator sent the message that he was going to live and these would help with his cough, and my first African patient was on his way.

I looked at my watch. “Great. That burned about fifteen minutes. Now what?”

I could see the guys start to huddle around a case of MRE’s outside, so I made my way over for lunch. After an hour of shooting the breeze with the guys I went back to my room and decided to do some studying and bone-up on my medical knowledge. I pulled out my Special Operations Medical Handbook, the obligatory sign of an 18D (we never leave home without it), sat down on the floor, and began to read, while Steve sat down on the bed, put his back against the wall, and tried to get some rest.

I completely lost track of time, and it must have been a few hours before I started to hear the commotion. I saved my place in my book, saw Steve waking up as well, and got up to have a look. As I poked my head outside I saw a crowd of women, children, and soldiers milling around, with Jason and Brian, the 18B’s from 024 attempting to corral everyone into some form of organization.

Within an hour I had seen several people, and as our next patient was walking in I asked my interpreter why all of a sudden these people started showing up. After a brief exchange with the woman on her way in to the room with three children, he chuckled a bit.

“You have to understand, this is a small village, not the city. Most of these people are uneducated and know nothing about the world outside of their village. When they heard you were coming, someone told them you were devils; the soldiers that were seen here this morning told their families that you guys were nice, so they are here. Most of them have never seen a doctor before, so they don’t want to miss the chance, now that they know you’re not going to eat their children.”

By the end of the day I had seen a few dozen patients, but only in several small groups of mothers with their children. Nobody that day had honestly been sick in any sense of the word, and were all bright, shiny, happy people, smiling great big smiles as soon as I would play with the kids, pull out toys and candy, and put my stethoscopes on their backs to listen to their lungs.

I learned a lot about people that day—and just how much I had taken for granted my entire life. Any time I felt sick, from childhood up to the present moment, I could just call, make an appointment, and see a doctor within a day. These people, some mothers of multiple children, had never seen or been treated by an actual medical professional. Ever. Just the small fact that I cared about them, took the time to go over all of their medical histories, take their vitals, smile and laugh with them… that meant a world of difference, and made them feel special for just a few minutes.

The whole experience was awe inspiring, and changed my life and the way I will view and live it forever.

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The next morning as we pulled up in our trucks it was obvious that the rest of the trip was going to be different. Up to this point we would arrive to a desolate compound, sit around and twiddle our thumbs, trying to keep ourselves busy.

On this day, however, we could see the line of people before we even got through the gate of the base. There were people as far as the eye could see, and thankfully the local soldiers had been doing a decent job of keeping them in order. I had my bag in hand before our truck actually stopped, and as I jumped out and made my way to set up for the day the rest of the non-medics got to work making sense of the unorganized mass of people.

I was still setting up my reference books when Christian (an 18E from 024) came around the corner with my first patient, pointed him into the room, and we led him to the edge of the bed. This was my first real day of many MEDCAP’s in Special Forces, and it got to be a bit overwhelming.

By lunchtime I had seen dozens of patients, and while the thrill of helping people and making a difference in their lives was pushing me to do the best job I could, I was exhausted. I had started to smell the strong scents of Cajun spices and cooking around ten that morning, but hadn’t had time to investigate because of the steady stream of patients.

It was only when Troy came around to our room and told us it was lunch that I walked out into the sun and saw what was going on. Jeff had contracted a few cooks from the village, taken them to the nearest market, and bought a huge mass of food, and they were feeding everyone who had come to the clinic.

I love cooking, and love eating even more, and when I caught the spicy smells of what was being cooked in these huge black kettles I couldn’t help myself. One of the cooks saw me curiously inching closer and closer to her, turned around and laughed with a huge smile and made me a heaping plate. She laughed again when she saw the resulting smile on my face, gave me a wink, and turned around to get back to serving the rest of the villagers.

I retreated over to the group of guys who were beginning to break into their MRE’s, and when they saw my plate and how ravenously I was digging in to it their curiosity got the best of them as well. Catching their glances I gave the only answer they needed.

“It’s just like jambalaya,” I said, and in a flash they were headed over to the same cook who had fed me.

My parents had been world travelers and had a very eclectic sense of taste (my father spent a lot of his childhood in Germany where my grandpa was stationed after WWII, and he had been stationed in Italy and various other places while in the Navy; and my mom was just an adventurous, free spirit), so I had always been taught to try new things. My mom used to tell me that you never knew until you tried it; whatever it was could turn out to be your new favorite thing.

That’s a way of thinking that, unfortunately, not all Americans share or are raised with, and it does us a great disservice sometimes. At the end of my career in Special Forces I can look back and see, in hindsight, that of all the crazy places I ended up, the people who bonded with the locals the best were the ones who would eat with them.

There are those guys that will take an MRE during mealtime and sit off to the side, segregating themselves. Then there are the guys like Tom and I who will take a plate of whatever they’re cooking (as long as they have enough), sit down, and break bread with them. We’re all brothers and sisters in this struggle of life, and it pays great dividends in the end to walk in someone else’s shoes, eat what they eat, breathe what they breathe, and try to live what they live, even if just for a little while.

This is what SF guys refer to as “going native,” and happens quite often to Green Berets, as our mission sets and operating style bring us very close to the locals, rather than the average American soldier who only sees the local people while out on patrol, then goes back to a big American base for all of their meals, video games, Internet, and R&R between missions.

Finished with lunch, recharged and eager to return to seeing patients I made my way back to our room. Our interpreter was a few steps behind me, but as I got into the room and started giving him instructions about how I wanted to handle the afternoon I realized I was talking to myself. Walking back outside I saw that he was about twenty feet away from the building, in the middle of the dirt field doing prostrations. I had never actually seen a Muslim call to prayer before, and was quite intrigued to watch.

I am a very spiritual man, and take great interest in watching anyone dedicate themselves to whatever it is they believe in. I watched in awe as he performed his rite, eyes closed the entire time, praying, kneeling, prostrating, and giving himself to Allah. Not realizing that anyone had been watching him he was quite startled when he turned around and saw me standing there. He seemed a bit self-conscious, and when I sensed he was about to try to apologize it only took a small nod of approval for him to see that I understood the importance of what he was doing.

Within minutes we were right back at it and continued seeing patients until the sun had set. Some were mildly sick, some none at all; some people we had to test for things like malaria and meningitis, foreign to most Americans who never leave their geographical area, and some we would give powdered formula for their emaciated and malnourished babies.

We had vitamins and protein powders for every child, antibiotics for specific illnesses, and a whole formulary of other medical supplies. I was amazed at the variety of conditions we would see, and while 90 percent of the people needed nothing more than a little hands-on TLC, I would take anything really serious to Dr. Maria for a second opinion.

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The same situation played out every day for the next week; we would wake up and have coffee and bread, arrive at the compound before the sun had risen to find a line of people, exponentially longer and longer each day as others would go back to their villages and dispel the rumors that we were up to no good.

We would see people all morning while the local chefs would cook lunch for the crowd, break for just long enough to scarf down whatever meal they were making that day, and get right back to seeing everyone we possibly could. Our procession of trucks wouldn’t roll out of the compound until long after the sun had set, and then it would be back to the hotel for dinner, Bier Niger, ten minutes on the satellite phone with Cindy to tell her how happy I was, crazy Mefloquine dreams, and right back at it the next morning.

I was in heaven! This was the first chance I had to put more than just my trauma medicine expertise to the test, and to actually see the change and happiness that a little help can bring to people, I felt like my eyes had been opened for the first time.

But, as with all good things, it had to come to an end. We had grown pretty close to the soldiers of the compound and their families, but our mission was to influence more than just that tiny village so we had to spread out further into the hinterland.

The last day we spent training their medics on as much as we possibly could, having them shadow us the entire day, and leaving them with enough essential antibiotics to treat anything they had the knowledge to properly treat. On the last night at that particular compound the Sergeant Major, commander, and a few of the squad leaders came back with the hotel with us to break bread, have a few drinks, and part ways.

It was a raucous night, and from experiences I’ve had throughout my time in SF working with soldiers from many other nations, I’ve found that there are two things that bring soldiers closer together than anything else, no matter what the religious, language, or cultural barriers: beer and combat. We had one of the two, and we left much closer at the end of the night than we had been at the beginning.

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Over the next few days we would stay at the same hotel, but rather than going back to the Army compound it would be off into the desert each day to a pre-selected location. Our arrival party had gone out in advance and spread the word that we would be there, and as the word was making its way across the land that we were in town more and more people learned to trust us.

As we would move out to the different areas and smaller and smaller villages, I started to learn how healthcare worked in those areas. Sometimes an NGO [Non-Governmental Organization] like Medcins sans frontiers (Doctors without Borders) would come to town, but would rarely make it as far out as many of the villages we were hitting.

Somebody in a village would be deemed a “nurse” or “doctor” if they read a healthcare book or two, and/or had access to medicine from any source. I didn’t really think this was such a bad idea—it was better than nothing—until our last day of the “villages of Niger” tour.

Throughout the entire day we were meeting all of the community leaders: village elders, people who considered themselves the local healthcare professionals, etc., when the local “nurse” took me around to show me her setup (we had been operating out of the backs of our trucks this day, as there wasn’t enough room for everyone to have a proper clinic). She walked me to her clinic, which was a modest, concrete three-room building on the edge of the village we were in. She had beds, mirrors, and shelves set up for storing her supplies, which was a step up from many of the places we had seen.

When we walked out of the clinic, I took a trip around the building to get a view of the surrounding areas (I had gone straight to seeing patients that morning, without wasting any valuable time on aesthetics). As I stepped around the back of the building, I noticed a row of mounds of dirt where someone had obviously dug holes and filled them back in, with one hole still dug in the ground. As I stepped closer to the hole, I had a sneaking suspicion of what I was about to find, but didn’t want to admit it.

What I saw made my heart sink: the hole was full of used hypodermic needles, syringes, and bloody bandages. In a country and region plagued by blood-borne diseases like AIDS, that was the last thing in the world I wanted to see. And, as chance would have it, less than an hour went by before I realized that they were also re-using the needles.

By the time I got back to my station and seeing patients the sun was starting its descent, and people were starting to pack up their bags and wrap it up. This would be our last day in the villages; the next day we would be making the long drive back to Niamey.

As I was packing my bag and preparing to end the long day, I heard some commotion from where the line had been. Two parents were holding a very small child, and were obviously frantic that we were leaving and they had missed their chance. It was pretty obvious that they were looking for a lot more than just TLC, and the fact that they had a child with them made something in my heart tell me I had to help.

My interpreter knew before I did that I couldn’t let them be turned away, and was a few steps ahead of me by the time I started walking over to the small family. By the time I reached them the parents had already pulled the child’s pants down and were showing him an enormous, tennis ball-sized mass on the top of his buttocks, right where an immunization would be injected.

I knew immediately what the problem was, but had no time to give any lectures or get upset—this kid needed my help, and I had to work fast before the leadership gave the word that it was time for us to go.

I yelled to Tom to grab a few vials of a wide-spectrum antibiotic and meet me in the clinic. I grabbed my bag, and the family and our interpreter followed me into the clinic. I hoped to God that this was just a benign mass that was growing on the child, but I knew better.

The interpreter had the parents lay the child face-down on the exam table, and the instant I felt the heat of the mass I knew it was a raging infection, most likely from being the tenth or so child in line getting immunizations from the same needle. I wondered where the rest of the children were with these masses, but only had time to focus on what I could for this one.

By this time Dr. Maria was in the clinic with me, and after I cleaned the mass off with alcohol, painted it with Betadine, and began to assemble the syringe for my test, the child was terrified and screaming.

“No time to feel sorry, kiddo. I’ve got to do this if you want to keep that leg,” I said, more to calm my own nerves than anything.

I braced the child’s buttocks with my left hand, both to hold the child and gauge the depth of my syringe, and gently but quickly plunged the needle into the heart of the mass with my right. Pulling the stopper back with my thumb I saw the last thing in the world that my heart wanted to see: thick brown puss, the surefire sign of an infection eating away at this child’s body.

I could hear the leadership start protesting outside that it was time to go, but by this time I had several helpers in the room with me so I was quick. Tom and Dr. Maria were several steps ahead of me, knowing exactly what my plan of action and procedures had to be.

By the time I placed the dirty syringe in the sharps container, Tom was handing me chux pads with a hole already cut in them just large enough for the mass. With my left hand still on the child’s buttocks, restraining him for safety at this point, I placed the pads down and took the scalpel from Tom,

The second my blade broke skin, a volcano of puss erupted.

In only milliseconds the chux pads (and my hand) were drenched in the thick, hot, putrid brown puss, which kept flowing like Mt. Vesuvius. The child was screaming so hard and loud that my heart was sinking further and further, but I knew I had to help him or nobody else would.

Prima non sincere, “First do no harm,” the mantra of the medical profession, had been haunting my thoughts, but this kid would never be able to stick to a normal antibiotic regimen, and unless we did something drastic he would either die of sepsis or at the very least lose his leg.

The only person the parents could go to was probably the same person who gave their son the shot that caused this. It was up to me, so I had to keep it together and help this poor, screaming kid.

Tom was “Johnny on the Spot” with thick gauze pads, but for every one I threw at the infection to mop it up, it came out as just a big wet, hot, stinky mess. The entire room was filled with the putrid odor of puss by this point, and even the parents went outside for fresh air.

The mass finally subsided, and it was time for the worst part of this type of minor surgical procedure: I had to make sure there were no left-over pockets of puss and bacteria lingering in the mass, so I squeezed around all of the margins of the mass, making sure that every last drop of the brown nastiness was gone with the child screaming the entire time, with his parents watching on and holding each other. When the only fluids that came as a result of my squeezing were trace amounts of blood, I knew we were on the right track.

The protesting to leave was getting louder outside, and when I heard a few of the trucks start up, I knew I had to hurry. Tom had a pair of forceps already bitten onto the end of iodoform gauze (long, thin, medicated gauze used to stuff a wound and kill any leftover bacteria as the body heals itself). I packed the wound as quickly as I could, threw some antibiotic gel on top and bandaged it up.

As I was putting the last piece of tape on, Troy walked in angrily and tapped his watch. I told him that we were moving, and Tom was concurrently giving the child his shot to ensure that no subsequent infections came back to plague him. Dr. Maria had already explained to his parents, via our interpreter, that they had to go to the hospital in three days, get the gauze taken out and another shot of the antibiotics for the child.

Knowing that the hospital either wouldn’t have the drugs or would charge more than these people had, we gave the parents another vial (one vial is one shot), and everything the hospital could possibly need to treat this kid, plus anything else we could stuff in their hands to use as bribery for the hospital staff to actually do it, and to do it correctly.

The parents were crying and thanking us as we ran out the door, and as the sun was down and the guys were hungry and pissed off at us for holding them up we had to Dukes of Hazzard it into the moving trucks because they had started pulling out before we were in.

During the ride back to the hotel all I could do was pray that the child’s parents would actually take him to the hospital in three days like we said—and that the child wouldn’t hate white people because of the pain I’d just put him through!

Halfway through dinner I was already longing for bed. After the obligatory AAR, beer, and phone call to Cindy I fell into my bed, praying I would have the energy to make it through our final few days in Africa. I slept most of the drive back to the capital, and sleepwalked all the way through check-in back at the hotel, the elevator ride up to my room, and fell into bed. Apparently Tom and the guys came by to grab me for dinner, but I was so tired I never heard them knocking.

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The next morning we started our MEDCAP’s in the capital, and everything was different. For all of the enjoyment I had in the villages, meeting, talking, and eating with these great, happy people, the people in the capital were night and day difference. We would spend a few days operating out of an Army base on the outskirts of downtown, and the people were much different; even though they were all the family of soldiers, just like our village tour had started out, these people seemed to act like we owed them everything, and were there to serve them.

They would get bossy with us, nearly rioted when we insisted they get into an organized line so that we could monitor who came in, and were down right ungrateful. Even the children were stubborn, bossy, and ungrateful, and after the first day I didn’t know if I could take any more of it.

The second day started just where the first left off, with a tension building between us and the people. By the end of the day we had our riot batons out, the people who hadn’t been seen yet were throwing bottles and trash over the walls of the compound, and none of us were upset when Sean gave the call that we were getting the hell out of there.

It was a horrible way to end the trip, and I really wish we’d had the time to go back into the villages for a day or two before we left to leave it on a high note, but no such luck.

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The last night in the capital is what I like to call “the night of crap”; as we realized we were leaving the next morning, and that our wives and girlfriends would be expecting presents, we set out into the city to buy…stuff. The great American pastime of shopping, and now that we were ready there were none of the annoying vendors to be found at our hotel.

We hopped into our trucks and set out; one of the interpreters led us to the city center, where there were shops, markets, and bazaars set up as far as the eye could see. It was creepy when we first got out of the cars; there were barely any people on the street.

Only a few steps out of the trucks and we realized that it was the nightly call to prayer that had emptied the streets. America is a melting pot, so it’s hard for Americans to realize just how dominated some other countries are by a single religion. Niger, and definitely Niamey, was about 99.999999 percent Muslim, so when the call to prayer came, everyone went.

Hearing the Imam over the loud speakers we came to a mosque in the middle of town, and looking in we could see that there wasn’t a single inch to spare inside the building, and people were overflowing onto the sidewalk, the middle of the street, and onto the other sidewalk.

Regardless of where you sit on the religion spectrum, the Muslim call to prayer is a very beautiful, melodic experience. These days, however, after my time in Iraq and Afghanistan, if I hear the call to prayer I get chills and brace myself for impact, as the call of “Allah Akbar” (“God is great”) is what you hear before the IED’s go off and/or the ambush begins, but that’s a few more chapters ahead… at that time in my life, it was a beautiful sound.

The tourism industry had taken a very hard hit when the militants began building their training camps in the desert, so seeing white faces was like throwing blood in shark-infested waters to the poor merchants who depended on selling their wares to tourists.

As soon as we would step onto a new street, all of its merchants would hear those that had been following us from the last street, still yelling at us and trying to sell us their goods, and the new ones would mob us as well. When I say “mob,” I don’t mean like a pushy insurance salesman; I literally mean that we had a mob of people, pushing, yelling, and fighting each other to get us to buy their wares.

It was great for us, because for anything we wanted there were half a dozen people selling the same thing, and from a bartering standpoint we could just make them underbid each other. I felt bad for them and knew they had to feed their families, but the Army doesn’t exactly pay well so it’s not like I could just make it rain money on them all and leave like Daddy Warbucks. So, I bought what I could afford and when we were done, headed back to the hotel.

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The only thing on my mind at that point was getting home; Thanksgiving was two days away, and Cindy would be landing Thanksgiving morning in Germany. If anything didn’t work out she’d be stranded, and I would very well find myself minus the love of my life, so you can safely say I was a bit worried. And, as happens quite regularly in the Army, the bad news came from the Air Force first thing in the morning.

Just like our trip there, we were supposed to fly straight back to Germany, be home a day before Thanksgiving, and have a great welcome home party. The Air Force had different plans; they decided that we needed to stop in Sicily overnight on the way home, which would have been great if Cindy wasn’t inbound. The Major broke the news to us over breakfast at the hotel, and my heart sank.

Our plane was still leaving a few hours later, so we finished eating, loaded our gear back into the trucks, had some long goodbyes and exchanges of e-mail addresses with our interpreters, and headed out to the same airfield we had landed at a few weeks earlier.

The plane was already on the tarmac waiting for us, and as we loaded our gear I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I had changed on this trip. My entire view of people, the world, and my place in it had changed. I had a newfound love for medicine that I had never known existed, and for the first time began to think about how great it would be to become a doctor and spend my life doing stuff like this—helping people all over the world who needed it.

My thoughts kept reviewing the trip, and even when we landed in Sicily, finally settled into our barracks at the Air Force base in Sigonella for the night, and I got on the phone to make arrangements, I could feel that I was different.

Thankfully Chad was back in Germany, and as he and Cindy had become pretty familiar during our time together he agreed to pick her up at the airport. She was already on the plane, so little did she know that this guy she’d never met in person would be at the gate waiting for her rather than me. I hoped that she wouldn’t be too upset.

When my alarm sounded at 0330 I almost threw it out of the window before I realized where I was. I sat on the edge of my bed for a second, and the first full thought that came into my head was that I would see Cindy that day, and the smile that came to my face that lasted the whole day.

It was another long flight back to Germany, and halfway through I woke up and paced the entire plane for several hours, waiting like a kid on Christmas Eve, knowing that Cindy was in Germany somewhere and I would see her soon.

Tom had to walk me to the seat when we got the call that the plane was about to descend for landing, as I was worked up to a fever pitch by that point! He talked me down a bit, distracting me by bringing up some old memories from our time in the Q-course and our crazy weekends in Raleigh and Wilmington, North Carolina. He finally got me laughing, and by the time we were on the ground I had forgotten how crazy my mind had been, relentlessly going over what our first kiss would feel like.

But, as good of a friend as Tom was for knowing me well enough to get my mind where it needed to be, Chad one-upped him. Being on the B-team he not only had our schedule but also had access to the airfield where we would be landing. As the back of the C-130 lowered to the ground for us to unload, the first thing that I saw was Cindy, standing with Chad less than a hundred meters away from us.

The Major knew my situation, and knew who she was the second he saw both her and my reaction. He slapped me on the ass like a football coach and I was off in a dead sprint. I was down the ramp and across the runway in five seconds flat, running past Chad and the other families there waiting, scooping Cindy up in my arms and twirling her around and kissing her mid-air.

Everything was right in that moment: I felt like I had really accomplished something in Africa for the first time in my life, I felt like I had grown as a man and a human being, and I had the love of my life in my arms.

All was good with the world.

Chapter 8

Battalion Ball

Chad gave Cindy and I a ride back to the base to help unload the gear, but as soon as I got out of the car and asked Sean what I could do to help, he looked over at Cindy and laughed a bit.

“This is not where you need to be, Rob. Go have fun with that gorgeous woman while you got ’er. We’ll take care of this stuff.”

I hesitated for a second and he smacked me gently on the cheek like we were in a bad mafia movie. All it took was another motion toward Cindy and I was on my way.

We had a busy schedule for the duration of her visit, and really hoped that we’d be able to get some traveling in. It was Thanksgiving Day, and we had a party at Chris’s house in a few hours; I had the weekend off, would have to be at work Monday, as usual, and the following Friday was the Battalion ball, the main reason that Cindy had come. The Battalion ball is a very big deal for Special Forces guys and their wives, a night steeped in fun and tradition, and in 1/10th the traditions ran pretty deep.

We dropped off Cindy’s bags, I showed her around the place a bit, took a really quick shower, and we headed out. Chris and his brother (who was also a Green Beret, and as luck would have it, assigned to 1/10) were of German ancestry, and had grown up speaking both English and Deutsch, so felt comfortable living a little bit further out in the country and away from base than most of the other guys.

When we arrived at Chris’s house I recognized some of the cars. The tiny street (the residential streets there are much narrower than those in the States) were already lined on both sides, and I could see a few guys standing on his front porch drinking large steins of hefe-weizen.

By this point the guys and their wives had heard countless stories about Cindy, but they hadn’t physically met yet. I let her walk into the house first, just to see if anyone would give her an “I think you’re in the wrong place,” but the second her face was in the door I heard friendly screams from all the team wives.

“Cindy!!!”

I took a step in to make the introductions, but it was pretty obvious I wasn’t needed at that point. Chris’s wife, Michelle, already had an arm around Cindy, taking her around the house to meet the rest of the wives and make introductions.

Chris and his brother are adored and revered by anyone they meet, so the party was attended by people from all over the battalion, and even other neighbors of theirs who had come over to say hello. Seeing me walk back out of the house Chris came over, gave me a bear hug and welcomed me back from Africa.

Before I could say anything Tony had a cold Hefe in my hand, and I was being introduced to people I hadn’t met before, including The Colonel. We were standing outside, tall glasses of cold, local Hefe in one hand, cigars in the other, swapping war stories. Any time I would get worried about Cindy I’d shift my attention and listen to what was going on inside, but it would only be seconds before I’d hear a loud eruption of laughter from the ladies and knew she was all right.

We were outside for maybe an hour when Michelle poked her head out and let us know it was time to eat, so we meandered inside and I went straight for Cindy. She was sitting at a table with a few of the other wives, who were grilling her on what life was like as an actress, and what it was like living in Los Angeles. They were all smiles, and I could tell had become best friends already, so without bothering her I fixed her a plate and then took a seat next to her.

The food, beer, and sweet German wine were all amazing, and at the end of the night nobody wanted to go home. But as Cindy and I were one of only a few couples there who didn’t have children, everyone else had to turn in a bit early. The kids protested loudly; they had been running all over the neighborhood playing soldier and tag and didn’t want to stop having fun. But the night was done, and we’d see each other the next weekend at the Battalion ball.

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I woke up extra early the next morning to give Cindy one of the best treats of living in Germany: fresh German bread. There was a bakery around the corner, and as they had learned to understand my broken Deutsch and I to understand their broken English, it had become a staple of my weekend mornings. By the time Cindy was awake I had a full breakfast for her in bed, complete with eggs, thick German bacon, fresh milk, juice, and freshly baked, warm bread with butter and jam.

As soon as we had eaten, showered, and changed, we began our tour of the city. I hadn’t been around enough to really get to know the area, but Chad had done some exploring and took us around our small town. My friend Ian lived in downtown Stuttgart and had given me some pointers of where to visit, and we spent that evening and next day exploring. It was a whirlwind weekend of getting lost, enjoying the food, and just loving being together again. Getting to know the trains, locales, bars, and restaurants was a big plus for both of us; we really wished we could get out and travel more, but since I had to be at work on Monday there just wasn’t enough time.

By the time Monday rolled around I was ecstatic but really bummed that I’d have to go to work. It was great to know I’d be coming home to Cindy that day, but it was going to be tough knowing she was just ten minutes away all day long. I rolled into the team room at the normal time for PT and went through the motions, being in a totally different place in my head and not really saying anything to anyone.

We finished our run, showered, and were in the chow hall having our typical Monday morning breakfast together when The Captain looked down the table at me.

“Rob, what the hell are you doing, man?”

Not really knowing what he was talking about, I shot him back a questioning glance.

“Dude, Cindy, your girlfriend that you never see, is at your house, right now. What the hell are you doing here, man?”

I shot him another puzzled look.

“Hurry up, eat your damn food, and get out of here. Take her to Neuschwanstein and around to see the country. Stop wasting time. The Battalion ball is this weekend, so I’ll expect you back here at the end of the day Friday for our team brief, but not a second sooner.”

I looked at him for another second to make sure he wasn’t joking, and when the rest of the team turned their dumbfounded gazes to me, I knew it was time to go before anyone said anything different. I jumped up, threw my tray in the bin, and ran straight to my car. I was home and back in bed with Cindy before she even woke up.

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When she finally did she started shaking me violently, thinking I had overslept. I told her the story and she immediately responded with a huge grin. We began making plans for where we’d go for the next few days.

We were on our way by noon and arrived at our first stop, Neuschwanstein, just a few hours later. It is the castle that Disney modeled the Cinderella castle after, and is much more beautiful in real life. We walked up the steep hill to the castle, enjoyed a tour, and stopped for a quick bite on the way back down.

We stayed in Austria that night, then off to the Swarovski crystal museum and down to Venice for a day, then back home. It was a non-stop circus of traveling, but an amazing experience. Within a week’s time we saw a good majority of the major things I had learned about in my humanities and art appreciation classes in college: Neuschwanstein castle, the Golden D’Or in Austria, Doges Palace in Venice, the Bridge of Sighs, and more art and historical architecture than I could possibly name in a single list!

By the time I was back at work Friday I was completely recharged, on top of the world, and knew that Cindy would be there when I got home. She was going to spend the day with Jess, Ray’s girlfriend who had moved to Germany with him, and would be preparing for the ball the next day. I got to work late in the morning to pick up my uniform from the tailor, and Chris spent the next few hours helping me make sure that the few medals and ribbons I had acquired were in the correct place.

After lunch we were milling around, doing our paperwork (yes, even Green Berets have to do paperwork) when we heard a knock at the door. I heard some talking when Chris answered the door and then heard the familiar “Everyone in the team room.” By the time I arrived most of the team were seated around the couches, and there was a man I’d never seen before, about six feet tall, overweight with blond hair and a face I can only describe as Shrek in human form. Once everyone was in the room, Josh nodded to the stranger, who looked around and started to speak.

“Hey, everybody. My name is Jake, and I’m your new Team Sergeant.”

You could hear a pin drop in the room, and everyone immediately looked at his rank. Sure enough, while his uniform was a bit used and rugged looking, he had brand-new E-8 rank on his chest.

He continued. “I made the E-8 list this week, and was just given this team. I don’t really have any mountain experience, as I’ve been in Charlie Company for the last ten years, but I’ll need you to teach me anything that I need to know. I’m not starting here until the beginning of next year, after everyone comes back from Christmas exodus. Does anyone have any questions?”

Nobody on the team had been expecting this, as everything had been going great with Josh as the team daddy so we were still pretty dumbstruck when Jake left the room. We looked around at each other, nobody saying anything, and The Captain asked Josh to meet him in their office. As the leadership left the room for their meeting, Tony was the first to stand up and speak.

“Well shit, boys. I guess that means it’s beer o’clock.”

He started grabbing cold Hefe-weizens out of the beer fridge and passing them around to the guys. After everyone had one in their hands, he cracked the top of his and lifted it high.

“Here’s to Josh: Berg heil.” We raised our beers in unison and gave a “berg heil” before taking a long swig.

The leadership was gone for only a few minutes, and when they returned Josh rang the beer bell next to the fridge and grabbed one for each of them.

Acting as if nothing had happened, we spent the next hour doing what we did every Friday, with Josh going over the past week, the upcoming week, and any special training or movements we had scheduled. I had been in Africa when the tickets for the Battalion ball arrived, so The Captain had mine, and gave me one each for Cindy and I; looking them over I noticed that hers read “Mrs. Sergeant Lewis,” which made me smile.

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The next morning came quite early, and as the hotel was about an hour’s drive from my house there was a pretty strict schedule to keep. There are a lot of traditions at a Special Forces ball, so it was paramount that we arrived on time; any late arrivals would reflect badly on their team— not something I wanted to do at this point.

Again, I made my traditional walk to the local bakery and made Cindy a huge breakfast, and we spent the rest of the morning walking around town. We had lunch at the mall just across the street from my condo, finished packing, and headed to the hotel to get ready and go to the ball. I was decked out in my dress blues uniform, and Cindy was a sight to be seen wearing a low-cut, shining blue floor length dress, which I stepped on far too many times and I’m sure got more than few guys in trouble with their wives for doing a double-take when she walked by.

We bumped into Chris and his wife on our way in, and looking at our table and seat assignments it looked like they had seated us on the other side of the hall, away from the rest of 022. Chris told us to follow them to our team’s table, and when we got there we found two random, single support soldiers seated at the table with the rest of our team.

“Beat feet!” Chris barked at them, and without a second glance they were up, we handed them our seating assignments, and they headed off.

Just as we began to take our seats we heard a thunderous call from the back of the room.

“ATTEN-TION.”

Everyone in the room, soldiers and wives, jumped up and stood at attention. Everyone did their best to stand at strict attention as the honor guard arrived, and someone with a microphone started the Pledge of Allegiance. After the flags were placed in their respective holders, the voice rang out again.

“PRESENT ARMS.”

As every soldier in the room snapped to a sharp salute, “The National Anthem” began to play.

When the song was over, I eyed my teammates who had been through a few of these before, and as they began to sit down, one of the headquarters officers took the stage and began to read a narrative about the history of the Trojan Warriors, the OSS [Office of Strategic Services, the WWII predecessor to Special Forces and the CIA], The 1st Special Service Force, 10th Special Forces Group, and then the subsequent Special Forces groups that were created after us.

As he would begin his narrative, someone would emerge dressed in the garb of whatever time period being describing (the Trojans were wearing a full Trojan getup, complete with feathered helmet, and the following soldiers had era-appropriate uniforms from World War I through current) and would walk to the front of the stage where a huge pot was sitting, and dump something into it—most dumped some form of booze, but some added in gunpowder and other less appetizing things.

At the end of the narrative, the speaker added one last piece of information.

“Now it’s time for the most time-honored tradition of the 10th Special Forces Group…the grog bowl. Could I please have the youngest and oldest members of the regiment here tonight come to the stage?”

With that J-Lo grudgingly got up and started toward the stage, where he was met by the Sergeant Major. The speaker produced two steel canteen cups, which looked like they had been around since WWI, and filled them to the brim with liquid from the grog bowl. We winced a bit as J-Lo and the Sergeant Major tipped them all the way back, and both finished the cups with a few manly gulps. The room erupted in cheers, as the speaker turned the cups upside down over each participant’s head to prove to the crowd that there wasn’t any trickery going on.

J-Lo made his way back to our table with a little sway in his step, as the Battalion Sergeant Major took the stage. By the time he began speaking the waiters brought glasses of the grog to each of the tables, and after every few lines that he would speak, he would yell:

“TO THE REGIMENT!” and everyone would raise their glasses and take a swig.

He would get a few more lines into his speech and yell:

“TO THE GROUP!” and everyone would once again take a large swig of their drink.

Finally, a few more lines in, and he would yell:

“TO THE BATTALLION!” and we would each take another swig.

His speech lasted for about fifteen minutes, and I can’t remember how many drinks or refills it included—but it was a lot. The Battalion Commander then followed, and did the same for about twenty minutes.

When our food finally arrived I was heartily drunk and damn proud of myself. While the ceremony to earn your parachute wings out of Airborne school is pretty cool, and the ceremony to earn your Green Beret isn’t half bad, and then the earning of the Special Forces tab ceremony is also an eye-opener, there is nothing that makes your spine tingle like a Special Forces Battalion ball. I’ve been to a few now, and wish I could attend them for the rest of my life; it’s a hell of a night.

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Like I’ve said previously about Chris, he’s quite the menacing-looking fellow, but once you get to know him (as long as it’s on his good side) he’s a big teddy bear, and there is no better way to see that than when the music starts at any event. He and his wife are always the first on the dance floor (and usually the last to leave), and for the first few numbers they dragged Cindy and I with them.

I hadn’t told him that I am a horrible dancer, but Chris and Michelle aren’t exactly the shy type, and just kept on dragging us as I protested all the way to the dance floor. Our entire team was on the floor dancing before the middle of the first song, and looking around the room it looked like the rest of the teams had something stuck up their asses, as it was just us and a few other scattered couples out there having a ball. But, in all honesty, it didn’t matter.

The great thing about a team, which most people never get to experience, is the true legacy of brotherhood, and the fact that when you’re together, nobody and nothing else really matters, and there is nothing in the world to fear: your brothers have your back, and it doesn’t matter if it’s bullets flying or just keeping you from making an ass of yourself, they will always take care of you.

A soldier in the regular military will get shuffled around every few years so that they’re never put in charge of their friends and have to ultimately lead them to their death if the time comes. An ODA, however, is better the closer its members are, as you can fully anticipate the other guys’ moves and know what your commander is thinking before he does. As such, some of these guys had already been together for many years, and were as close as guys could possibly be.

The jackets were unbuttoned by the end of the first song, off by the third song, and we were at the bar by the fourth song. The rest of the night is a bit hazy, but I have pictures that give me warm memories every time I look at them.

I woke up the next morning in my full uniform face-first on the bed, and looking over at Cindy saw that she was still in her bright blue dress, with the train so long that it was still falling off the end of the bed and on to the floor. I realized we had plans to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for Ian (my friend from Alpha Company who lived downtown), as he had been in Africa and missed the holiday, and looking at my watch I realized it was time for me to get going. I jumped in the shower and by the time I was out Cindy was packing. We were out of the hotel in plenty of time and made it to the commissary to buy a turkey with time to spare.

By the time Ian arrived we had a turkey with all of the trimmings, thanks to a lot of teamwork with Chad and Cindy, and had a proper Thanksgiving dinner for him. I felt really bad when I heard that he was going to miss the actual holiday, and being this far away from family to begin with I thought it was the least we could do to get the guy a turkey!

.

Monday morning came early, as usual, and when I walked into the team room I immediately knew that something was different. I saw Matty first, and although he is usually one of the happiest guys know, he had a scowl on his face. He didn’t even say “Hey” or return my wave. I encountered the same thing when I saw Ray and J-Lo. Everyone was in a pretty sour mood, and I realized what was going on after hearing a familiar voice yell for us to meet in the team room.

When I got into the team room Jake was there, behind the counter wearing Army PT’s and holding his green book of power. When everyone was assembled he looked around and started his spiel.

“There wasn’t much for me to do in Charlie Company now that I’m no longer assigned there, so I figured I might as well come over here now and start getting to know you guys. I know you are the mountain team, and everyone warned me that you were in pretty good shape. I’m not sure if you run every morning or not, but we’re going to be doing things my way from now on, and every Monday I run.”

And with that we had our first taste of Jake; we made our way downstairs without a word, and after a quick stretch went for a run to the shooting range and back, just a few short miles. To get an idea of exactly what kind of shape we were in, he “released” us as soon as we turned to go back to base, meaning it was every man for himself to get back as fast as he could.

We’d had a pretty good thing going up to that point, so once we were back we showered, put on our uniforms, and headed to breakfast together. We walked back into the team room after eating, laughing and joking as a group of buddies will do, and saw Jake standing in the middle of the hallway in his uniform and scowling at us.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he barked. “We’re leaving for the range in ten minutes. You better hurry up and get the vans packed and get your shit downstairs; we’re not going to be late.”

And with that Jake set the tone for the next year. We had been doing pretty good, and had a great dynamic going between the guys, but we’d soon learn just how much a leadership style can influence an ODA.

Chapter 9

Team Shake-up/CWT

I’m not sure if it’s because the leadership smelled blood in the water with the new guy as our Team Sergeant, but it wasn’t long after Jake’s arrival that our whole dynamic was once again shattered. Cindy left the weekend after he showed up in the team room, and only a few weeks later he was called down to the Sergeant Major’s office one morning after PT; he came back up and immediately called everyone into the team room, which was never a good sign.

It seemed that the B-team was losing a few guys whose time it was to rotate either back to the States or up to ODA’s, and the leadership decided to take the replacements exclusively from 022. Tony would be going downstairs as the Senior Charlie on the B-team, Corey would be the Senior Medic; Tim had already been taken shortly after my arrival to be the Company Warrant, so all we could do was sit around the team room looking at each other and thinking “What the hell.”

.

I was back to being the only medic on our ODA, and we had lost Tony, who I still consider one of my fathers in SF (along with Chris). There are no friends in SF; fellow Green Berets are your brothers, but those two took on a much higher significance with me, helping me to wash my green off and learn how to be an effective force on the team. They taught me most of everything I know, and to lose one of them was like losing a father. It pained me every time I would walk past the B-team or see them serving in that function at one of our company events, but it wasn’t long before we started getting their replacements, who turned out to be pretty stand-up guys as well.

A few weeks after the guys had been taken I was back in my office doing some paperwork when I heard a knock at the door. That was a pretty strange thing, as most people who belonged either knew the code to get in, or we would be expecting them.

After some commotion down the hallway I stuck my head out of the doorway and saw John talking with a tall, lanky but muscular guy with very well-groomed hair and lean, chiseled facial features. He was standing just inside the door, and when John turned around and saw me he laughed a little bit.

“Hey, Rob, you’ve got a new junior.”

I moved closer, as I hadn’t been given the word that we’d be getting a new medic, and saw that he wore an E-7 rank. I had been promoted to E-6 by this point, but it didn’t really matter. Seniority on a team isn’t always determined by rank; when you first arrive, you’re the FNG until you prove yourself.

He started to say, “My name’s—” and John cut him off, just like he’d done to me on my first day.

“We don’t learn their names, new guy!” he yelled at the new guy (who was easily six inches taller and quite larger than him).

Taken aback, the new guy didn’t know what to say. I just pointed to the leaderships’ office. “You need to talk to these guys,” I said, and walked back to my office.

I returned to my paperwork, and about a half hour passed before the FNG poked his head into my office.

“Rob?” he asked.

I glanced up from my paperwork and nodded.

“Would you mind showing me around?” I looked at the other guys, who still had their faces buried in their paperwork.

He was obviously a nice guy, and I do have a pretty hard time being a jerk so I obliged and took him for a tour of all our medical and recon equipment. I took him through my locker and a basic overview of what gear he’d be assigned, and at what places.

After some simple conversations I learned he had previously been a Marine, and besides just being higher in rank than I, he had worlds more experience. It was going to be really hard to be a jerk to this guy, especially since he was so damn likeable. By the end of the day I let him formally introduce himself to me, and the real fact of the matter is that I liked Jason from the second I met him.

It was a few weeks until any of us saw him again, as he had to go through the full in-processing pain, but we weren’t going anywhere in a hurry, and even if we did I was there to cover as the medic. Not even a week after we met Jason I walked into the team room on a Saturday to take care of some business and heard someone shuffling through a locker in the leadership office. Peeking in, I saw that someone was moving his stuff into to Tim’s old locker.

“Hey there,” I said to the new guy.

The first thing I noticed was that he had a chunk of Copenhagen in both his upper and lower lip. Copenhagen is one of the most common things you’ll find among SF guys, but the reasoning is much different than most people think.

For us, it’s easy to start using chewing tobacco during training, because when you have to go a few days without eating, it really helps to keep the hunger down. If you have to go a few days without sleeping, it’s a great stimulant. And, when you’re bored and have nothing to do but sit in a hide-sight and watch the same objective for days on end, not able to speak, move, read, or do anything but sit in the same place, it helps keep your mind off how damn bored you are.

He took one look at me and said, “You’re Rob, the medic, right?”

“That’s me, who are you?” I asked. Nobody had told me we had a new guy coming in, and it was a weekend so I was a little surprised.

“The name’s Terry. I was in Alpha Company, but was just sent up here to take your Warrant slot.”

Sure enough, looking down at his rank he was a CW3, Chief Warrant Officer. He looked like the kind of guy who would have a lot of interesting stories. His face was a deep tan like a catcher’s mitt, and he was short, but when we shook hands he had so much strength that it felt like I was in a vice grip, and I could see the sinewy muscles in his forearm where his uniform sleeves were pulled back.

“You know this is a mountain team and our last Warrant was a Bergfuhrer—pretty big shoes to fill, right?” I joked to him.

“Yes, I know Tim pretty well. I was actually two classes behind him, so I’m the other Bergfuhrer in SF… that’s why I’m here.”

Pleased, I offered him the best welcome gift I could muster.

“You want a beer?”

“Sure, Pils please,” he said, and I grabbed him a cold one from the beer fridge before I made my way back to the med room.

The team was starting to fill back up, and it seemed like we were getting great guys, which was a good sign. The day Jason finally finished in-processing Jake dropped another set of news on us at the end of the day: we would be doing CWT [Cold Weather Training, referred to as “wet”] the next week, so it was time to get ready.

We’d be staying at an R&R house that 1/10 owned and used from time to time, and driving to Austria every morning for the first week of training, which would be all skiing. In the pre-September 11th world, each group was assigned a different part of the globe to control, and the area for 10th Group was basically everywhere cold. As such, we were supposed to do this cold weather training every year, but it actually only happened whenever we had the time and weren’t deployed.

Burke was also on his way out of the company, so we were down to only Matty for our commo and would be getting an attachment, Griz, from the commo locker to see if he fit well with our team during the trip. He poked his head in a few times over the week to see how everything was going, and to get his gear from Matty. The good thing about he and Chief was that they had both been at 1/10 for awhile, so already had their in-processing finished and didn’t need anything but their team gear.

.

We were scheduled to roll out on a Monday in mid-January 2007, but when Sunday night came an enormous snowstorm came with it. We were supposed to meet at the company at around 0600 to load the vans and head out, but we started receiving calls at 0400 that we wouldn’t be leaving that day because the roads were too dangerous. I watched the snowfall outside my window, talked to Cindy all morning, and made myself comfortable, spending most of the day in my skivvies.

I finally got out of bed when Cindy passed out on the other side of the computer (due to the huge time difference), and made my way into town to see what was open for food. I was just about to leave our building when I saw a familiar face.

“Griz!” I yelled.

“Rob,” he turned around and laughed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I laughed a little bit too, answering, “Bro, I live here. What the hell are YOU doing here?”

He explained that he was house-sitting for our buddy Matt, who lived right above me and was in Africa on a mission. We made plans to meet that night for dinner and drinks at my place, and I headed out into town to search for food.

I had been a little upset when I first heard that a company of Green Berets was pushing training back for a little snow, but when I stepped out into our courtyard I realized just how serious the storm was. Only a few steps out and I was coated from head to toe, and it was so cold that the snow wasn’t even melting.

I walked out onto the main street and couldn’t see any cars moving, and the lights of all the businesses were off. I made it to the mall but found that the doors were locked and the whole place was closed, so I returned home empty-handed. Now I got it: if a nation that is used to this kind of weather was caught off-guard, I could see why we would take a snow day.

I was fishing through my freezer for food to make for dinner with Griz and Chad when the second phone call came: no work the next day either. It was Tony who called and we figured that we might as well make the best of it. We made plans for him to come over the next afternoon, and after a call to Ray and Griz we had a little party planned. I found some frozen salmon just as Griz arrived bearing whiskey and veggies, —just what we needed.

Another late night and early morning was filled with Skype calls to Cindy, and less than an hour after she was off the computer Tony was knocking at my door. The bars were the only businesses open, so once Ray and Griz arrived we were ready to go.

We each had our cell phones and were waiting for the call from HQ that we would have another snow day. As the drinks kept flowing the snow fell harder and harder, and by nightfall we were in downtown Stuttgart. Somewhere around midnight we had completely forgotten about waiting for the snow day call, and when my alarm went off the next morning I was still in my clothes from the night before. It was 0700, and what I thought was my alarm was actually my cell phone ringing. I picked it up and heard Matty’s voice on the other end.

“Rob, where are you, dude? The whole company is here waiting on us to leave.”

“Shit. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Hanging up, I walked into my living room to find bodies scattered everywhere. Tony was face-first on the futon, Griz was on the living room floor, and Chad was sitting in a chair with his head down on the kitchen table.

“We’re late!” I yelled as loudly as I could, and everyone looked up at me.

Realizing what was going on, they were up in a flash of movement, and I ran back to my room to grab my bag and throw on some clothes. By the time I was back in the kitchen everyone was up and ready to go, so we divided up between Chad’s and my car and got on the road.

The snow and ice hadn’t subsided a bit, and just making it up the steep driveway of our parking garage was a miracle that took several tries. When we arrived at the company parking lot we could see all the vans waiting in a line to go, and as soon as I was out of my car Chris was yelling to me that my gear was already in the van, so I ran straight for it, jumped in the back, and we were on our way.

I slept most of the way to the house, and when I felt the van stop a few hours later my phone was vibrating in my pocket. Looking at it I realized Cindy had been trying to get ahold of me all night while we’d been out.

I had several missed calls, and a string of messages that went from “Hey baby, are you around?” all the way to 5 a.m. and “You asshole, don’t ever call me again!” Great. No time to try to reach her; she would still be asleep and I had to load my gear out and find a bed.

As soon as I was situated I focused on trying to get ahold of her. I sent her text messages to no avail, and after dinner and a few hours passed I realized she wasn’t going to be calling me back. I walked around the old house trying to find reception, and only found it by going out into the cold, snowy night. I knew the call was going to cost me a pretty penny—but it was necessary.

I dialed the long string of numbers and put the phone to my ear, hoping that she would pick up. She finally did after a few rings, and her tone was much different than the normal, sunny answer when I called.

“What” she said with defiance.

“Hey babe, it’s me. We’re at the house now and settling in for the night.” Silence for a few moments, and then the fire lit up in her voice.

“Don’t ‘Hey babe’ me. What the hell happened to you last night? I was scared that I was going to get a call that you were dead in a back alley or something.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, but once the silence became deafening I knew I had to get something out. “I’m sorry babe, I just got caught up in the night with the guys, and totally lost track of time.”

“Oh, so I’m not important enough, is that it?”

We had been in arguments before, but this one was obviously different. “I can’t believe that you were out with your friends, the night before being gone for two weeks where you would barely be able to talk to me, and didn’t care enough about me to call, not once.”

Again, silence. I didn’t know what to say: she was absolutely right, and I didn’t have anything I could say to defend myself. Then she dropped the bomb.

“I just don’t think this is going to work anymore. It’s hard enough as it is, and that’s when we do get to talk every night. If I’m obviously not your priority, and you’d rather have more fun going out and getting drunk with your buddies the night before going on a trip, then maybe that’s what you should do, and we can both go our separate ways.”

I understood that I’d messed up, but didn’t quite get how this was such a big mistake that she was willing to throw away everything we’d been through. But the tone of her voice let me know she wasn’t joking. It took about an hour of my sweetest apologies to even get her to agree to let me call her the next day, and by the time we got off the phone I didn’t know where I stood.

I could barely sleep that night with all the drama going on in my head, and when someone turned the lights at 5 a.m. it felt like I hadn’t even closed my eyes. I grabbed some breakfast downstairs, threw cold water on my face, grabbed my skis, and headed for the van.

.

The first day was pretty simple; we were split into groups, and each group was assigned an expert-level skier to instruct. We were basically put into a group that either had military ski experience, or one that didn’t. I mistakenly thought that my experience commercial skiing as a kid meant I was experienced, but I was very quickly corrected and lumped in with the inexperienced group.

We used the bunny slopes first to learn how to skin (skiing uphill with the use of special attachments on the bottom of our skis), how to angle our skis outward to walk uphill without assistance, and how to do various advanced military mountaineering procedures.

By the end of the day we had progressed to a few blue-level slopes, and my legs were screaming from just the few runs we had actually skied. That night we were assigned to our ability groups for the rest of the trip, and the next morning we met at the bottom and learned who we would be spending the next week with.

Our instructor was Mike, a former Navy guy with salt-and-pepper hair who had been around 10th Group for quite a long time. Making our first introductions there were a few support guys and another operator from 021 whom I became closest with during the trip, Pat. He was a husky guy like me, built like a linebacker with a fiery personality and great sense of humor, and we seemed to be about on the same skill level.

Besides skiing at about the same level we seemed to have the same wild hair up our asses, and when Mike would give us the “Chinese downhill” call at the end of each day (to point our skis straight down and race to the bottom) we were always the first guys to take off. It was an amazing week, but the situation with Cindy was always eating at me and keeping my mind in other places. We would head back to the house at the end of each day, and while all the other guys were getting showered and ready to go out for dinner and drinks I was on the phone with Cindy, pleading her to give me another chance.

For the first few days Griz, Tony, Ray, or Matty would come grab me and tell me we were heading out, but it didn’t take them very long to realize I wasn’t going to be involved in any of the fun. I remember one night very well, finishing a marathon phone call with Cindy, standing on an upstairs patio in the snow and being so cold that I was shaking once I finally came back in. At that point, there was only one thing I needed, and thankfully we had racks of local beers stacked in the basement and around the house.

I made my way down to the basement, and then up to the kitchen to find something to snack on while I had a few beers to put my mind at ease. Somebody had already beaten me to the punch, and I pulled up a seat across the table from Pat, who had an expression like he was going through something similar.

“Prost, bro,” I said, raising my dark brown bottle of beer for a cheers. He looked up and clinked his thick bottle of German beer with mine.

“Prost.”

“What’s getting at you?” I asked, not really knowing him that well yet, but knowing that something was up.

“Eh, just homesick, I guess. I’ll never get used to being in Germany but not being able to go home to my family at night.”

We spent the next few hours over more than a few beers, sharing pictures of the women in our lives. Pat also showed me pictures of his new son, Bastian, who was born shortly before he left for Germany.

Just like most Green Berets we had quite a bit in common, and he reminded me of Chris from my team in the way he talked about his son. Anytime I heard these guys talk about their sons it made me ache inside for one of my own; there’s something about a burly, 200+ pound man who’s as hard as coffin nails getting choked up talking about his kids that would move even the most stone-faced person.

The way Pat talked about his son and wife made me realize even more clearly what I was missing—and know I had to make up with Cindy. We had made it this far, and there was no reason to let it end over something as trivial as a night out with the boys.

The rest of the week went by fast, and the night before we went up into the mountains for the second part of CWT, cold weather survival, I still didn’t feel confident about where Cindy and I were at, but there was nothing I could do about it. We stayed on the phone late into the night, but even packing up my gear later I was still unsure about everything.

.

The next morning we were pretty loaded down with skis, guns, tents, and everything we needed to live in the snow for the week. After the thirty-minute ride to the top of the mountain in a gondola, we put on our skis and started the long cross-country trek to where we would be setting up camp.

There was a hard-structure cabin that the HQ would be using several miles from where we got off the gondola, and it was a pain to reach. The first night was just to get our gear set up, get our bearings, and get situated. After that we headed inside.

There was an Austrian Army officer who was assigned to run the cabin, and it took just a few minutes of conversation to find that he had beer stored in the basement for sale. After a few beers he introduced us to a game, “Tisch Klauksen” (table climbing), in which you have to climb completely around a table, starting flat on the top with your belly down, climbing under the bottom, and back up to the top without touching the ground. It sounds stupid, but try it after a few drinks, around a bunch of Type A SF guys who love any competition, and it gets pretty damn fun.

The week in the snow turned out to be a lot more fun than I thought it would be; we would spend the day either cross-country skiing, learning winter survival skills, or shooting while we were skiing. We were really in the groove by the third night, and as we were getting up and ready to go for the fourth day of training the Sergeant Major came out of the hut and called the Team Sergeants in for an emergency meeting.

We thought it was strange, but seeing the happy expressions on the team daddies faces (even Jake was smiling, a rare occurrence) when they left the building and called each of their respective teams into a huddle made everyone curious. When all of 022 were circled around Jake he grinned..

“We’re going to Iraq. Our orders are being printed as we speak, and we need to be back at the company by tomorrow to get ready. Pack up; we have two hours to get off the mountain, then it’s straight back to the company to get our next orders.”

We couldn’t believe it. Being in Germany and doing this cold weather stuff and working down in Africa was fun and all, but we had each come to Special Forces to fight, and this was what we’d been waiting for.

There wasn’t a word spoken the whole way back, as each of the guys was psyching themselves up for the big game. This was early 2007, when Iraq was getting pretty hot and heavy; some of our brothers from Alpha Company had been in the battle of Fallujah, and we wondered where our mission would take us. The Charlie Company guys had been doing some work in Sadr City, and we heard that Mosul and Tikrit had some big battles going on also, and we were chomping at the bit to get our gun on.

.

Once we were back at base and in the team room, Jake headed downstairs to the B-team to get the latest news. It was well over an hour before he returned, and we were beside ourselves by that point. He called us into the team room, and we ran like dogs when they see their master grab the leash to go for a walk.

Jake took his customary place behind the beer counter and then shared what little info he had.

“Well, nobody really knows anything yet. We don’t know where, we don’t know when, but we know that it’s supposed to be sometime soon. We’ve been given an immediate slot at Grafenwhohr [an old German training base that is now the main training area for U.S. forces stationed in Germany to practice war games and tactics] to go and do our train-up.”

.

That was Thursday, and we’d be heading out Sunday to begin training for a week. Jake gave us the rest of the day off and told us to meet at the normal time the next day to start packing everything we could think of that we might possibly need.

I spent my entire day off talking with Cindy, but not being able to tell her the news we’d just received, especially via Skype. I had to rely on her knowing deep inside that our relationship was worth more than anything. She finally conceded to give me a chance, and I think it was because she knew something was up with the team suddenly being back so early and having immediate follow-on training plans. Her father had been a Taiwanese Special Forces Officer when she was very young, and those of us who have grown up in military households know the drill.

None of us knew exactly what kind of training we’d be going through over the next week, but that was the life of a Green Beret—nobody told you how to prepare or what to do. The leadership would give a vague end-state, and it was our job to figure out the best way to accomplish the mission.

Everyone was about as tense and excited as they could be by the time we arrived. Since nobody had told us any different we still had Griz with us; we had grown so attached to him that we decided to keep him, as he was just rambunctious enough to fit in on our team and was a mountain man through and through.

As soon as we arrived the team leadership made their way to the HQ, and we began to pull out our gear, ready to place it wherever we were told. Grafenwohr is one of the old, WWII-era installations in Germany that people typically associate with the U.S. Army based in Europe: everything leaks a bit and could use a few fresh coats of paint.

When the leadership finally emerged from the HQ I saw that each man was scowling, which was pretty atypical for Chief and The Captain, so we knew something was up. Without saying a word Jake pointed to one of the barracks and we started getting everything set up.

We dragged all our gear into the barracks, and then each helped the other with getting the team gear situated. We took all of our sensitive items, which had to be under twenty-four hour guard, to the B-team, and then moved on to grab some chow.

None of us knew what had been going on with the leadership that day, but it was pretty obvious that they didn’t want to share, so we ate in silence. Jake was the first to get up, without a word, throw his tray forcefully into the trash bin, and walk out of the building. Chief dropped his head and shook it a bit in disapproval, but still didn’t seem to want to share anything.

It wasn’t really our job to guess or question, so we finished our food and headed back to the barracks where we’d be sleeping. We were in our long johns and getting ready for bed after playing cards and doing random stuff to try to pass the time when we heard a few men yelling at each other outside, just like you would hear before a barroom brawl. Looking around the room I could see that none of our leadership was present, and it was only a few seconds before we could make out the distinct voices of The Captain, Chief, and Jake.

By the time we were outside they were in each other’s faces and probably would have come to blows if we hadn’t walked right into their way and crowded out their ever-shrinking circle, forming a barrier between the three of them. After some talking each went his separate way, with Jake shouldering right through the middle of us.

“We’re not going to fucking Iraq,” he growled over his shoulder as he walked away.

Chapter 10

Bee Sting

The official word that we weren’t going to Iraq was put out the following morning; somebody had jumped the gun, and we’d be staying at Grafenwohr regardless to do some weapons training. It was hinted that an Afghanistan mission could be on the horizon, but at that point nobody really knew what to believe.

Grafenwohr ended up being a great time, aside from the first day. Since we had all of our weaponry with us, we got to shoot everything under the sun. An ODA carries quite a bit of firepower, but an SF company has the ability to unleash hell like nobody’s business. We had mortar stations, grenade stations, M203 stations (the grenade launchers that attach to the bottom of a rifle), heavy weapons stations (.50 cal machine guns and MK 19 grenade launchers), a small-arms station with every gun imaginable, and a sniper rifle station. We brought so much ammo that it was pretty much a free-for-all, and a great opportunity to knock the dust off some of the weapons we hadn’t used in a while.

J-Lo and I had to stay behind an extra day to help the company drive some extra HUMVEE’s home (as the only guys without wives to go home to, it was pretty much understood that we always took those jobs), and by the time we got back to the team room the next day all of the gear was already put away. The guys looked like they were prepping to leave again, so I went back to my office and asked Ray what was going on.

“The Company Commander doesn’t want us sitting around and moping that we’re not going to Iraq, so we’re doing a Bee Sting event tomorrow.”

“Beasting?” I asked. “What the hell is a beasting event?”

“No, a Bee Sting. It’s a company-level competition that the command hands out every once in a while to gauge where the company is in terms of hands-on knowledge and physical fitness. It’s basically a suck fest, and it looks like this one is going to last several days.”

That was right in line with our job description, so it sounded like fun to me. I took a peek at what Ray was packing in his rucksack and followed suit. We were finished packing long before lunch, and because we still had time before any information was put out we made our way down to the basement to grab weapons to clean.

We tried to take our minds off the waiting game, and I guess to be funny Josh threw in one of Cindy’s movies, Bring it On: All or Nothing, to watch while we cleaned. There was definitely something funny and creepy about a bunch of SF guys sitting around, covered in grease and gunpowder, cleaning pistols, rifles, and machine guns and watching a movie about high school cheerleaders.

The leadership had a briefing at 1500, during which they got the word: the next morning we would be starting bright and early with a bike-and-run endurance event, then the following day would be extremely long, during which we would be moving on foot between stations to do everything from assembling weapons, giving mock medical treatment, and having a stress-shoot competition. It sounded simple enough, and honestly like fun to me.

.

Arriving back at the team room at 0500 the next morning we started to get dressed and ready to go. We didn’t know exactly how far we’d be going as we wouldn’t get the route until we arrived, so we were trying to stuff as much water and snacks into our camel packs as possible. We had begun to prep our bikes by the front door when The Captain stopped us.

“Sorry, guys. We left out one part of the brief yesterday. Each team is only allowed to bring five bikes, so we’ll have to leapfrog between biking and running. I figure we’ll split up into two groups and the people on bikes ride for about a mile, leave them on the side of the road, and start running. When the runners get to the bikes, do the same. Hopefully this leap frog will keep us all as fresh as possible and even the load.”

When we arrived at the park designated as the starting point we could see the other teams starting to pull up and get ready. There didn’t really seem to be a whole lot of organization, but Jake and The Captain soon found out that we could choose our own route, but would have to make it to the same halfway point and back. After a quick orientation with a map, showing our halfway point about five miles away through some very hilly terrain, we picked our route and split into two groups: one led by The Captain, and the other by Jake.

Jake’s group would start off with the bikes, and my group with Griz, Matty, Ray, and The Captain would start off running. The command called everyone to the starting line, and as soon as they gave the word we were off.

Thankfully each team had chosen a different route, so rather than a crowded push-fest, it was a relatively easy run…..if you consider alternating running and biking for ten miles through the hilly German countryside easy. It was only meant to be a warm-up for the following day, which we would soon learn would be much more involved.

.

The Captain filled us in on what the next day would entail before we headed home; we would start off the next morning before sunrise and ruck to various points that would be given to us as we went. Each point would be a station that would test us in some skill, of which we wouldn’t find out until we got there.

“How far apart are the points?” I asked.

“That we won’t know until tomorrow, but expect a pretty long haul. We’ll start with one point, and just like selection won’t be given the next until we get there and perform whatever test they have for us. They call it a ‘bee sting’ because it’s a way for the commander to see how we function under pain and misery, so it won’t be fun.”

He was right. Our first point the next morning was about ten kilometers away, near the compound we used for our MOUT training (Military Operations in Urban Terrain); it was a small village of various buildings, including everything from a simple one-story, three-room cottage to a multi-room schoolhouse and even a replica of the inside of a container ship with many different levels, staircases, and a labyrinth of cold concrete rooms.

To get there we’d have to move through the city streets, into the woods, and then go a few kilometers through the woods to make our objective. If you’ve never moved around with an eighty-pound ruck on your back, it’s amazing how much of a difference the terrain makes.

While at Ft. Benning for Infantry Basic Training you learn that while a hardball, concrete road makes movement much easier it’s hell on your knees, ankles, and hips, and you never put on a ruck nearly as heavy as you do in SF. Going through selection and the Q-course you learn just how difficult it is to navigate the woods with a ruck that weighs the same amount as a small man, especially moving through draws in the pitch-black North Carolina woods.

When you have that much weight on your back, plus your body weight, one small misstep means a broken ankle, or as my buddy in Robin Sage found out, stepping into a hole and having your knee face backward as you’re still moving forward and falling down.

Jake may not have been strong runner, but he was great at ruck marching. I never really felt that it gave any sort of a workout, but changed my mind when he stopped our team from doing the daily morning runs and started to mix them up with ruck marches for PT. It is a great way to separate the men from the boys, especially with the amount of weight we had to carry, and on that day we were making great time.

We were off the roads in no time, and as we had made this trek to the MOUT city many times before we were on autopilot once we hit the woods. There were no “aggressors” as there had been in Scotland, so we weren’t concerned with masking our movement to hide our trail, but we were being judged for time so we were still moving pretty darn fast.

We knew each station was supposed to have some task or skill to perform, so we got keyed up as we came closer to the MOUT city. The Captain signaled for us to change into a tactical wedge formation just in case this was to be a “react to contact” station or we were to assault the city. We slowed our pace greatly and the last kilometer was at a snail’s pace, with each man carefully scanning the woods for anything out of the ordinary.

We were instructed the day before to change all of the upper receivers of our rifles and pistols over to “blue barrels,” so that we could shoot the paint rounds used in “blue on blue” training, where we would actually exchange paint rounds with whoever the aggressors were. That meant that at some point we would be ambushed or at the very least taking down a building, so we were ready for it.

The ten-digit grid coordinate we had been given (in military map reading, you can be given anything from a four- to twelve-digit grid coordinate, depending on how specific an area you are targeting) put us directly in the middle of MOUT city, and when we arrived one of the B-team guys was sitting in a lawn chair, eating a sandwich, and reading a magazine.

We stayed in formation but stepped up the pace a bit when he saw us, smiled, and waved us over.

“Hey guys!” he yelled as we walked up to his area.

“What’s going on here?” The Captain yelled back.

“No worries, guys, this is just a checkpoint. The only task for this station was land navigation, and you guys made it here faster than any other team so you get an A-plus! Sir, Jake, if you guys would come over here, I’ll show you your next point.”

The rest of us huddled and took a seat on the ground, executing what is properly known as the “rucksack flop” (it’s just what it sounds like: when you only have a minute to rest but are in a completely permissive environment, you “flop” onto the ground and let your back rest against your ruck). The leadership was finished quickly, so as soon as most of our asses were on the ground we were getting back up.

Our next trek was to the M203 range, which wasn’t very far and we were on the move in no time. Our friend hadn’t been able to tell us what to expect at the next point, and as we were moving through the woods all the way there we were in a tactical wedge formation, expecting anything. We were at the range in about a half hour, and met the point-sitter at the front.

This lane was to be a CSAR mission (Combat Search and Rescue), the point-sitter explained to us, and there was a downed pilot in enemy territory somewhere in the lane. The first task, he instructed, would be to get on the correct frequency to contact our downed pilot. He looked at Jake and asked for a bright non-commo guy, and Jake volunteered John.

The point-sitter walked over to John and gave him a frequency, watching over his shoulder like a hawk to ensure that he knew the proper methods to change the frequency on an MBITR; it’s no easy task, and is much different that just turning the dial as you would with a civilian radio. There are several levels you need to navigate to adjust the frequency on an MBITR, and once John had successfully completed the task he looked up as the point-sitter slapped him on the back and said we were good to go.

The lane was full of overgrown trees and bushes, and there were several changes in elevation including a large draw in the middle of the 1,000 meters it encompassed. I knew I would need my medical supplies for a CSAR, and nobody else wanted to leave their stuff behind so we kept our rucks on and tried to make contact.

John started speaking into the radio, and as the point-sitter had given whoever was on the lane a heads-up that we were coming, the person playing “the pilot” responded immediately.

“Help me,” he replied in his best actor’s pain-filled voice. “I’m hurt.”

“What’s hurt, what is your location?” John barked back into the radio.

“I’m in the draw,” was all he answered.

“What’s hurt? We have a medic with us to help you, but we need to know where you’re hurt.”

All we could get back was “It hurts,” and after the second attempt to figure out where his injury was, realized it was just probably part of the scenario for me to determine when I got there.

Although the lane was pretty long it wasn’t very wide, so we set our modified wedge formation appropriately and moved out. Again, we didn’t know what to expect other than the pilot, so we carefully scanned the foliage, ready for anything. The “pilot” must have been watching through the bushes, because as soon as we got within twenty meters of him he started moaning in pain.

The team took up a defensive perimeter inside the draw, covered and disguised by the dense foliage while I moved directly to the “pilot” to do my medical assessment and get him out of there. We fully expected that this scenario was designed to test my medical skills, so when the rounds started flying we were a bit surprised.

As the range was relatively small and we were far away from any other ambient noise that would have caused interference, we actually did hear the paint rounds coming at us (paint rounds typically don’t make as much noise when fired as live rounds). I had time to get only a cursory medical exam started on the pilot, but it was enough to know he wasn’t shot and that his leg was most likely broken.

An 18D is trained to do everything from TCCC to running a field hospital and doing exploratory surgery or amputations, and all of our training in the schoolhouse at Ft. Bragg is centered around being ambushed while providing care, so I was already preparing to move when Jake barked, “How much time do you need?” I was way ahead of him, so I let him know I’d be ready to move in thirty seconds.

The members of the team who were set actively engaged in exchanging rounds with our aggressors began to lay down a base of fire to cover our exit, and Jake and The Captain picked up “the pilot,” as I stood at his back and monitored to make sure that nothing came off or that the splint wasn’t knocked loose. The team kept laying down fire, and one by one they would move back closer and closer to us.

Another problem with paint is that regardless of how effective your fire, and how many rounds you land on the aggressors, they don’t die but rather keep coming like zombies in a video game. As the team started making their way back to us, I was moving and covering The Captain and Jake as they carried the pilot.

We made it back to the front of the lane unscathed, and when the aggressors finally arrived it was quite a sight. Our guys were still green cammo from head to toe, but the aggressors were brightly lit up in the various neon of the paint rounds, including a few on their faces, which Ray apologized for.

“You guys should have gone down when I hit you the first time” was his excuse—and everyone laughed.

Remembering that we were still on the clock Chief turned to the point-sitter. “Where to next?” he asked.

The point-sitter pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read off a ten-digit grid coordinate, and it was only a minute before we had it plotted on our map and realized we were going to the shooting range.

The range was about eight more kilometers back in the direction we had started from that morning, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who was secretly hoping it would be our final exercise. Looking up at the sun and then down at my watch I realized it was still morning, and all I could think was “not likely.”

We made the movement to the range in great time, as we were pretty warmed up but not getting tired yet. We made it back at a much faster pace than we had made the original movement to the MOUT city, and were glad when we started down the cobblestone road to the range and saw The Major.

When we walked up to The Major, he greeted us and handed The Captain a piece of paper. On it was a paragraph, written in French, which he gave me to translate. While I was going over the translation in my head, The Major walked us over to a section of the field set up with an M249 SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon, a light machine gun which an ODA carries) and an M240 machine gun, the heavy version, which an ODA also carries.

Both were sitting on blankets, and The Major instructed The Captain to have two of our guys who weren’t Bravos take them apart, put them back together, and perform a weapons’ check. I was tied up with the translation, so he pointed to Griz and Ray, both huge gun guys, and they got to work.

He pointed to a chair located a few feet away with a bag sitting next to it, and instructed The Captain to have one of his non-Deltas give him an IV. He looked around at who was left and grabbed J-Lo; every man on an ODA is supposed to be able to do every other job completely, and as Josh had been a stickler to make sure 022 was on top of their medical skills, any man on the team could do something as easy as start an IV.

Within ten minutes The Major had the biggest grin I had seen on him since Africa; these Bee Stings were created to give him an idea of how well his ODA’s could perform all of the tasks expected of them, and we had done a bang-up job. Ray and Griz had disassembled and reassembled the weapons faster than anyone I had ever seen (their time in Ranger Battalion had given them more than a little bit of experience), and J-Lo managed to get a patent IV running on The Captain with only a few drops of blood lost. When I handed back my translation of the troop movement report in French, he smiled and nodded in approval.

He gathered us in a circle, gave a quick pep talk about how well we had done and how proud he was, and pointed to the range.

“And now it’s time for the stress shoot. Good luck, men.”

At the end of the road was a four-story building, much like that used by firemen for training, which had metal stairs running up the middle, a rappel tower on one side, and a climbing tower on the other.

As soon as we made our way to the tower, we were given our instructions by another B-team member at its base. We were doing really well on time and smoking the other ODA’s, and everyone wanted to keep up the pace for bragging rights. The next iteration was a bit confusing and given to us pretty fast, but we figured we’d get it as we went: We were to break up into teams of two, run up the stairs in the tower, rappel down, jump through a HUMVEE that was parked in the street without losing anything, and then sprint to the range a few hundred meters away and go through a live-fire shooting exercise there.

We’d be graded on time and accuracy of our shots, so both were very important. We had to appoint one person as the sniper to make long-distance shots, and Ray won that job.

I was paired with Griz, and we were slated to go first. Griz is an amazing athlete, a true picture of how great the Nordic genes are with striking blue eyes, shining short blonde hair, and tall with lean, sinewy muscles.

He is a little taller than me, probably forty pounds lighter but with every bit of strength I have and then some. He had embarrassed me a few times doing power lifts in the gym, and trying to keep up with him on the stairs in full body armor and ammo was hell. I was sweating once we made it to the top and our only mission was to keep from killing ourselves on the way down.

Repelling is a pretty easy and fun thing to do under normal circumstances, but after sprinting up four flights of stairs with an extra fifty pounds of body armor and ammo it gets a little tough. My hands were shaking and sweating as I jumped off the edge of the tower, and still racing Griz I made it to the bottom in just two long jumps. I had him beat to the bottom based on my weight, and I made my way to the HUMVEE.

I was only out a few seconds before I saw Griz’s helmet start to appear, and as soon as he jumped up he looked at me, laughed, and threw the rubber cover of my rifle optics at me which had come off somewhere inside.

It was a quick race to the range, where the targets and silhouettes were arranged in various locations. The first targets were only about ten meters away, and I took a deep breath as we went from running to fast walking and taking down the targets.

I was sweating profusely and very out of breath at that point, so my priority was to get my breathing under control. One of the basic fundamentals of rifle marksmanship is breathing control, and knowing exactly where to pull the trigger during your breath cycle can easily be the difference between a bulls-eye and a flier (a round that goes completely off target; greatly frowned upon in SF).

Forcing myself to take long, deep breaths I moved to one of the columns in the range for cover; Griz did the same a few meters to my right. The range was set up in two lanes, and the point was to move as a fire team. Even though both of us were just like the dogs pulling at the leash during the walk and the competitive side of each of us just wanted to beat the other one to the finish, we knew that control was paramount.

This was a live-fire range, and even though we each trusted the other’s aim enough to be just inches away from their target, that wasn’t how a fire team operates. We instinctively fell into the “shoot, move, communicate, kill” rhythm, taking cover with one guy yelling, “Cover me while I move!” with the other responding, “I got you covered!” and laying down fire as the other emerged from cover to start taking down targets and moving to the next area of cover.

Whenever a magazine was out of ammo, we would transition to a pistol and yell, “Budweiser!” to announce to the other we were reloading, at which time one of us would lay down suppressive fire while the other reloaded behind cover and started the whole thing again.

By the time we were at the end we were both soaked in sweat, full of adrenaline, yet finally had our breathing under control. Tony emerged from a door next to the final targets and told us to get out of the way because our next fire team was ready to go. We exchanged a quick high-five and jumped out of the door.

Griz and I stood outside the door, drinking water and watching the rounds rip through the targets at the end of the range as each fire team went through their iteration. By the last pair we were quite cooled down and hopeful that this would be the end of the Bee Sting, but there were other plans for us.

After the last fire team it was Ray’s turn to make the long shot, and just to add a little extra stress to his day Tony had the entire team crowd around him as he sprinted up to the range, strapped on the sniper rifle, and lined up his shots.

We watched quietly as he gauged the distance and wind, dialed in his scope, and took his shots. He had to take three, and each landed right on top of the last, just inside the bulls-eye as Tony watched through the spotting scope.

As Ray was getting up from his final shot, Tony pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to The Captain. It had another grid coordinate, about ten kilometers away, which meant our day was far from over. As we were plotting out the grid and planning our route, Tony gave us the first good piece of news we’d received all day; we had been instructed the previous day to pack a pair of sneakers in our rucks, and this was the time to pull them out and put them on.

We were also allowed to switch into running gear because the rest of the trip would be cross-country running. Running another ten kilometers out and however many more legs we’d have to go to make it home wouldn’t be fun, but getting out of the uniforms and boots plus dropping the body armor and eighty pounds of ruck we’d been carrying would be a nice change.

Even though Jake had been taking us away from the running program that we loved, we were still in pretty good running shape. Running is my form of meditation, and as we ran past the town and into the lush countryside I was completely relaxed and at ease. The sun had already made its crest while we were at the range and was on its way back down now, so the temperature was starting to fall, and the afternoon breeze was keeping us cool.

Running through a large field Chief began to step up the pace, and we could see a few of the company vans on the other side of the field with a group of guys in uniforms standing around. The Colonel smiled as we ran up to the vans.

“Good afternoon, guys. How’s everyone doing?”

“Great, sir,” we answered, a little out of breath but not quite falling over yet.

“You guys are making the best time and scores out of the company so far, so I don’t want to jinx it and say good job yet, but keep it up. We’ve got a fun little exercise for you here, so if I can get two of your bravos to volunteer we can get going.”

With that, The Colonel motioned for us to follow him, and as Jake nominated John and J-Lo we knew immediately what this station was, as we had each heard stories from the 18B’s. On the other side of one of the vans were two big black tough boxes situated on top of two blankets with the lids open, full of random gun parts, from the huge springs and barrel of a Barrett .50 cal sniper rifle to small pistol parts, all completely in a mess and disorganized.

The Colonel looked back at us and smiled, then pointed to John and J-Lo.

“OK, boys, I think you know what to do. Your time starts… now.”

John and J-Lo immediately went to work. We weren’t really sure if the parts were mixed up between the boxes, or if at least the boxes had all the parts that each weapon system needed. We had heard nightmare stories about this test during the bravo course, where the guys were timed on this same exercise but had their cadre yelling at them, stopping them to do pushups, throwing random screws, lug nuts, and springs in the box while they raced to finish, just to distract them.

Thankfully this wasn’t designed to mess them up but rather to test their abilities, and as always, our guys were on point. Instead of trying to find all of the parts of each weapon individually they pulled every piece out of its respective tough box, laid them out on their blanket, and got to work. To say that an 18B likes guns is like saying the Pope enjoys going to church, and to see these guys go to work was an absolutely amazing sight.

They were a flurry of hands, sweat, and gun parts all moving faster than I had ever seen. These guys knew every little thing about any weapon used in the world, how they worked, why they worked, what was good and bad about them, how to fix any problem, and most importantly how to build them, so this was a treat for them. These are the kind of guys who salivate when the new edition of Guns and Ammo arrives every month, and this was child’s play.

We watched in awe and were amazed when the items on the blankets were transformed from a huge pile of random parts to a 9mm Beretta, a 1911 pistol, an M4, M249, M240, Barrett .50 cal, and an MP5. The Colonel beamed as he watched the guys begin to perform the weapons checks on each of the weapons, finish, and then look up at him and smile.

“Done!” The Colonel yelled to one of his cronies who was holding a stopwatch. “OK, boys, that was a great job. The soup’s on at home, so this is your last station; as soon as you get back to base you’re finished and there is enough food there to feed the whole Army. Do you know the way home?” Chief, who had been stationed in Germany for about ten years, nodded, and we gave a quick salute and headed on our way.

The run back was grueling; Chief was by far the best runner of all of us and had been a track star in college, so when he set the pace we had a rough time keeping up. My feet felt like there were a few stress fractures creeping in, my knees were about ready to quit, and my back was screaming for mercy, but we hung tight knowing we were on the home stretch and that there was food waiting for us at the other end of the run.

Back across another farmer’s field, onto the sidewalk of a main road, and then back into town, we started to realize where we were within about thirty minutes. By the time we made it to the last hill we were going on nothing more than sheer determination. We had been going all day, and the sun was making its final descent.

As we passed through the gates and finally to the company area we could see people from other teams milling around and eating heaping plates of food and slugging down frosty beers. Corey was standing at the front steps, and when we ran up to him he gave us high- fives and wrote down our time.

“How’d we do?” asked The Captain.

“Pretty damn good,” Corey smiled back. “Food’s in the conference room. Go grab yourselves a plate,” he told us, but we knew that stretching came first after a day like that.

We sat in a circle on the grass and started to do our stretching routine, but took it especially long and easy. The last thing we’d need after a day like that was a stupid injury now that it was done, so we took our time and loosened our muscles. We could smell the food as we stretched, and as we had been moving all day without eating, we were famished.

I couldn’t even begin to count the thousands of calories we had burned, but I was getting a good idea by the pain in every part of my body. I slowly made my way into the conference room, wishing I had an old man’s walker to help, and loaded up a huge plate of food. I grabbed two cold beers and followed the rest of the team on the slow walk up the stairs to our team room.

We took seats anywhere we could on our couches, and by the time I was seated an old, trashy horror movie was already playing on the TV. We each finished a large bottle of dark German beer before starting on our food, and within a few short minutes half the team was puking.

I was so tired that I had completely forgotten to warn everybody to eat and drink very slowly after a day like that, so while the guys were heaving over the toilets and trashcans I went to my med shed to grab IVs and promethazine (an anti-emetic, used to dispel nausea) for everyone.

As they began to emerge and plop down on the various couches and seats, I would hang a bag on the wall next to them and have their IV started before they knew what was happening. I took a few bites of my food, but we were all so dehydrated that the bags were empty within minutes. I walked around to the guys to remove their IV's, and a few of them were already passed out and snoring!

I made a few phone calls to wives to come and pick up their husbands and took a load off myself. As the wives would call me from downstairs, I would get the guys up and half-carry them downstairs to throw them in their cars. The promethazine had knocked almost everyone out, and it was like carrying corpses.

By the time the last guy was dropped off it was just Griz, J-Lo, and I upstairs, laid out on the couches in our underwear, watching the worst movie I’ve ever seen but not having the energy to get up and change it. Before I knew it I was out myself, and didn’t wake up until late the next morning.

022 in Kabul before Low Vis Mission

Chris and Ray Having a Laugh before a Mission

Crowd in Dosso

Cutting Grooms Cake

Downtown Kabul

First Dance

HAVE ACE Night Mission

HAVE ACE Team Picture

HAVEACE Shooting Lane

Litzum Sniper Lane

Logar Mortar Mission

Lunch with the ANA in Logar

Moon Kiss

Mortar Training behind FOB Shank

My Nomad Picture in Kabul

My Uniform after Operation Payback

Night Movement to Contact

Our Clinic in Niger

Reception Swords

Scotland Barracks

Tagab Valley

The Captain Climbing in Litzum

Walking around Logar

Chapter 11

Sneak Attack on Los Angeles and Afghanistan Orders

The goal of the Bee Sting had been to take everyone’s mind off the false alarm for Iraq, but when we arrived at work the following Monday the complacency started in full-force. It’s hard for people to understand why we would be so upset rather than relieved about not going to Iraq; even though we would be going straight into the worst combat there was, outmanned in almost every fight, you have to understand our mentality.

Being a Green Beret means that you’ve spent years learning how to be the ultimate fighting machine; once you arrive on an ODA you are cross-trained to know every job in your sleep, and spend all day every day of every week learning to be the guy that terrorists have nightmares about.

A large number of the current Green Berets joined Special Forces post-September 11th, knowing that they belonged in that type of unit. You spend years training like you fight, pumping yourself up to go to the “big game,” and constantly receiving intelligence reports about what is happening in all of the theatres in which we are engaged (it is said that on any given day Green Berets are in over forty different countries on missions).

Realizing that Green Berets are some of the most patriotic people whom you will ever meet, and would much rather put themselves in harm’s way than another American soldier, you can start to get an idea of why we were so frustrated.

The rest of the month was the same old thing: going to work in the morning for PT, going to the shooting range, doing paperwork, working on climbing skills and reconnaissance, or whatever it was that we were doing that day.

Josh explained to me once when I first arrived to the team why it was that Green Berets are the best at what we do; this was after I’d asked why we follow 7-8 (The Ranger Handbook, the small unit tactical manual of the U.S. Army), since all of our enemies know and expect what an American “react to near ambush” drill will be; his answer was much more simple than I expected.

When you’re going through the Q-course, or in the Army at all, you hear so many wild rumors about Special Forces that it can make your head spin. Some people literally think that Green Berets are reprogrammed and turned into killing robots, some call us the Sci-Fi guys or Secret Squirrels, but Josh explained the truth: We aren’t Special because of different tactics, special tricks, or magic, but because we do the basics better than anyone else.

“The basics” sounds like an easy term, but as I would discover it really does mean the difference between life and death, victory and defeat, when the bullets start flying. People like to dream and idealize that they will be the ultimate warriors in combat, that they will save the day and be the hero, but the truth is that combat is nothing more than mass confusion, and separates the men from the boys.

Once you realize there are bullets, bombs, or both coming at you with ill intent, your adrenaline spikes so high that it’s nearly impossible to concentrate on anything. We have the most advanced communications in the world and they always seem to fail when you need them the most, so in the end, the thing that separates the victor from the defeated is the ability to fall back on your training, and to react on nothing more than the muscle memory of having played out this situation thousands of times before with your team. It’s only after knowing and mastering the basics so well that you can begin to accurately react to outliers and effectively engage things you’ve never seen before. We train to do the same thing over and over, and it’s why we win the battle and bring the fight.

Griz once told me a story about arriving at Ranger Battalion as a young private and the mentality of how much they depend on “the basics.” He told me that you show up, get put into your squad, and start going over room clearing (CQB) immediately. For the first week you would clear the same empty room, over and over, with the same squad, from sun-up to sundown, only taking a few minutes to eat somewhere in the middle.

The next week they would put one chair in the room, and you’d do the same thing, sun-up to sundown. The next week they would put in a table, and this would progress, slowly, until you were taking down the entire building, complete with targets. Most combat can be broken down into basic scenarios, and knowing them like the back of your hand, as a team, can save your life. But when you’re doing it, working on “the basics” can get a bit tedious.

.

It was at the end of one of our days full of going over the basics that Jake was giving his end-of-the-day brief in the late summer of 2007 and mentioned that there was a four-day weekend scheduled the following month. I started going over what I wanted to do, since I was living in Europe and the possibilities were limitless with a train ticket and some money in my pocket.

I went home that day and was so excited to talk to Cindy. I had decided we should go to Greece, as I’d always wanted to visit the area described in The Gates of Fire and travel around the islands seeing the ruins. When we finally got on Skype and I told Cindy my plans, she shot them down; she had just bought plane tickets for her parents to be in town that weekend, and a Buddhist Lama would be giving a teaching at her house in Los Angeles.

“Well, I’ll just come to you then,” I answered. I had never really thought about it before, but it was feasible. If I got caught, I would be in major trouble, but I had a good bit of money saved up, was much better at traveling and sleeping on airplanes than her, and was pretty homesick by this point—so why not?

The month leading up to my trip screamed by. It’s amazing how fast time can fly when you have something to look forward to, and by the time I was packing to leave I was ecstatic. I put in a pass to go to Greece, and I figured if anything too crazy came up I could make it back from L.A. just about as fast as I could make it back from Greece.

I had enough money to buy a last-minute plane ticket home if we had any kind of recall to go on a mission, so I thought I was OK. I briefed Chad and J-Lo on all of Cindy’s contact info should something come up and I had to return quickly. I had gone over every situation I thought imaginable, and had a “go bag” packed in my locker in case I had to rush back to Germany and get on a C-130 for a mission, so I’d be ready to go with minimal packing.

I ensured that if anything happened to my flight I would have more than one backup flight to return to Germany in time for formation Tuesday morning. It was actually a black-and-white SOCEUR [Special Operations Command-Europe] rule that a soldier wasn’t allowed to go back to the U.S. on a four-day weekend, but I had the chance to see Cindy and I was going to take it!

I was on the first flight out of Stuttgart Friday morning. It would be an hour and change to Charles de Gaulle airport, then the long flight—over fourteen hours, too excited about seeing Cindy to sleep—to LAX.

After landing and making my way through customs I pulled out my U.S. cell phone and gave Cindy a call. I was starting to get pretty worn down (it was the middle of the night in Germany), but apparently there was no time scheduled for a nap.

I was hoping we would be going back to the house, but she had plans for me. We drove to Marina del Ray for dinner, and I met a few of her stunt men and women friends and did all I could to stay awake and be interesting.

I’m pretty good at sleep deprivation, and while on-mission can go several days without sleep, and on normal days can function on about four hours, but something about that trans-Atlantic flight floored me. I ate several times on the flight over so I wasn’t too hungry, but ordered an espresso at the start of the meal. By the time our entrees were served Cindy caught me nodding off, catching myself mid-doze and made fun of me, so I upped the ante and ordered a triple espresso. I caught myself dozing off in the middle of a few different conversations with her friends, and after dessert she got the hint that I wasn’t kidding.

Her parents were wide awake when we got back to the house, but seeing my face they knew immediately I couldn’t stay up and chat. My body clock was pretty confused by this point, so I woke up around 3 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. Going for a jog at 3 a.m. in Los Angeles isn’t the best idea in the world, so I decided to catch up on some American television.

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I watched until the sun came up, and as I still wasn’t tired I threw on my shoes and went for a run in the cool So Cal air. If it had been Germany at 6 a.m. there would have been people up and on their way to work, the smell of fresh baking bread and movement, but So Cal doesn’t really roll like that so the streets were pretty much deserted. The smell of the air was far from the fresh, alpine air that you smell in Stuttgart, and I was amazed at just how much I could feel the difference when I ran.

By the time I got back to the house her parents were up and getting everything ready for the teaching, so I took a quick shower and pitched in.

The house was a flurry of movement and people by 8 a.m., and the teaching started around 9. I didn’t understand much of what was going on so I stood at the back and ran the video camera. There were a dozen people in the living room, seated on pillows on the floor and facing our friend, a Lama from a Buddhist center in New York.

He would read off of long, thin pieces of paper as they listened, and then as he went into a chant they would follow along via small pamphlets. I tried at one point to follow along, but as I knew nothing of the Tibetan language and just a very small amount of Mandarin, I was lost.

Throughout the entire ceremony I could hear Cindy’s aunt in the kitchen making lunch, and when it finally came time to break for food I was absolutely famished. I only knew it was time to eat because everyone stood up and started to move toward the dining room, and as soon as I saw that I quickly followed. I had never really had a vegetarian meal on purpose, prepared by a vegetarian chef, so I was intrigued.

She had prepared a feast of different dishes and soups for us; Cindy and her aunt made a heaping plate for me and I dug in. Cindy looked at me when I was on my third plate and asked how the food was.

“It’s great, I love it,” I answered out loud, and then whispered, “but I need some meat!” She laughed a little and then led me to the kitchen, where I made myself a sandwich piled high with turkey.

We put all of the dishes away after eating and moved back to the living room. This was the first Buddhist teaching I had ever attended, and the afternoon was much more animated than the morning had been. The Lama burned incense, rang bells, threw rice all over the room and then water. Everyone but me spent the entire day sitting on pillows on the floor, and I could see the strain on their backs as they began to stand up at the end.

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After the final ceremony we were off for dinner; I couldn’t believe how much these people ate, but it was right up my alley. We drove from Cindy’s house in the valley past downtown Los Angeles, and into the mountain area east of the city where most of the Asian population resides.

I was having a pretty rough time staying awake, and once we were seated Cindy grabbed one of the pots of green tea and set it directly in front of me. I quickly downed three glasses to get some caffeine in my body, but once the food was served I was again nodding off. Cindy took pity on me and knew that I wasn’t going to make it, so she took me by the hand and told her family we were going for a walk.

We wandered across the parking lot to a teashop and each got a big plastic cup of iced milk tea. The shopping center was vibrant with lights, people, and noise, so we took our tea and found a quiet little corner where we could be alone. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open, even with the massive amounts of caffeine I was drinking, but I knew I had to enjoy every second. My flight was early the next afternoon, and it felt as if I’d just landed.

As always, I tried as hard as I could to burn the memory of every inch of Cindy’s beautiful face, the way she spoke, laughed, and smelled into my brain. I would just sit and stare at her as she spoke, telling me about all of the things I had missed and the things that were going on with her.

I found myself becoming lost in her vibrant, alluring and hypnotizing, almond shaped brown eyes. The way her long, straight and shiny black hair fell around her shoulders like strands of soft silk, shining under the moonlight entranced my tired brain. As her words soothed me like the music of angels, echoing in my heart and bringing an unending smile to my soul, I began to contemplate our entire relationship.

Throughout my life I had been in countless bad ones and a few good ones, but nothing like this before. Even though my head buzzed and heart shined every time I was around her, it wasn’t just puppy love; for the first time in my life, this was the woman I could see myself starting a family with, growing old with, and devoting myself entirely to.

Just as I was trying to find the words to express the entirety of my love for her, the whole procession of people we had been with wandered into the teashop. We jumped back into the group for the ride home, and I was relegated to finding another time to profess my undying love to her.

I was asleep before we were even out of the parking lot, and didn’t wake up until we were in Cindy’s garage. She had to shake me quite a bit to get me up, and as I stumbled into the guest room her parents just laughed at me. I fell into the bed, fully clothed, and woke up again sometime around 2 or 3 a.m., this time with Cindy sleeping next to me, cuddled into my arm.

I was fully awake the second I opened my eyes, and didn’t want to miss out. If her parents caught us sleeping in the same room there would be hell to pay, but I she had snuck in during the night to just spend a little time together, and had fallen asleep herself when she realized I was seriously out.

I stayed put, as happy as I had been since I had seen her during the Thanksgiving visit, and didn’t move a muscle for fear of waking her up. Her alarm finally went off at 6 a.m., and she looked up, smiled, and gave me a kiss. She knew what it would mean if her parents caught us, so she got up and headed back to her room, softly laughing as I pleaded with her to stay.

Once she was gone and I knew there would be no more snuggling in my near future, I threw on my running gear and headed out the door. By the time I got back to the house there was just enough time to shower, change, pack my small bag, and get ready to go. No time or privacy to pull her aside and profess the emotions, love and life-altering questions that I wanted to ask her the night before, I told myself that I could just make another trip soon and force myself to have the courage to do it then….hopefully it wouldn’t be too long until I could see her again, as Skype just wasn’t the right place for something as important as this.

Her mother made us a big lunch, and I lamented to her about how much I would miss her cooking. Because I was adopted, for the longest time I was convinced that I was Asian and used to tell my parents the same. To keep me happy they would always take me to the local Chinese restaurant, but since we grew up in the 99 percent white suburb of Kingwood it was cheap Chinese knock-off food. But I loved it all the same.

Thankfully there wasn’t much traffic, which is a miracle for Los Angeles, and we made great time. By the time we were in the parking garage I still had about thirty minutes before I had to check in, so we reclined our seats in the car and talked. It was a great feeling and neither of us wanted to be the one to cut it off, but with only ten minutes left, we both knew I had to get going.

We grudgingly made our way into the ticket counter, and after I checked in Cindy walked with me to the security checkpoint. I’m sure we made more than a few people blush with our kisses there, but we didn’t really care. To us, there wasn’t anyone else in the world when we were in each other’s arms.

Once I was seated on the plane, I looked at my watch to change back to my time zone in Germany and couldn’t believe how short that trip had seemed. When I did the math, it was impressive: during this a four-day weekend I had spent about fifteen hours flying there, about thirty actually in Los Angeles, was about to spend another fifteen en route back home, then would have just enough time to get a little sleep before going to work the next morning.

It was a hell of a whirlwind, but it had been worth it.

Chad was already asleep when I got to the condo in Stuttgart, so I made myself a drink, grabbed some leftovers from the fridge, and headed to bed. I couldn’t believe I had spent the previous night in bed with Cindy and now I was right back where I started, not having a clue what craziness life had in store for me next.

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Life didn’t take long to let me know; the next morning we had a company formation to make sure everyone had returned from the four-day weekend safely, and as soon as the roll call was complete we were on our way for a run. It was just like any other day, but Jake, Chief, and The Captain kept throwing grins at each other the entire run, and none of the rest of us could tell what was going on.

Nobody talked during our runs, but as soon as we got back to the company area and were stretching, Jake told us that there was news to share, so we were to meet in the team room before breakfast.

None of us had any clue about what was going on, so we rushed through the showers and changing as fast as we could, and as I took a seat on one of the dirty old couches in the team room I noticed a very large piece of white paper hanging on our bulletin board. Chief was standing by the board and wouldn’t say anything or answer any questions before we were all there.

Because the facility was an old, WWII-era German building there was no air conditioning, so during the warmer months we would open all the windows to get the cool breeze during the day. I was watching that white sheet of paper intently, and sure enough a nice big breeze wafted in and revealed that underneath was a military map, blown up to a large size to be used for planning.

Chief was quick to grab the paper and slap it back against the map before I could see what it was a map of; he shot me a grin and held his finger to his lips. Before long all of the guys were seated on the couches and seats and getting pretty restless.

The team was there, Chief was there, but Jake and The Captain were still painfully absent. Chief was seriously getting antsy, and none of us had ever seen him like that before. Actually, come to think of it, I’d never seen him express much emotion about anything before besides the occasional chuckle, so I was wondering what in the world this could possibly be.

By the time Jake and The Captain finally walked in Chief was about to burst. Jake, laughing a little bit to himself, just nodded at Chief and said, “Tell ’em.” The words had barely come out of Jake’s mouth when Chief motioned to us to close the windows. John and I leaped up from the couch and screwed the old German window handles fully closed, and Chief erupted.

“We’re going to Afghanistan in two months!”

You could hear a pin drop. It was what we had all wanted (I wasn’t the only guy who had come to Special Forces specifically because of September 11th), but as we had been pretty recently burned by the fake Iraq orders we didn’t want to go fully in emotionally just to have it yanked away from us again. We looked back at Jake and The Captain for some kind of affirmation, denial, anything—and all we got from them were smiles.

“It’s true,” added The Captain. “The leadership called us in over the weekend, but we couldn’t get the word out to you guys over unsecure lines. We’re leaving in two months; the orders are being cut as we speak. We are expecting relaxed grooming standards to come down soon, as we’ll need to show up with beards, so if you had an appointment to get a haircut this week you can cancel it.”

John and Josh stood up and started doing their happy dance, and the rest of us looked at each other. Iraq would have been a great mission for us, as we were pretty honed up on our MOUT and CQB, but for a mountain team a deployment to Afghanistan is like a wet dream.

Chief was the first to speak and get us settled down. “We’ll be going to Austria next week to a small base high up in the mountains for a train-up. We’re going to be going over high-angle shooting, mortars, mountain combat, long-range movement, and the like. Rob, you and I will be leaving tomorrow as the advance party, so get your travel voucher and gear in order. It’s about a half-day drive just to get to the base, so we’ll leave bright and early, meet up with the command of the base, and make the coordination. We’ll spend the night in a nearby town and then come home the next day, and the team will roll out Sunday.”

With that, Chief tore off the big white sheet of paper to reveal a military map of Afghanistan.

“And this, my friends, is where we’ll be spending the next eight months of our lives— fighting for everything good and decent in the world.”

We looked intently at the map, at the treacherous mountain peaks to the north, the barren desert to the west, the jagged peaks and the Khyber Pass to the east, where my grandfather had spent time with the ASA [Army Security Agency] a few decades ago, and the few and scattered highways throughout the country, zigzagged and fragmented.

“Where will we be?” asked Chris.

“We’re not really sure of that yet. There are rumors that we’ll be on the western border with Iran, but we won’t know until the orders are in our hands, and even then it’s sketchy. We’ll be the only contingent from 10th Group in country, as the rest of 10th Main is in Iraq, so we’ll be kind of making it up as we go along. By the way, medics, you have a med intel meeting and another refresher the week after we get back from Litzum, so hopefully you guys will get clued in a little better while you’re there.”

Jake spoke up from the back of the room. “And I don’t think that it has to be said, but just remember who we are and what this means; no talking to girlfriends, wives, or family about this; nothing over the computer, nothing over the phone. You can tell them that we’ll be leaving soon, but that’s it.”

Jason, always the voice of reason, spoke up. “What are the chances of this one getting cancelled?” We had all been thinking the same thing, but he was the first to voice it.

“It looks like this is the real deal,” answered The Captain. “They were very emphatic that this was the mission The Colonel has been pushing for all along, and it took a while but finally came through. We’ll let you know if that changes, but we’ve been ordered to move ahead 100 percent as if we’re leaving in two months.”

The Captain looked around the room after the last statement and noticing nothing but smiles all around, lit up with a smile himself. Even Jake cracked a grin.

“You’re getting your wish, men” added The Captain. “Now let’s do this thing and prove just who we are.”

Chapter 12

Litzum

Chief was giddy with excitement; anything done in the mountains was like a salmon finally finding his way upstream to a Bergfurher, and apparently he had spent some time during that mountain course at this base and knew it would be perfect for us. He made all the arrangements the second he got the thumbs- up from command to go, so all I had to do was show up, do my share of the driving, and write some reports on the support we’d have should someone get seriously injured.

Chief and I were there and back before anyone even missed us, and I learned quite a bit from him just listening as we drove. He explained the difference in the trajectory of rounds and how much your aim had to change, not only at altitude but shooting up or down a mountain, hence the term “high-angle shooting.”

Chief had been so convincing to the leadership, in fact (and was backed up by Tim) that this training needed to be done before we went to Afghanistan that The Major tasked each ODA to send a senior member to come with us so they could teach the rest of their teams what they learned.

I set to work packing as soon as we were back in the team room, and the guys crowded around my desk as I laid out what we had in store for the next few weeks. Nobody believed me until they saw it with their own eyes, and looking back I can see why they thought I was full of it: The tales of a majestic training base situated high in the picturesque Austrian Alps with ranges on top of mountains from which we could fire 360 degrees and use demo (explosives), any weapons we wanted, and basically do anything we felt necessary for training sounded too good to be true.

I tried to snap a few pictures for the guys while we were there, but Chief stopped me and winked. “Let them see it for real the first time,” he said with a smile, and I knew exactly what he meant.

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When Jake and The Captain went downstairs for their daily brief, Chief laid out a very simple version of his plan, just so that everyone would know what to pack.

“Basically, in a nutshell, I want to bring everything we have!” he barked to the team. “Bravos, every weapon that the team owns. Charlies, we’ll need all of the climbing gear, frag grenades, flash bangs, and mortar rounds. Deltas, we’ll need all of your med gear, especially the mountain rescue systems, and Echos, we’ll need every bit of commo gear you guys have so that we can practice making shots out of and off of the tops of mountain ranges. We’ll also need to bring ATV’s and our Toyota Hilux’s to practice driving in this environment. So, yeah, bring everything.”

Then he joined the leadership downstairs for their meeting, and we were left to figure out how we were going to get every piece of equipment we had on the road and to the training site. John got the bright idea to get an LMTV (Light Medium Tactical Vehicle), and made his way over to the motor pool to reserve one. By the time the leadership was back from their meeting our team room was dizzy with movement; we had only a few days to pack everything we had, which was quite a bit of stuff, get it loaded into the trucks, and get moving.

We started to get word in about who would be joining us from the other teams, and I was pleased; my buddy Eric from 024, who I had become pretty close friends with during our Africa trip. Pap from 023, who Chad was really good friends with, Ski from 026, who I didn’t really know, and Johnson from 021, who would later join our team.

We had so much sensitive equipment coming with us that we couldn’t pack any of it until we were leaving; you are required to always have sensitive material behind three layers of security and locks, and nobody felt like sitting around and guarding a truck. So, bright and early Sunday morning we were loading everything known to man in our LMTV’s, Toyota Hilux’s, and HUMVEE’s, and looked like the Beverly Hillbillies (or more appropriately like Mad Max) by the time we were rolling out of the base.

The Toyota Hilux’s were fine and even the HUMVEE we brought along was doing great, but the LMTV is always a pain in the ass to bring on a long trip. It was loaded down with so much ammo, equipment, and ATV’s that it was almost at max capacity and couldn’t go much faster than 40 mph, which the German motorists were very quick and adamant to tell us how much they loved via their honking horns and angry middle fingers as they drove past. But, John being John, driving along with J-Lo as his navigator, was quick to give them a toothy smile and either wave back, or if they were giving the international middle finger peace sign, would oblige them right back with that one.

In spite of all the stops and slow moving we pulled into the base just at sunset. We stopped at the HQ, and Chief went in to get our barracks assignments. There were several complexes of barracks located all over the base, and thankfully we had been given our own.

The sun had been down for about an hour by the time we had everything off the truck and all the trucks parked in the lot, with the ATV’s in front of our barracks. At that point Jake called a team meeting to hand out room assignments, and once we dropped our gear in our respective rooms we figured it was time to eat.

We met in the hallway to try to figure out how we could find food, but before we could head out Jake reminded us that we had to make a commo shot back to Germany to let HQ know we arrived safely (there are people at the commo shed on our base 24/7 to monitor communications from all our teams spread throughout the world). We followed Griz and Matty outside and into the driveway to watch and help them set up the various antennas, batteries, and radio systems they would need to make the shot, and with all the help it was up and running in no time.

We saw several Austrian soldiers walking along the road in front of our barracks and sent Chris to be our ambassador and find out about chow. The chow hall was closed, but there was a small pub/snack shop just a few hundred meters up the road. After some directions and thank you’s we were on our way, and were glad when we found it.

Walking into the pub was like walking back in time; my grandfather used to be completely enamored with the large, wooden, hand-carved, and ornate Western European (mostly German and Austrian) clocks that reminded him of his time stationed in Germany, and I have many childhood memories of him and my father working on them every time they would get together. The whole place was made out of the same sort of amber-brown, soft-looking wood, and had ornate carvings in the ceilings and walls just like those clocks of my childhood, adorned with pictures of mountaineers at every turn.

As soon as we took our seats a young man in uniform came around to our table from behind the bar and handed us menus. We were pretty hungry by that point, and ordered whatever it was that we came to first. As the waiter went back into the kitchen we kicked back and made small talk. I’ve been a part of many organizations in my life, and many that worked in small groups, but I’ve never been with a group of guys among whom everyone was so comfortable.

We were extremely hungry and tired by that point, and could tell that the pub staff were waiting on us to close up shop, so we didn’t waste any time once the food arrived. Training would start bright and early, as always, so we wanted to be asleep as soon as possible to be ready. Chief wanted to start off with a mountain movement to get us used to walking around with our combat-heavy rucksacks in the mountains, and we knew we’d better be rested up for it.

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The barracks we were staying in were also very old, and rather than a modern heating system each room had an old, thick black cast-iron fireplace near the door, with a long metal tube running into the ceiling which I imagined would warm up the whole building once everyone got their fires burning. John and I were sharing a room, and the glowing embers of our fire had faded to a weak, dark orange glow when my alarm sounded the next morning.

The cold mountain air was simultaneously refreshing and torturous, and it took a minute for my brain to convince my body to get out of my sleeping bag. I finally did, and knowing that it was soon going to be shower and shave time, stoked our fire back up by throwing more small kindling on top of the faint embers and slowly feeding larger and larger wood until it was going again. I could hear the other guys begin to wake up and start stirring, so I headed into the bathroom before it got too crowded.

After a mountain-standard and hearty Austrian breakfast, we were ready to start. Each member of the team had taken time the evening before and that morning to marvel at the gorgeous scenery. You couldn’t walk around without stopping to stare at the mountain peaks jutting high above our heads and taking a huge breath of the fresh Alpine air.

The base was situated a few miles below the summit of the mountain, and most of the training areas were up on top. We brought all of the trucks and vehicles to get familiar with driving around in this type of environment and to transport all our gear and ammo for training, so we jumped in our Toyota Hilux’s as soon as everyone was ready and started the ascent.

Even with these tough and sturdy vehicles it was a very slow ride to the top; there were sections where the grade was probably 50-60 percent, and with the weight of us and our rucks we couldn’t go very fast. While the view down at the base camp was gorgeous, the alpine view up the mountain was absolutely amazing, and nobody spoke the entire ride up— we were focused on the breathtaking scenery.

As we slowly followed the winding dirt road to the top, the lush green grass was replaced with sparse vegetation, which transitioned to dirt, rock, and finally snow. Chief had planned exactly where we would start our movement and pulled the first truck over at the side of the road where he wanted to start.

The mountain across from us jutted up into the sky at such a severe angle that you couldn’t even see the top without sticking your head out of the window, and on the other side of a small guardrail was a valley that was equally as steep all the way down. We jumped out of the trucks as they pulled to a stop, and I took a deep breath as I got a good look at what Chief had in store for us.

I grabbed my rucksack out of the truck bed and threw in on my back as I craned my neck to see where we’d be going; the mountain was a magnificent sight, but was so steep that it would have been a tough climb on foot with a light hiking bag—and we were each carrying rucks full with water, weapons, ammo, and commo gear.

Not one to waste time, Chief started out as soon as he saw that we were ready, walking along the grade rather than up, and slowly making changes in elevation at each turn. Nonetheless, we were sucking wind in less than ten minutes, and just like our CWT training of shooting on skis, I realized just how tough it would be to do anything tactical in this type of environment.

My grandfather had been an Infantryman with the 10th Mountain Division in their initial assault on D-Day through the Italian mountains, and I immediately gained an even more profound respect for him as I carried my gear onward and upward.

By the time we made it to the top we were each soaked in sweat, and as Chief instructed us to take up defensive positions we welcomed the time to drop our rucks and get down in the prone position to create a perimeter. We gulped water while surveying the ground behind and below us; the most amazing view I’d seen since we climbed the Zugspitz, and the type of view you would put on a postcard.

We were lying in the snow, and around us there were rocks randomly jutting out of the ground, but we could see thousands of feet below us, deep into the valleys, and watch as the landscape went all the way from white and gray under our bodies back into the bright green grass far below us. We stayed in place for only a few minutes before Chief was up and moving, giving the signal for us to follow. We took to the ridges and followed the top of the mountain in a staggered formation, trudging along through the snow behind Chief.

He had planned out the entire movement, and at a point he stopped and signaled to go back into an ORP formation, so once again we hit the snow and dug in. He moved to the middle of our formation and explained that this would be our only dry run of the exercise we were about to undertake. The next time it would be a live-fire exercise, so it was important that we go through all of the formations, movement, and learning to keep a steady footing as we moved quickly in a simulated mountain-combat scenario. Then he grabbed his ruck and his rifle, gave us the signal to get into a modified wedge formation, and started back down the mountain.

For all the hours we had just spent going up the mountain, across the ridge, and down in a simulated firefight, we did a quick forced march down the road and were back at the trucks in less than fifteen minutes. We dropped our rucks in the truck beds, secured our weapons in the back seats, hopped in, and made our way down to the base.

We spent the rest of the afternoon building various rope systems to move heavier and heavier equipment across the pristine but freezing cold river flowing in front of our barracks, and what started with rucksacks going back and forth ended as various members of the team hanging on to the carabineers as we pulled them across the river. The task began as a way to make sure we could get equipment back and forth without getting it wet and ended with us forcing each other onto the system, trying to make the poor sap in the middle let go and drop into the sub-freezing mountain stream.

We had to send out a communication at the end of every day, letting the command back home know that we were good and all was going according to plan. As everyone on an ODA is required to be cross-trained in every job on that ODA, we took turns setting up the antenna, doing the math to put it on the right azimuth to hit our satellite, setting up and programming the radio and crypto, and making the communication. I built the antenna and put it on the azimuth that night; J-Lo made the transmission.

After his last line was read, telling the command that we were all up on men, weapons, and equipment, his eyes got very big as he listened to the reply and jotted something on a piece of paper. After he put the handset down he looked up at us and said, “Shit.”

“What’s up, bro?” The Captain asked.

“The Major and a few others are coming here to observe our full mission profile at the end of the week.”

“Shit,” The Captain muttered back, and we repeated it in our heads. It wasn’t that we were doing anything wrong, or that we didn’t like The Major, but once the command decides to come and observe your team training, everything changes. You can no longer focus on the objective and working on how you would actually facilitate a mission, but have to instead focus on making it look “pretty” and more on the paperwork and B.S. part of the mission rather than the true, boots on the ground, down-and-dirty, bullets-on-target aspect.

The Captain decided that Jake and Chief needed to hear this as soon as possible, knew that we could all use a beer, and nodded for us to follow him after we put the radio and gear away. We folded up all the antennas and cables, put everything away, and went to the pub we’d visited the night before. Sure enough, the same Austrian soldier was behind the bar, and Chief and Jake were seated at a table going over planning for the next day.

We saddled up next to them and took a seat, and the waiter came over. The Captain ordered us a round of beers, and set up J-Lo to spill the beans about the news he’d just received.

Sure enough, it wasn’t out of his lips more than a second before both Jake and Chief muttered the very same expression.

“Well, screw ’em,” said Jake. “Chief busted his ass to put together a hell of a training plan, and we’re not changing anything just because they want to come in here and be meat- gazers.”

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The rest of the week was pretty much the same, and was absolutely amazing. We would wake up early, go for an alpine run up the mountain, hit the showers, grab breakfast, train until lunch, train until the sun went down, have a beer at the pub, get some sleep, and then start all over again. Each day was something different, planned by Chief to get us ready for Afghanistan, and I think a lot of it truly did prepare us for what the next year would entail.

We spent the days doing all the things a mountain team should do: high-angle shooting, target practice with our sniper systems, mortars, more of the “react to contact” live-fire drills moving through the mountains, special reconnaissance in the mountains, and of course, military mountaineering.

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By the time the night came for our final full mission profile we had really grown to love Litzum. The people were great, the food was amazing, and the scenery was spectacular, not to mention that it was the best training any of us could imagine for what we were about to do.

After dinner Jake called us into the command room where he, Chief, and The Captain had been sleeping. They had a few tables set up in the middle and had hung white butcher paper all around the room so we could accurately plan our mission.

After receiving a “warning order” (the very basic details of a mission) an ODA typically goes into “isolation” to plan the mission (the way an ODA plans their missions from start to finish and gathers their own intel are just some of the many differences that set Special Forces apart from other Special Operations organizations). Special Forces has a very specific set of rules, regulations, and order with which we plan missions, and after Jake read off our “warning order” that the command created, we each got to work doing our parts of the mission planning, packing, and prepping.

We would start the next afternoon, move all night and the following day, and then hit our objective the third morning. Jake would be on the objective to grade our attack, along with The Major and whomever else he brought along, meaning Jake wouldn’t be making the long-range movement with us. His knee had been really bothering him throughout the trip, so it was better to have him be the bad guy than to end up having to carry him along the movement. At the end of our planning the route we had chosen would take us about twenty miles through the mountains and snow, and it was probably best that he not be there to slow us down.

The first part of the movement, which proved to be a huge pain in the ass, was to ruck-march up the long, winding road we had been driving every day for training. We’d grab a quick dinner at the chow hall up top, head to the range for some shooting, move several miles to our first stop for the night, make the long-distance movement through the snow the entire next day, link up with The Major at another cabin, and finally hit our objective when the sun rose the following morning.

I was starting to feel the pain halfway into our ruck up the mountain and was quickly shedding layers of clothes to prevent everything that would keep me warm that night from becoming soaked, and later frozen. It took the better part of an hour to make the long, steep climb, and by the time we reached the chow hall we were all pretty relieved. Chief had called ahead to let them know we were coming, and he must have given them some indication as to what we were about to embark on because we ate the heartiest meal we’d had so far.

We were still wiping the soup off our mouths when Jake announced that it was time to go. It seemed like God knew we were coming—as soon as we started our movement from the chow hall to the range it started snowing. Pretty small and insignificant at first, but by the time we arrived at the range it was a full-blown snowfall.

As we began to shoot, the snow fell harder and harder, and we knew it was going to be a long night, but by the end of the first hour we were interchanging weapons with the Austrians and having a grand old time, not thinking about what lay ahead. Shortly after the sun set, however, Jake yelled out to everyone to wrap it up and we knew that the fun was about to end. We finished off the rounds in our magazines, went back to fill up all our empties for the mission, and assembled back on Chief to get moving.

We started off walking along the concrete roads of the base but were in the ankle-deep snow almost immediately, and in another mile we were knee-deep in the snow and post-holing (when you step into the snow and your foot goes straight through, all the way to the ground) every step of the way.

After a few minutes of that The Captain sent word back for us to pull out our snowshoes, which was the smartest decision we’d heard the entire trip. It was snowing so hard by this time that between taking my snowshoes off my rucksack, putting them on the ground, and trying to get my feet in they were already full of snow, so I had to scoop the snow out and try to get my feet in as quickly as possible.

We were covered in snow from the moment we started, and I’m not sure of exactly how cold it was, but it was pretty damn cold, and I started to lose feeling in my feet despite my thick Reichle mountain boots and snow socks, so I knew we’d better get moving soon or serious problems were going to start.

We had a strict “no lights” policy to move tactically, and thankfully there was just enough light from the reflection of the stars off the snow for us to keep our bearings. We held our formation pretty tightly as we walked, so that we could see the back of the guy in front of us despite the low light and snowstorm. The Captain, in the lead, would send back the signal for a headcount every few minutes by turning to the man behind him and tapping his head several times quickly.

This would initiate the second man to turn around to the man behind him and say, “I’m two, you’re three,” and the third man to turn around to the man behind him and say, “I’m three, you’re four,” and so on. The last man would receive his number and send it all the way back to The Captain, so he knew that we still had everyone with us.

We went on like this for a few hours, trudging through the snow, going slow enough that we didn’t have to stop, and knowing that if we did it would quickly become dangerously cold; so we just kept pushing along, following the dark blob of a figure in front of us and doing headcounts constantly.

It felt like we were going to walk forever and while my inner core was burning hot and exhausted, my peripheries were ice cold, and somewhere along the way I lost feeling in everything past my hips and shoulders. After putting on the snowshoes Chief directed us to pull out our ski poles to help us move, but with every lurch forward the barrel of my rifle was hitting me in the crotch and groin, so I wasn’t sure if that pain was any better than the extra effort of walking without the balance and assistance of the poles. Either way, it wasn’t fun.

Just when I was starting to get really run down—all of the ambient light had completely disappeared and we were moving in almost total blackness—I saw the faint outline of what looked like an abnormally large snowdrift on my right. All I could see was something large next to me, and suddenly the blob in front of me stopped moving. I saw the first light I’d seen in hours as The Captain lit up the flashlight on the front of his rifle, and the shadows and light bounced around what the figure next to me was: a concrete building, shaped like an igloo.

The Captain pushed open a door and directed Chief to open another door a few meters away. Chief made his way to the second door, flashed his light on, and opened it. They each motioned for us to follow them in, and we split into two groups to go inside.

By the time I was inside the second hut someone had lit a lantern that was hanging in the middle, and Chief was working on getting a fire started in a cast iron fireplace very similar to the ones back at the barracks. Looking around at the inside of the building illuminated by the swinging, dancing lights of the lantern’s flame, I was reminded of a medieval dungeon.

The floors and walls were old, weatherworn concrete, with black soot and flame marks. Opposite the door was a bay of wooden bunks, all connected and stretching the width of the small building, with a second level of bunks on top. In the middle of the room was a large concrete table that was built like a picnic table you would see at a park, complete with concrete benches.

The warmth from our breath and body heat was filling the chilled air inside the building; at least it wasn’t windy and snowy in there. Chief quickly had a fire burning, and we started to drop our gear. The Captain walked in our door, over to the bunks, and around the perimeter of the building getting a good look at everything, and motioned back to the bunks.

“Chief, make a fire guard roster. Men, get some sleep. We’re moving out early tomorrow to make our hit time, so get some rest.” Without another word he looked at us, nodded, and went back to his building.

Once I was situated I sat up in my sleeping bag and ate part of a cold MRE to get some protein —and was asleep long before the digestion started. I slept for about three hours before I was woken up for fireguard by Pap, who explained that we had enough people to do one-hour fifteen-minute shifts. I threw on my stocking cap and sat next to the fire as Pap went back to sleep, and I warmed and ate the rest of my MRE.

I sat and ate in a trance, watching the dancing flames lick the logs inside the fireplace, the shadows dance along the walls and listening to the howling wind outside. Before I knew it my turn on fireguard was almost up, so I grabbed my toothbrush and paste out of my ruck and quickly brushed my teeth.

It’s funny, but Green Berets may be known as the dirty, stinky bearded guys in combat zones, but we all have pretty good oral hygiene. My team and I have gone months at a time without showering, but as long as we have water, every guy is brushing his teeth twice a day— period. If we have to melt snow or boil water to do it, it doesn’t matter. I made a point to tell my guys about how badly poor oral hygiene could hurt you once your body was malnourished and sleep deprived (and most of a Green Beret’s career is spent in places where you are one or the other, or both), and even the guys who had a dip in almost all day long were religiously brushing their teeth.

After I swished a few times and threw my toothbrush back in my pack, I jumped in my sleeping bag and woke Eric up. We were only about six inches apart, shoulder-to-shoulder on the wooden bunk, so it was pretty easy to ensure he woke up from the comfort of my bag. I gave him the same instructions I’d been given, and was out before my head hit the wood.

I was awakened some time later by The Captain coming in to our building and vaguely heard him tell the fireguard that we were moving out in thirty minutes. Something in my groggy mind understood that, and before I knew what I was doing my body was up and out of the sleeping bag, taking off my long johns, and putting on my uniform.

I filled my canteen cup with snow, set it on the fireplace, and went on the search to find a good place to go to the bathroom. My back was already screaming from the night before, and today we would be cross-loading all the mortar systems again. Mortar tubes are extremely heavy, but the base plates are what kill you. And we had several.

The guys who had been carrying them the night before had never spoken up to switch off and so ended up carrying them all the way from the range to the hut, but today we would have to make sure to switch them out every hour because the extra weight was torture on top of the body armor, commo batteries, medical equipment, water, ammo, and food that everyone was already cross-loaded with. I grabbed my gear, threw some sunscreen on my face, neck, ears, and arms, and then threw a little bit on top of Chris’s shaved head for good measure, to which he responded with a thankful wink and nod.

We moved for hours on end without stopping, because as long as we had daylight and good weather we needed to move. The Major and Ted would be meeting us at another hut for lunch, and we were going to be there about an hour early at our pace.

I wondered who the last people to walk this land were as we moved along the snow- covered landscape. We were way off the beaten path during the entire movement and hadn’t seen a road, footprint, or anything even vaguely related to human existence since we left the buildings that morning. Sure enough, as soon as I began to think about it we started to see the familiar man-made mounds rising in the distance, the same type that had hidden our sleeping location the night before. After a quick map check Chief and The Captain verified that we were at the correct spot, and in we went.

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It was about an hour before Ted and The Major arrived, along with an Austrian counterpart who was acting as their guide. As usual The Major was all smiles when he walked in, and immediately wanted to get some pictures with the guys. He was a mountain man at heart, and loved to be in this environment.

We ate a quick MRE lunch, packed our gear, and got moving. We didn’t have much further to go until our final stop for the night, which put a little more pep in everyone’s step. We originally planned to put a hide sight [just like it sounds, a site you build to hide in for reconnaissance, usually dug into the ground and covered or hidden in some way] in the snow to keep eyes on the objective prior to the hit, but the Austrian Army wouldn’t permit it.

They knew the temperatures at night would be getting dangerously low, and the last thing they wanted was to go searching for frozen and dead Green Beret-cicles, so we had been forced to sleep inside. I can’t say I was too upset by the news that I would be forced, against my will, to sleep in the warmth and comfort of an actual building instead of the frozen snow, but hey, when in Rome.

It was another three or four hours of movement before we got to the hut, and this one was the greatest of all. The others had all been small, fallout shelter-looking places, drab concrete built into the sides of hills, but this was a real Austrian hutte, made out of beautifully handcrafted wood and complete with a real, working heater.

Once we stepped inside we felt a little guilty; as comfortable as this was, The Major was there to observe our mission, and we should have been doing everything as realistically as possible. But, if we had chosen not to go to the hutte I’m sure the commandant would have alerted the base to start a search party for us, so in the end it worked out.

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The night before the mission was spent the same way it always is: rehearsing the actions on the objective (pre-planned jobs, movements, and actions during the mission), packing and re-packing to make sure every piece of equipment was where it needed to be, and finally getting as much rest as possible. Ted and The Major would be watching the whole thing unfold with Jake, and so when we woke up the next morning to get ready, they moved down to the objective to link up with him.

We packed our gear and got ready to go the next morning, meeting in the dining room of the hutte to have an MRE before starting off. We would be splitting up into a few different teams, and once we stepped out we wouldn’t see each other until the end of the hit.

After the quick MRE breakfast we got on our feet, gave each other a “berg heil,” and left. The first guys out of the door were the recon and sniper team: Ray, John, and Matty. They were going to take a different route, head to a higher elevation where they could provide over watch and let us know what was happening on the objective.

Johnson, J-Lo, Ski, and Pap would be our heavy weapons support, and would also set up at a higher elevation and off to a side so they could prep the target with machine gun fire prior to our assault, and would be designated to take down “Mohammed Jake” should he see us and try to split. The rest of the team and I were on the main assault; the idea was to get as close as possible and lie in wait; as soon as we got PID (Positive Identification) that our target was on the objective, the heavy weapons and snipers would open fire, and after a few minutes we would assault the compound on foot.

We got word from the sniper and recon elements that they were set in while we were still walking, and they had eyes on the objective. They had seen The Major and Ted arrive at the objective as they were setting in, which meant that we were good to go as soon as Jake arrived.

Next we heard the heavy weapons team call that they were in place, which meant that we were almost good to go. We had reviewed the plan many times via maps, but this was the first time we were actually seeing the objective, and we immediately noticed a huge problem. We weren’t sure if we’d been given the wrong grid coordinates for the complex of buildings that were to be the target of our assault (but they were the only buildings anywhere near that area), or if the terrain had severely changed since the our map had been published, but as we walked closer and found a good covered and concealed location for our ORP behind a very large rock outcropping about 500 meters from the target, we realized something was very wrong.

Based on our grid coordinates and the map, we had measured about 100 meters we would have to move during our assault. That would be considered a pretty long distance to go, as it was wide-open ground in the snow with basically no protection, meaning we would be sitting ducks. The sniper team would be laying down cover fire via the over watch, and the heavy weapons and mortars would be firing to “prep the objective” and keep their heads down, but that’s still an awful long distance to be out in the open.

All you need is one sniper in a window somewhere who feels he has enough cover and he can pick you off like fish in a barrel. But, we had figured, with all of that firepower we could do 100 meters no sweat, we’d just move quickly. Looking across the field at the buildings in the distance, down at my snowshoes and back at the field, I knew this was not going to go according to plan (but what ever did?).

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When assaulting an area with incoming enemy fire you are trained in Infantry Basic Training to use a tactic called IMT (Individual Movement Techniques) when you don’t have any cover. You can use this to facilitate the same “Cover me while I move” techniques to keep a good base of fire as you progress toward your target, but it’s still preferred to have some cover and not to use this for a very long distance.

The technique requires you to operate in two fire teams, split in half and each person is designated their own “lane” or straight path to the objective. You have to stay straight in your lane, because the whole point is that the other half of the team is laying down as much fire as possible to cover your movement, and if you venture off into their lane the trouble starts.

As one team is laying down a base of fire, the other team runs forward about ten meters or so, the distance being dependent on the situation, how much fire you’re taking, and how accurate and effective it is. Young Infantry Privates are taught to say to themselves, “I’m up, he sees me, I’m down,” to give themselves a timing of how long they should be up, but everything is situation dependent.

You hit the ground, immediately begin returning fire, and yell “Set!” to let the other team know to progress forward. We call this “leap frogging” to the objective, and if you’ve got no cover, it’s what you have to do. We had the ORP established, so at least we would be able to leave our rucks and move with only body armor, ammo, and weapons; but moving even that light in snowshoes would be pretty difficult.

When I went through the 18D medical course, the first six months were a composite of Green Berets, Rangers, SEALs, and a few Psy Ops and Civil Affairs medics (the first six months are trauma, and are for all Special Ops medics; the second six months are more intense medical courses, surgery and long-term treatment; this training is almost exclusively for 18D’s), so we had instructors from every branch.

One day in the cold North Carolina rain, one of our SEAL instructors, yelling at us through the miserable wetness, said, “Men, if you really want to know how tough a man is, throw him in some cold water.” Using that same logic, what I learned during our time doing CWT and at Litzum was that if you want to know how good a soldier is at tactics, throw him in some snow. If he’s not solid, he’ll fall apart immediately.

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Everyone set into position in the ORP, rucks came off and we set into a security perimeter. Our mission was to take down “Mohammed Jake” so we’d have to wait for PID [Positive Identification] from the snipers that he was on the objective before we could move. That is the hardest part of any mission requiring a PID: waiting.

Your blood is pumping, in this case we were freezing cold, and you have to get a handle on it and sit tight, waiting for the word to go. It was at least an hour before we got the call from Ray that a white Toyota Hilux was quickly approaching, and sure enough a few moments later we got word that he was on the objective.

Ted and The Major had targets set up so we’d have something to shoot at, so as soon as The Captain gave the word the sniper systems opened up at the same time as the heavy weapons, and while we listened to the sound of the machine guns playing “dueling guns” we were counted out of the ORP and quickly positioned ourselves to begin the assault. Looking out at the distance to the objective was even more daunting once we were prepared to move, but it had to be done so we just started going.

It’s pretty hard to change magazines (reload) on the move while you are IMT’ing, and you shouldn’t have to do it very many times, but by the end of our assault I had gone through several magazines (and that was with me doing my best to conserve ammo). I had never seen an assault take more than a few minutes to get to the objective, and while I wasn’t looking at my watch, and time is completely out the window when your adrenaline is flowing that high, it seemed like it took us forever to get there.

As we came to the edge of the objective the team united in a line to assault through and make sure we cleared everything. We were on hard ground now, so we pulled off our snowshoes and began clearing the area. As we came to the buildings we split off into buddy groups, and I heard one of the other teams as they came upon Jake’s body and began to search it for intel.

As my fire team headed up the stairs in one of the farmhouses on the complex we heard, “INDEX, INDEX, INDEX!” being yelled from outside, which meant that the exercise was over. We glanced at each other with a look of relief and started down the stairs. Back out on the objective all the guys were forming a circle around the leadership, and I could see the sniper and heavy weapons teams climbing down from their positions to join in the AAR.

While the guys forming the circle were all just happy it was over, the leadership in the middle made it very obvious they didn’t share that opinion. Ted was laughing a bit, but The Major, Jake, and The Captain wore sourpuss expressions. When we started the AAR, The Major gave us the “Hurry it up” signal to speed past the two days of movement and cut straight to the chase: the final hit, which was the only thing he cared about.

“Ted,” he asked, “what did you think about that?” He was saying this more to the entire detachment than to Ted.

“Well, sir, that had to be the ugliest damned assault I’ve ever seen!” he said with a grin.

“I second that. I don’t know what you guys were thinking, but we’ll have to talk about this when we get home.”

Then he and Ted grabbed their gear, headed with Jake to his truck, and drove off without saying another word. We looked at each other dumbfounded and stood around for a second, not really knowing what to do next—or what had just happened.

“Well, I guess that means we’re walking home,” said Chris, and we started back to the ORP to grab our rucks and start walking. There was no more laughing or joking, and thankfully by the time we reached the steep decline of the road Jake pulled up in a truck and motioned for people to get in. The first guys he came to threw their rucks in the back, drove down, grabbed two more trucks, came back up and did the same, until we were all back at the barracks.

By the time I arrived the whole place smelled like sweat and mud, and the halls were misty from steam from the showers. Nobody said another word about the assault, and after we showered we flopped into bed. We would be leaving the next day, but after that movement we needed an hour or two of shut-eye.

I was awakened not much later by Jake walking down the hall yelling. He hadn’t made the movement with us, so apparently he wasn’t tired and felt we shouldn’t be either. He was walking up and down the long corridor yelling for everyone to wake up, and as we walked out into the hall he directed us into the leadership room.

“We’re going to do some weapons familiarization as a way to say thank you to the troops here for letting us use their base. Bravos, get all the weapons and ammo loaded into the trucks. We’re meeting them back up top in forty-five minutes.”

That meant we had to leave in fifteen minutes at the very most, so we became a flurry of activity to get dressed, grab an MRE to snack on, and help the guys throw everything we would need into the trucks. Thankfully we had everything in one place, as we had to have all the weapons and ammo secured while we slept so it was no big deal. We loaded the equipment while still in our long johns, quickly threw our uniforms on after we were loaded, and jumped in the trucks for the ride up.

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There were a half dozen uniformed Austrian soldiers waiting for us by the time we arrived at the range, and they didn’t look like they quite knew what to expect. I imagine that, just like our Army, they had been picked for “mandatory fun” and had been sent up either against their will or not knowing what to expect. As we began to pull our weapons out of the trucks, including the Barrett .50 cal sniper rifle, the heavy machine guns, mortars, and everything else we had brought, their eyes began to light up and they quickly began to help unload everything.

We set up some puss pads for them to lie on instead of the cold ground as they shot, and after everything was laid out we just held out our open hands, indicating that the feast was for them. Chris said something in Deutsch, which he later told me was roughly translated as “Have at it, boys!” to which they beamed huge smiles and began to fire.

We had a ball; no matter what language, race, creed, or color, any military man from any country can have a hell of time with a free-for-all shooting fest, especially with an almost- unlimited amount of ammo and choices about what to shoot.

The Austrian soldiers were all smiles once it was time to leave a couple of hours later, couldn’t say enough “dankes” and helped us load everything back into our trucks. Once we were down to the bottom again it was time to start packing everything up and getting ready to go, as Jake had decided that it was early enough for us to still leave that day.

I was outside helping load gear into the trucks when I saw a motorcycle driven by an Austrian soldier appear and head straight for us. As he got closer I recognized that it was one of the men who had been shooting with us earlier, and I called Chris out to translate. The soldier pulled his bike up to where we were standing, took off his backpack as he walked over to us, and started to pull something out of his bag. He recognized that Chris spoke Deutsche and said about a million things very quickly that nobody else could understand, at the end added another “danke” to all of us and handed Chris a clear bottle with an Edelweiss flower painted on the front.

He got back on his bike, waving to us as he drove off. Chris just smiled. “It’s some kind of booze that they make here in this region; all of the guys from this morning pitched in for it as a way to say thanks.” He passed the bottle around so we could all get a good look at it. That bottle still sits at the 022 team bar in Germany to this day, with everyone’s signature from that training. A few years later Chris tracked down the place that made it and got us each our own bottle!

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The ride home was quiet; everyone was a little pissed that the hit had gone so poorly, exhausted from running all over the mountains for a week, and sleepy because it was getting so late. It was long past dark by the time we got to the company parking lot, and as the Bravos got the arms room open to return the weapons, we loaded our equipment into the team room.

Once everything was back and in its place Jake released us for the night, but added that we still had work the next day but could skip PT and sleep in a bit. By the time I was in my room I was a walking zombie, and before I knew it my alarm clock was going off the next morning. The condo was eerily silent as I got out of bed and had a quick bowl of cereal.

Little did I know I was in for a hell of a surprise at work that day, but as soon as I got to the team room I knew something was different. Making my way back to my office, I noticed that everyone was in the team room already, except for The Captain, and they called me in as I walked past. As I took a seat, Jake began his speech and Chief looked on.

“I’ve got two pieces of news for you, one good and one bad. Which do you want first?”

“Bad” was the unanimous answer—better to hear the bad news first and get brought up by the good news than the other way around. Jake didn’t hesitate, and actually smiled a bit as he said it.

“The Captain has been relieved of command of this detachment. The Major has had a hard on for him since he came here, and the final assault was his excuse to finally give him the axe. The leadership is looking for a new team leader to take us to Afghanistan, and I’ve already heard rumors but don’t want to put anything out before I get hard truth.”

You could hear a pin drop. Jake had never really liked The Captain, and with him gone that meant Jake had an even stronger stranglehold on the team. He could see that none of us were going to say anything, and were waiting for him to say something stupid like “April Fools!” but it never came.

Instead, he launched right into the good news. He picked up two different pieces of paper that were sitting on the bar, and held them up so we could all see.

“Here in my left hand,” he said as he shook the paper, “are our Afghanistan orders. We leave in a month.” That brought smiles to everyone’s faces. “And here,” he said, shaking the paper in his right hand, “are our relaxed grooming standards orders. Stop shaving and cutting your hair immediately, we need to grow it all out.”

That brought even bigger smiles, and while it still didn’t bring The Captain, our brother, back, at least it was good news.

Chapter 13

Going to Afghanistan

As crazy as the previous week had been, and as crazy as we knew it was about to get, the next month was just bananas. We were being pulled in every direction for meetings, updates, and intel briefs, but for all of the information we were getting nobody could or would tell us exactly where we would be deploying. I tried to collect medical intelligence on my own, but within the first few days of receiving our orders we had been told we would be going to the western border with Iran, the next day it was the eastern border with Pakistan, then Kabul, then up north. After a while we just stopped paying attention and were so busy that we never even saw The Captain come to collect his things and move out of the team room.

It was a bit surprising when we walked in one day and saw Johnson in our team room; he had been on 021, was attached to us during the Litzum trip, and less than a month before our deployment had been told he would be moving to 022 for good. When he showed up we didn’t even know where to put him, but after the leadership meeting at the end of that day we were told where: John was being taken away from us to go to 025 as part of their new leadership.

We couldn’t believe it. We had been training together for years, and now that we were all comfortable with each other, knew each other’s thoughts, had all our SOP’s down and could anticipate each other’s movements, once again the leadership was switching everything up on us—just prior to a deployment, no less.

The same morning our new Captain arrived with all of his gear, and we didn’t even have time to give him a proper welcome. We were helping John move his stuff down the hallway when the B-team Operations Sergeant told us that The Colonel wanted to speak with all the men without the leadership, at the flagpole in five minutes. None of us knew what the hell was going on, but when The Colonel called, you answered.

We grabbed our berets, threw on the best uniforms we could find, and ran down to the flagpole in front of the HQ. Josh was the ranking man so he assembled us in a formation, and when The Colonel walked out of the front door and toward our formation he called us to attention.

“Cut that shit out, men” was The Colonel’s response, and he waved his hand and told us to make a semi-circle around him.

“Now, men,” he started in his no-nonsense, tough, and direct manner of speaking. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve failed you as a commander, and I give you my most sincere apologies. You’ve had a weak command ever since Pat [the Team Sergeant for 022 before Josh, a very highly respected man around both 1/10 and 10th Group] left, and I’m doing everything that I can to make it up to you. We’ve cleaned house for you guys, and now that you have the best Team Sergeant that you could possibly have in Jake, I’m doing everything in my power to get you the best team leader that money can buy to lead 022 into Afghanistan and the heart of battle.”

After saying that about Jake we looked around at each other, puzzled. Did he really think Jake was a good Team Sergeant? The guy did, after all, look very good on paper: he was HALO qualified, jumpmaster, SFARTEC instructor, CIEF, and had a long list of other bells and whistles to put on his uniform. But The Colonel didn’t hesitate, so we just kept on listening.

“Now I’ve sent you one of the finest Captains in the whole Regiment, and if he’ll have you, you guys will be extremely lucky. He already had his two years of team time in Alpha company (a Special Forces Team Leader typically gets only two years of team time, and then is relegated to desk jobs in command for the rest of his career) and is already on the list to be promoted to Major, but after seeing that you guys needed it I’ve asked him if he would join you for the Afghanistan trip. He’ll let me know if he decides to stick with you by the end of the week, and I’m keeping all of you in my heart and prayers. Do any of you have any questions for me?”

We looked to Josh, who shook his head slightly; The Colonel had enough on his plate right now—he was just asking to be polite. We could get any answers we needed through the proper channels, and he would put out whatever info we needed as soon as he had it. We responded with a “No sir,” and he just smiled.

“I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for 022. You guys are in great shape, have one of the best mixtures of skill sets of any team I’ve ever seen, and the camaraderie of you guys makes the rest of the Battalion downright jealous. You men will do us all proud in Afghanistan, that I’m sure of.” With that he nodded, gave us a quick “Berg heil 022,” and quickly went back into the HQ.

When we were assembled in the team room again, Jake called Ray and me into his office. We weren’t even quite in our seats yet before he started on me.

“Rob, how would you like to go to Ranger school in two weeks?” he asked with a huge smile. Ranger school was another school that some teams and groups in SF downright required to be on their teams, but in the 10th it was more of a delicacy than a staple, as we had a bevy of other schools and skills we had to learn and rely on. Jake had a Ranger tab, as did Ray, Griz, Chief, J-Lo, John, Tony, and many other guys in the company. It was a great school to attend, especially if you were going to make a career out of SF, but was far from the top of my list of priorities at the moment.

“Do I get a choice?” I asked. Ray’s mouth dropped open and he stared at me and punched me in the shoulder.

“Are you serious?” Jake asked, echoing Ray’s surprise.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to go, but I joined the Army after September 11th. I came to SF specifically to go to Afghanistan and fight, and right now I have orders that will finally, after years of waiting and training, allow me to do that. Not only that but out of our medics, I’m the only guy that has been with you guys for over a year. Jason is great, intelligent, and an amazing medic, but I’m not leaving him alone to deploy with my team so that I can go play games in Georgia with a bunch of guys that I don’t know and will never see again, just to put another tab on my shoulder. This is my team, Afghanistan is my war, and I’d rather not miss half of a deployment for a school. I’m sorry, but if I have a choice, I choose Afghanistan with 022.”

For once I felt that Jake understood exactly where I was coming from. He just nodded and said, “OK,” looked at the door and screamed.

“New guy, Johnson, get your ass in here!” We could hear Johnson running down the hallway and stop at parade rest in the doorway.

“Yes, Sergeant,” he replied in his thick New England accent. Jake just looked at him and barked.

“We’ve got a Ranger school slot leaving in two weeks. You want to go?”

“Hell yes, Sergeant!” was his answer, and Jake nodded in approval.

“Alright then. Get your shit together, we’ll get you a packing list, I hope you’re in good shape.” He looked back at me.

“Get Jason and go over to the med shed; you guys have some kind of meeting that Doc B wants to talk to you about, so go figure out what it is and let me know as soon as you get back.”

As I was walking out of his office I heard Jake chuckle to Ray. “We’re going with the advance party and leaving this Friday. I already have our orders, and we’ll be taking military air so don’t need any plane tickets.” That was the only part of the conversation I heard, and was glad that at least somebody would be getting some eyes on so that we’d know what was going on before we left.

As Jason and I walked up the stairs to the Battalion medical office I could hear that a lot of people were already up there. The rest of the company was huddled around Adam, my buddy who was the senior medic on 021.

“Yeah, we got the word today that we’re leaving next week. I don’t know why, but I guess Ted just didn’t want to sit around and wait for everyone else,” he was explaining to the guys. As Doc B saw us walk up to the crowd and took note that everyone was there, he put out a quick “Shut up and listen.”

He ushered us into his office and motioned for one of us to close the door, so that whatever he had to say wouldn’t leave the room. He pulled out a map and pointed to a city on the western border of Afghanistan.

“Here it is, boys. I’ve just been informed today that we’ll be going to Farah province in western Afghanistan. I want you to read everything that you can on it; you can use the CIA and State department health links to get the medical information that you need.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a huge stack of folders and started to hand them out to each of us.

“Here is the medical intelligence that I’ve been given on the area, but it’s not totally complete. You guys need to dig a little deeper to get ready. To be able to leave on time I’ll need to get all of your pharmacy and equipment requests in this week so that we can get you filled up in time to leave, so pay attention to whatever you find out. Once you’re there it will be a lot harder to get any medical equipment or requests pushed out to you, so try to think of everything now. We’ll be doing a quick med refresher next week so that you can get prepared. I don’t care what your Team Sergeants say, this is mandatory training as we’ll be issuing you all narcotics and paralytics for the deployment, and I need you signed off on this training before I can issue them to you. Is that clear?”

We nodded and looked around. This was getting very real, very fast—and we couldn’t wait.

“Also, you guys are S-1, so you need to make sure that everyone on your team has their wills and paperwork filled out and completed. We’ll be taking death photos some time this week, so make sure that all of your guys have a good uniform to wear for it; nobody wants to look like a bag of shit for their funeral.”

We each nodded again, and he dismissed us back to our teams. Most units take months to prepare for a deployment, but it was only expected that we would be in this much of a rush.

I gave Jake the news when we got back to the team room and he just nodded in approval. I noticed that Chief had a pretty sullen look and asked him what was bothering him.

“I’m not going with you guys,” he answered quietly. Looking up at me he gave me another piece of bad news: “I’ve been tasked to be the company LNO [Liaison Officer] to ISAF [International Assistance Force, the acronym for NATO] and am heading out this weekend. I’ll be stuck in Kabul for the whole trip, so won’t see you guys until we get back.”

I didn’t know what to say and didn’t think there was anything I could say to make it better. Nothing was making sense at this point, as the majority of our team had been switched around, and the only part of our leadership still intact was Jake. There was no time to pout or ponder, so I just patted Chief on the shoulder and wished him “Via con dios, brother. Berg heil,” and went on my way.

Everyone was busy going over every single piece of gear we had, trying to put together a packing list and thinking up any and all equipment we might need to request for this trip. Thankfully we had a lot of experience on our team, but as we were sure we’d be moving throughout the country during the deployment, weren’t sure if where we ended up would be hot or cold, or what mission we’d be filling, we decided to pack a little bit of everything.

We started to get all kinds of new gear issued to us from OCIE for the deployment, and putting it all together, making sure everything fit, tailoring it to our bodies and needs became a rather fun activity. We knew we’d also be receiving a load of gear when we arrived in theatre, so became less and less worried that we’d show up to the fight unprepared.

I considered buying Cindy a plane ticket to visit me in Germany before the deployment, but after the COB briefing from Jake I decided it wasn’t a great idea. We still didn’t know where we’d be deploying besides the general province, just that Ray and Jake would be part of the advance party leaving that weekend. I knew that every day would probably bring a new change for the rest of the time until we left, and the last thing I wanted was for Cindy to fly out and then discover that I’d had to leave or wouldn’t be able to see her because I had something to do.

Surely enough by Friday we found out that our med refresher would be taking place in the same building we’d lived in for the ski portion of CWT, so that Doc B could have our full attention and the Team Sergeants couldn’t pull us from training to assist with some kind of unnecessary task.

Thankfully I never really had to worry about what to say if Cindy asked where we were going, because she was smart enough to already know by my excitement as soon as I told her I’d be gone for eight months. She’d always known that 9/11 was the event that had led me to the Army, and that Afghanistan had been on my mind since the day I left for Basic Training.

She and I spent as much time as we could on Skype and AIM’ing each other on our phones, but before I knew it we were leaving for the medical refresher, where I’d be for five days without Internet or a sat phone. Still, between Tom and I we were pretty resourceful, and found ways to talk to our better halves every day.

.

While I’d heard that these medical refreshers were usually pretty relaxed and easy-going, Doc B was so wound up and eager to make sure we were 100 percent ready to go that it was a non-stop med fest, more intense than even SOCMSSC back at Ft. Bragg.

We would start classes at 0700 every morning, and Doc had called in all sorts of specialists—from dentists, oral-maxillofacial surgeons, veterinarians, primary care physicians, trauma surgeons, and anesthesiologists—to ensure we were up on everything we would need. I was actually quite surprised on the third day when in walked Dr. Maria, the physician who had gone with us to Africa. She smiled as she looked around the room and recognized a few of us, but was all business and went right into her discussion of diseases endemic to Afghanistan, particularly the west, where we were supposed to be going.

The classes went great, and we learned quite a bit. In true 18D fashion we had lots of reading and learning but just as much hands-on. By the time the refresher was over we had put each other under conscious sedation, numbed our entire mouths via dental blocks, anesthetized every major limb, and gone to dairy and horse farms with the vet. It was a very informative week, and I left feeling even more confident than before. Jason and I were both able to attend, and I was really starting to have a lot of faith in him; he was a very intelligent person, a great medic, and just a stand-up guy all the way around.

By the time we got back to the base, things were at a fever pitch. Ray and Jake had already left for Afghanistan and would return the following week, and the entire company was buzzing and getting ready to go. We would spend all day taking out almost every piece of equipment we had, making sure it worked, and packing it up.

By that time the company had constructed a large, fenced-in area that was under armed guard 24/7 so that we could pack everything (including classified gear) into our shipping containers. We didn’t really have a home yet, still only having a broad area to which we’d be deploying, so we spent an entire day learning how to set up and break down the GP medium and large military tents, and just as we were putting them away Ray came out to join us.

As soon as we had everything put away we headed back up to the team room to get our debrief from him and Jake, but we didn’t get much more information. There had been representatives from every team on the advance trip, and while they had visited locations all over the country they still didn’t have any concrete word on where exactly we would be going.

The only team with a 100 percent plan was 021, as they had left with the advance party to begin their deployment and were heading out to FOB Pathfinder, a tiny base on the outskirts of the Tagab Valley near the southeastern border with Pakistan, just about an hour’s drive from Bagram Air Base [BAF] to their west and Jalalabad to their east. Jake and Ray had spent a night getting them set up out there, and said that they really were in the Wild Wild West. Their Forward Operating Base [FOB] had maybe a hundred people on it, including them, made up of French Foreign Legion troops, a LRSD [Long Range Surveillance Detachment] from the 82nd Airborne, a few intel people, and them. The base was less than a month old and was coming under enemy fire every day.

Hearing that got us all a little excited, hoping that there was a chance we would be able to get in on some of that action. Putting an SF guy on a large base full of Americans and far away from the action is kind of like taking the fuse out of a stick of dynamite: a huge waste of a valuable resource. We were itching to get our gun on, and hoped to be located as far out on the wire and away from any American base as possible, to avoid the scrutiny of our operations and to be allowed to do our jobs.

.

The last week screamed by, and before I knew it, we were going to be leaving the next day. Jason and I had made a meticulous record of the location of every single drug and piece of medical equipment, and spent most of the last day going back over things and ensuring that we could find whatever we needed in a hurry.

We packed several med bags, from very thin bags of nothing but trauma gear we could take on hits to big, heavy bags loaded with everything under the sun for Med Caps. We still didn’t know what to expect, but knew we were flying the next day to Herat, a base in the west, which the B-team and some of the company leadership had already moved out to. We didn’t know what to expect once we got there, but were ready for whatever was coming our way.

That night I was too excited to sleep, so just stayed up on Skype with Cindy all night, since I had no idea when I’d be able to talk to her again. Chad was already back at Ft. Benning along with Johnson for Ranger school, so I had the house all to myself, and spent the entire night talking to Cindy and relentlessly making sure I had absolutely everything. We tried as hard as we could to not talk about the elephant in the room, but it brought us down to uncomfortable small talk and silence.

I checked and re-checked the backpack I would be carrying with me a million times over. We had already packed all of our tough boxes and mil-vans with our gear, which had been delivered to the airfield that night to be put on the plane we would be on, so anything I would need during the flight had to be in my backpack. I had both of my passports, a dozen copies of both my deployment and relaxed grooming standards orders, dollars and Euros, a few pairs of socks, water, my woobie, and a travel pillow for wherever we ended up.

We had been given the order to meet at the team room around noon the next day, as our flight wasn’t leaving until 1600 that afternoon, and I used every minute to talk to Cindy. The only break we took was for me to go around the corner and get my last taste of fresh German bread, and by the time I was packing my laptop in my backpack it was burning hot to the touch from being on all night.

It was extremely hard to hang up that day, and the conversation ended just like it had that first week when we started talking to each other again, when I was in North Carolina and we would spend an hour just trying to get off the phone and doing the old high school love-bird thing: “No, YOU hang up first”—until I realized I had just fifteen minutes to get to the base.

I did one last check to make sure I had everything, the lights were off, heater was set to keep the place above freezing, and I was good to go. I took full advantage of the last drive to the base for eight months and let my BMW fly on the highway. It was only a quick hop, but the streets weren’t too crowded, and I knew it would be a long time before I would get to drive anything that fast again, so I took full advantage. By the time I got to the team room all the guys were sitting around on the couches enjoying a nice cold beer. For all we knew it was the last one we’d be having for about eight months, so we took our time and enjoyed it as it went down.

Soon we got a call from HQ that the bus would arrive a few minutes later to take us to the airfield. We grabbed our bags, did one last check to make sure we had absolutely everything, and moved out. I checked my backpack again for my important stuff; I was good to go but checked one last time after getting on the bus.

I tried to take in everything possible on the ride to the airfield: the lush vegetation, the buildings, the cars, and the people. Where we were going may as well be an alien planet, and while Germany wasn’t the U.S. it was a beautiful country, and I wanted to remember it the best I could. We thought we would be flying straight to Herat in one flight, but as the bus pulled up to the airfield we found out there had been yet another last-minute change.

We would be flying to Rammstein that evening and then leaving on the long flight to Afghanistan first thing in the morning. Knowing that there would be a lot of “rolling with the punches” in our near future—and something like this wasn’t anything to get worked up about—we shrugged it off.

At least we were stopping in Rammstein, which was one of the largest bases in Germany and would offer plenty to keep us entertained, rather than having to scour the countryside in search for food. We loaded onto the plane, and less than an hour later we touched down at Rammstein. It seemed as if we could have just driven there, but looking at all the gear we had strapped to the floor of the aircraft I realized what a pain in the ass that would have been.

A bus was waiting for us when we touched down, and we loaded on to be taken to our barracks for the night. Our plane, we were told en route, would be taking off at 0500 the next morning so we needed to be up early. That was the plan as we checked into our barracks for the night, dropped off our gear, and met for dinner. But those plans changed as soon as we found out there was a pub with pool tables and Guinness next to the chow hall.

We didn’t exactly tie one on that night, but the Guinness was cold and flowing, and we knew we were heading out in the morning so we had a few. I was kicking myself for leaving my cell phone in my condo, but before heading back to the barracks I found a pay phone and figured out how to make a call with my credit card. I got Cindy’s voicemail, and looking at my watch saw that it was already midnight.

I tossed and turned all night and was up long before my alarm to take a shower and get ready. I marveled at my beard and long hair in the mirror that morning, admiring what a scruffy bastard I had become. It was way too early for breakfast, so we headed to the bus and then back out to the tarmac.

.

I was in and out of consciousness the whole flight; someone on the crew must have taken pity on us and kept the interior lights off the whole way. When they finally turned the lights on and made the announcement that we were about to land, my heart went from zero to sixty in a nanosecond. I remembered the aerobatic combat maneuvers we had taken when flying into Balad, and knew to get my rear in a seat, buckled in, and hang on to everything I wanted to keep ASAP. Everyone moved with a purpose to return to their seats, and sure enough within a few short minutes we were making the same quick bank-and-dive maneuver, and could hear the plane shoot off some chaff flares to avoid any heat-seeking missiles that had our names on them.

We were on the tarmac just a few minutes later, and as soon as the ramp was lowered we saw familiar faces. It was Tom, the B-team Operations Sergeant with his characteristic Irish smile, buzz-cut blondish-red hair, moustache, and thick, drooping shoulders. He’d brought a few of the B-team guys, who were waiting with trucks and forklifts to help us with our gear. Tom was the first person up the ramp of the plane, giving us each handshakes and a big “Welcome to Afghanistan.”

As soon as the engines shut down they got to work, helping us offload everything onto the trucks and get our gear in order. Then they led us to the other side of the base where there was a huge field of dirt, connexes, and mil-vans as far as the eye could see. From what I could gather the entire country was nothing but a huge dirt and rock pile, and there wasn’t a single blade of grass visible anywhere. There weren’t any permanent, hard structures in sight, but rather temporary, aluminum-sided buildings stacked on top of each other everywhere we looked, just like you would see at a construction site.

The forklift had followed the trucks, and as Tom pointed out our “designated storage area” (which was just a part of a big dirt field filled with storage containers) the forklift driver set our stack of tough boxes and mil-van down next to each other.

“It’s safe enough here,” Tom said as we hesitated. “You won’t have room for all of that crap where you’re staying, and hopefully you’ll be on your way very shortly. As long as you have locks on it, it’s good,” he said as he walked back to his truck and motioned for us to get in.

The next place he took us was to the HQ, which was little more than four of these temporary rooms stacked two-high with a covering over the top between them. He took us into a room that was serving as the Operations room and gave us our first briefing in-country.

“Welcome to Herat, guys,” he said with a smile. “This base is half Spanish and half Italian, so the food is pretty amazing. They both have their own chow halls, so you can pick and choose where you eat each meal, as you have access to both of them. My advice is to stick to the Spanish side for breakfast, lunch and dinner you can make you own minds up about. There are coffee shops set up all around the base, and of course there are a few bars. You’re allowed to have two beers a night as long as you are here, but that’s all. They take Euros everywhere but have no ATM’s, so hopefully you guys brought some cash.”

He turned around and pointed to the map on the wall, just on the western border with Iran. “We are right here,” he said, “and just about ten kilometers down the road is a small American FOB. There shouldn’t be much reason to go over there, but our HUMVEE’s should be arriving soon, and as soon as they do you can take them down there for a test drive. They have American chow, so if you’re missing that already it may be worth the trip.”

He yelled out of the door at Corey, who was walking between the buildings. “Corey, can you show these guys to their tent? I’ve got a meeting in few minutes, and I need to talk to the leadership alone.” Corey stepped into the doorway, flashed us a smile, and motioned to follow him as Jake and our new Captain stayed behind to talk with Tom.

Corey led us across the base, through a maze of temporary buildings and tents, and then along another dirt loop until we finally arrived at our new home: a tent. In all fairness it was pretty large for a tent, but once inside we realized we were going to be getting very comfy with each other for the duration of our stay.

It was lined front to back with two level Army cots, six on each side and about a foot apart. Thankfully that would be enough for us to keep our gear on top and sleep on the bottom, since we didn’t have any room to put much else. Corey offered to give us a quick tour of the base, and as we had our weapons and all of our other possessions with us we could lock them up in his room as we walked around.

The base was not very big, maybe two square miles or so it seemed, but was bustling. Corey and the B-team had been there for a week before us so he had a pretty good lay of the land and had gotten to know some of the personalities. It was an ISAF base, and was divided in half with one side being Italian and the other side Spanish. Our tent and HQ were on the Italian side, and while there was no specific indicator of which side belonged to which, there was a large dirt courtyard in the middle with flagpoles that demarcated the end of one and the beginning of the other.

So that we wouldn’t have to backtrack, Corey walked us all the way to the other side and we started working our way back to the tent. The Spanish side was more one-story buildings than the Italian side had been, but looked just as unorganized. He would point out the coffee shops (they were surprisingly numerous), medical tents, and intel tents. He would wave and peek his head in to say hello to people every few steps. There were MEDEVAC helicopters located on this base, and Corey took us in to meet the pilots and dispatchers, and we worked out a deal for Jason and I to do some ride-alongs with them if we were there long enough.

As we walked across the courtyard and back to the Italian side it was much more of the same: coffee shops, chow halls, merchants, and even a bar. Before we headed back to the tent Corey took us through a closed gate and into a compound that took up a corner of the base. He saw a soldier he recognized getting into one of their armored vehicles and waved to him, to which he responded by waving us over.

“Hey, Nico,” he said as we approached. “This is my old team, they just got in today. Anything you think would be important to tell them about?” Nico just smiled, hopped out of the truck, and waved for us to follow him to another corner of their compound.

Nico and all the guys on this compound, Corey explained, were one of the Italian SEAL units, and were pretty much the only active combat unit on the whole base. We followed as Nico took us into what looked like a junkyard, walked over, and stopped in front of one of their armored vehicles. It looked like it had been torn in half.

Nico told us in his heavy Italian accent, “This a one was hit just a few days ago. Three of our guys die.” He looked back at us to make sure his English had gotten the point across as we fanned out around the truck to see the damage.

“IED?” asked Josh. Nico nodded. “These things are up-armored, right?” asked Josh as he looked into the skeleton of the truck and put his arm through the large gash in the side.

“Si,” he answered, “but the bombs they get bigger, armor stay same, so this is what we get.”

We walked around and examined the damage for a few minutes before Nico had to leave. Corey let us stick around and investigate for a few minutes more before leading us back to our tent. By the time we returned The Captain and Jake were already there, and they asked Corey if we could have some privacy to go over a few things. Corey told us he’d be around the HQ whenever we wanted to get our stuff, and we all thanked him for the tour.

“Any time,” he said, flashing his GI Joe smile and heading out.

“Have a seat, guys,” The Captain told us, as we grabbed a bunk and sat down, while Jake and he stood in the middle to give us our instructions. We hadn’t had much time yet with The Captain, and as he stood giving us our first pieces of information in a combat zone, we were still each sizing him up in our heads. He stood just a shade under 6 feet tall with short brown hair, an athletic build, slight Midwestern accent and carried himself with as much confidence as I’ve ever seen in an officer.

“It looks like we won’t be staying here very long, and will be making the trip to Kabul at some point soon but we don’t know exactly when. We’re going to be getting on a plane whenever the opportunity presents itself, so we may be leaving here in a hurry. All of the other teams are already either in Kabul or scattered out across the country to their respective locations, and it looks like we’ll be going to RC-Central and RC-East. This whole country is divided into five parts, with RC-Central being in charge of Kabul. That’s where Charlie Company is, and it looks like we’ll be shacked up with them until we find something better.”

At that point Jake stepped in to give his part.

“We’ll be waiting around here for at least a few days, so we have a few rules of the road that we have to abide by while we’re on this base. Firstly, the Sergeant Major wants us all in uniform, complete with flags and patches while we’re here. Second, we are to keep our weapons on us at all times, but aren’t allowed to keep them locked and loaded, and can’t even have a magazine in them while we’re on base. If we leave we can lock and load as we’re going out the gate, but no other time.

“We have sensitive items here with us, and you’re not allowed in any of the buildings here with backpacks so we’ll have to keep someone here in the tent to watch them whenever we leave. We can just eat and do everything in two groups so that nobody is left out. Also, the Sergeant Major said that while we can drink while we are here, we are limited to a very strict two-drink maximum and that’s non-negotiable. There are two chow halls, and I’m getting pretty hungry, so we’ll go eat while you guys go get the gear and bring it back here. We’ll come back and tag you out, then you can go.”

We headed out of the tent, and while Jake and The Captain broke off to go to the chow hall, deep in conversation, we headed back to Corey’s hooch to get the bags. It was only a few minutes back and forth, and as soon as we were back in the tent we realized that the hardest part about being here would be keeping ourselves entertained. I had been smart enough to load as many videos as I could fit onto my laptop before leaving Germany, so I pulled it out and started an episode of Arrested Development to keep us entertained while we waited. Jake and The Captain were back by the time the episode was over, and before we left Herat we had gone through the entire first and second seasons.

.

We chose the Italian chow hall that first night, and were quite surprised at how good it was. The Italians didn’t let war get in the way of their eating, and the food was pretty damn tasty for being in the middle of a desert. By the time we got back to the tent Jake and The Captain had showered and changed into their uniforms, and after giving us directions to the nearest showers we did the same.

Once we were back, showered, and dressed it only took a few minutes of sitting around looking at each other to get very, very bored. I remembered that the Italian bar was just around the corner from us, and suggested that we go grab a drink and call it a night. The Captain volunteered to stay with the gear while we went, which was fine by us!

We went into the building that Corey had pointed out as the “bar,” and it was jam- packed. As we walked up to the counter we noticed Corey sitting at a table with Nico and a bunch of other Italians and stopped off to say hello. When we got to the counter we noticed that not only were they selling beer but had cigars as well, so we each bought our two beers and a cigar and made out way out to the patio to get away from the noise and talk among ourselves.

I was amazed at just how dark it got past the walls of the base, as there really weren’t any ambient lights coming from anywhere. The only light came from the stars, and we looked up and marveled at just how many and how bright they were as we puffed on our cigars. We made small talk, and nobody brought up the elephant in the room of just what the hell was going to happen next. Even Jake was downright hospitable that night, and we talked under the stars like we were having a few drinks and cigars at a pub back in Germany. Ray was the first to finish his beers and got up to get another.

“Two-drink limit, Ray,” said Jake, and Ray shot him back a grin.

“Just a soda,” he said as he walked off.

We continued with our conversation, and Ray was back in just a few moments, obviously very pissed off.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jake asked.

“Bro, you won’t believe what just happened. I was in line to get a soda and this Italian guy came up and started talking to me. He stood next to me and asked my name, and of course I told him. He looked down at my uniform and laughed, then said, ‘Thanks, Ray. Now I know your full name, unit, and rank, and can find out anything I want about you.’ He started to walk off before I realized what he was talking about, and I went to clock him but Corey stopped me. That damn greasy Italian WOP dago bastard just snaked all of my info….no offense Rob” (I have a lot of Italian blood in me).

“None taken” I shot back at him, thinking the same thing myself.

Jake just gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything. We knew it was a dumb move for the Sergeant Major to put us in uniforms with all of our patches on, long hair, and beards, especially here in Herat where NATO troops had been caught selling information to the Taliban not too long ago. We knew that if someone was going to be doing that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell us about it, but it was still something that needed to be brought to the Sergeant Major’s attention —which it was the next day, and thankfully by lunch we were back in civilian clothes.

That pretty much killed any good mood that anyone was in, so we rubbed out our cigars, finished off the last sips of beer, and headed back to the tents. Most of the guys started to pull out books, PSP’s, and laptops, but I knew just what I wanted to do. I sat down on the edge of Matty’s cot as he was playing his PSP and asked him the question he would become very familiar with over the next eight months.

“Matty,” I said in my sweetest voice, “can I borrow the sat phone?” Without even looking up or pausing his game he answered.

“Sure, brother. It’s in my backpack. Just make sure that you plug it in to charge after you’re done.”

“Awesome,” I said as I fingered through his backpack to pull it out, and was outside of the tent and looking for the signal as quickly as I could. It took a little bit of walking around to find enough signal to make the call, but as soon as I had three out of four bars I froze and started dialing.

Thankfully Cindy had gotten used to seeing the crazy numbers that appear on Caller ID from a military sat phone; she picked up on the first ring.

“Baby!” she yelled. “I didn’t think I was going to hear from you for a long time!”

I was so happy to be talking to her that I almost didn’t know what to say.

“Me either, babe, but we’re here, somewhat settled in, but will be moving again soon.” She started to ask me about the flight and how the trip was so far, and that was when something else started; something I would become all too familiar with.

I knew exactly what it was as soon as I heard the whistle of the first incoming round—and I had to get off the phone as soon as possible so that she wouldn’t be scared. I started talking very loudly hoping she wouldn’t hear the explosions.

“Hey baby, there’s a lot of guys that need to use the phone. I really have to go, just wanted to tell you that I’m OK and I’ll call again soon, I love you!” I hoped it would work, but in the pause before she started talking I could hear the whistle of multiple incoming rockets this time, and they seemed like they were going right over my head.

She didn’t skip a beat, and if she did hear them she was a trooper because as I heard the subsequent explosions just over the other wall of the base she was saying, “OK baby. I love you. Call me as soon as you can and be safe.”

I threw in one more “I love you,” hung up, and was on my way back inside the tent as a few more rockets screamed over our heads. All of the guys were up, but there really wasn’t anything we could do. We left the tent, headed to a concrete bunker just a few feet away, and waited through another few rockets flying and landing at various spots on the base. We looked at Jake and The Captain with a “Let’s go get ’em” expression, and The Captain was the first to speak.

“Oh, hell no,” he said. “This base has QRF that is designed to do that. We don’t know where the hell we’re going, don’t have any trucks to go in, don’t have any plans, our radios are in the HQ, and we are strictly forbidden to even leave the base. Don’t even think about it.”

As the all-clear signal started to echo via the base loudspeakers we came out from the bunker and made our way back to the tent. Just before we walked in, Ray, who was right in front of me, turned around with a big smile.

“Welcome to Afghanistan, Rob,” he said with a grin.

“Welcome to Afghanistan, Ray,” I said right back to him.

Chapter 14

West to East

Herat was Groundhog Day; the food was great, the people were not very concerned with the war going on outside the base walls, and we were bored. The highlight of our day would be deciding whether we would eat at the Spanish or Italian chow hall for lunch and dinner, hitting the gym two or three times a day, and watching the movies and TV shows we had brought on our laptops.

Maybe I should explain a little bit how OEF [Operation Enduring Freedom, which encompasses Afghanistan, Africa, and any subsequent War on Terror altercations] and OIF [Operation Iraqi Freedom] work as far as Special Forces are concerned. When you deploy to one of these theatres, your unit is given a very large swath of the country. The first ODA’s into Afghanistan and Iraq divided up the entire country, but now that there are larger elements moving in, a group will generally take the country for the duration of a deployment, with each Battalion splitting it up into AO’s [Areas of Operation] and dividing them up among the companies and ODA’s. When you are tasked with your AO you are given a very vague mission, like “Stop all lines of enemy men, weapons and equipment movement to Kabul” or something of the sort.

One of the major things that differentiate Special Forces from other units is how you complete your mission. Many other units, after being given their AO, are then handed down each mission from intel units, their higher command, or another unit that needs their help. Essentially, they are sent to a base and wait for further instructions.

In SF all you get is one vague mission, and it’s your job to figure out what the mission actually means (your leaders’ intent), then figure out how to go about completing it successfully. This is why Green Berets have an Intel Sergeant (18F) organic to a team, and why we each have some training in intelligence collection and exploitation and our own mission planning structure (we utilize decentralized planning, with the ability to operate completely “off the grid”). We have to move in to an area, find out who the bad guys are, and then figure out the best way to go and get them. Instead of our command telling us who to go get, we tell them who we’re targeting and then roll them up.

An AO is usually decided at very high levels (many SF missions have to be signed off by the Secretary of Defense), and as we were there as a company the going was a little tough. We would eventually be a battalion, as Charlie Company was already in Kabul and Alpha Company would relieve us in eight months, but at the beginning the leadership had their work cut out for them. As The Colonel and Battalion Sergeant Major battled to get us a mission and AO, we waited, ate, lifted weights, and watched movies in our hot and dusty tent.

Just like back home, our leadership would report to the HQ every morning and evening, hoping that there would be some news, and every day they would come back to the tent stone-faced. A few of the other teams in the company had been pushed out to other locations already, so we were eager to find our home and get to work.

There were cafés and gyms scattered around the base, and we did our best to keep busy but were all chomping at the bit; the mortars and rockets would come almost every night, and to just sit there and not be able to do anything felt like a huge waste of our “talent.”

Things picked up about four days after our arrival, however, as Tom popped his head into our tent one afternoon with a big grin.

“We got HUMVEE’s,” he smiled and then popped right back out. Very curious, we followed him across the base to the airfield, where there was a cargo plane offloading HUMVEE’s. When the first one pulled up and stopped just a few feet from us, Cory popped out smiling like it was a brand new BMW.

“What do you think?”

The rest of the day was spent tinkering with the trucks, checking out the new version of up-armor that had been placed all over them, which weighed them down but supposedly made them safe from RPG’s and (some) IED’s. The glass windows had been made amazingly thick, and you could see by the shocks that they were carrying much more weight than they had been designed for. These were the B-team vehicles, and we helped them start putting weapons on to outfit them. After we were done Tom, who knew we were eager to do something, asked if we wanted to take them for a test drive.

“Hell yes!” shouted Ray before anyone else could say anything. The Captain just shot him a “Shut up” glance and asked Tom how long we had. Tom told him we could head over to the American FOB for dinner and then come back, just to get our spacing down and to see the country a bit. It wasn’t a mission, it wasn’t even a log run (logistical mission), but it was something—and we took it.

We had all our body armor on and guns in hand within a few short minutes, and as soon as Matty and the B-team Echos had the crypto loaded into the radios we were on our way. As we pulled out the gate for the first time I was a little surprised to see an actual hardball, concrete road leading to what looked like a highway (well, an Afghan highway, not quite the four-laner you’d have in the States). As we stepped on the gas I heard the engines begin to whine and felt a rush of excitement.

Eight months later this would all be pretty mundane for us, as just going out of the gate lost its luster after a while, but the first time is exhilarating and was the same on every deployment. We drove a few hundred meters, past tall palm trees and a replica of a fighter jet to the main road, took a left, and headed to the American base for dinner.

.

Looking at the desert speeding past us on either side it was much as I had imagined.

There was dirt and dust as far as the eye could see, and just a few scattered mud-and-brick buildings dotting the horizon. We were surprised that there weren’t any other vehicles on the road, but that was probably good for everyone on our first trip out of the gate.

I was seated in the rear left seat behind Jason, who was driving, and I marveled at the dusty and desolate scenery. There were none of the majestic mountains I had seen on the Internet, and not even any other people. As we drove I could hear and see Josh, who was on the .50 cal in the gunner’s turret, rotating the turret around to get familiar and comfortable, and to work the grease into the bearings to make it move more smoothly.

The new up-armored HUMVEE has a turret mount in the middle of the truck, which comes out of the roof and can swivel 360 degrees. By the end of our deployment the military would be starting the transition to the MRAP vehicles with completely automated turrets, but for now it was manual and a lot more fun.

The ten-minute trip down the road was short, and I spent the entire time listening to the whine of the engine, the clinking of the turret going back and forth, and marveling at the desert sand that filled my entire field of view. I could see the American base from a distance, and once we pulled in the front gate I was amazed at just how much it looked like a transient camp. The U.S. military had been in Afghanistan for quite some time by that point, but every building looked like the plywood, artificial buildings that filled the MOUT city at Ft. Benning, where I had originally learned urban warfare tactics. We would soon learn that these buildings were called “B-huts,” and weren’t much more than four walls and a roof.

We found our way to the chow hall, parked the trucks and walked inside. It was nice to see Americans, and the food was your buck-standard American military chow, which was exactly what we needed. We grabbed dinner and took our seats, very quickly resorting to our normal jokes and laughter, which didn’t seem to fit in very well; most of the other soldiers from the base didn’t have a lot of laughs to go around.

There was another ODA on the base, so thankfully we didn’t get any flack about our beards, long hair, and civilian clothes, which we would soon find were a target for regular Army Sergeants Major, who seemed to have nothing better to do on American bases than give us grief about our appearance. But thankfully at most bases that housed ODA’s they were sick and tired of trying to fight our way of doing things, and decided the fight wasn’t worth it anymore.

We took an hour to eat our fried chicken and mac and cheese before heading back to the trucks and to the NATO base. It had been a nice trip, was good to get the lay of the land and see some other Americans, but that was about it. Nothing short of a mission was going to get our blood pumping at this point.

The next morning, however, brought some sunshine to our lives. A few of us had woken up early to run a few laps around the base, and after we finished we headed to the Spanish chow hall for breakfast. It just so happened that the entire leadership and B-team were in there when we arrived, and we sat next to Tim, our old Chief.

We made small talk, had a few laughs, and told him how bored we were. He had a little grin on his face the entire time we talked, and as he finished his meal and stood up, that grin turned into a full-blown smile.

“You guys need to tell Jake and The Captain to come to the HQ as soon as they can; we have some news for you.” With that, his grin got even bigger, and he turned to put his tray up and leave.

We just looked at each other, hoping it was the news we had been waiting for that we finally would have a job. We were back at the tent as fast as possible, and as soon as we passed on the info The Captain and Jake grabbed their green books of power and headed to the HQ. It was a long time before they returned, and we could barely contain ourselves while we waited. Too excited to sleep, watch movies, or do much of anything, we just sat around looking at our watches. Finally, after about two hours, Jake walked into the tent, followed by The Captain, and had us gather around.

“We’re going to Kabul tonight,” Jake announced quietly. “Well, half of us are going tonight; the other half of you will meet us there tomorrow afternoon. There is a C-130 that flies there every day; we need to go tonight to arrange all of our stuff, the other half of you will fly tomorrow with the gear, and then we go to work.” He looked around at all of us, our eyes and ears completely fixated on his every word. “We’ll be working with Charlie Company for now, helping them run their operations around the city until we get our own mission.”

Well, it’s better than nothing, I thought.

Jake looked around and divided the team into groups that would be leaving that night and those who would follow the next day. In essence, he divided the team based on leadership, with most of the E-7’s and above going ahead that night and the rest of us following the next day. It made perfect sense, as an E-6 wasn’t going to be able to pull any weight or get anything done working with other units for coordination, so we got started getting everything ready. The people in the second group headed back out to the field that housed all of our mil-vans and equipment to make sure everything was ready to fly.

We were a little bummed that we still didn’t have our own mission, but were glad to be getting the hell off this base and at least on to some action. After all of our equipment was checked, double-check and re-checked we headed back to the tents to pack our personal gear. Then we hit the gym, one more trip to the Italian chow hall for our last dinner there, and out to the airfield with The Captain, Jake, Josh, and Chris to see them off.

As they boarded the plane and it revved its engines to take off, we were filled with excitement that we’d soon be doing the same thing. The dirt and sand had been causing havoc on our mucous membranes, and we were all blowing mud and blood out of our noses by that point, so we couldn’t wait to get into central Afghanistan where the weather and scenery were a little more temperate. And we could finally focus on something besides being bored.

That night we went back to the cantina for a few more beers and a cigar, and tried as hard as we could to keep the conversation off what we were all thinking. It lasted about ten minutes, and then everyone was brimming with stories and wonder, talking about the rumors we were hearing from various members of the B-team and buddies of ours on other ODA’s scattered around the country. We went back to the tent early to try to get a good night of sleep, as we knew the next day would be very long. We really weren’t sure exactly where in Kabul we’d be going or staying, but had our sat phone and would just wait on word from the leadership.

.

That night and the next day couldn’t have gone by any slower. Our flight was at 1400, so by noon we had all of our gear loaded onto the C-130, lunch in our bellies, and had said goodbye to the B-team. We were determined not to miss that flight no matter what happened, so we sat around on the side of the runway, waiting for the aircrew to arrive so we could get going.

Unlike the rest of the flights we had taken up to that point which had been reserved for us, this plane was doing a log run, and there were a mixture of civilians and soldiers from other units on board. It was a short flight, and looking up and down the row of seats I could see all our guys tapping their toes and fingers in anticipation of what was to come.

We had to wear our body armor and helmets and carry our weapons for the flight, and because all the seats were against the skin of the plane looking inward it was tough to maneuver yourself around to look out the window, but we all did. I watched as the dirt-and-rock-filled terrain slowly transitioned into mountain peaks jutting up to the heavens with their white, snowy tops, and the barren landscape slowly became dotted with green grass and fields of rice paddies.

As the plane started to make its sharp descent and go into pre-landing maneuvers, we held onto our rifles and bags tightly, gritting our teeth and hoping that life was about to get much more exciting. We landed and hoped that somebody we knew and recognized would be waiting for us, but no dice. A contractor with a forklift soon arrived and started to pick up and remove gear when Ray chased him down. We weren’t allowed to keep our stuff there in the middle of the runway, so Ray re-directed him to take the mil-vans and cargo packs to the side and we set up camp there. Matty immediately pulled out the sat phone and turned it on, hoping that some form of communication would come.

After a few hours of standing around and looking at each other, we decided we might as well go figure out what this place had to offer, so we took turns going around in groups of two while the others would stay and guard the gear. As one group would return they would report about whatever they found, and then the next would set off to see what else there was. I went in the second group, and by the time we returned there was someone new standing with the guys.

As J-Lo and I walked up we saw a black guy with 101st Airborne division patches on but no SF tab, so we wondered if he was one of our guys or just curious. As we got closer the E-7 introduced himself as our liaison, and told us that a forklift would be coming to move our stuff again. There had been intelligence that a VBIED [Vehicle-Borne Improvised Explosive Device] was on the road near the airport, and the French-run base where we would be staying had locked the place down, not letting anyone in but also not letting anyone out, even to pick us up at the airport.

The 101st E-7 led us over to a small wooden building a few hundred meters off the runway where the forklift was already dropping our gear. The sun was starting to go down by that point, and it was getting pretty cold as the darkness set in. He began to disappear into the building and re-appear with cots, which quickly led us to understand that we weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

We helped him with the rest of the cots, and he gave us a quick briefing after we set them up around our gear. We would have to spend the night there, and if we wanted we could take turns sleeping inside the building; there wasn’t much room but there was a heater, and someone needed to be outside with our gear on watch (we had all of our heavy and sniper weapons, NODS, optics, and all sorts of other sensitive items there).

He told us he’d be back in the morning with an update, and with a wave goodbye we were left by ourselves on the airfield. We devised a plan to take turns getting dinner, and by the time J-Lo and I returned the airfield was completely dark and the temperature was well into the low 30’s. The computers in the building were all locked, so we decided to call it a night.

Ray and I took the first shift sleeping outside with the gear, while J-Lo, Jason, and Matty slept inside. We would rotate every two hours, and on our second rotation outside I was awakened by a cold, wet muzzle in my face. I thought I was dreaming about Cindy’s beagle, Shakespeare, when the hot breath of a German Sheppard jolted me awake.

I sat up and saw two German MP’s standing in front of me with quizzical expressions. I pointed to the mil-vans, standing seven feet high above us and full of our gear, simply said “Guard,” and they got it. They walked away with their dogs just as silently as they had arrived.

I couldn’t believe how cold it had become. I was in my big black sleeping bag with my woobie, fully dressed with a sock cap on—and was still freezing cold. The breath coming out of my mouth quickly turned into condensation as it left my body, and I was surprised it wasn’t turning into ice crystals mid-air from the intense cold.

We did one more rotation before dawn, and thankfully I was inside sleeping under the heater when the E-7 came back just after the sun had risen. Our guys had been cleared to leave the base, and would be arriving sometime in the next hour. We had known showers were going to be an infrequent luxury on this deployment, so we grabbed some water from our bags, brushed our teeth, washed our faces, and were ready to go. It was about two hours later when we saw the procession of HUMVEE’s with a flatbed truck in their midst making a beeline for us—better late than never.

Our guys motioned for us to get in the trucks, and our E-7 liaison directed the same forklift operator we’d seen the previous day to load our gear on the back of the flatbed. We were on the road in no time, and were filled with excitement and eagerness. Camp Warehouse, the French base that would be our home for the next month, was only about a fifteen-minute drive from the airfield, but this drive was vastly different from the one between the bases in Herat. While those roads had been deserted with nothing around to see, this was Kabul, the capital, and was the opposite.

As soon as we left the gate of Kabul Airport there were shops and homes on either side of the road as far as you could see, full of movement, bright colors, and the acrid smoke of fires cooking breakfast and keeping people warm. The Afghanis would stop and stare as we drove past, and every time I saw someone on a cell phone my heart would skip a beat as I wondered if I would immediately be hearing the explosion of an IED. We were on the main road shortly, which was just as crowded as New York City during rush hour, without the driving etiquette observed by the famously polite, calm New Yorkers

The main road was just a simple crumbling concrete two-lane on either side of a median raised off the ground and filled with dirt. There were cars everywhere, and people walking up and down the street.

While the pedestrians stopped and stared at our procession, the drivers would do everything they could to pretend they didn’t notice us. It was rush hour in Kabul—one of the ugliest sights I’ve ever seen. I have lived in two of the worst rush-hour traffic locations in the world (Los Angeles and Houston), so was no stranger to traffic, but in those cities you don’t really have to worry about a bomb exploding or being ambushed, which brings a whole new level of aggravation to gridlock.

The guys driving were from Battalion HQ and had been in Kabul longer than anyone, so they really knew the drill. Before I could ask what we were going to do they were already taking “evasive driving measures” to bypass the traffic. Anytime you are stopped in Iraq or Afghanistan you are considered a sitting duck, and with a known VBIED on this very road somewhere we just weren’t going to do that. The Afghanis all knew this as well, and did their best to move out of the way as we played the role of a fire truck moving through a downtown in the U.S., driving anywhere we could find a hole.

This was a whole new level of driving for me, and was quite amazing. As I looked around at the crowded streets and the locals driving their cars, the sounds of guys up in the turrets constantly swiveling put me a little more at ease. From the back seat of an up-armored HUMVEE you can’t see very much, but the guys up top had a 360-degree view of what was going on. We were wearing our headphones and were plugged into the net, so we could hear every communication between the drivers and their gunners up top.

The gunners would announce anything suspicious, the drivers would let the gunners know of any sharp and sudden turns coming up, and they would accordingly let the drivers know of any holes in the traffic ahead that they could take. We moved surprisingly fast for it being rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic, never having to let off the gas; the local drivers knew well enough to get out of our way (we were treated as the hot potato because they didn’t want to be near us either if and when we got ambushed or IED’d).

I was relieved when we finally took a right off the main road and into a small base with the sign “Camp Warehouse” out front. We were stopped at the front gate by men in French military uniforms, who came to check our credentials and immediately began looking with mirrors under and around our vehicles for anything suspicious. Part of our unit was already living here, so they had coordinated that we would be coming back and we were let through the gates with minimal heartache.

Driving along the dirt road and through the camp it was obvious that this one was much more organized than the ones at Herat and Kabul airports, with the buildings having an obvious planning to their structure and location. And you could definitely tell this was a NATO base; every hundred meters or so you would pass a different gate with the flag of its country.

After a few turns here and there we finally came to a massive gate surrounded by barbed wire and could see large white aluminum buildings stacked on top of each other behind them. As the lead driver radioed in, I saw the massive gate begin to open and reveal our new home. The first thing I saw was a large courtyard, maybe a hundred square meters, with HUMVEE’s, local civilian vehicles, and ATV’s lined up in order.

Each of the HUMVEE’s had been modified, customized, and fully outfitted with as many weapons as it could carry. There was a large wooden building that sort of resembled a tiki hut or beach bar on our left as we pulled in, and the stack of white buildings to our right, with a small, dark, one-story wooden building in front. My favorite sight, of course, was the flagpole there, built into the concrete patio, which had an American flag flying in all of its glory at full mast in the Afghan wind.

As we parked the vehicles in their designated place, Jake and The Captain walked out of the wooden building (which I would later find out was named “The Death Star,” our HQ) and headed straight for us. They both were smiling, which I took as a good sign. They signaled for us to circle around them, and as soon as we were all there Jake made an announcement.

“We have a mission tonight,” he said. “We aren’t leaving until dark, so get your shit unloaded and get a room. We’re upstairs, any room to the right after you walk in the front door that doesn’t already have stuff in it is ours.” He looked down at his watch to check the time. “It’s still breakfast if you guys are hungry. After you unload your gear and get a room, have someone show you to the chow hall. As soon as you’re finished, meet in my room and we’ll go over the mission.” With that he looked at us and smiled. “Welcome to Kabul, guys,” he said, and walked back into the Death Star.

Chris and Josh arrived to greet and show us to our rooms, then we went out the back gate and to the chow hall. We had special passes we had to use to eat there, which Josh told us to guard with our lives since it was quite difficult to get another. The Italians and Spaniards had some pretty good food, but the French chow hall was not to be outdone. I’d spent some time living in France during a study abroad my last semester of college, and was hoping that the breakfast here wouldn’t be the same as what we had eaten there every morning. As was the case in Africa, breakfast in Amiens had consisted of bread, coffee, and a little cereal and milk. I didn’t want to spend eight months starting my day off like that.

Thankfully, though, the French take combat meals seriously (their MRE’s, as I would find working with the French Foreign Legion, are downright gourmet, with duck pâté, sweets, and a full five-course meal). The opening to the chow hall was an anteroom, with sinks lining the entire ten-foot room to wash up for eating. We hadn’t showered in a few days at this point, so everyone washed up pretty well and even gave their face another scrub. When we walked through the double-doors into the main serving room, it was much nicer than I had expected to see there. While American chow halls basically look like they are situated in a high school gym, this one was much cozier.

There was a long line of servers and food, and they had all of the breakfast fixings, which was a bit abnormal for a NATO chow hall, but I wasn’t complaining. We grabbed eggs, potatoes, and meat and headed back to the dining area. And they had any type of caffeine you could imagine; I grabbed an espresso out of a machine and took my seat with the guys.

We asked Josh and Chris, who had been nice enough to wait for us to eat, everything about what was going on, but they just looked around and said we shouldn’t talk there. We finally got the hint, and since there wasn’t anything else on our minds we ate in silence, with the occasional joking insult and ribbing at one another—just to know we were still alive.

.

With a full belly and the excitement of an upcoming mission, we headed back to the compound to get the scoop, and once we got into Jake and The Captain’s room they dropped the intel bomb on us. They had a map of Kabul on the wall, with all of the POI’s (Points of Interest) and major routes outlined. The Captain briefed us on what we would be doing, which sounded pretty interesting.

Our mission for that night, as The Captain outlined, would be to conduct a Low-Vis recon (Low Visibility Reconnaissance: basically a covert reconnaissance, in civilian vehicles and clothes so as not to draw attention to yourself; high visibility would be HUMVEE’s and uniforms) of a potential target for the next night.

We would be splitting up into two teams, taking two of the civilian vans and gathering as many details about the route, area, and target (just about ten miles away from our base) as possible. The Captain outlined our route on the map, and we paid very close attention to the detail. He pointed out the location of the house we were targeting, and had a few aerial photos of the neighborhood for us to review to get a good idea of what we’d be getting into.

After The Captain gave us all the info about where we’d be going and what we’d be doing, Jake broke us up into teams. Matty would be driving the first truck, with The Captain riding shotgun, Jason as the medic in the back along with Josh and Ray. Our truck would be in the rear; I would drive and Jake would ride shotgun, with J-Lo and Chris in the back. After we got our instructions we headed out to the courtyard to look the trucks over and stock them with whatever we needed.

There wasn’t much room in them; these were Middle Eastern-style mini-vans with just a driver and passenger seat, and benches along the sides in the back for any other passengers. Chris and Jason were much taller than I was, and looking at Chris hunched over in the back I knew it wasn’t going be comfortable for him. At least we wouldn’t be wearing the typical heavy body armor complete with racks of ammo, so hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad.

Jason and I got to work putting med bags in the trucks and loading them with whatever we could, while the weapons guys stashed them with extra ammo, frag grenades, and AT4 shoulder-fired missiles (the American answer to the RPG) throughout. Matty made sure each of our radios had all the right frequencies and crypto loaded, and after a quick radio check it was time to get our personal gear ready.

We had been told prior to deployment to pack for any type of mission: High Vis, Low Vis, SR (Special Reconnaissance), DA (Direct Action), mountain, and anything else that might come up, so we had plenty of gear to choose from. Our team had a lot of experience doing SR missions in Bosnia before I arrived, so we had all the Recon gear we would need.

Back in my room I went through my bags and pulled out all my gear, but before I started getting it straightened out I had something more important to do. I dug through my ruck to find my Texas flag, which I hung over my bed and photographed. Since I had my camera out, I snapped a picture of my bearded face and long hair for Cindy as well.

After the important stuff was taken care of, it was time to pick out the gear that might end up saving my life that night. Low Vis doesn’t mean unarmed or unsafe, just that you have to blend in. To do that, we had all bought local garb from the vendors in Herat when we arrived there, and so I pulled out my Pashtun hat and dish-dash (colorful men’s scarf). I had brought some very bland clothing that was big enough to conceal my second-chance vest (Low Vis body armor… it will stop a bullet but your ribs or anything on the other side of the round will still be broken) low-profile rack to hold my ammo magazines, and wouldn’t attract attention.

If everything went to plan we wouldn’t even be getting out of the trucks that night, so I figured nobody would see my 511 tactical pants, which I loaded up with pistol magazines and my warrior belt to hold my pistol. I made sure all the magazines in my low-profile rack were good to go, then focused on my go bag (the bag you always keep in your vehicle in case you get blown out and have to go on the run; it usually contains a bottle or two of water, some snacks, a map, money, GPS, and most important, extra ammo).

I loaded a few extra magazines of 5.56 and 9mm ammo to throw in there, added some snacks I had brought, and was good to go. We still had a few hours before heading out, so I decided to get some shut-eye.

The hard sides of the building, actual mattress, and functioning air conditioning were the perfect combination, and I slept like the dead until I heard Ray walk in, lift up the flag, and whisper.

“Hey, Rob, we’re going to grab chow,” he said with a big grin.

“Why are you whispering?” I whispered.

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” he giggled as he whispered back.

I just shook my head and followed him out into the hall, where the rest of the guys were waiting to go eat. The sun was already on its way down, so I knew it was time to start getting ready. We ate a pretty quick and light meal (word to the wise: never go on a mission with a full stomach) and were back in our rooms getting ready in no time.

We met at the trucks as the light was beginning to turn to dusk, and since we were all dressed in our Afghani garb with rifles in hand, somebody got the bright idea to take a picture before we headed out. We all did our various poses; team picture with nobody smiling, individual tough guy and goofy pictures, and then it was time to saddle up.

Just as we would repeat countless times during the deployment, we made a circle in front of the trucks to go over the mission one last time. The Captain briefed everything about our route and mission, just as he’d done that afternoon. As he finished, Jake gave his speech on how we would be organized, what we would do if we came into contact, how we would react if we hit an IED, and various other scenarios. As the sun made its final descent beyond the horizon, we turned on our radios to do a final comms (communications) check.

Every member of an ODA is given a certain alphanumerical designation to identify him by team, MOS, and rank (junior versus senior); for example, I was BD01, designating the second truck, senior medic. Different teams have different protocols they follow for this, and when you do a coordinated hit with multiple teams it can get complicated keeping track of all the guys. We stood in a circle and called out our alphanumeric designation, and everyone would give the thumbs-up if they heard you (this meant your radio was working). After the radio check we loaded into the trucks and were pulling out of the heavy gates of our compound not long after the sun went down.

It was a little more complicated communicating with the soldiers at the front of the camp, since they weren’t exactly used to people leaving the base dressed like us and driving civilian cars. That, plus the soldiers only spoke French. There were very tight regulations for monitoring which locals came on the base to work and when they left, and because our vehicle wasn’t anywhere on their list, it took Ray and I getting out of the vans and explaining what was going on, and that we’d need to get back on the base in a few hours, before they would let us leave.

By the time we pulled onto the main highway it was dark, and the roads were much less crowded. That same acrid smell hung in the air, however; the local Afghanis were now cooking their dinner and keeping their homes warm (Kabul is more than 7,000 feet above sea level, and can get pretty cold at night year-round). As we pulled out of the gate and took a left onto the main road, I began to establish my spacing between our van and the lead.

My rifle was jammed between the door and my leg, and with the flashlights, laser, optics, and M203 it was pretty damn uncomfortable. As the lead truck pulled out I gave it a good few seconds of distance and scanned the road to make sure nothing looked suspicious. If someone noticed something looking strange in one van, that was bad, but to see two vans, close to one another with something strange in them would set off an alarm, which was the last thing you wanted in the middle of Kabul without proper body armor or backup.

We got our spacing and headed off to begin our mission, and my eyes were glued on the road and truck ahead of me. We passed under an overpass, and the biggest worry was someone up there throwing grenades down on us. I looked up to do a quick check that it was an unfounded fear, and when I looked back down at the road I saw two black Suburban’s quickly coming our way on the other side of the road. They had flashing red and blue lights on their dashboards like police, and were obviously a PSD (Personal Security Detail) going to Camp Phoenix, an American base whose entrance was less than a hundred meters ahead of the lead truck.

What I saw next happened in slow motion, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. As Matty drove his truck closer to the main entrance, which was on the right side of the road, the PSD trucks pulled up to a break in the median and hesitated. I can only imagine that Matty thought, just as I did, that the hesitation meant they were going to wait there until we passed. As Matty kept going along the route, however, the asshole driving the lead PSD vehicle decided against it at the last second and slammed on the gas. I heard the tires screech and the big, heavily armored Suburban lurch forward less than ten meters in front of Matty. Remember, we were driving along the main road that goes through all of Kabul, in Low Vis armor at this point, with speed being our greatest security and only saving grace against IEDs and ambushes.

As such, I was matching Matty’s speed at about forty miles per hour, so when he saw the truck pull out right in front of him there were only two options: T-bone the asshole and kill the guys in the back of our truck and possibly the morons in the Suburban, or swerve. Matty was a great driver and had been through quite a few Special Operations driving courses, so he chose the latter. I watched in horror and my heart pounded as the truck carrying my brothers swerved quickly to the left, hit the median, and flipped over onto their roof in the middle of the road.

The second asshole in the next black PSD Suburban didn’t even hesitate, and with Matty’s truck still rocking back and forth on its roof, sped right in front of me and across to the base. As I pulled up to their truck, threw mine in park, and began to get out, thankfully I saw Jason emerge from the back of the lead truck. As the guys piled out of my truck to secure the area and make sure everyone was OK, I stayed just outside my door to pull security and make sure nobody drove off with our sensitive items.

The guys ran from our truck to theirs, and as soon as we saw that everyone was a little dazed but OK, looked across the street to the Suburban’s that were still waiting to go through security. We were completely enraged at this point, and as I scanned the horizon for any security threats, I saw out of the corner of my eye part of the team running toward the Suburban’s, which were still moving through the base security.

As one of the guys began to make a beeline for the driver’s seat of the lead Suburban, I heard him screaming, “Get out of the truck—get out of the truck, asshole!” and as he got closer to the gate, I heard the sound of a .50 cal machine gun racking back to load its first round into the chamber.

We froze. In the craziness we had temporarily forgotten we weren’t wearing American ACU’s (Army Combat Uniforms) with American flags on the shoulder and recognizable clean-cut faces and hair—we were on a Low Vis mission (which had now become anything but) and were dressed to look like anything but Americans. Chris was the first to hold up the military ID hanging from his neck, under his clothes, and begin to back away. It would have taken only a few short bursts from that .50 cal to tear us all to shreds.

We slowly backpedaled to the trucks, and everyone pitched in to push the van back over onto its wheels. Matty got back in the driver’s seat and, by some act of God the engine started up again. The Captain looked back at me and motioned for me to follow them into the base, and as Matty reversed and pulled into the base I followed right behind him.

Everyone was furious, and all that we wanted was to find the PSD driver and give him a little taste of medicine. It took quite a bit of explaining to get onto the base, as none of the units stationed there were combat units, much less bearded and long-haired SF guys, so they didn’t know what to make of the guys in Afghani clothes with beards and long hair but with U.S. military ID’s and weapons.

The Captain had been an MP (Military Police) before joining SF, and knew the language and mentality, so he had us in the gate before long. We quickly found our way to the base’s security HQ to figure out what had just happened, and pulled our trucks to a screeching halt out front. The Captain was still relatively new to the team and hadn’t really had a chance to prove himself to us yet, but what he did next earned him a warm spot in all of our hearts. As soon as we turned off the engines and piled out of the vans he immediately knew what was going to happen if we went inside. He waved us off, told us to stay put, and started toward the front door.

They must have seen us coming, because a few E-5’s walked out at the same time, and as one of them put a hand up to stop The Captain from going inside, he just pulled out his ID, held it in front of him, and said, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” as he walked right past them and into the building. We could hear him yelling the same as he walked down the hallway and added, “Who the hell is in charge here?” as he made his way through the building. We just looked at each other and smiled; even though that wasn’t the most tactful thing, it was much better than what we would have done.

He came out about forty-five minutes later, shaking his head. The PSD was for some Colonel on the base, and they wouldn’t give us any names or let us talk to the drivers or any of their team. That was probably a good idea, as the last thing anyone wanted was Blue-on-Blue fratricide there in a combat zone, but our blood was pretty hot since we could have very well lost half our team due to some asshole’s driving. Our cover was blown, the left side of the lead van was pretty much caved in, and so The Captain and Jake decided it was best that we head back to base.

.

As bummed as we were, there was no time to hang our heads or build up steam. Whenever you first arrive in theatre, it’s good practice to start working your way up with “confidence hits,” which serve as close to a warm-up or practice run as you can get when combat is involved. You don’t take off a bigger chunk than you can eat right out of the box, before you know the lay of the land and the personalities of your AO.

That being said, although this target wasn’t expected to put up much of a fight (which qualified him as a confidence hit), he was pretty high on the totem pole as far as the intelligence community was concerned. Before we went to sleep that night, the plan was to re-cock and do the recon the following evening, but we were awoken the next morning with urgent intel that the target was packing up to leave town. Being able to roll with the punches and execute the mission with whatever you’ve got is a necessary trait in SF, and while the rest of the base was eating their lunch that afternoon, we were doing our commo checks and getting into our trucks.

The Taliban and Afghan fighters had taken to giving Green Berets a few different monikers like “The bearded ones,” but my favorite was “The devils with green eyes” because we preferred to operate under the cover of darkness for our hits (and seeing us with our NODs made it appear as if our eyes were glowing green). We didn’t have time for that this day, and the sun was high in the Afghan sky as we rolled out of Camp Warehouse and took a left to move through the city.

There were actually two locations for this target, given that he was a pretty big fish, and smart enough to switch the house he slept in every night, just in case somebody like us came looking for him. Thanks to good intel we knew which two houses he was using that week, so as soon as we were through the city we split off, with our lead trucks continuing forward as the Charlie Company trucks veered off to the right and moved toward their objective.

As our HUMVEE’s screeched to a stop outside of the compound we were hitting, we heard the explosions begin to rock the neighborhood from the Charlie Company guys blowing the gate to get into their objective. Before the trucks were completely stopped we were assembled on the door, and as soon as I saw that everyone was ready I gave Ray’s shoulder a squeeze, and felt my adrenaline surge as he depressed the detonator to blow the charge he’d placed on the gate just a few feet in front of us.

The explosion was still echoing off the walls as we moved through the smoke and into the courtyard, and a few seconds later we were tossing flash bangs into the first room we came to. As the loud bangs and bright flashes were rattling off while the flash bang bounced around the room, I looked around to get a quick heads-up on the situation. I caught a glimpse of Josh moving into another room on the other side of the courtyard, and as I counted the last bang explode inside our room, I turned the corner and squeezed the pads on my rifle to turn on my flashlight and laser sight.

We began to take down the room just as we had done countless times in training, and I came upon a man in his mid-30’s cowering against the wall. He was only halfway to my point of domination, and since there were others scattered in the room—each curled up and holding their ears from the noise of the flash bangs—I moved to the furthest and flex-cuffed him using the zip ties strapped to my body armor.

After the first was hog-tied with only a little resistance I turned around and saw the rest of the team doing the same, so I started my Sight Exploitation to search the people and then the room to see if we could gather any intel. We were looking for one guy and his bodyguard, and there were six in this room alone. Looking at the picture we had been given and were carrying on the quarterback wristband around each of our wrists, I walked around the room making sure that none of these guys matched.

As each of the guys began to report that the compound was clear, I heard The Captain call the objective clear over the radio, and as I stuck my head out of the door to scan the courtyard, I saw the FBI agents we’d brought begin to make their way in. Walking around and looking at the other rooms, each filled with Afghani men on the ground with zip ties around their wrists and ankles I could see we’d hit a jackpot, even if our target wasn’t there.

Personal computers may be a staple in many U.S. households and most of the civilized world, but in Afghanistan they are a luxury. Each room I looked in here had several PC towers, laptops, televisions, and hard drives scattered around the room, and it wasn’t long before they were in the back of our HUMVEE’s and on their way to a very dark room somewhere to be exploited by the computer geeks.

We were off of the objective almost as quickly as we had arrived, but this time we had a truck full of Afghans with black bags on their heads and zip ties around their wrists. It wasn’t the blaze of glory we had been expecting for our first mission in country, but it was a win all the same.

During the debrief back at Camp Warehouse we found that while we had nabbed all of the computers and documents linking the money this guy was funneling to the Taliban and where it was coming from, the other teams had actually rolled up the target and his bodyguard. We had been in Kabul less than forty-eight hours and had already put some big numbers on the board for Team America—a great start to the deployment.

Chapter 15

Firefight with The Colonel

The next few weeks at Camp Warehouse were much of the same; we would do Low Vis recon missions followed by nighttime hits (and a few time-sensitive ones in broad daylight). We had been at there for less than a month but already it had been way too long. The French chow was amazing and the beer and wine on and around the base at least made the time pass a little bit (NATO troops are all allowed a few drinks a day, serve beer and wine with dinner, and have small bars on their bases; it’s only the stuffy American commanders who forbid their soldiers from drinking, which usually results in many other, much worse problems on the American bases downrange, like drugs and huffing compressed air), but we weren’t there for comfort and were getting pretty antsy without our own mission and AO.

Due to the large number of various NATO commands in and around the Kabul area, everyone’s hands were tied so tightly that we basically couldn’t engage anyone until they were shooting at us. We were based there with Charlie Company, and along with having pretty crowded and cramped conditions, everyone was on edge.

Due to the NATO rules created by commanders who had never left their bases or been in actual combat, we were required to get specific permission from the highest levels of ANP [Afghan National Police] and ANA [Afghan National Army] before executing any operation in the city. If you haven’t ever been involved in combat or intelligence operations in an area like Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, or Africa, that basically guarantees that before we got the call from them to say the mission was a go, whoever it was we were going after would receive a heads-up to get out of town for a while. It was an exercise in the futility that is ISAF.

That made it a pretty welcome sight on a warm Tuesday afternoon when we saw The Colonel drive into our compound. The Captain, Chris, Ray, Matty, and I had gone for an afternoon run around the perimeter of the base, and as we rounded the last dust-filled corner to our gates we walked up just in time to see the convoy of HUMVEE’s pulling in. Still coated with perspiration The Captain began to speed up a bit ahead of us to greet The Colonel, who was already out of his truck and making a beeline right for us.

“Well hello there!” The Colonel yelled, sticking his hand out for a handshake as he walked toward The Captain. The Colonel was a one-of-a-kind officer, the kind who made you wish that the Army had a cloning program to make a hundred more in his image. He reminded me of my grandfather, who had retired as a Colonel—not that he was old, he was actually quite young and fit for his age, and had the kind of strong, chiseled facial features that conveyed the best attributes of charm, wisdom, and strength.

He reminded me of my grandfather because of respect. When I was very young, my parents would take me to Massachusetts to stay with my grandparents every so often, and whenever they did I would spend most of my time on Ft. Devens, the original U.S. headquarters of the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne), and where my grandfather had been commandant of the ASA, the Army Security Agency, and made an honorary Green Beret.

Seeing The Colonel reminded me of one such trip, long after my grandfather had retired from his loyal service to this country, when we were going to the commissary (the grocery stores on military bases) to buy a few things for dinner (the town of Ayer, where he lived, had plenty of mom-and-pop grocery stores, but Grandpa loved to be around soldiers, and his visits to the commissary were a great way to still have a little Army in his life).

Although we had walked in to buy just a few small items, we ended up with a full grocery cart, which had taken us a couple of hours as Grandpa would be stopped in every single aisle by somebody who just wanted to say hello and fill him in on what was going on around base. As we finished checking out, I walked around the counter to pick up and carry whatever bags my young little body could, when two young men, maybe in their late twenties, walked over and began to pick up all the bags despite the full load they already had with their own groceries.

After paying, my grandfather looked up and noticed what was going on, and obviously knowing these two young men, began to protest, making some small joke about him not being in a coffin yet.

“Colonel,” replied one of the men, “you may not be our boss anymore, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let the best man that the Army ever lost carry his own bags on my watch.”

With that the men began to walk off, already knowing exactly which car in the parking lot was his, and my grandfather and I followed. Looking up at him I couldn’t understand why it was that although Grandpa’s entire face was beaming, there was the slightest of tears in the corner of his eyes.

The men arrived at my grandfather’s car long before us, and after silently loading the groceries into the trunk and gently closing it, dropped their bags on the ground and snapped to perfect attention, rendering a salute and waiting until my grandfather did the same before they left.

That was the type of man The Colonel reminded me of, and seeing him walking toward us in full combat gear just perpetuated those feelings. You got pretty good at sizing up people immediately based on what they carried on their body armor, and it took only a split-second glance to know if someone was a war fighter or POG. Most officers you would see in Kabul would either have a completely clean rig (meaning no ammo pouches, grenades, knives, American flags, flares, or pistols attached to it) or maybe just a few empty pouches here and there.

The Colonel, on the other hand, had a rig that was a mirror image of ours, using every possible millimeter of free space for combat gear.

.

“I didn’t know The Colonel was coming,” I said to Chris.

“Nobody did, bro—that’s the way he does it. If everybody knows when he’s coming, he’ll never see what’s really going on.”

We caught up to the two officers just as they finished shaking hands, and stayed a few feet back just in case The Colonel wanted to talk to The Captain alone. Obviously noticing this he raised his voice a bit so that we could all hear him.

“I hear 021 is doing some pretty great stuff down there at FOB [Forward Operating Base] Pathfinder,” he said to The Captain with a smile.

“Well yes, sir. It seems that they’ve been getting into it just about every day.”

“I want to go down and see them, make sure they’re doing OK and see if they need anything.”

“Well, sir, air is a pretty hard to get, but I’m sure we can work a helo [helicopter ride] out of Kabul Airfield by tonight or tomorrow.”

“Bullshit,” replied The Colonel. “I hear you guy are getting a little antsy here in the city, and since I need a ride anyway, I figured you guys could give me a lift. That is, if you don’t have anything better to do.”

The Captain didn’t even have to turn around and look at us to know we were thrilled at the idea, and as soon as he smiled The Colonel had his answer.

“Good. I gotta go get a quick SITREP Situational Report] from the head shed [Intelligence Section], and I’ll be ready to go in about an hour. Is that OK with you guys?”

“We’ll be here with bells on, sir,” was his reply.

The Captain turned to us, smiled, and gave us the orders. “I’ll go tell Jake; you guys find the rest of the team and fill them in. Get a quick bite to eat and pack for at least two to three days. Have the trucks warmed up and ready to go in forty-five minutes.”

Everyone scattered like roaches when the lights came on, going in our separate directions to start our tasks. Within thirty minutes we were back at the trucks, helping J-Lo mount the heavy weapons, making sure that the commo systems were working with Matty, and filling our trunks with extra food, ammo, and water in case we got stranded in a sustained firefight somewhere along the way. By the time The Colonel walked back outside, the trucks were running and ready to go, The Captain gave a quick convoy brief, and we were rolling out of the gates less than forty minutes after The Colonel had arrived.

It was the first time for any of us to make the drive to FOB Pathfinder, and we were all on high alert because every one of us knew that it was by far the hottest area at the moment. Because of its location, Kapisa Province and the Tagab Valley were a stopping point for Taliban and foreign fighters on their way in from Pakistan to Kabul and many other fighting areas throughout Afghanistan. The Russians had been stopped there dead in their tracks decades before due to the mountainous landscape and tenacity of the fighters, which was made very obvious by the burned-out tank and truck hulls along the sides of the roads and fields.

It took us about an hour to reach BAF [Bagram Air Field] since there were two main roads that took us almost the entire way from Kabul. BAF was a gigantic logistical support base, and while it had every luxury one could imagine for a combat zone (Subway, Pizza Hut, Dairy Queen, movie theatres, huge air-conditioned gyms, Internet cafés, and pool halls), the leaders stationed there were so far removed from combat that they had turned it into a garrison, requiring salutes (combat zones normally follow a no-salute rule so as to not give away officers to enemy snipers or suicide bombers) and freshly cleaned uniforms with all of the ribbons, patches, and badges attached.

It seemed they had forgotten that there was actually a war going on outside their gates, and loved to yell at the war fighters from other, smaller bases who would stop in on their way back out to war for a hot meal or a Subway sandwich.

Even though 3rd Group had their support base located on BAF, their actual team guys were living in smaller FOB’s and team houses out in the villages, and it had only taken a few visiting SF guys telling people where to stick it after a lecture on their long hair and dirty uniforms before we were told not to mull around there for any extended period.

Our convoy left through a smaller, not very well known gate on the eastern end of the base, and it was immediately apparent that our trip was about to change considerably. The sun had already started to set as we raced along the long and narrow road leading from the gate into the first village, and we left a huge cloud of dust behind us. Having spent most of our time so far in Kabul where the majority of the roads are paved (or at least were, at one point), we hadn’t yet become used to the more common roads in Afghanistan, which were actually very tightly packed layers of dirt worn and compressed into the ground from centuries of foot, camel, wagon, and finally vehicle travel.

Again, unlike our daily drives through Kabul that were all city, we were amazed by the landscape, which we watched through the eerie green and glowing images in our NODs. Immediately leaving BAF we were in a large, open field that quickly turned into a very narrow road lined with tall trees. This would be a great spot for an ambush (the trees were so dense that our NODs could barely see through them, and this road was coming straight out of the huge logistical base), reflected by Josh’s words through our PELTOR headphones.

“Keep a sharp eye through the wood line, J-Lo. I’m covering the left side, you cover the right.”

“Roger that,” replied J-Lo through his mic.

Much to everyone’s surprise, the tree-lined road led us right into the middle of a village, back through an open field and through at least a dozen more villages without incident. Maybe it was because we were driving with our lights off, only using our NODs and the gunner’s view from up top to navigate, maybe we had a lucky horseshoe up our ass that night, but everyone was surprised we made it all the way to the tiny FOB Pathfinder without a single shot fired.

The FOB was brand new and had been erected only about a month before the boys of 021 had moved in. Originally there were just a few recon guys from an 82nd Airborne LRSD (Long Range Surveillance Detachment) as well as some Intel and French Foreign Legion, and the base hadn’t even been plotted on the GPS overlay systems outfitted into our trucks yet. Knowing we were getting pretty close, we called the boys from 021, and they walked us in using their IZLID (a high-powered, long-range infrared laser used for targeting and highlighting objectives with a huge green neon beam that only shows up under NODs). Pat, my buddy from the downhill portion of CWT, met us at the front gate and showed us where to park.

As soon as we shut down the trucks and began to get out, Pat quickly ran to us shouting.

“Turn that fucking thing off!” he yelled at somebody who’d turned on one of their flashlights to try to find something in his truck. As he ran toward us, he quickly filled us in. “I don’t know what you guys have heard about this place, but let me give you a really quick idea of what’s going on. Here, here, and here,” he said, turning around and pointing to a little less than 180 degrees of our field of view, “are all part of a big mountain range that starts about fifty meters outside of our gate. Make no mistake—we are in the middle of bad-guy country right now, and we get shot at every night from one of those mountains. This has been declared a free-fire zone, and we have authority to shoot anyone we see up there, but we try not to give them anything to shoot at, if you know what I mean. The town is over here,” he said, pointing to the only direction that wasn’t mountain, “and every time we leave the gate and head in that direction we take fire almost immediately, so keep those late-night peaceful walks alone to a minimum while you’re here.”

He went over to The Colonel and The Captain and said hello. “Nice to see you, sirs. If you’ll follow me I’ll take you to our Captain. He’s in a meeting with some of the [French] Foreign Legion guys right now.”

As Jake and the officers left for their leadership pow-wow, Chris walked over to the rest of the group. “Get your stuff out of the trucks, I’m sure one of 021 guys will be out here shortly to show us where we’re going.”

It was only a few minutes until Adam, a short and stocky, brown-haired, extremely intelligent and athletic medic I’d come to know pretty well in Germany came out to show us our hooch. On the way he filled us in a bit more, speaking quietly as if he didn’t want the enemy in the nearby village or on the mountains to hear us.

“This place is barely a few months old,” he told us in a low voice. “Originally these 82nd guys just came out here and set up a patrol base while their engineers filled up HESCO’s [large sand filled barriers stacked on top of each other to form a wall about ten feet high] around them. It was only a few weeks ago that we got these B-huts built, and the toilets came along with them. We have to ration the water pretty tight, and there’s no hot water, but it’s a hell of a lot better than digging a hole every time you have to do your business like we were doing… although honestly, a diet of just MRE’s every day pretty much guarantees that doesn’t happen too often!”

Opening one of the B-hut doors he led us into our home for the night. “There’s no heat or light, and it gets pretty cold at night here in the valley, so I hope you brought your sleeping bags. Put your stuff down and follow me; we’ll get you guys some cots for the night. Oh yeah, if you haven’t figured it out yet, no flashlights outside unless you want to go home with an extra hole in your body.”

On the way to the connex to grab our cots Adam pointed out their chow hall. “We don’t have a kitchen, or any cooks even if we did, so those two connexes are full of our MRE’s. One of them is full of the French MRE’s for the Foreign Legion guys, so if you’re feeling a bit adventurous, some of them are actually pretty good.”

We grabbed a few extra cots for The Colonel, The Captain, and Jake, and as soon as everything was set up in the hut Ray and I decided to take a little walk to get to know the place. Even in Kabul the city lights and fires would shed too much ambient light to really get a good look at the sky, but out here in the middle of nothing and with no lights on anywhere we both got the best look at the stars either of us had seen since being in the woods of North Carolina during the Q-course.

.

Whenever you did get a few hours of sleep during the all-woods portions of the Q-course (like the Small Unit Tactics phase, Robin Sage, or SERE), somebody would always have to be awake to guard your team while they slept, so that your whole team wasn’t killed by an ambush in their sleep. It was during these times that most guys would take to putting on a pair of NODs and marveling at the stars, in full force and glowing an eerie green to break the monotony of scanning the woods in your exhausted state, waiting for your time to end so you could wake up the next guy for his shift.

As Ray and I walked around, marveling again at the stars, he mentioned something that had been eating away at both of us. “Bro, I can’t believe this. BAF is only an hour away, ten minutes at most by helicopter. That place is crawling with soldiers that get three or four hot meals a day, showers, laundry, movies, anything they want—and they don’t ever get shot at.” I could hear the disgust in his voice, echoing the same thing I had been thinking since our brief stop at BAF.

“These guys are out here risking their lives, getting shot at every single day, and they don’t even get hot meals or showers. Where are the billions of dollars we’re spending on KBR out here? Why does the support get to live in luxury while the guys out here fighting the war get shit on?”

Not having any answers and feeling the same way, I could only offer what I knew. “Because, brother, Generals and Senators don’t come out here. If they knew that all the money we spent on KBR was being spent more on facilitating the KBR employees than on the war fighters, some very big heads in some very high places would roll, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Nothing left to say, Ray looked down after a moment, kicked a rock, and said, “Yeah. We better get some sleep, bro. I bet The Colonel’s an early riser, and we still don’t really know what we’re gonna be getting into tomorrow.”

.

Ray was right; The Colonel was up and moving just as the early morning sun began to crest the horizon. Walking into the OPCEN [Operations Center], most of 021 was awake and eating their breakfast of self-heating red beans and rice, MRE’s, or other various goodies their loved ones had sent them. I sat down and opened a package of noodles Cindy had sent me, pouring in some hot water from one of the other guy’s Jet boil (a small flame heater used for heating up food or water while camping or deployed to the nether regions of Afghanistan). As I added some canned chicken, also from one of Cindy’s care packages, I listened in as the leadership began to lay out to everyone their plan for the day.

The Colonel wanted to get a good idea of what his boys were doing out there, and as any good officer knows you can’t fully grasp the situation until you see it for yourself. The Colonel would ride with 021, some of their ANA fighters and the team of French Foreign Legion to do an area recon of the land. They would take him down to the local market, show him a bit of the village, a location where they planned to get a well built for the villagers, and some of the other important sites they had plans for. The LRSD guys would stay behind to coordinate mortar cover if they needed it, and we would stage as the QRF [Quick Reaction Force], just in case they got into any trouble.

At the end of the brief I heard 021’s Captain take ours aside to give him a heads-up. “This area is still pretty hairy, so you guys need to be on it. They always open up with RPG’s in this area, so as soon as we get the first one, we’ll call you.” He then walked The Captain over to a map on the wall to familiarize him with the names of their waypoints. “Every time we pass one of these locations, we’ll call its code name in over the radio. Whoever is manning the radio will cross them off on his list, so you can have a good idea of where we are. If we call in contact, we’ll need you guys there pretty quick, because it can get bad out here in no time.”

With that 021’s Captain gave his guys the signal to move out, and they immediately rose to get their gear on and go to work. As we walked outside to get the trucks lined up at the gate, warmed up and ready to go, I got my first real look at FOB Pathfinder. Standing outside in the cool Afghan morning, I could feel the sun begin to warm my face as I took off my insulated shirt and looked around to get a good look at the place.

Only about 100 meters long from the front gate to the rear wall, and maybe 200 meters wide at most, the tiny FOB was surrounded by a wall of HESCO barriers stacked two deep for extra protection and two high on the outer perimeter, with only one level on the inner perimeter to create a walkway on which you could stand and shoot if the base came under attack. They had even created a few ramps leading up to the walls, each with a HUMVEE or French armored vehicle parked at the bottom, ready to drive up the ramp and provide heavy firepower if the situation called for it.

Every one of the buildings on the tiny FOB was fabricated from plywood, and as I looked around at the mountain surrounding us I couldn’t help but wonder how this place was still standing. It was the proverbial shooting fish in a barrel, and it made me stop for a second to wonder if I had properly put all of my affairs in order before leaving for the deployment, after I realized that we were the fish.

I went around all three of our trucks again, giving everything another once-over to make sure all of our emergency medical supplies, litters, and fire blankets were in their proper, pre-designated places, which Jason and I had made every member of our team memorize. When Josh had been Team Sergeant he’d made it a point to test everyone in a mock-medical emergency at least once a week, but since Jake had taken over that was one of the many things that he didn’t believe was very important, so that exercise and training had gone by the wayside. I hoped we had done a good enough job beating it into their brains as muscle memory before he came along.

After seeing that everything was in place, I put my body armor, med bag, and gear on the driver’s seat in the first HUMVEE and started it up so that it would be ready to go. Just as Ray and I were walking up the ramp to get a good look over the walls at the village and the landscape we heard 021’s trucks begin to pull out of the front gate, and I silently said a prayer for all of them.

Looking out at the Tagab Valley landscape that morning I couldn’t help but wonder how the people here could be so angry at the world. The snow-capped mountains, the cool mountain breeze, and the gorgeous view, untouched by the skyscrapers and smog that ruin most of the beautiful views in our country… I couldn’t help thinking that this place would make a great vacation spot—minus, of course, the Taliban and plus a few modern conveniences like electricity, clean water, and food that hadn’t sat out in the sun for days.

Ray and I made small talk while admiring the view, him talking about his girlfriend, me talking about Cindy, and after about an hour I think we both had forgotten we were in the deadly Tagab Valley until Jake came running out of the OPCEN.

“Contact contact contact!” he yelled. “They’ve got contact about two clicks away from here—let’s go.” Ray and I sprinted down the ramp and to the trucks, and within two minutes the entire team had their body armor on and the adrenaline was at full speed ahead. I was driving the lead truck with Jake and J-Lo, and as soon as J-Lo gave me a tap on the shoulder to let me know the gunners of all the trucks behind us had given him the thumbs-up (meaning everyone in their truck was ready to go), I hit the gas.

The drive to the firefight was so much like the Afghanistan version of The Dukes of Hazzard that I think I was playing “The Good Ol’ Boys” song in my head as we raced out of the gates, down the only paved road in the area, and then quickly veered off onto a dirt road. A few minutes later Jake yelled, “We gotta take that left!” pointing to another path, veering off the road we were on and going straight into a field.

As we slid around the corner, I saw that we were about to hit an old, dried-up riverbed and reached up and grabbed J-Lo’s belt to make sure he didn’t fly out.

“Sorry about that, bro!” I yelled as his feet came back down on the gunners’ platform after being airborne for a second. After another few quick turns we finally came to a huge open field with a river in the middle, and I could see the 021 HUMVEE’s and the French armored vehicles behind a small wall, which for some reason was standing in the middle of the field.

“Right there, park over there to their left, but leave room for our other two trucks!” Jake yelled. My heart was still pounding when I stopped the truck and put it in park. I could hear 021’s heavy guns opening up into a courtyard a few hundred meters away on the other side of the field. I looked up to apologize to J-Lo again, and just as I did I saw a stream of smoke fly about two feet over his head.

“Holy shit!” J-Lo yelled. “That RPG almost took my freaking head off!” I turned around to see the RPG explode about fifty meters in front of us, and J-Lo quickly swiveled around to unleash some explosive fury from his MK19 (a 40mm belt fed and fully automatic grenade launcher mounted on our HUMVEE).

“I can’t see anybody!” he yelled, obviously pissed off that he couldn’t see whoever it was that had just tried to turn him into a grease spot. Had it not been for Josh’s tireless training and discussions about patience with J-Lo to teach him to never fire his weapon unless he could see exactly what he was shooting at, the entire village would most likely have been reduced to rubble. J-Lo patiently waited for the shooter to show himself again, a tribute to the lessons learned from an experienced leader.

Jake and I were both turning around and around in our uncomfortably small HUMVEE seats, desperately trying to get a good look at what was going on from our vantage point. After a few seconds Jake yelled out, “Screw this!” and stepped out of the truck to get a better look. Deciding I didn’t want to be the only one not getting to have any fun, I stepped out of the drivers’ seat, and immediately saw a flurry of muzzle flashes erupt from the same courtyard that 021 had been shooting at when we pulled up.

J-Lo was covering our six o’ clock with the MK19, so Jake and I took a knee behind the wall and each put an eye to our Trijicon ACOG’s [Advanced Combat Optical Gunsights - long sights on our M4’s for distance shooting] to get a better look at the situation. My sights didn’t have quite enough magnification to see who was shooting at us, but as soon as I saw the muzzle flashes coming from a window I unloaded about ten rounds directly into it.

After a few seconds I didn’t see anybody emerge, and just as I was pulling my sights up to scan the area I saw a body fall off the roof. Pulling my sights up to the roof I saw several fighters lying prone and shooting, but before I could pull the trigger the roof erupted in a flurry of .50 caliber rounds, shredding each one into a million tiny pieces and red puddles.

I watched the smoke settle on the roof to ensure that none of the fighters got back up or crawled away, then heard Jake yelling to me. “The white van, watch that white van!”

Not seeing what he was talking about, I looked over the hood of the HUMVEE at him.

“Over there,” he pointed. “On the left side of the village—that white van is ferrying fighters from one location to the other. Watch!”

Sure enough, I picked out the white van and watched it speed along the road, behind a few buildings and then stop and open its doors. I counted six unarmed men running out of the van, and as it sped off back in the direction it came from without even closing the sliding door, the men ran into another courtyard for about thirty seconds, and then emerged carrying rifles. Before either of us could fire a round, Jake’s voice came over the radio.

“Six shooters just ran into the building. There’s a cache in the courtyard next door. Watch for the white van dropping off fighters.” Jake and I had only had enough time to fire a few rounds each when the fighters emerged on the roof carrying their weapons before another flurry of .50 caliber rounds vaporized them all in mere seconds.

I heard another RPG whiz over our heads and as I spun around to find the shooter I saw J-Lo unleash a burst of 40mm high explosive MK 19 rounds into one of the buildings and turn a tiny window into a huge, gaping hole. As I was looking at the smoke and dust cloud that was quickly enveloping the building, I heard The Captain speak over the radio.

“021 and the Foreign Legion guys are leading the ANA across to the courtyard to check it out. Don’t shoot the guys in green uniforms, but cover their movement across.” I watched the ANA pour out of the back of the French APC’s [Armored Personnel Carriers], IMT all the way across the field, and begin to clear the courtyard.

They moved around the courtyard, checking the bodies and taking their weapons. A few minutes later, I saw one of the ANA who must have been the squad leader come to the outside of the courtyard facing us and give an overly exaggerated thumbs-down to indicate that there were no bad guys left. We watched them make their way back to the French APC’s and load back up, then we started to move out in a long convoy, with 021 in front, followed by the Foreign Legion and with us in the rear.

.

We took the scenic route back to base, following the river that flowed along the outskirts of the same village we had just been attacked from to see if anybody else had the cajones to shoot at us. After following the river for maybe a kilometer and a half the lead vehicle took a right and drove out of the large clearing we had been fighting in. We drove onto another dirt road, and after a few minutes were in the middle of the street market.

Now I’ve been a lot of places and met a lot of people who didn’t think too much of me, but as we drove through that village I got some of the worst looks and stink eyes I’ve ever seen sent my way. It was afternoon by this point, the sun was high in the Afghan sky and had begun to make this little mountain valley village pretty warm, and as we drove along we could smell all the intricate scents that go along with a street market in a third-world country.

What hit my nose was a combination of rotting meat, which was hanging in front of several shops, covered in flies and dust from the passers-by on this main village road; the typical smell of the smoke and fire being used to prepare lunch for the villagers, along with the smell of the farm animals being walked up and down the street for sale or slaughter, whichever was their destiny that day.

“Anybody see any military-aged males?” I heard Chris ask over the radio. As I scanned the crowds I quickly got his point: among all the old men, young boys, women, and young girls, there wasn’t a single military-aged male present. It was a lesson we would very soon learn in our experiences at FOB Shank, when we started to familiarize ourselves with our little slice of Afghanistan just as 021 had done here.

Although these ambushes were almost always a surprise for us, they rarely ever were for the rest of the village. By the time we left Afghanistan, we would be able to immediately tell a friendly village from a violent one just by watching the faces as we drove past. And the most important lesson we would learn was that an empty main road in the middle of the afternoon meant that the bullets were about to start flying.

When we pulled back into FOB Pathfinder I saw Adam immediately jump out of his truck and run for Destin with his aid bag. I gave Jason a quick look, and we both went over to see if they needed a hand.

“The damn RPG hit the plate right here, deflected up, and flew right over me,” Destin said in his deep Southern accent, pointing to the big black mark on the armor plate that was protecting him in the turret. Looking closer at his arm, I could see that it was bleeding pretty well. “I guess it was just a piece of shrapnel that flew off or something,” he added. As Adam was patching him up, he pointed to their other truck. “I’m all right here, doc. You should really go get a look at Pat and make sure he’s OK.”

I hadn’t even noticed before, but looking over at 021’s middle truck I suddenly realized that where its armor plate had once stood, now there was nothing. “Yeah, he’s OK,” answered Adam. “He got down just in the nick of time. Your RPG must have been at exactly the right angle; he saw the guy just as he fired, and thank God he knew to get down because a split second later it blew his armor plate clean off, and probably would have taken him with it.”

After the AAR, obligatory high-fives, chest-bumps, and an “American Special Forces, hell yeah!” from the French Foreign Legion Sergeant Major, we were bummed to have to leave. This place was a wet dream for an ODA; a large swath of the country, held by enemy fighters and up to your team to stabilize any way possible, all far removed from the meddling that comes whenever regular Army brass are around to stick their nose in your business. If it hadn’t been for The Colonel having to get back, I’m pretty sure we would have found an excuse to stick around and get into more trouble with 021 rather than returning to the comforts of Kabul.

This had been only the first of our visits to the Tagab Valley, but it was far from our last. We pulled back into Camp Warehouse just as the sun was setting that day, and even though we each shared a beer that night at the German cantina there wasn’t a single one of us who wasn’t silently wishing for that cold, unheated, and powerless wooden shack we had slept in the night before. It just went to show you how different some people, even in the Army, can be; while most people showed up in a combat zone and immediately made their first priority comfort and things to remind them of home, an ODA’s first priority was always to find a way to get themselves in close proximity to the enemy, which usually involved very uncomfortable living conditions.

Chapter 16

Pat

It was only a few short days back in Kabul before the Tagab Valley was once again the center of our attention. It had begun to be like Groundhog Day around Camp Warehouse again, running in the morning, breakfast, working on the trucks, lifting weights, working on the trucks, and The Captain and Jake constantly trying to get us out to one of the many locations that needed us. They had recently been told about a province named Logar, whose name in Pashto means “Great Mountain”—perfect for a mountain team. The province, we were told, had been named “Bab al Jihad” during the war with the Soviets due to the fierce fighting there between the Mujahideen and the U.S.S.R., as well as the role it played as a supply route for militants to bring in supplies from Pakistan to Kabul.

The Captain and Jake had made plans for us to visit FOB Shank with The Colonel to try and stake a claim on the territory, so we spent all day going over our gear and the configuration of the trucks, trying to find the most efficient uses of space in order to fit the largest amount of firepower, extra food, and water we could get into the trunks and back seats. It was sometime in the mid-afternoon that we heard the initial call.

“Contact at Pathfinder—we need all hands on deck in the OPCEN,” came the call from the Death Star, our name for the OPCEN (due to the setup, which included a wall of flat screen TV’s from which to monitor Predator and satellite feeds in an attempt to control a battle). A few of us smiled and looked at each other.

“I guess 021’s getting into it again; I hope Shank keeps us that busy,” I said to Chris. Most of the key personnel were already in there, but we saw a few extras quickly make their way inside. 021 hadn’t had a mission planned for that day, which would have facilitated the OPCEN being at full capacity with all computer terminals, phones, and screens monitored, but since they were going to be out in the town, and everybody knew what that entailed, the OPCEN had already been more crowded than usual.

I remember asking Chris if we could be a QRF for them. “There’s nothing quick about a two-hour drive, bro. If they really need help, there are a lot of people much closer than us that will get out there to help them.” With that I pretended to go back about my work on the trucks, but could see that everyone from the team had their mind in the same place. I silently said a prayer for all our brothers on 021.

After about an hour of nobody leaving the OPCEN but more people slowly trickling in, we stopped pretending that it wasn’t all we could think about anymore. The Captain, sensing our unease, began to walk toward the OPCEN just as The Major walked out. After the two spoke for a few minutes, The Captain came back to give us the details.

“OK, guys, we’re going black on comms (whenever one of our personnel is wounded or killed we go black on comms, which means no phones or Internet until the family is properly notified, to prevent starting any rumors or conjecture). They’re telling me that everyone is OK, but a few of the guys from 021, they won’t say who, are wounded and on a MEDEVAC bird to BAF as we speak.”

Everyone’s’ thoughts went into overdrive when we heard the news. Although a company of Green Berets has six different teams, each with their own specific mission or specialty, after the workday was done there were many people from different teams who were very good friends. Especially in Germany, where we were we all kind of stuck together in our foreign home, most of my social circle was guys from other teams, since most of my team was married and unavailable to hang out with during the weekends.

Well, at least everybody is alive, I thought. Nobody could have been hurt too badly or they would have given us some indication of seriousness rather than just that simple report. We went back about our business, finished working on the trucks very shortly afterward, and decided to get some dinner.

The main chow hall on Camp Warehouse was only a two-minute walk from our compound, and I’d grown fond of the dinner there. Since Ray and I spoke French, it was also a good chance for us to get a little bit of practice speaking every once in a while, and it always caught the French cooks off guard when they saw the American faces and heard their own language coming from our mouths. Oh yeah, and they served beer and wine with dinner, and for that I think we would have eaten just about anything.

We spent a half hour at dinner, and immediately upon walking through the gates we could tell by the mood there that something had changed drastically. There was something in the air, almost palpable without even seeing the angry and forlorn looks around the camp. The Captain and Jake told us to wait by the trucks and immediately ducked into the OPCEN. They emerged just a few moments later, looking grave.

“Situation’s changed,” said The Captain. “It turns out they gave us some bad information,” he said, looking at the group huddled around him. “And I’m sorry for passing it along.” He looked around at us again, his face showing the pain of uncertainty, something that I had never seen in him before.

“Pat’s dead.”

“Come again?” asked Chris.

“They got ambushed on a scheduled area recon,” The Captain answered. “An RPG went straight through the door of one of their HUMVEE’s and killed Pat, who was driving. Tom (their senior 18C) was in the turret, and he was on the MEDEVAC, along with Ted (their Team Sergeant), who was shot a few times as well and had a frag explode near him after he got out of the truck. I guess they’re all banged up pretty bad, but the other two are stable and should be flying out to Germany tonight.”

We just stood in silence and stared at him. “As you know, we’re black on comms, so no phone calls and no Internet. Matty, I’m going to need you to lock up the sat phones until further notice.”

“Roger, sir,” was Matty’s somber reply. We stood and stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before the silence was shattered by one of our Charlie Company brothers.

“Sorry to hear about your loss, guys,” he said, walking up with a crate of beers from the German cantina, handing one to each of us. “I figured you guys could use these.”

We just stood in our circle staring at each other—we had all known what we were getting into, but this made it real. I can only account for what was going through my head, but from the looks of it we were all on the same train of thought.

It was early nightfall by this point, and somewhere behind us one of the guys started a fire, which was done every night to burn the shredded paperwork from the Death Star. We each gravitated to it immediately. I couldn’t stop thinking how we had just been there a few days ago; was it the same people we had fought then?

No way. I had watched every one of those bad guys turned into a bloody puddle; there’s no way it was the same guys. We stood in our circle around the fire for what seemed like an hour, doing what I would learn SF guys do after one of our own takes the long walk upstairs.

It seems like it was an unwritten tradition I’m sure generations of warriors the world over have shared throughout the ages: telling stories about the fallen man and remembering him while sharing a drink. Some of us knew Pat much better than others; of course his team knew him the best, as the bonds forged on a team are reminiscent of those shared by inseparable blood brothers, known only to those who have stood next to each other in the field of battle and put our brother’s safety before our own, knowing he was doing the same.

Before long one of the Charlie Company guys came out to join our circle, and as soon as his face was illuminated out of the dark Afghan night by our little fire we remembered he had been on 021 with Pat and the guys, but had moved companies just a few months ago, prior to this deployment.

He stood there silently, listening as we spoke, unable to put words to the fog of emotions he was facing. Josh and Chris, standing on either side of him, each put a hand on his shoulder and stared blankly into the fire. Nothing was said for a long time— there were no longer any words to appropriately address the darkness that had taken root in our souls.

It seemed like about an hour and a half had passed before the Charlie Company Sergeant Major walked out to our gathering.

“Jake, Sir, can I see you two for a minute?” He, Jake and The Captain walked a short distance away to talk privately.

After a few minutes, we saw Jake walk off upstairs and The Captain walk back over to us. “OK, guys, first things first: Did anybody have more than the one beer tonight?” Everybody shook their heads “no.”

“OK, get your shit on. Pat’s body is at BAF, and we have to be there in an hour to put him on a plane back to the States.

“The Colonel is taking Jake’s seat; I didn’t think anyone would have a problem with that. And Terry,” he said, turning to our Charlie company brother, “I’m sorry for your loss, bro. You were closer than any of us to Pat, and they’ve asked that you join us, if you’re up to it.”

Terry nodded.

“OK. Since it takes about an hour to get to BAF, we need to be on the road ten minutes ago. We’ll stay there overnight, so grab your go bags, and we roll out in five minutes.”

Without hesitation everyone ran to the trucks to start them up and then off to our rooms to grab our bags. Just as I was about to leave my room, I remembered that my Yarborough knife (the large, Rambo-style knife engraved with a number and awarded to every Green Beret when he graduates the Q-course) was still in my gun case. Without thinking I pulled it out and quickly snapped it onto my belt.

I could see that everyone had wild eyes as we loaded up the truck, and it was a good thing for all of us that The Colonel would be with us. I think in the back of his mind that, aside from being there to put one of his soldiers on his final flight home, he needed to be there to make sure we didn’t decide to go on a revenge-induced, blood-lust rampage that night.

We were rolling out of the gates of Camp Warehouse quicker than I’d ever seen, and everyone was moving with a purpose. As we sped along through the dark and dusty streets of Kabul, I could hear the tires squealing with every turn. Aside from all of thoughts we had in our individual minds, whether it be anger, sorrow, revenge, or sadness, we each had one mission now, and that was to get to our brother in time to properly put him on that plane ride home.

I could feel the frustration in Josh’s tense body as he traversed the .50 cal above me angrily from side-to-side. If there is so much as a single shot fired at us tonight, I thought, Hell hath no fury like an ODA enacting the revenge of one of its own.

.

The long, single solitary and lonely highway that stretched from Kabul to BAF was mainly dark and lonely that night, and we sped along as fast as our up-armored HUMVEE’s would take us, dodging the potholes scattered in the pavement rather than slowing down the slightest bit.

We were a little more than three-quarters of the way along our journey when we saw taillights in the distance. Even from far away we could tell that it was a civilian vehicle rather than military, and as always we planned on moving over to the left-hand lane to pass; slow-moving vehicles had been known to be used as blocking to start an ambush as well as VBIED’s, just driving along roads travelled by the military and looking for a good target to blow themselves up next to.

As we closed the distance between us and the vehicles I could make out that it was in fact a convoy of three black and gray Ford Excursions, the same type used for the PSD for Generals and Senators when they couldn’t steal one of the few helicopters we had in theatre for their visits.

As we got even closer we switched all the way over to the outside of the left-hand lane and began to accelerate to pass them. When we got about twenty feet behind them, however, they quickly moved all the way across their lane and directly in front of us, purposely blocking our way.

“This guy has got to be kidding me!” I said through gritted teeth. They were moving about twenty miles an hour slower than we’d been, and that much of a reduction in speed would make us late.

I quickly cranked the steering wheel, bringing us all of the way over to the right shoulder, and when I stepped on the gas and began to feel what little acceleration we had in the already grossly overweight armored vehicle, the Excursion in front of us did the exact same, again blocking our way like a NASCAR driver.

“What seems to be the problem up there?” asked The Colonel over the radio.

“Well, sir,” I heard Josh reply through my headphones, “it seems this PSD up here doesn’t feel like letting us pass.”

It was probably a good thing that Josh got to his push-to-talk before me, because the long string of expletives that was about to spew from my mouth would probably not have addressed the situation quite as adequately.

“Just keep your distance up there, we’ll try to raise them on the radio from our truck,” he replied calmly.

As we slowed down to maintain a safe distance behind the jerkoff’s in the convoy ahead of us, I couldn’t help but think about what I would like to do to the drivers. I didn’t know who they were or what they thought they were doing, but the nerve of somebody standing between us and putting our dead brother’s body on a plane to send him home filled me with the type of rage that causes immeasurable horrors and savagery.

I imagined how good it would feel to shred the last vehicle to pieces using the 1200 round/minute rate of fire on the .50 cal machine gun above us, watching the pieces of the truck fly away as we tore everything inside and out to pieces. The slight bump as we drove over the passengers, including the driver, and closed in on the rest of their convoy would be but the smallest of inconveniences.

I wished I could jump on top of one of their vehicles, in true Rambo fashion, and pull everyone of them out by their heads and filet their necks open like a garden hose, spilling every bit of disdainful life from their pathetic bodies, and then jump back to ours and get back on our way.

As one fist was clenching tighter and tighter on the grip of my M4 and the other was white-knuckling the steering wheel, I heard The Colonel speak over the radio again.

“OK guys, stand down. We can’t raise them on the radio, but if you look on the displays in your truck you can see that they have air cover flying off to our right side, which means that there really isn’t anything we can do. We’ll call our liaison at BAF and let them know that we’ll be a bit late. They won’t start without us.”

With that I backed off to about fifty meters behind them, and continued to focus every bit of hate I had in me at the back of that convoy, wishing and dreaming they would end up at the same place on BAF as us, so we could give them a little combative training, especially the knee-to-the face technique. As we began to approach BAF, however, they turned off at the last exit before the main entrance, and we never found out exactly who it was that had stood between us and our mission that night.

.

As we pulled into the base I saw that the sides of the road were lined with support soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder wearing their respective branch PT’s (BAF was a collection of every branch of the military, along with some NATO and a lot of civilians), and each wearing their reflective yellow PT belts and not saying a word. Puzzled, I looked up to ask Josh what was going on, but he was already answering me.

“This is their memorial,” he spoke down into the truck, trying not to yell. The streets were silent except for our noisy engines. “Every American soldier that dies in theatre is sent out of here. Whenever a plane is leaving, they do this to pay their respects to the soldiers on their last flight home.”

Looking around at the eerie, silent faces of the soldiers lining the streets I felt a sudden sense of pride. If this were a regular formation, called by their superiors to give the fire-guard roster or some other piece of information, there would have been scores of young airmen and privates screwing off, running their mouths, chewing gum, dipping or smoking, and horsing around. Every soldier on the base knew exactly what this was for, and the severity of its consequences, and not a single soul dared to disrupt the silent tribute being paid to the courageous Americans who had lost their lives that day in the name of freedom.

The streets were lined all the way from the base entrance to the airfield, and as we pulled up and were directed where to park, the silence was deafening. Even at the airfield, where dozens of people from each unit who had one of their own lying in one of the many caskets to be placed on the plane, not a soul was disturbing the peace.

We were quickly met by one of the 3rd Group liaisons, who took us aside to explain everything. As we walked past, I could see the other soldiers looking at us in wonder, each of us wearing our unit patch less DCU’s [Desert Camouflage Uniforms] with long hair and beards, and I actually heard a few of them asking each other if a Blackwater guy was in one of the caskets.

“There is a lot of tradition as to what this process is, so let me give you guys the crash course,” stated the liaison. “We usually have a few guys that do this, but since you guys were close enough and knew him, it makes a lot more sense for you to be here.”

As he explained the process to us over and over, we burned it into our brains. This was not something that any of us was taking lightly, but as SF guys are notoriously bad at marching and facing movements, the liaison repeated the steps to us until he got the signal that the ceremony was about to begin.

We lined up on the tarmac of the runway, in small rows four across and two deep, each pocket of soldiers representing a respective unit for one of the fallen. Sitting about 200 meters in front of us was the back of a large C-17 with its ramp down and empty cargo bay completely illuminated. There was a small podium situated halfway between us and the plane ramp, and as we were called to attention a General made his way up to give his speech. He spoke his words of duty, honor, and sacrifice, but as he spoke all I could think about was Pat’s face, his young son, Bastian, and wife Ginger, at home in Germany.

I hadn’t known him as well as some of the others, but we had been put in the small group together during the ski training just a few months earlier, and we had gotten to know each other as well as two guys can in a few weeks spent skiing in the mountains of Austria. As the General began to speak about the mission, and how every one of these soldiers gave their life fighting for freedom and everything we hold dear, I couldn’t help but feel guilt that I hadn’t known Pat better.

When the General finished he left the podium and was replaced by a Chaplain. When he asked us to bow our heads everyone did, and before the first words of benediction and prayer came out I could hear the sniffles start, and imagined the hundreds of tiny drops of tears that were falling to the ground around the soldiers’ boots on this once-dry tarmac.

There wasn’t another sound to be heard on the usually busy runway, as the entire base had been effectively shut down in silent reverence to those who had given their all for our great country. When the last of The Chaplain’s words echoed along the tarmac, along with a thousand separate “Amens,” we each raised our heads.

At least a hundred different soldiers began to line our path from the edge of the airfield to the ramp of the plane, and our group of eight walked back to the ambulance that was carrying Pat’s silver casket.

As I got into my position and took hold of the handle, I felt the full weight as it settled down and out of the ambulance. It was at that moment that I truly realized what we were doing. The whole day had been such a flood of emotions that it had become quite a surreal event to me, but as we walked forward to get into our position every single detail of what was happening was immediately crystal clear.

We began to move forward, the fourth casket-carrying group in our column, and I couldn’t help but feel just how cold the outside of the casket was as my forearm would brush and press against it with each step. The procession moved, silently and slowly in perfect unison, through the soldier-lined corridor and up the ramp of the C-17.

As we reached Pat’s position for the flight home, The Captain, carrying his handle opposite and in front of me, gave the facing orders for us to stop, face each other, and gently set Pat down. The Captain then unfolded the American flag he had been holding in his left hand, handed one side to Matty, who was across from him, and as the flag slowly unfolded in all of our hands we gently placed it on top of Pat.

The next orders were our call to attention, present arms (salute), slow and steady, up and then down to our sides, our facing movement toward the front of the plane and then our slow walk, up to the front of the plane, across and back down the opposite side, so that we slowly walked past every casket, placed in perfectly aligned order, five deep and three across, each containing a true American patriot who had given all their country could ask, and then some.

When we reached our original position on the tarmac a team of Chaplains boarded the aircraft to say another silent benediction, a final prayer wishing our soldiers a safe return home to finally be at rest. When the Chaplains walked back down the ramp, the liaison tapped The Captain on the shoulder.

“Sir, you and your guys can go back on and pay your final respects. They’re going to start the engines in about ten minutes, and then we’ll all have to get off the runway.”

Without a word we made our silent walk back onto the plane, and as I knelt beside Pat I said another little prayer, this one for him, his wife, and his son. I hoped his son would one day know the warrior that his father was, and grow to appreciate the sacrifices he made for all of us.

The Captain gave us the “It’s time to go” look, I laid a final hand on Pat’s silver casket and hoped he could hear me up there.

“Via con dios, brother,” I whispered.

We stood up and made one final pass around all of the caskets as everyone cleared the plane. We stood silently and watched as the ramp was raised, and as the engines began to warm up we made our way back to the trucks without a word.

.

Our next stop was the hospital to see Tom and Ted. The hospital staff knew who we were as soon as we walked in and led us straight back to their rooms. Both of them were pretty big guys, and I could tell from their goofy smiles that they both had been given a generous, warrior-sized dose of Fentanyl or morphine to help with the pain of their wounds.

Ray had gone through the 18C portion of the Q-course with Tom, and so he immediately made a beeline for the side of his bed. The medic in me began to make my immediate assessment, and judging from their faces they were both in pretty rough shape, but at least they still had enough to put a smile on.

Tom’s legs had been shredded pretty badly from the shrapnel of the RPG exploding inside the truck, and I silently bet myself that there were tiny pieces of radio and HUMVEE in there along with the RPG fragments. As he and Ray talked a bit, I turned around to see The Colonel and Ted chatting. Ted was a very highly respected Team Sergeant in our unit, and had always been given the admiration of all of the Battalion leadership. An avid bodybuilder, he was strong as an ox and built like a truck, but I noticed the numerous bandages and blood-tinged gauze all along the various parts of his body.

“Yeah, they were waiting for us,” he told The Colonel in his opiate-induced speech. “In hindsight, it was a pretty damn good place for an ambush, I gotta give ’em that.” He looked around the room at the familiar faces, obviously not having had anyone he knew to recount the story with since he’d been loaded onto the MEDEVAC.

“The RPG that hit our truck came out of nowhere, and if that radio hadn’t been in the middle it woulda got me too.” He slowly smacked his dry lips a bit and winced at the pain in his arm. “When I jumped out of the truck to shoot, there was a fucker sitting in the ditch right next to us, just waiting. He sprayed off a few rounds, and after he got me in the arm he pulled a frag and lobbed it just in front of our truck. The doctors told me that it was good I was lifting so much, because if my arms were any smaller it would have taken ’em clean off.”

He smiled a bit as everybody in the room chuckled with him. The Colonel asked, “Is there anything that we can do for you, Ted—anything you need? You want a phone to call your wife? Tom, you need a cell phone over there?”

“Well yes, sir. That would actually be pretty great if it were possible.” The Colonel turned to The Captain.

“Go ahead and take your guys to get some rack. I’m going to let these guys use my cell phone and then I’ll hoof it over to the log cell [logistical cell], it’s less than a click from here anyways. I’ll call you in the morning, and hopefully be on our way back before ten.”

We made our way to the transient tent, a huge tent that stood at least fifty feet high and 100 meters across, lined with cots the entire way for transient soldiers and units waiting for or coming off flights. We quickly commandeered an area for ourselves, pulling a dozen cots away from everyone else and claiming one of the corners as our own. We had to take all the sensitive items out and off of our trucks and keep them with us as we slept, so it was about an hour before any of us actually started to think about going to sleep.

After we laid out our sleeping bags on our cots and changed out of our boots and uniforms we sat on the edges of our cots, facing each other just like we always did, but this time there was no joking around, no horseplay, no wise-cracking at each other’s expense. It didn’t take long before we realized that nobody had anything to say, and we all just stretched out on our cots and pretended to sleep for a few hours.

.

We were back at Camp Warehouse long before noon, and Jake was waiting for us with the news. He called us into his room for a team meeting, and as we all stood around in the cramped quarters he filled us in on the decisions that had been made the night before.

“Since 021 just took a pretty big blow, the powers that be say that they are going to need some senior guys to help out so that the team doesn’t have any trouble out there. Chris, it’s come down that you, along with another guy from 023, and John will be heading out there in the next few days. Get your gear packed; you know that they don’t have too much room, so take the bare minimum and we’ll store what you don’t take in our storage connex here.

“As for the rest of us, I’ve got some good news. The Colonel, The Captain, and I will be flying out to Logar tomorrow morning to meet with the Battle Space Commander [the name of the regular Army commander in charge of all operations within a certain part of the country] to finalize some dates for us moving out there to FOB Shank. They just took another few casualties on Route Georgia, one of the main roads through the province, so they’re really looking for some help out there. We’ll be back by tomorrow night, and hopefully we can get down there soon, so start packing, and again, we don’t know how much room we’ll get, so pack light.

“And one more thing,” he said to us as we began to file out of the tiny shoebox of a room. “Pat’s memorial is going to be here tonight. They’re bringing a Chaplain over, and the First Sergeant is going to set everything up. 1730 sharp, just before sunset, we’ll be doing it right outside of the OPCEN. Get on the cleanest uniform you guys can find, make sure you can find a cover (uniform hat) to wear, and go help clean the place up down there; we want to give Pat a respectable going away.”

After the meeting we each went our respective ways for a few minutes, dropping off our bags in the rooms, and met downstairs. We decided to head to lunch before starting our preparations and for the first time not a word was said between us over a meal. As soon as we got back onto our compound we got to work, sweeping, picking up trash, and helping the First Sergeant set up the memorial for Pat.

There was a high flag pole just a few feet outside the OPCEN, so naturally that’s where everything was going to be. It didn’t take too much cleaning up, as the support soldiers sitting around Camp Warehouse had a daily cleaning roster for the area already, but we wanted to make sure the place was as presentable as possible for our brother’s ceremony.

After cleaning up a bit we headed to our rooms, and as I realized I really didn’t know what I should be bringing and what I should leave, I headed down the hall to Josh’s room. When I knocked on the door I heard a bit of scuffling of feet inside, and as I walked in I saw I was not the only one who had come to Josh for advice.

Standing crowded around Josh, who was sitting on his bed and doling out free advice, were J-Lo, Matty, Ray, Jason, and Chris. I laughed a little as I walked in, and after listening to Josh and Chris give us a basic intel dump (a heads-up on the current intelligence collected in and on the area of Logar), they gave us their two cents on what to pack: pretty much everything. We could expect to be doing mountain missions, mounted operation from our HUMVEE’s (the distance across the province was quite large), dismounted (walking, no vehicles) operations, as well as fast roping if we could get the air assets (which was next to impossible; most of the helos in Afghanistan were reserved for carting Generals, Colonels, politicians, and VIP’s around rather than actual combat operations).

We stayed up there for quite a while, enjoying each other’s company for the first time since we left for BAF the night before, and finally walked out around 1630 to get ready for the service. I actually had a clean ACU uniform packed in my tough box that I hadn’t worn yet, and as I put all of my patches and name tapes on it I meticulously scanned it to make sure it was clean and free of rips, tears, or frays.

.

We met out front about thirty minutes early, and as the rest of our Charlie Company and HQ guys there at Camp Warehouse began to fall in around us, I couldn’t help but admire the great job the First Sergeant had done arranging everything on such short notice and with such meager means available for this sort of thing. Sitting on a presentation easel to the side of the flagpole was a picture of Pat, which they had somehow gotten ahold of and enlarged to the size of a portrait.

At the base of the flagpole was a small stand, on which stood a pair of boots, on which lay the company and Battalion coins. Behind the boots, on a higher ledge, was an upside-down M-4, barrel nestled into the podium with his dog tags hung from the grip. At the base of the rifle were his new awards: a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star, an MSM, and of course, his CIB (Combat Infantryman’s Badge). On top of the butt stock of his rifle hung his helmet, and behind it flew the Company and Battalion “Guide Ons” (flags).

The podium was placed off to the side, and first the company Executive Officer (XO) read aloud Pat’s biography. Next, as The Colonel gave his speech, we stood at parade rest and admired the tribute made to Pat. We knew what was coming, and as The Colonel finished his speech, we bowed our heads and prayed with The Chaplain, everyone well familiar with one of the most honored of our traditions. I barely heard The Chaplain as he said his “Amen” because I was too busy thinking about what was coming, unable to clear my head, unable to stop focusing on that part of the ceremony that loomed straight ahead.

“Task Force, attention!” barked the First Sergeant. As he began his roll call, not a sound could be heard other than his voice and the voices responding to the name being called. The First Sergeant was an extremely large and surly man, even by our standards, and his powerful voice echoed off the concrete and reverberated back at us from the metal fencing and buildings lining the compound.

“Master Sergeant Davis!” he called out.

And after a brief pause, an equally loud and thunderous answer. “Here, First Sergeant!” boomed back from a random position within the formation of proud Green Berets, all standing tall with their chests out and heads held high.

“Staff Sergeant Curtis!”

Again, met with another loud and thunderous “Here, First Sergeant!”

We knew what was coming.

“Captain Thompson,” I heard for the second time as it bounced back from the rear wall of the compound.

“Here, First Sergeant!” was the booming reply, coming from directly behind me.

.

This continued for a couple of minutes, and then the First Sergeant called the final name.

“Staff Sergeant Kutschbach!” the First Sergeant bellowed. He let the words hang in the air and reverberate before repeating himself.

“Staff Sergeant Pat Kutschbach!” he roared again, his words hanging in the air amid the reverberations and echoes of his own voice.

“Staff Sergeant Patrick F. Kutschbach!”

And for the last time, his words hung in the air, along with the shadows cast at our feet from the setting sun in the Afghan sky.

“Present arms!” barked the First Sergeant, and in the blink of an eye every hand present from Task Force 10-1 was sharply snapped to a perfect salute. The shots rang out behind us twenty-one times, the guns fired off into the cool Kabul air.

Not a single soldier so much as flinched or dared shift their weight as the bugle then played “Taps” for our brother. After the order to drop our salute, we began to peel off the formation in groups of two starting with The Colonel and Command Sergeant Major to make the slow walk to Pat’s shrine, ever so slowly render our salute, hold it in the air and let it back down with the same slow care, all the while saying a prayer for his soul.

As the soldiers began following suit and paying their respects, the flag was slowly lowered and handed to a Chaplain and young Lieutenant who were waiting next to the flag pole. They took it with the most sincere reverence as it reached their hands, and folded it with a determination, dedication and selfless respect and admiration that I had never seen before.

As the flag was given its final fold into a perfect, taut and tight triangle, the two men silently made their way to the convoy of HUMVEEs that was waiting to take them to the airfield. I imagine that there wasn’t a word said as the two men were taken to their plane, silent and waiting, flown through the air, over the mountains and on the long journey back to Germany.

The silence was just as deafening as the men met their next convoy at the large air base back in Germany, both searching their souls for the right words and readying themselves for the most difficult of duties that a soldier must carry out. Still no words or sounds as the convoy stopped outside of the cold and lonely barracks, only the sounds of their boots and the stairs creaking as they climbed several flights of stairs, stopped, looked at each other for strength and knocked on the cold, hard and thick door. As the sound of a baby crying began to echo from inside the home, the men took one last deep breath, stuck their chests out and feigned every bit of strength and pride that they could, to bestow the most sincere words of strength, honor, duty and sacrifice to the young mother and wife as she opened the door, saw the men and immediately fell to her knees in tears for the love of her life, our brother, Hero, Patriot, Patrick Kutschbach.

Chapter 17

Move to FOB Shank

Pat’s death was still hanging in the air when we loaded the trucks to head out to FOB Shank, but thankfully we were busy and had something on the horizon to hope for. There were a lot of negotiations and accommodations that needed to be made for us to move out to Logar, so The Colonel decided to stick around and visit the base with us to help smooth things over. We spent the day after Pat’s memorial packing and getting ready for the trip, and left that night as soon as the sun went down.

Logar province was becoming famous for a stretch of highway that ran through its middle, nicknamed Route Georgia, which was part of the route we’d have to take from Kabul. There were a few very small American bases in and around Logar, and a French Foreign Legion detachment across the street from Shank at an ANA base, but most of the units in the area were non-combat.

There were some engineers, a company of MP’s down the road from Shank, and a small Infantry unit, but besides that no war fighters. Almost every convoy passing through the area was getting ambushed and shot up pretty bad on Route Georgia, and the Battle Space Commander was looking for some pipe hitters to come in and help him take care of this problem.

We spent the day packing, getting intelligence updates and area information about Logar before we left, so that we could be at least a little familiar before we arrived. Chris would be gone, out to 021 at FOB Kutschbach (an American FOB is re-named after the first American soldier who is killed there, and so Pathfinder became Pat’s namesake), and so he spent the day combing over as much info as he could with us.

The terrain was much different than anything we had seen so far in Afghanistan; while Herat had been open, dusty desert, and Kabul was higher in elevation but surrounded by city, Logar was in the middle of the mountains and very rural. It would be the perfect location for us, but would require us to cover vast swaths of area to get anywhere because many of the villages were very far apart and remote.

Logar was about two hours south of Kabul, and the province jutted out to border with Pakistan, which meant it would be full of enemy activity and movement. This trip would only keep us at FOB Shank for a day because The Colonel didn’t have a lot of free time, so we packed pretty light. We ate dinner with Chris, wishing him good luck and God speed for whatever it was he would be doing out with 021.

He had been around the block more than a few times, and was very well respected by everyone in the company, so even though we hated to lose one of our best we knew it was what had to be done. With Tom, Ted, and Pat now gone, they not only needed more people but some additional leadership. Destin, their senior 18B, had taken over the temporary leadership of the team along with their Captain, but would need some help keeping the spirits high and the men ready. They were still getting contact daily, and couldn’t afford to let their guard down for one second.

After dinner we threw our bags in the HUMVEE’s and started immediately on the convoy brief. The ride would be almost due south, and as we would be following one highway for the majority of the ride until we hit the infamous Route Georgia, we had to be on alert. The modus operandi for the Taliban in that region was to have lookouts scattered along the routes heavily traveled by convoys. Once they saw you on a certain road, they knew you were only going to one of a very small number of places, and since the highway was very long and straight they would have a decent amount of time to set an ambush.

The convoy brief lasted a little longer than usual; we were taking along a pretty large contingent. Nobody outside our small compound knew that The Colonel would be traveling with us, but just for safety we beefed up our numbers, adding a truck from the Battalion HQ soldiers, a truck from Charlie Company, and a few of the support soldiers from the Death Star just to have more warm bodies.

The Captain and Jake led the convoy brief, and as soon as the radio check was complete we were in the trucks and on our way. The sun was down by the time we pulled out of Camp Warehouse, took the ever-familiar left on the main road through town, past Camp Phoenix and then took a right on the road we would travel most of the way to Logar.

We drove with headlights on in the city to avoid any accidents, but as soon as we were away from the traffic and city lights, the headlights went off and the NODS came down to cast the eerie green light over our world for the duration of the drive. Immediately after leaving Kabul the terrain turned into wide open swaths of desert on either side of the highway for several hundred meters, but looking off in the distance we could see the majestic peaks that would be our new home, jutting up into the sky and reflecting a strange green aura into our NODS from the snow-capped peaks.

There hadn’t been many reports of attacks along this first, long stretch of highway, and to be quite honest I could see why as soon as we were actually driving it. The amount of stand-off (open, unprotected terrain) between the road and any type of cover and concealment would leave Taliban ambushers open and exposed, and would basically make them a sitting duck against the .50 cals and MK19’s that would easily track down any enemy ambush and tear them to shreds out in the open.

The ride was pretty uneventful, but we watched in awe as we got closer and closer to the mountains, and finally after about an hour of driving came to a left turn off the highway. As soon as we turned off we could see that we needed to be on high alert; the terrain quickly changed from wide open desert to mountains.

Route Georgia was basically a mountain pass, with steep and high inclines on either side of the road in some spots, and large open fields on one of the sides in others. They were all perfect locations for an ambush; the mountains would give any attacker the tactical advantage of high ground, and if we were blown out of the trucks we would have nothing but the open fields with a few scattered trees for cover.

We drove along Route Georgia very slowly for probably another hour. It wasn’t a very far drive, but since we were driving under NODS and trying to follow the quickly curving and turning road through the mountains without veering off a cliff, it was pretty slow going. I could hear Josh in the turret behind me nervously traversing back and forth, trying to keep an eye on everything at once.

The mountains were so high that he had to take the .50 cal off its T&E (traversing and elevation, an attachment for the .50 cal to keep it steady and on target while firing, but doesn’t allow for vast, quick changes in elevation) in order to get an aim at the top, and Josh was quickly moving up and down, back and forth, to keep up with the wild variations in the terrain.

I’m not sure if it was because we had our lights off or just another horseshoe up our ass, but thankfully we turned off Route Georgia finally and made it to FOB Shank without incident. That was the first convoy through a mountain pass for any of us (but far from the last), and all I could do was wonder how in the hell you could respond to contact if you came under fire in that environment. Again, it was shooting fish in a barrel, and once again, we were the fish.

FOB Shank was much larger than FOB Kutschbach but wasn’t very highly populated. We had seen a few basic aerial maps during our briefing that morning and so had a vague idea of where to go once we drove through the front gates and parked the HUMVEE’s. The Captain told us to stay put as he, Jake, and The Colonel made their way to the OPCEN to figure out where we’d be sleeping for the night.

They returned pretty quickly. Since there weren’t any combat units left on the FOB, there weren’t any missions going on that night, meaning that the OPCEN was at minimal staffing and there really wasn’t anyone for them to talk to. Thankfully the people who were there knew we were coming and had been monitoring our radio transmissions. They told the leadership where we would be laying our heads for the night, so The Captain told us to grab our bags and follow him.

We would be sleeping in a transient B-hut, and when we walked in it looked exactly like that. The first person in the door fumbled for the light switch, and when he finally found it and turned it on we could see that there were already people spread around the floor, sleeping among various trash, metal lockers, and other debris.

They started to groan about the lights, so we flicked them back off, pulled out our flashlights, and each found a piece of floor to call home for the night. I was very thankful I had brought my puss pad; I had been showering about once a week at this point, and the fact that I was grossed out by the disgusting trash and dirt all over the floor was pretty bad. Still, it was better than sleeping outside on the rocks and in the cold, so I laid down my pad and sleeping bag and was quickly out.

.

We hadn’t really been given any hit times to wake up or when we would be heading back to Kabul, so I wasn’t woken up until people started walking in and out of the hut. I didn’t know what time it was, but could see whenever the door opened that the sun was fully shining outside. I got myself up as quietly as possible, packed my sleeping bag and pad back into my backpack, and decided to take a look around the place. Ray and Jason were right behind me, and we dropped our bags off at the trucks, did a quick brush of the teeth with bottled water, and set out to explore.

The base was actually downright scenic: the buildings scattered around the inside of the perimeter were all plywood, just like all the other bases we’d seen there, but there were huge swaths of the base that were simply open terrain. Just past the B-huts where we had slept was our row of HUMVEE’s parked in front of a small ditch, and on the other side was a row of green Army tents, the HESCO’s that made up the outer perimeter, and beyond were hills and mountains in every direction. We had known that this would be a pretty mountainous region based on the topography maps we’d seen the day before, but it was another thing to be standing in the middle of it.

From where we were standing I couldn’t even see the other side of the base to get a good idea of distance, but could tell that it was a pretty big area. We started to walk around to familiarize ourselves with the base, and before we were too far we began to smell breakfast. It was a little after 0700, and we followed our noses.

As soon as we walked in it was just like a bad movie: the chow hall had maybe twenty small tables in it with a line of servers at the front, and everyone in the place immediately stopped eating and stared at us with their mouths open.

To us we looked completely normal, as we had been living like this for a few months, but to be on a regular Army FOB, completely inhabited by support soldiers (save a few Sappers, combat engineers we would later meet), it seemed like none of them had ever seen the bearded, patchless, and dirty SF guys in real life. We played it off as best as we could, but they were still staring as we got our food and took our seats. We ate quickly and quietly, and before long were back on our way around the base.

Not far from the chow hall we discovered some large tents that housed showers, which was nice, but noticed that there were no latrines. We asked the first person we saw, who just laughed a bit and pointed to a port-o-potty about a hundred meters away.

“Shitting in a port-o-potty for the next six months?” Ray asked sarcastically.

“At least it’s not metal like the ones at selection!” joked Jason, and we all agreed that it could be worse.

There was quite a bit to see on our little tour of FOB Shank, and by the end of it we had found a gym, the OPCEN, a helo landing pad (but no helos anywhere to be seen), and a little mailroom run out of a big metal connex so that soldiers stationed there could get mail from home. I was pretty amazed that with all that we’d seen, I hadn’t seen a single KBR or other contractor, and it puzzled me that even a base of this size wouldn’t have any of them.

I was still wondering how we could be paying billions of dollars for contractors who never left the main cities for the actual war fighter locations when we arrived back at the HUMVEE’s to find most of the guys outside and awake.

The other unit of soldiers who had been sharing the hut with us the night before had all cleared out, and Josh told us to go have a look at where we’d slept. I guess I hadn’t noticed when I woke up in the morning, but as soon as we opened the door and turned on the lights the wave of human stink hit me like a punch in the face.

I’ve never been in a proper crack house before, but I can’t imagine it’s all that different from where I was standing. I had seen some trash and nastiness the night before, but with the daylight streaming in behind us and the lights turned on, with no people sleeping on the floor I could see just how gross this place was. Every inch of the filthy plywood floor was covered with dirt, huge dust balls, or trash. There were a few random metal lockers, empty and with caved-in or half-off doors, but besides that, it was just mess.

I shook my head in disgust. I had always been taught to clean up after myself, to leave a place better than I found it, and was disgusted that people were too damn lazy to pick up their own trash and throw it in the cans just outside the front door, less than ten feet from where we stood. Not being able to look at it any longer, I went back outside with the guys. None of us really knew what was going on or when we were leaving, but the leadership was already at work speaking with the base commander, so all we had to do was wait.

We stood around and joked for another two hours before the leadership returned. Everyone was smiling (which I took as a good sign), but said nothing more than “Get ready to head out” as they made their way back to the trucks. I was eager to see Route Georgia in the daylight this time, and instead of NODS’s I pulled my Oakley shades down over my face for the drive back to Kabul.

The drive was absolutely breathtaking, and the drastic changes in color and terrain kept my eyes jumping back and forth all over the place. One minute we would be driving through a village, full of mud huts and stores with brightly colored doors and men and women walking up and down the sides of the road, and the next we would be surrounded by lush, green fields, and then mountains on one or both sides. The entirety of Route Georgia was like that, and although we could go a little faster, we still had to move under 30 mph along the curving mountain passes.

Finally getting to the end of Route Georgia and taking a right to head back to Kabul, I noticed that in the sunlight even this ride was breathtaking. The cool morning air was streaming in through the turret as Josh traversed back and forth with the .50 cal, and while I had only really seen the open desert with my NOD’s the night before, in the sunlight I could see the vast expanses of mountain ranges that started off in the distance. We were all mountain men at heart, and I’m sure everyone else was just as bummed as I to see the terrain switch back from awe-inspiring mountains to sprawling desert, and finally city.

When we arrived back at Camp Warehouse we expected an immediate debrief on what the leadership had discussed with the Shank Commander, but no such luck. As soon as we stepped out of the trucks the First Sergeant came out and gave us the news that there was to be another memorial for Pat that afternoon, this time at the 3rd Group HQ on BAF, and it was only fitting that we be there. 021 would be making the trip up as well, and they would be putting his name onto the shrine of fallen Green Beret’s located there at Camp Eggers.

We already had all our gear in the trucks, and the ceremony was supposed to start around 1400, which gave us just enough time to clean up, grab lunch, and then get back on the road to BAF. I walked upstairs and felt a little twinge as I passed Chris’s empty room; he had flown out to FOB Kutschbach the night before to join 021, and I hoped he had made it there safely and was doing well. I could only imagine what those guys were going through, but knew that if anyone could help get them straight it was Chris.

I went back to my room, changed my clothes, and made my way to Matty’s room. It had been a few days since I had talked to Cindy, and knew that this might be my only chance for some time. Matty was sitting on his bed playing his PSP when I popped my head in, and without saying a word he just pointed to the sat phone, plugged into the wall and charging.

“Thanks, bro,” I said as I unplugged it and stepped into the courtyard to make the call. I hadn’t got much past “Hey baby” when Jake walked out of the building, saw me talking on the phone, and tapped his watch, telling me to hurry up. I knew it was going to be a busy day, but now that we were allowed to communicate, as Pat’s family had been notified, I had been eager to just hear Cindy’s voice.

She knew I couldn’t really talk about anything that was going on, so we just kept it to light small talk, more about what she was doing than I. I knew I didn’t have much time before Jake would come back and be angry that I was still on the phone, so we said a quick “I love you” and “Goodbye.” Then I saw the guys on their way to lunch.

“The Colonel wants to leave early; he has a lot of things to go over with the 3rd Group commander, so we’re leaving in an hour,” said Josh as he walked toward me.

I handed the phone to Matty and joined the group headed for lunch, being pretty used to plans changing at the drop of a hat by this point.

Another quick, light lunch, and before long we were back in front of the trucks, doing our convoy brief and radio checks. These trips were beginning to become routine, and we no longer had to rely on maps to find our way around the city, especially for the drives to BAF and a few other places.

Time was beginning to slip away from me, and all the memories of events, time, and days were beginning to merge into one big mess. Had it only been a few days since we were at BAF putting Pat’s body on the plane? In the last seventy-two hours we’d made a huge triangle around Kabul, having been at Pathfinder, back south to Kabul, further south to Shank, north back to Kabul, and now back again to BAF. The pace at which we were moving was pretty dizzying, and I did everything I could to commit the timelines to memory during the long drive to BAF; I knew this deployment would be one I wouldn’t want to forget.

.

We arrived at BAF a few hours before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, and The Colonel made his way straight to the OPCEN as we mulled around the trucks. It wasn’t long, however, before we saw some familiar trucks and faces, as the guys from 021 plus Chris and John pulled up and jumped out of their trucks. We had seen Ted and Tom at BAF a few days ago before they were sent back to Germany, but hadn’t seen any of the other guys from the team yet. They looked pretty beaten up and worn down, but it took only a few minutes around familiar people before they were talking, joking, and seeming to be back to their normal selves.

Chris told us he was settled in at his new home, and was getting along just fine. They had only been attacked once the day before, which was pretty good for them, and he had the opportunity to drop some mortars on the bad guys (he had been in Field Artillery before his life in SF, and really enjoyed any chance he got to hang fire).

We stood in a circle, joking with each other as usual until we started to see people form around the memorial area that had been set up. There was a large stone memorial there on Camp Eggers, which had been erected to honor the Special Operators who had died in Afghanistan fighting during OEF, and as we approached the ceremony area I was surprised by how many names were already on the stone. The death and names of Special Operations personnel aren’t usually reported in the news unless it is a major, catastrophic incident, so many of these men had given their lives without most of America knowing.

As we stood to the side of the chairs that had been set up for dignitaries and VIP’s, we saw The Colonel and the 3rd Group commander emerge from the OPCEN and make their way over to us. The ceremony began with a prayer from a Chaplain, which was followed by a speech from the 3rd Group commander.

I didn’t really understand why he, who neither knew nor was in command of Pat, had decided to speak instead of The Colonel, but he gave a nice speech nonetheless. At the end of the speech he took a metal plate bearing Pat’s name, rank, and ODA and placed it upon the stone, cementing his memory and heroism for history.

The guys from 021 were sullen faced throughout the ceremony, and thankfully it wasn’t nearly as moving as the one we had given at Camp Warehouse. After the commander was finished speaking he took The Colonel off for another side conversation while we stood around and talked among ourselves. Although glad to talk and joke when we first arrived, the guys from 021 were no longer in a playful mood, and we understood why.

The Colonel and the 3rd Group commander ended their conversation pretty quickly, and as he made his way back to us The Colonel gave us the sign to move out. We knew his time here in country was very short, and as much as we didn’t want to leave our brothers from 021, when The Colonel said move, you got the hell on the move.

We were back at Camp Warehouse before long, and again, and as soon as we stepped out of the trucks someone was grabbing the leadership to bring them into the Death Star. We made our way back up to our rooms and began putting our things away.

I had just broken down my rifle to start cleaning it when Jake walked in the hallway and called us into his room, so I quickly put all of the pieces back together and got on the move. Jake and The Captain had big smiles on their faces, and as soon as everyone from the team was present, Jake spilled the news.

“We’re moving to Shank tomorrow,” he said with the excitement very obvious in his voice. We looked at each other and exchanged quick high-fives, glad that we’d finally be going out on our own to take our own piece of the battle space. Before we got too excited, The Captain added his piece.

“We have a lot to do and pack before we head out, so don’t spend all day congratulating yourselves. The support guys will be driving an LMTV to help us get all of our gear out there, so we need to start packing and getting everything ready—now. We’ll be driving The Colonel out to Kabul Airport after dark tonight for his flight out, so get as much done before then as possible; we’re leaving bright and early tomorrow morning.”

We looked at each other again, realizing that it was finally really happening, but we only had a second to dwell on it before Jake barked at us with a huge grin.

“Well, get moving, you heard him!”

We followed Ray back to his room, as he was the senior Charlie and in charge of the logistics and packing, to get a game plan of what needed to go and what needed to stay here in storage. As the senior 18C his name was on the hand receipt for every piece of equipment the team owned, and it would be his ass if we lost anything.

He drew up a quick list of the team gear he wanted to take, and each of other MOS’s quickly drew up lists of what equipment they would have to bring. In the end, nobody knew why we made these lists at all, because it would have been just as well to just say “everything,” as only a few small items were left behind to be stored at Camp Warehouse.

We started by getting the forklift and putting all the big stuff on the LMTV: ATV’s, mil-van, and tough boxes. The rest of the personal stuff we could stack around that, and could also fit in the trunks of the HUMVEE’s. After the LMTV was loaded and the sun was beginning to set, we headed to the chow hall for a quick dinner.

Although we had only taken a half hour at most, Jake was already in full gear and searching all over the compound for us when we returned.

“I thought I told you guys that we were taking The Colonel to the airport tonight, get your shit on and get the trucks ready!”

None of us had known exactly what time we were supposed to be leaving, but we raced up the steps to grab our weapons and body armor for the trip. We had the HUMVEE’s up and running in no time, and were on the road with The Colonel very quickly. Not one to sit around and wait, his plane back to Germany was already on the runway starting its pre-flight when we arrived, so he didn’t have a lot of time for long goodbyes. As soon as the trucks stopped just short of the runway, he jumped out of his seat, grabbed his bag from the trunk and made a quick stop at The Captain’s truck to give one last order before taking off.

He turned around to wave goodbye to all of us and was on his way to the plane before we could return with the instinctive salute. I hadn’t heard what he said to The Captain before he left, but was informed as soon as we arrived back at Camp Warehouse; he had been given an order by the 3rd Group Commander for all of us to shave our beards and cut our hair during the memorial ceremony that afternoon, and The Captain ordered us to do it before we left for Shank.

It sounds pretty inconsequential to most people, but it was a big blow to us. While most conventional Commanders and Sergeants Major were of the belief that SF guys wore beards and uniforms with customized pouches for extra ammo, frags, and med kits just to be undisciplined cowboys, we knew how important it really was.

The Middle Eastern culture, and especially the Afghan culture, relies very heavily on age as status in a village. The village elders are usually the oldest people still of sound mind in a village, and are the voice of leadership and reason for it. Afghanis regard the beard, untrimmed and long, as a symbol of status and reverence, which is why the village elders usually have long, white and gray beards.

You can look at any picture of a Shura (meeting) among Afghanis or between them and Americans, and the only people in the pictures without beards were the Americans, unless they were SF guys. As the villagers in Logar would soon tell us, making them negotiate or speak with a clean-faced soldier was the equivalent of us having to negotiate with a child, in their minds, and we were disrespecting them and their culture by making them do so.

The French Foreign Legion and any other soldiers operating in the area knew this and always kept a short beard at least, having learned that lesson from a century of experience fighting in the Middle East and Africa. But the 3rd Group Commander didn’t like beards, so what were we going to do?

We had deployed with relaxed grooming standards orders straight from USASOC [United States Army Special Operations Command], so none of us had even thought of bringing a razor or blades with us. We went to the PX on base that night and bought disposable razors to remove our cultural awareness.

It had been a few months since we had begun growing our beards, so they were all pretty long and scraggy by this point. Thankfully some of the support guys had clippers to cut their own hair, so we were able to chop them down a few inches before having to take to our faces with the blades. It was still pretty painful, as hot water was a luxury that we didn’t have that night, and I must have gone through three or four razors before I was finished.

When my face was finally free of hair I looked at the smooth, bleeding skin in disgust. I had really thought we were on the level with what we were doing here, but all it took was one commander with a bug up his ass to ruin a good thing. People and decisions like that are why we will never be truly accepted as the “ambassadors of democracy” that we hope to be in the Middle East, because if we can’t get something as simple as that right, how can we ever pretend to understand and respect their culture?

None of us were quite brave enough to cut our own hair down or let another one of us do it, and as the closest English-speaking barber was located on Camp Phoenix we stopped in on our way to Shank the next day exclusively for a haircut.

I had the long hair true to my Italian ancestry by this point, and I could just run my fingers through once in the morning and be good to go and really didn’t want to deal with anything less during a combat deployment, especially if I was going to be wearing a helmet most of the day. Being fresh faced already ruined our chances of running Low Vis missions anymore (barely anyone in the entire country of Afghanistan is clean cut past the age of twenty, which meant there was no blending in like that), so by the time I got in the barber chair I just said, “Take it all.”

The barbers there on Camp Phoenix were tall, blonde female Russian contractors who had been remarking about my long hair since I first walked into their little shop, and the lady behind me with scissors actually gasped.

“No, no way,” she responded in her thick Russian accent as she held her hand to her mouth. “I won’t do it.”

It wasn’t often they got to see a customer who actually had any hair of mention on an American military base in Afghanistan, and at the risk of sounding pompous I do have to say that my hair was pretty great at that point.

But, I had my mind made up, and figured it was all or nothing; if we weren’t going to make the effort to fit in anymore, I really didn’t want hair to be getting my way during a firefight, so I looked at her again, made the “chop it all” motion. With a grimace she got to work with the clippers. A few minutes later I looked just like any other soldier walking around that base, and lost a huge piece of my faith in the SF command that day.

Once we were all shaven and shorthaired it was time to hit the road. We made our way to the trucks and got saddled up to go. There were a few HUMVEE’s of guys from Charlie Company who would be making the trip with us to escort the LMVT home, and when my buddy Matt (who I had gone on the Balad trip with) saw my new “do” he just started laughing.

“Hey man, I’m sorry,” he said through his smile, and all I could do was shrug and give him the “What are you gonna do?” look.

Apparently the same command hadn’t been given to the Charlie Company guys, and Matt found it hilarious. I’d be doing the same exact thing (but probably pointing straight at him and laughing) if the boots were on the other feet.

.

We were on the road shortly, and before we knew it we were right back at Shank. We didn’t know anything more than the fact that the base Commander had asked us to come out there and make it our home for the rest of the deployment, so the details of where we were going to live hadn’t quite been worked out yet. The Charlie Company guys had to get back to Kabul before nightfall, however, so as soon as we arrived and the leadership made their way to the OPCEN, Ray and J-Lo hunted down a forklift to get our stuff off the LMTV. We were parked in the same area next to the transient huts where we’d stayed a few nights before, and without any word on another location, decided to just drop everything there and let the guys get back on their way.

We thanked them for the help, and were waving goodbye when Jake and The Captain approached.

“Well, we’ve got good news and bad news,” said Jake.

“Bad news,” we said in unison, without him even having to ask which one we wanted first.

“Our new homes are these huts,” he said, pointing right to the transient huts we’d slept in during our first trip there.

“Great,” said Jason. “So what’s the good news?”

Jake looked at him and grinned. “We’re already familiar with where we’re going to live.” We each forced a little chuckle, as you couldn’t really be mad; at least we had four walls, a roof, and finally, our own AO of bad guys to hunt.

Jake looked back at the buildings and gave us his orders. “Don’t unpack anything, don’t even move a single bag. Our first job is to get this place in order, because I’m not living out the rest of this trip in a place like that. Ray, go make friends and get us whatever materials we need to make that place livable. Everyone else, let’s go find some brooms and cleaning stuff and turn this dump into a proper team house.”

With that we scattered. Jason and I quickly found the med tent and borrowed all of the antiseptic and cleaning chemicals we could find, and by the time we were back at the steps J-Lo and Josh appeared with brooms. There was already a large pile of wood forming next to the building that Ray and J-Lo had found, and we got to work.

We spent the entire day sweeping, disinfecting, and then building. It was a work in progress that took us the entire deployment to get to full living conditions, but by the end of that day we had bunk beds, plywood walls, separated small living areas about four feet by six feet that we could call our own, and clean floors.

After the sun was already down, we began to move all our gear into the huts and designated one as our command center with all of the sensitive items, and the other as just a bunkhouse. After I stacked my tough boxes and made a small shelf to hold my extra magazines of ammo and frag grenades I noticed something was missing. I dug into my bag and pulled out my only piece of home, my good old Texas flag, and hung it from the end of my bunk. If anyone had any questions about which area was mine, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out.

Chapter 18

Night Attack at FOB Kutschbach

The next day at FOB Shank was more of the same, finding a place for everything and trying to build up our new home to best facilitate the nature of our mission set: anything at any time. If we found out at the last minute that we would be doing a three-day recon mission before hitting a target and leaving in an hour, we didn’t want to waste time packing and getting our gear together.

We had the luxury of having several different kits of armor which we configured for different mission sets: “slick” light set-ups for the recon or mountain missions where we had to be light and fast, “heavy” sets built for our run-of-the mill, day-to-day operations, during which you never knew when you would come under attack and find yourself in a sustained firefight, and everything in between.

It was on that second day that everyone was starting to get comfortable there and finally feel a little bit at home. We had also met a good number of representatives of the base; they had each become a little curious and came knocking on our hooch when they found out an ODA was living on the base now. We decided to break for lunch around noon, and as Jason, Ray, J-Lo, Josh, and I walked out of the door of our hut and toward the chow hall, we passed Jake, walking the other way.

“Check the board,” he said as he passed us, not even looking our way. Not having any idea what he was talking about, and him being several feet away by the time we turned around to ask what he meant, we decided to go into the other hut to figure out what the hell he was talking about.

As soon as we walked in the front door there was a large white dry-erase board hanging on the wall, with the hours of the day at the top, broken up into 15-minute segments. Even though we were still getting acquainted and familiar with the base, he had laid out a full day, starting in about thirty minutes, without telling any of us.

“Dude, is this a selection board?” asked Ray, referring to the board at selection that resides in the courtyard of all of the barracks, on which the instructors will place a mission and packing list at any hour of the day or night, usually requiring people to be prepared to move out immediately.

“It looks that way,” I answered, knowing that Jake’s idea of leadership was much different than Josh and the typical SF “big boy rules” style of management.

We shook our heads in disbelief and walked out as Matty called to us to wait up so he could join us for lunch. Jake had scheduled us to leave in about thirty minutes for an “area familiarization,” which basically just meant driving around and getting a good lay of the land.

Just the same as any other day, we gathered in front of the trucks, Jake gave our convoy brief, and we made our radio checks. We would be driving the entirety of Route Georgia and back again, basically as a movement to contact to see if we could draw fire or at least get a better feel for which villages in our AO were friendly and which were hostile to us. The sun was high above the Afghan sky when we started out of the gate that day, taking a quick left and heading down the initial road to take us to Route Georgia. Another left a few miles away and the day began, making our way along the road.

We would notice the entire way along the route, just as Josh had warned us, that the kids were the key to determining the opinion of a village toward us: If the kids were out, playful and waving to us, we were OK there. If the kids were either absent or scowling at us, however, it was considered hostile. The kids, he had explained, were very impressionable and not as good at hiding their emotions.

An adult could go to the Mosque and hear “Death to America” preaching all day, then still come out and shake your hand while thinking of ways to kill you. The kids, however, weren’t as good at hiding it; if they were spending their days in Madrasahs that were preaching hate, they would project that hate toward us every time they saw us.

As we made our way along the winding twists and turns of the villages between Shank and the highway leading to Kabul, we noticed the differences very quickly. Some of the kids would run along side our HUMVEE’s, waving, smiling, and shouting to us, and Josh would throw candy to them. In other villages, however, both the men and children would just stand outside of the little shops or on the sides of the road, scowling at us or spitting on the ground as we drove past.

It was about an hour and a half to get all the way to our designated turnaround point, which was a big dirt field at the intersection of the two roads. We got out to take a quick piss break, got back into our positions, and turned around for the drive home.

I was getting pretty tired at this point and could feel my eyes begin to get a little droopy every few minutes as I watched the fields, mountains, and people begin to blur together into one huge green and brown mix. We made it through the first few villages, and I was getting pretty close to dozing off when I heard The Captain come over the radio.

“Where the hell did everyone go?”

I had been so tired that I hadn’t even really noticed, but sure enough, the village streets and market that had been crowded just thirty minutes before when we drove through the first time were now deserted.

I was looking out at the fields, wondering if they had just gone to work back out there when I heard the loud “Allah Akbar!” from someone on our left and above me—quickly followed by bullets hitting the front of our vehicle.

As I scanned from left to right and stepped on the gas (the best thing to do is alter your speed to throw off their aim), I saw an RPG streak across the front of our vehicle and explode in the field next to us, just as Josh let loose with the .50 cal above my head. I saw The Captain move to hit the push-to-talk button on his body armor to position the team for a “react to contact,” but before he could get to it we heard Jake come over the radio.

“Contact contact contact contact!” he was yelling, jamming the net so that none of us could get a word in.

As Josh kept unloading fire from the .50 cal, I could hear the grenades being launched from J-Lo’s MK19 behinds us, and looked in my side mirror to ensure that both trucks were OK and still following. Matty was in the middle truck manning the 240 mounted on top, and I could see him going to town and unloading fire way up high to our left. As we continued forward, Jake kept screaming the same thing into the radio.

The Captain finally got fed up with trying to communicate at that point, and threw his push-to-talk down on the floor in anger. Without being able to communicate we wouldn’t be able to get our guys into position, and if we got out of the trucks here to try to launch a counter-attack we would most likely be picked off immediately by whoever it was on top of the mountain and shooting at us.

The Captain motioned for me to pull over to the right side of the road, and yelled up to Josh that we were stopping so that he could get a better field of fire. Without stopping he threw a quick thumbs-up with his left hand through the turret hole below him so we could see, and as I pulled over I saw another RPG come from our right side, fly over our hood, and slam into the mountain just a few meters away.

Josh immediately traversed 180 degrees to the right, and I heard the .50 cal fully unload. A .50 cal is a massive piece of machinery, with an awesome amount of firepower, and its concussion is downright deafening. I could feel every round Josh was putting out toward the ambushers in the fields, and as my body rattled I tried to get a good look at what was going on.

I made a move to open my door and get a better look, but The Captain grabbed my body armor and pulled me briskly back. Just as he did I heard the “ping” of rounds hitting our truck again, but felt useless in my seat, like a sitting duck.

Within a few short minutes the eruptions from the heavy guns stopped, and I didn’t hear any more rounds coming in on us. The gunners began to call in their body counts out in the fields and up on the mountains, and The Captain made a quick tally.

.

The next few months were much of the same; we would wake up pretty early, get the trucks running and put the weapons on, head out the gate, and do “area familiarization.” Chris was our formal 18F (Intel Sergeant), and with him gone Jake wasn’t making a lot of moves based on our own intelligence (which is the hallmark of how an ODA is supposed to operate).

Josh actually had a much higher level of intelligence training than Chris, but the last thing Jake was going to do would be to let Josh have any control, especially to develop our targeting. We would go out all day to do area familiarization, have a few KLE’s (Key Leader Engagements), and when we returned Josh and The Captain would go to the base head shed to pour over all of the intelligence that had been collected on Logar and the bad guys.

We were a few months into the deployment, and all of the teams were beginning to become very familiar with their AO’s and the personalities, so somewhere around early winter we began to run coordinated hits. There were a lot of targets that were just too big for one ODA to take down, or there would be multiple targets that had to be taken down at the same time lest one get the warning and leave the area. We would call up one of the other teams and basically ask if they wanted some work for a few days, bring them in to our base, or head out to their base, and do the hit together.

It was a great way to break up the monotony that Jake had created of just driving around and waiting for someone to shoot at us; by the time the deployment would be over, every team would have been to every other team’s AO at some point to assist with missions. We had several large-scale missions, during which we would cordon off an entire village and go through house to house, searching everyone and usually turning up with a cache or two of weapons. To do this required a massive amount of manpower, so we would bring another ODA, a few ANA units (who you could never tell exactly where you were going, or they would warn someone in that town), and other Infantry units to help us.

Somewhere along the way The Captain had worked out a deal for us to hold our own little selection process to pick twenty of the ANA across the street to become our own commandoes, and between them and the Foreign Legion soldiers we became a force to be reckoned with.

They came with us almost everywhere we went, and we welcomed the firepower. Sometime in November we began to spend the days training up the ANA we had selected in small unit tactics and marksmanship, and it was great to have them with us. It was one thing for us to go out and about the towns, especially once we were dismounted (walking rather than driving HUMVEE’s). They could at least communicate, and as a few of them confessed to us, some used to be Taliban so they could spot them from a mile away.

We got into a few skirmishes here and there; still, it was amazing to see how well the ANA were progressing. The first time we took them through all of the 7-8 drills on their base, it had looked like a group of kids with people stopping the middle of the drills and just looking at us confused. After the first month, however, they were beginning to IMT toward the fire during ambushes, which was exactly what we needed.

It had been quite a while since we had been back to FOB Kutschbach, and by the time December rolled around we knew it was time to return. We were all tied into the same information and intelligence networks, and could monitor the other teams’ SITREP’s from our team house, so we would see whenever 021 or any other team was being attacked. We began to notice that they were still taking fire whenever they moved in a certain direction from their base, and they were getting a little sick of it.

One day The Captain called over to their Captain and discovered a piece of information that would hatch a plan that would change things greatly; many of the times that they left base and took fire, it was coming from the same house, which they had named “Pat’s house”— this was where the RPG came from that killed Pat. Hearing this, The Captain and the 021 Captain began to hatch a plan: Operation Payback.

Some of the teams were busier than others, but each of us had a little part of our hearts that wanted nothing more than revenge on the bastards who killed our brother. The Captain and the 021 Captain coordinated together for several weeks, and in the second week of December we finally received the approval from higher to go back to FOB Kutschbach for the final push. It turned out that the entire company would be involved, as it would be basically stirring up the hornets’ nest, and we didn’t really know just how many fighters there were scattered throughout the village or in the entire Tagab Valley, but we knew there were a lot and reinforcements from Pakistan weren’t very far away.

We had been on quite a few coordinated hits up to this point, but this would be the first company-sized attack, and we were expecting it to be pretty heavy. We spent two days packing, preparing, and going over our drills before finally getting on the road. We would move from Shank back to Kabul, pick up 024 along with Johnson, who had just returned from Ranger school the day before along with Chad, my roommate. There was only one thing on everyone’s mind from the moment we left the gate until we arrived at FOB Kutschbach that afternoon, and there was no mistaking what it was.

.

Our brothers had been under constant attack since their arrival in the Tagab Valley, and we were going to make a big and strong enough push to get all of the bad guys we possibly could in one fell swoop. Once we arrived in Kabul at Camp Warehouse we stopped for about an hour to make sure everyone was coordinated and ready to go, and as soon as we pulled in I saw Chad, with his blonde hair and big, goofy grin, about thirty pounds lighter than when he’d left. I walked over and gave him a big hug and congratulations, and we went to get dinner.

He had been in Georgia at Ranger school for the entire deployment up to this point, and I had so much to catch him up on that I didn’t even know where to start. Someone had told them about Pat while they were in one of their phases of training, and I was glad I wouldn’t have to be the one to break that news to him. We shot the shit for about half an hour, finished our food, and made our way back to the trucks, where people were a flurry of movement getting their last preparations ready and loading all the gear.

Chad and I said our goodbyes as everyone huddled for the convoy brief. We (022) were the lead vehicles to BAF, where we would link up with 021 and follow them the rest of the way. Once we linked up we would be traveling with nine HUMVEE’s, loaded to the gills with extra ammo and weapons, on the final leg to FOB Kutschbach; the bad guys in the Tagab were going to know something was coming and either run for the hills or set in for the fight. We hoped they were men enough to do the latter.

By the time we were linked up with 021 and ready to head back out the eastern gate for FOB Kutschbach we were ready to get it on. The plan was to drive there, spend the next day getting the plans and coordination locked down tight between all the teams, and then hit the following morning.

We started the long procession of trucks through the gate and made the familiar drive into the Tagab. We were less than a mile from BAF when we encountered a wedding procession, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. When you’re about to walk into a battle, it’s hard to understand that other people aren’t in that same frame of mind, and it’s easy to forget that there are actually civilians who aren’t bad guys and who don’t know what you are coming for.

Our procession was slowed to a crawl behind the wedding party revelers, walking through the streets in their most colorful clothing, playing music and having a ball like they didn’t even realize they were in a war zone. I was happy for them, and learned another valuable lesson about the unbreakable human spirit: some people can be happy anywhere, and no matter the situation, life will go on.

It wasn’t long before the procession turned off the main road, and as we sped past I craned my neck to get one final glimpse. We would hopefully be doing our own celebration soon, but it wouldn’t be about anything nearly as positive or fun filled as a wedding. We were hunting bad guys and would consider it a token to our brother’s memory if we could get enough of them to stabilize that area—even if only for a day.

It was already getting dark when we arrived at the now-familiar FOB Kutschbach, and found space to park our trucks. We knew the accommodations would be tight there, as more people had arrived on the base but they hadn’t had any chance to expand or even build any new B-huts. We quickly linked up with Chris, who showed us to our new digs: sea-land containers.

“Oh well,” I said to him as he pointed out mine, “still much better than sleeping on the rocks in the cold, and at least the metal sides will give more protection than the plywood.”

Apparently most of the guys from 021 had the same feeling; they had moved from their plywood B-huts to these large, metal containers normally seen on huge cargo ships, now converted into temporary homes. Ray, J-Lo, and I took possession of one of the empty ones, setting down all our gear to go find out what would happen next.

It didn’t seem like there were any plans for that night at all, so we went back, grabbed an MRE from the trunk of our HUMVEE’s for dinner, and went to work cleaning our weapons and getting ready for the next few days. It didn’t take long for us to turn in for the night, however, as there were no lights allowed outside after the sun went down, no lighting inside the sea-land container, and not much else to do but sleep.

We awoke the next morning and did much of the same: cleaned our weapons, joked around with John and Chris, and did anything else we could to keep our minds off what was coming up. The leadership was breaking the ODA’s up into different assignments for the mission, and taking people here and there for other positions. We would have to be broken up into two large groups, the dismounted troops who would walk in and those who would drive the HUMVEE’s in at first contact for QRF and heavy weapons cover. The dismounted troops were then broken down even further, with specific parts of the village to be covered by different ODA’s. Ray and Jason were taken to be a part of the mounted QRF force, and they were not at all happy that they wouldn’t be walking with us.

At one point the Sergeant Major tried to tell Jake that I was going to have to be the company-level medic for this mission, located with him and the HQ to coordinate MEDEVAC’s in case something serious happened, to which The Captain told him flat-out no.

As darkness began to fall, it turned out that someone had apparently struck some kind of deal while we were at BAF and had arrived with a huge supply of steaks and various other meats. The FOB still didn’t have any cooks or kitchen, but Destin, who was pretty good with a welding torch, had fashioned a BBQ grill, so the night before the mission we ate meat with our bare hands, adding an even more primal feeling of the warrior spirit than we already had coursing through our veins.

After dinner we did one last and final check of all our gear, medical equipment, and extra ammo in our HUMVEE’s in case the mission took longer than we planned. The leadership had actually been able to coordinate A-10 air cover in case it got really heavy as well, which was a Godsend in that country.

.

I was actually sleeping quite well that night for being in a sea-land container; that was, of course, until I was awakened by the sound of gunfire. At first it simply worked its way into my dream in the strange, nonsense way that real-world sounds seem to.

As my subconscious slowly began to comprehend what was going on, I realized that it was the sound of a Dragonov rifle accompanied by a multitude of AK-47’s. I sat up in my sleeping bag and looked at my watch: 2:45 a.m.

Did they figure out what we were here for?

Before my brain could think any more, my entire field of view erupted in a shower of red flame and sparks, accompanied by the loudest BOOM! I had ever heard, which echoed incessantly through the metal shipping container that Ray, J-Lo, and I were sleeping in. J-Lo looked back with a “That was pretty cool” expression, sleep still in his eyes, not quite realizing yet that a rocket had just come mere feet away from killing all three of us in our sleeping bags.

“17 degrees, 700 meters!” was shouted from the tower in the middle of the FOB, and we immediately had the same thought, voiced by Ray.

“They’re gonna try and overrun the base!”

We began to see dark figures run past the front of our container, and all three of us immediately jumped up, put on our body armor, and grabbed our weapons. I was ready first, and as soon as I ran outside I saw people beginning to scale the walls to take up positions. The sound of gunfire was everywhere, and I silently thanked the years of training that allowed me to easily discern the sound of American weapons versus the AK-47’s and Dragonov so that I had an idea of what we were getting into.

No time to think, I immediately ran to the southeastern corner of the FOB to scale the walls and take up a position. In the back of my mind all I could picture was a sea of fighters coming for the walls, just like the movies of the old medieval battles where attackers would try to storm a castle. Would these sand-filled HESCO barriers forming the perimeter of this tiny FOB withstand a wave of suicide bombers or even worse, a VBIED? If they already hit the base once with rockets, I wondered if they had just gotten lucky or if they finally had FOB Kutschbach dialed in for accurate hits.

My mind finally silenced when I got up on the wall: no enemy in sight, but that didn’t always mean a good thing. The sound of the gunfight was now accompanied by the silent whizzing of bullets, which meant they were at least shooting on target—bad news.

Are they shooting at me or aiming for the tower?

I suddenly realized just how vulnerable a tower guard must feel up there during an attack, with nothing but thin metal walls to protect you, knowing that every enemy gunning for the base was aiming directly at you.

I crawled along the walkway behind the top level of HESCO’s until I reached Griz.

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

“It looks like they only had one rocket, or else we’d be toast by now. The rounds are all coming from this direction, nothing from the town yet, but keep your eyes peeled for somebody trying to sneak in the back.”

I popped up over the wall, barrel first, and squeezed off five rounds where I saw muzzle flashes aiming right for us. “How far out is that?”

“They’re all over the place, but I’d put the closest at about 400 meters, too far for any of these rounds to be effective from an AK, but that Dragonov can do some damage wherever it is.”

Just as Griz stopped talking, I looked over to his right and saw Destin, who had been setting up his new toy, a mount he had fabricated to put two .50 cals side-by-side. I saw him rack both of them back like a bodybuilder doing seated rows in a gym, and part of me became as excited as a five-year-old on Christmas, waiting to see the hell that was about to be unleashed.

Destin looked at us and gave a little grin, then shouted back over his shoulder to the rest of the base.

“One order of seventy-two virgins, coming right up!” He looked back, got himself into a good linebacker’s stance, held a butterfly trigger in each hand, tensed up a bit, and let it fly.

The amount of fury that erupted made me wish he had one of these for the next Fourth of July celebration at home. I watched in awe as the double .50 cals sent enough lead downrange to stop a small army. Destin looked just as any of us would at that moment, the type of grin crossing his face that can only be found on the person who just brought the biggest gun to the gunfight, traversing the immense weapons left and right, spewing fire like a dragon that had just been awakened from a long sleep.

Griz and I took turns popping up over the walls and firing off rounds. I desperately wanted to see someone close enough to use my M203, but I knew it would be a waste of a good round if they weren’t any closer than a few hundred meters. Between Destin, the .50 cals, and an entire company’s worth of M4’s, M240’s, and SAW’s, the sound was deafening. Griz and I were taking turns playing dueling rifles; I would crouch down behind the HESCO and look up to see the shower of tracers flying over my head like a million fireflies in the night and silently giggle to myself, God help the poor bastards on the receiving end of this!

Even with the immense sound of Destin and his toy, everyone began to notice that the soft whizzing of incoming rounds was starting to fade, as were the small, orange muzzle flashes from the other side of the wall. Once all the rounds were gone, Destin hesitated for a second, waiting for the echo off the mountains and the ringing in his ears to stop to gauge his effectiveness. Everyone seemed to look around at each other in unison, and hearing no more incoming rounds, erupted in a simultaneous “Hell yeah!” We waited around for quite some time, and Griz was the first one to speak up, echoing the thoughts that the battle was over, for the time being at least.

“OK,” said Griz, “guess it’s time for some shut-eye. We rock and roll at 0530.”

“Hopefully we just made our job tomorrow a little easier,” I said.

“Yeah, but if there were any big fish in this town, they’re long gone now. We may get a lot of little fish, but the bad guys that paid for Pat’s ambush were probably gone before the sun went down.”

“Well then,” I grumbled, “we’ll just have to bag a lot of the little fish to fill our appetites for a while. I’m racking out, see you in a few hours.” I climbed down the ladder, off the wall, and walked toward my connex to pretend to get some sleep.

Chapter 19

Operation Payback

After laying there for hours, unable to sleep since the firefight, I was glad when my alarm went off at 0500. At least I wouldn’t have to lay there and listen to Ray and J-Lo constantly turning over in their sleeping bags, just like me; feeling the adrenaline coursing through their veins like jet fuel, imagining today’s mission over and over instead of dreams, their minds going a million miles a minute, just like mine.

The three of us all slowly sat up in our sleeping bags, still sore from the adrenaline of the firefight. Ray started up the jet boil, and even though I wasn’t very hungry you never knew when it could be your last meal, so I pulled out a cold weather meal to make some breakfast. I said something about a lesson from the 18D schoolhouse, about the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems and how we were told over and over to never fight on a full stomach.

“Well,” Ray said, “I’ll take my chances, because this guy doesn’t want to die with an empty stomach.”

“I’ll second that,” said J-Lo as he tossed his meal over to Ray for some boiling water.

We ate silently, gave our weapons one final coat of CLP, put on our body armor and rucksacks, and stepped out into cold, dark Afghan morning. Each of the teams was already mulling around the area of the back gate, making small talk as quietly as possible, which consisted of more “What?” and “Huh?” than anything else since everyone already had their PELTOR’s on. I saw Destin, still grinning from the night before, walk to the front of the gaggle and give the signal for “Round up” and “Get in line,” and everyone immediately obeyed.

The movement order was determined by team, with some French Foreign Legion and B-team interspersed. Chris and John were still with 021, so Chris wouldn’t be walking with us, and John would be staying back to coordinate air and mortar cover. Ray and Jason wouldn’t be walking out with us either, and I suddenly wished they were. Jake had offered them both up to be drivers of the QRF vehicles, which meant I would be the only medic walking with my team. I knew that every member of the team knew just as much about TCCC [Tactical Combat Casualty Care] and CLS [Combat Life Saver] as anybody could without going to JSOMTC, but I still wished I had Jason there for backup.

I wished the whole team could be together for this one, having spent so much time training for this very moment. But there was no time to feel sorry for myself; Destin gave the signal for “Move out” and the whole procession, a company’s worth of Green Berets, a team of French Foreign Legion, and about thirty Afghan Army commandos, started walking to meet our destiny.

I was behind Josh, which gave me a lot of comfort. As we walked out of the gate, a French combat cameraman stuck his camera in Josh’s face, who stiff-armed him like an NFL running back.

“No pictures of me,” he told the French reporter.

“But what is ze problem? Zis is for ze French people to be proud of zer soldiers,” he said in a thick accent.

“Nothing against you or France. If you were from NBC, I would say the same thing: My face doesn’t go on anybody’s news. Got it?”

The French reporter realized he was arguing with a man who had a half dozen different weapons on him and had been pumping himself up to walk into a firefight, and went a little further down the line to photograph someone else.

The procession quickly spread out into a wedge formation, and I realized just how much firepower we had. Josh alone had a 60mm mortar tube with a rucksack full of mortars primed to go, an M4, M9, frags, flash bangs, knives, and M203 rounds on his back for me in case I ran low—a lot of havoc for one man to carry. A team of Green Berets consists of about the equivalent in firepower of a company of regular leg infantry; we currently had five teams with us, a fact that made me feel pretty damn good about myself at that moment.

As the sun slowly rose over the Afghan mountains, I could see the concentration on everyone’s face and began to get very excited. We were starting to approach the hill above Pat’s house, and Destin gave the signal for everyone to get down. The teams each split off to their respective staging areas and crouched.

021’s Captain moved over to us in a low run, taking a knee behind a waist-high rock, and pointing out the area.

“That house right down there is Pat’s house; every time we come out this way, in trucks or on foot, we take fire from there, and,” as he pointed to another set of mud, two-story houses to the east of Pat’s house, “that’s were the secondary fire comes from. We believe reinforcements stage there as well. They’ve had snipers before, so be careful. Stay alert; this may get hairy. We’ll sit here and wait to draw fire. If nothing happens, we’ll be moving out in about ten minutes to pick a fight.”

Then he grabbed his rifle and ran over to 024, to our left by about fifty meters, to disseminate the information again.

As soon as 021’s Captain began to move, Josh took off his rucksack, pulled out the mortar tube, and started pulling out mortar rounds.

“What if we don’t get shot at and have to move?” said Jake. “Then you’re just gonna have to put all that stuff up again.”

“Yeah,” replied Josh, “but what if we do get shot at? I brought plenty of scunyun, and this is definitely close enough for me to reach out and touch someone.”

Josh pointed to Matty with the 240 and Johnson with the SAW.

“You guys spread out and get a reload ready. We may not get anything here, but if we do, it will probably be pretty bad.”

Without hesitation, the two split up and did exactly as they were told, setting up on either side of the team in the cold morning darkness.

As I was going over everything in my med bag mentally, what different combat wounds would require, where every piece of equipment was located, and how to get to it the fastest, I looked around and saw all of the other medics from the company checking their bags as well.

“You ready for this?” asked Josh.

“Well,” I replied, “I thought we were going to Denny’s for pancakes this morning. I can’t believe I followed you crazy fuckers out here.”

Everybody laughed a little, and The Captain, who’d been looking through his binoculars, rolled over, chuckled with us, and shook his head.

“We may actually be going home for pancakes after all. I haven’t seen any movement down there since we got here. I’m guessing that whoever planned last night’s attack told everyone to get outta Dodge.”

“Yeah, or the guys that we were after today were the same ones that attacked us last night,” said Josh.

“Whatever. We’re still going down there to get in some faces. Even if the guys that killed Pat are gone, somebody down there knows where and who they are,” grumbled Jake.

With that, 021’s Captain ran back over to the team.

“We haven’t seen any movement in Pat’s house. We wanted to go down and poke around a bit in the village; you can stay up here and watch the house if you want.”

“Nope,” said Jake. “We’re gonna go get inside Pat’s house; see if we can see anything.”

The 021 Captain’s smirk showed he obviously thought Jake was full of it, but the smirk disappeared at Jake’s reply.

“We’re gonna follow you down the western side of the village, and we’ll break off and head to clear Pat’s house. We’ll let you know what we find.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

He looked at our Captain, and saw he was dead serious. “Just stay on the radio. We’ll expect you guys to get into trouble, so we’ll try to stay close by. 024 and 026 will be clearing the village with us, so hopefully we can meet up in the middle. We have eyes via Predator overhead, and A-10’s should be on station in about an hour. We’re moving out in three minutes, so get your gear ready and follow us.”

With that Josh started to break down the mortar tube and put all of his mortars back.

“Told ya,” said Jake.

“He just had to get that one in, didn’t he?” I whispered to J-Lo.

“I think this is gonna turn out to be a very long day,” he replied.

All eyes were on 021; when their Captain started to move the team forward, the other teams eyed each other like hawks to see who wasn’t ready, to try to vie to be the first team behind 021. We quickly fell in behind them, with 024 next in tow, and 026 was in a pow-wow, coming up with another idea.

When 021’s Captain got to the bottom of the hill, he took a knee, as did everyone else. Looking ahead of them, I began to realize what we were about to do. From up top it didn’t look so bad, but being at ground level now, everyone realized we were about to cross nearly 100 meters of open ground, with absolutely no cover whatsoever, a small river in the middle, and a known armed enemy combatant house on the other side.

If they opened up on us as we crossed with anything heavy, we could easily lose half the company in seconds. Having been in this exact spot before, and knowing what thoughts were going through everyone’s heads, 021’s Captain looked back, gave everyone a “Time to nut up” look, and moved out. Josh looked back, gave me a quick nod, and we moved.

While 021 decided to move as one unit, spread out and at a quick jog, the boys from 022 didn’t like that idea.

“Bounding overwatch,” was all that Jake had to turn around and tell us. The good thing about teams being so tight and doing all their training together, day in and day out, was that we had done this countless times in every training environment we’d been in, from Germany to Florida to Austria.

It didn’t take any more words for the first four to know exactly who they were, to line up, and to take off at a quick run for about fifty meters before they hit the ground and set up their weapons to cover their buddies’ movement. Jake, the leader of the first team, looked over his shoulder and gave The Captain the thumbs-up, meaning that they had them covered.

As tiring as a bounding overwatch could be in training, especially loaded down with ammo and a med bag, I realized once we got all the way across the open that I hadn’t felt anything. I must have been carrying at least a hundred pounds, but with all of the adrenaline blasting through my body at that moment it felt like nothing.

021 was waiting on the exterior wall of the village when we made it across. Their Captain gave a “We’re heading this way now” to our Captain, who responded with a nod. Chris and I caught each other’s eyes with a quick “Watch your six, buddy,” and we went in opposite directions.

As 021 disappeared into the village, we followed the wall to the east. We had about 300 meters before we reached Pat’s house and wanted to take our time to make sure that nothing was waiting for us. Looking back to the top of the hill, I couldn’t see anybody, which was a very good sign; if there was anyone in Pat’s house, I hoped they had been busy praying or eating, because I didn’t want anything to give away the surprise they were about to get. Although pulling a bad guy out of bed at gunpoint was by far my favorite, kicking in his door while he was eating breakfast or dinner was a close second.

Jake suddenly gave the signal for everyone to stop and take a knee, and motioned for The Captain to move up with him; they pulled up their sleeves to look at the maps on their forearms, and using only hand signals decided that the team was less than fifty meters from Pat’s house. They gave the signal for everyone to be alert, and as The Captain went back to his place in the formation, I moved up with Jake.

I was too excited to even feel my feet as they stepped forward; Jake came to an alleyway and suddenly halted, turned to me, mouthed “Game Time,” and stopped just outside the door. Exactly as we had done a million times in training, I put my left hand on Jake’s right shoulder, turned around to make sure everyone was set; as soon as I gave his shoulder a hard squeeze time became a blur.

I had always wondered how scary it must be to be sitting in a room when a team of Green Berets kicks in your door. The speed and accuracy at which we moved down the alley and into the house would have left a NASCAR driver in the dust. We came to the door at Pat’s house, and just as we had done a million times before, Jake and I took the slightest of steps aside, cueing Johnson to move up and make the door disappear.

It was mere seconds after Johnson had bashed in the wooden door that the team had surrounded the inner courtyard of the compound. Before Johnson had even made it in the door after the rest of the team, we had already cleared the courtyard, had a man on the ground getting flex-cuffed, and Jake and I were kicking in the downstairs door. Johnson and J-Lo kicked in the barn door to the left of the entrance and amid scattering goats, found exactly what they were expecting: a huge mound of new hay in the rear corner of the building.

As J-Lo covered him and the door, Johnson pulled the cover of hay back to reveal the largest weapons cache he had ever seen. The hole was dug about five feet deep into the ground and was filled with numerous AK-47’s, RPG’s, rockets, and ammo. He immediately got on the radio.

“Uh, Snake Doctor, we got something down here you want to see.”

“He’s a little busy. Where are you?” asked The Captain over the radio.

“We’re in the barn, back right corner. We have enough weapons down here to outfit the entire village.”

“I’ll be right there,” replied The Captain.

Jake and I came out of the house and we saw The Captain and Johnson pulling weapons out of the barn and stacking them in the middle of the courtyard. Josh peeked his head out from the upstairs door.

“There’s nothing up here but empty plates of food. Somebody ate breakfast here, but they ain’t here anymore.”

The Captain yelled to Josh, “Find out everything you can from this guy!”

As Josh and an interpreter pulled the man over to a corner to start his field interrogation, The Captain got on the radio with higher.

“We just found a hell of a weapons cache here, a bunch of AK’s, I don’t even know how many rockets, and a huge load of ammo. OK. OK. Roger that. We’re gonna go get ’em, get the QRF ready. Roger that. Call you when we get there. Out.”

He turned to the team. “OK, guys, Predator has about forty fighters setting into a position approximately 600 meters to the east, in the middle of the village. The A-10’s are en route. Anybody want to go pick a fight? Good. Johnson, blow this cache here in place. Cuff this sneetch and we’ll drop him out front. 021 is coming to pick him up since they have a terp that knows the personalities in this area a little better.”

With the rest of the team’s help the entire cache was in the middle of the courtyard in about five minutes. Johnson was weaving the det cord in and out of the stack, and I couldn’t help but wish bad thoughts on everyone who had harbored and helped the people of this house.

Serves them right; hopefully the whole place burns down so that they have to find a new home to kill Americans from.

I wished we could use the Israeli method and just bulldoze any house like this that was associated with known terrorists and fighters. When he was done, Johnson gave Jake the thumbs-up.

“I’ve got a remote detonator linked in, so I’ll blow it once we get a few hundred meters away. I want to be on the other side of a couple of walls before I blow this thing!”

Jake then gave everyone the “Round up and move out” signal, and we assembled on the inside wall of the courtyard entrance to exit.

“Eagle coming out!” Jake yelled to Matty, who was guarding the alleyway. The team moved out of the alley, back to the exterior wall, and went immediately into a wedge formation to walk directly into contact.

After about 300 meters Jake gave the signal to stop and take a knee. Once everyone was down, we heard his voice over the radio.

“Trojan 3, this is Snake Doctor. Ready to det.”

The Major replied, “On your count.”

Jake gave Johnson the thumbs-up, then began counting down into his mic. “I have control, I have control, I have control… five… four… three… two… one…”

The ensuing boom was so loud that I could feel my teeth shake inside my head. Looking back, we saw the fireball fly into the sky from the courtyard.

“I hope that place burns to the ground,” I said.

The Captain looked around and commented, “Well, they know that we’re coming. Hopefully that made them piss their pants a little bit,” and gave the signal for everyone to get moving again.

As we moved through the open terrain, I saw an opening in the exterior village wall about a hundred meters ahead.

“That looks like a courtyard or something,” Matty said into his mic.

“Stay alert,” The Captain replied over the radio.

The team advanced to the end of the wall and lined up, with Jake at the front.

“We’re gonna stay behind that low wall in front of us; wherever these guys are, they are very close, so stay alert,” he said.

As the team began to proceed forward, we each had to move across ten meters of open road before we got to the protection of the low wall. Jake went, then Josh, and Johnson. As I began to move across, I saw somebody run across the road about a hundred meters to my left. I quickly pulled up my M-4 to get him in my sights, but seeing that he had no weapon I lowered my rifle and continued to move.

Just as I was noticing how strange this block of village was for Afghanistan, with a two-story, modern-looking house and a completely closed-in courtyard out front, the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood straight up. I was all the way across the road when the heavy Dushka machine gun opened up; I actually saw the dust and foliage being completely torn away from where the massive machine gun was firing at us before I hit the ground.

Without hesitation, I took the safety off my M203 grenade launcher attached to the bottom of my M-4, popped back up and fired off an explosive round directly at the location of the Dushka. I saw the round explode on the wall just next to where the firing came from, and everything in the world froze.

“What was that?” yelled Jake from behind the low wall.

“That was me, I think I got the Dushka. Was that all they had?” I yelled back.

Just as the last words came out of my mouth, AK-47 fire erupted from all directions.

“Guess not,” I said to myself as I hit the ground again to try to figure out where the shooters were.

Looking back across the road, I saw J-Lo at the corner.

“Cover me while I move!” he yelled to me.

Without thinking, the infantry training kicked in and I swiveled around and emptied my magazine into the two-story building in front of the courtyard. As I did, I saw J-Lo out of the corner of my eye run across the street, hop over the low wall, and low-crawl across the courtyard.

“Hey, bro, I think they’re in that building!” I yelled at him as I watched him move.

“Too late now, just try to keep me covered!” J-Lo yelled back at me.

Before I could say anything else I saw Matty follow J-Lo’s steps almost exactly, jump over the wall like it was a hurdle at a track meet, and rock-star slide up to J-Lo. At the same time Johnson hopped over the wall from the back side.

“Bad ju-ju,” I thought; that put all of our heavy weapons in one place.

My magazine ran dry; I took a knee behind the wall to reload and started to see little clouds of dust erupt from the wall as the rounds got closer and closer to my head. I looked up and saw the same guy down the road I had seen just moments ago, but this time with an AK-47 pointed at me—and much closer than he had been before.

I quickly drew my Beretta M9 pistol, and five rounds sent the fighter to his reservation for one in Hell. “Hearts and minds,” I thought, “three in the heart, two in the mind.” As soon as I saw that the figure was on the ground and wouldn’t be a threat any more, I ran around the back of the wall to meet up with the rest of the team.

“J-Lo, Johnson, and Matty are all in the courtyard.”

“I know!” yelled The Captain. “We need to keep those guys alive or we lose all of our heavy weapons! We’ve got this side covered, Jake’s got the left side, Josh and I will take the middle. Get over to our right side and make sure nobody tries to sneak up on us.”

“Roger that!” I screamed back.

Just as I started to turn around, the entire top of the low wall erupted in a cloud of dust and smoke, and the sound of rounds deflecting off the wall filled the air.

“J-Lo, Matty, Johnson—you guys OK?” Josh yelled across the courtyard.

“We’re good. We can hear these sneetches talking up here, and it sounds like there’s a lot of them!”

I got my head down and as I started to duck-walk to the corner of the wall I heard the heavy 240 machine gun in Matty’s hands erupt, accompanied by the SAW machine gun in J-Lo’s, along with four M4’s worth of gunfire. Just before I got to the corner I heard J-Lo yell, “Frag out!” followed a short few seconds later by the unmistakable boom of a grenade, then the painful howling of someone who obviously was on the business end of it.

I finally reached the corner of the wall and realized I was only about fifteen feet from where the Dushka had been. As I brought my M4 up to use my sights to see into the building, I saw two figures pop up from behind the wall where the Dushka was and start to raise their AK’s.

“Not gonna happen,” I told myself and quickly squeezed off six rounds, three a piece, and watched them fall, the pink cloud of blood lingering in the air. I heard The Captain behind me and when I looked over my shoulder I saw him pulling a Schwarzenegger, standing fully upright and screaming as he emptied an entire magazine into the house.

Now that’s a Green Beret officer, I thought. How many other officers from his OCS (Officer Candidate School) class will ever actually know this feeling of combat and the millions of things going through your head at once?

I suddenly felt small chips of stone hit the back of my neck and quickly realized that there were rounds inching closer to my helmet on the wall behind me.

“That’s what I get for meat-gazing in a firefight, I guess.”

I turned around to see five more skinny Afghan fighters drawing their sights down on me, and all I could do was hit the ground. I quickly crawled backward, trying to figure my way out of this. I could think of only one option.

“Frag out!” I yelled as I pulled the pin on the grenade that had been snugly snapped in over my heart and tossed it over the wall.

When I heard the fighters’ screams I was half disappointed that I didn’t see any body parts fly above me like I’d seen in so many action movies as a kid. As I poked my head around the corner again I saw that the top of the wall had been painted red from the blood, and that gave me some satisfaction.

I was pretty sure my frag had taken care of anybody on the other side of that wall, so I decided to focus my efforts on the house. Every time I tried to poke my head up over the wall to look, it was followed with a volley of gunfire slowly chipping away at the top of the wall, so I decided to find another way.

“How are you guys doing?” I yelled across the courtyard to J-Lo, Matty, and Johnson.

“We’re good, having a tough time getting a clear shot. There’s a few of them in the second-story window all the way to the right… We can’t get at them, and they keep spraying us from inside the room,” Matty replied over the radio.

“I got a solution for that—give me about two minutes,” I replied.

I sat down with my back against the wall and started to fish through the utility pouch on my body armor, looking around until I pulled out an M203 round painted red, with a smiley face drawn on the front in black Sharpie.

“That’s it,” I said out loud.

“What is that?” The Captain asked.

“OC spray in a 203 round; I was saving it for a special occasion—I think we’ve got one here!”

I flicked the slide release on my M203 tube under the barrel of my M4 and slid my surprise into place.

“I’ve gotta get this one in the window. Give me about twenty seconds of cover so that I can get close,” I said into my mic so everyone could hear me.

As I watched The Captain move right to take his position I heard the heavy weapons up front erupt to cover my movement.

I quickly pulled off my med bag to give me the lowest profile possible and began to low-crawl around the corner and up the alley. I had to get about ten feet closer to the house before I could get a clear shot at the window, and just as I was pulling my M203 sights up to fire off my present I heard an AK erupt very close by.

Thank God Taliban can’t aim, I thought as I rolled over on my left side, pulled my M4 down, and squeezed off a few rounds into the chest and three more into the face of a fighter who was trying to jump over the wall to get to me.

Knowing I didn’t want to spend very much time completely out in the open like this, I quickly brought my sights right back up to the second-story window, fired off my M203 round, and started to crawl backward. I could see the round fly just inside the top of the window, and swore that I even heard it bounce off the ceiling and onto the floor.

It only took about five seconds, but I knew my plan had worked when I heard the screams of agony from the roomful of Afghan fighters who, at that moment, were having their first experience with OC spray. I smiled as I thought of that day in Basic Training when the boys of Echo 1/50 were introduced to OC spray in the woods of Ft. Benning by our Drill Sergeants. Listening to the screaming I could almost feel my face burning again, the imagination conjuring images of skin boiling and melting off a human body.

When I got back to my position The Captain was there taking up his cover.

“Nice work,” he said.

Just as I was trying to think of something clever to say, the wall exploded between us, The Captain and I were knocked unconscious from the blast, and I was thrown into the middle of the road again.

.

Suddenly I was staring into Cindy’s eyes. I was in the back seat of my parents’ car, on the way to the airport, just as I had been two years earlier. It took me a second to figure out what was going on, and I just looked around, trying to take it all in.

“Is this heaven?” I asked. The only thing I could hear was the sound of the tires driving along the Florida highway.

Just like that day we parted in Florida, I couldn’t take my eyes off the beautiful angel in front of me. But every time her eyes met mine they began to tear up, and she would immediately look away. Completely satisfied to spend the rest of eternity staring at Cindy, I tried to wipe away her tears.

“Stop it,” she said, choking back even more tears.

“What’s the matter, babe?” I asked her.

“You need to get up,” she said, more to the window than to me.

“What?” I asked.

She hesitated for a second, then looked directly into my eyes, grabbed both of my hands, and screamed to me.

“Get up, you need to get up right now. GET UP!”

.

I opened my eyes to see beautiful clouds and a perfectly blue sky above me. I started to come to and quickly remembered where I was. As I rolled over to low-crawl back to safety, I felt my arm ache very badly. When I made it back to the safety of the wall, I saw that The Captain was still unconscious, lying on his back behind the wall.

Hunching over him to check for wounds, I saw splatters of blood on his pants. Immediately the 18D in me took over, and I began to do a full body check for any wounds. My hands woke him up, and he immediately started scooting backward and yelling.

“I’m OK, I’m OK! Get over there and pull security—we’re wide open.”

I couldn’t see any injuries, so I crawled back over to the corner of the wall to take a knee and pull security.

“Where did that explosion come from?” I asked.

I watched the adjacent courtyard for any enemy movement and scanned the area behind us for a source of RPG’s. I noticed that the QRF trucks were just starting to arrive, and saw the team of Afghan soldiers off to our left, a few hundred meters behind us.

The ache in my left arm was getting worse and worse, and looking down I suddenly realized why: blood was dripping from my soaked glove all the way up to my tricep, where my uniform had been blown apart. “How in the hell did I not notice this?” I slipped off my left glove, and blood gushed out like a full balloon.

“Sir, I think I need some help,” I quietly said to The Captain.

“What is it, Rob?”

“Um, sir, I really think that I need your help here.”

I took the medical blowout kit from my shoulder pocket and tried to open it with one hand as The Captain scooted over to me.

“What’s the… Christ almighty!”

The moment The Captain noticed that my left sleeve was soaked with blood from shoulder to wrist he immediately began to do what Jason and I had taught him. As he pulled the tourniquet from the left shoulder strap of my body armor, I stopped him.

“I just need you to tell me if it’s bright red or dark red blood.”

The Captain swiped some blood off my arm with his glove.

“Uh, it looks pretty dark,” he said.

“Show it to me,” I said calmly, knowing that if I started freaking out he would likely follow suit, and that wouldn't be good for anyone.

When I saw it was just dark red, venous blood, my heart stopped racing like a hamster wheel on crack.

“OK, I just need you to wrap it up tight. It should clot on its own with some good pressure.”

I handed The Captain the gauze from my blowout kit and then the roll of tape. When I glanced over my right shoulder to grab the scissors off my aid bag I saw two more figures running behind the trees in the adjacent courtyard.

Without thinking I pulled my left arm out of The Captain’s hands to steady the bottom of my M4 and then rattled off about a dozen rounds, dropping both fighters in a pink mist. Just for good measure I fired off an M203 round into the courtyard. “How dare they shoot at me, who did they think they were?”

“Sorry about that, sir,” I said, giving my arm back to The Captain.

“Nice shootin’,” he replied as he began to dress my wound again. “Give me your morphine injector,” he told me as he taped the gauze into place.

“I’ve gotta keep my wits about me right now, sir. I’ll let you dope me up when we get outta this!”

“Fair enough, I’ll take security over here, you get in the middle with Josh. Keep their heads down.”

“Roger that, sir,” I replied as I duck-walked back to where Josh was laying on his chest.

“You alright?” Josh asked with a smile.

“Yeah, they got the wing. I guess my dreams of being a tattoo model are all over.”

“Yeah, well you can still take a little back for that, get over here on the other side of me and help me out over here.”

Climbing over Josh I noticed that Matty, J-Lo, and Johnson had all made it over the wall as well. Josh was sitting next to a V-shaped opening in the wall that went all the way from the bottom to the top and was about a foot wide in the middle.

“You remember dueling guns?” he asked.

“Hell yeah I do,” I replied as I rolled onto my right side to fire off a few rounds through the opening.

As soon as I rolled back to the safety of the wall, Josh rolled onto his left side to take his turn, but quickly retreated when the opening erupted in dust and ricochets. One of the rounds bounced off his helmet as he moved back to the protection of the wall, and he looked at me with a big, goofy grin.

“That dude just tried to kill me!” He gingerly patted his helmet, then put his face down and pointed the top of his helmet at me. “Are there any bullet holes?”

“No, bro. You’re good.”

He looked back up at me. “Oh hell no. That dude just tried to kill me!” Just as he started to stand up, The Captain screamed.

“Get down NOW!”

And our entire world erupted in a flurry of noise and tracers.

I saw the branches of the trees in the courtyard disintegrating and looked back on the hill to see the QRF vehicles all facing us, unloading their .50 cals and MK 19’s into the house.

“Now it’s time to get out of here!” yelled Jake. “We need to get across the road so that we can get out of the kill zone.”

Looking back at the corner we had originally come from, I saw the guys from 026 peeking around the corner and motioning for us to come across the road.

“Get over here, we got you covered!” Roberto yelled.

Jake looked at Matty and J-Lo and screamed, “You guys go first, get over the wall and move over to them. We’ll cover you!”

As the rest of the team laid down suppressive fire, the two broke contact backward over the wall and back another ten feet onto a small depression.

“Set!” J-Lo yelled back to the team.

“OK, Rob and Johnson, get moving.”

I hesitated for a second, not wanting to leave anybody behind, and Jake grabbed me by the body armor and screamed at me.

“Go—now or never. Get outta here!”

I turned and jumped over the wall, half expecting to feel a series of 7.62 rounds rip through my back at any moment, and ran as fast as I could to the depression to join Matty and J-Lo. I got down and yelled out “Set!” back to the team, then picked up my M4 and noticed that there were about a half-dozen fighters on the roof of the building shooting down at them.

“That’s where they were.” I looked up to see the rest of the guys starting to move back to our position, and suddenly realized I had one M203 round left.

I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and felt a sharp bolt of agony in my left arm as I tried to raise my rifle. Just as Josh got back to the depression, I set the magazine of my M4 on the ground to steady myself and slowly found the perfect angle to give me a trajectory that would drop the round right on top of the roof.

Josh knelt down next to me, and I let my last M203 round loose and watched as it flew over the now-bare trees and drop smack on top of the roof in the middle of the fighters, sending one of them flying and tearing the other two apart from the explosion.

“Hell yeah—give me some!” said Josh, holding up his hand for a high-five. I gladly indulged, right before moving over to the wall with 026.

The team regrouped in what seemed like partial safety, and Jake gave us our orders: Break contact across the open terrain, through the water, and up to the QRF trucks to regroup there. “Easier said than done,” I thought, but when Josh smacked me on the butt and said “Go,” I took off.

I don’t know if it was the brisk mountain air, the dust, or the adrenaline, but my lungs burned like I was inhaling cold fire. I didn’t dare look back, just ran as fast as I could across the ground, across the water, and finally to the trees at the bottom of the hill.

Laying back in the prone position, I finally got a true assessment of what was going on: the .50 cals were beginning to tear apart the area where we’d just been, and I could see the wall that had previously been our only protection being disintegrated by the incoming rounds, and watched as the house was slowly turned into rubble.

To my left I could see the rest of my team and 026, running in buddy teams back to where I was. I fired off the rest of my magazine toward the house, and as soon as the next buddy team reached my location I jogged up the hill to the vehicles, where the rest of the company was waiting.

“Everybody up?” asked Jake.

Looking around, everyone could see that we were all up.

“Are all of our guys back up here?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re right here,” answered The Captain.

“No, I mean from the company. Is everybody back up here?”

Looking around, The Captain quickly counted out teams and nodded.

“Good,” I said as I walked to the edge of the hill and unloaded the rest of my magazine at the house. “You can’t kill me; who the fuck do you think you are?” I screamed at the house, still in disbelief that I was alive.

As I began to reload my magazine, Bobby and Pete, the medics from 026, walked over and began to reach for my rifle.

“Why don’t you sit down and let me have a look at that arm,” said Bobby.

Pulling my rifle out of his reach I turned to face him.

“I would really appreciate that, but you’re smoking crack if you think I’m giving up my gun!”

As I sat down behind a large rock, Bobby and Pete took a knee next to me and began to redress my wound and set up an IV. I looked around and saw everyone realize that there was still some more shooting to be done—tiny clouds of dust were erupting around our feet and the sounds of ricochets echoed all around us.

Josh was the first to take cover and pull out his 60mm mortar tube, and the rest followed suit. Pretty soon everyone was involved, doing their part to completely decimate the house and courtyard. As Bobby injected me with morphine I saw the A-10’s finally come on station. “What a sight for sore eyes,” I thought as I heard Mike begin to talk them onto station.

“OK,” Bobby said. “We’re all done here if you want to roll over and watch.”

The morphine was already making my head fuzzy, and I smiled a big, goofy grin as I heard the unmistakable sound of the A-10’s open up their cannons of death onto the house. After the third gun run from the A-10’s the house was barely standing. The Captain then knelt beside me.

“You doing all right?”

“Sir, I just got ten milligrams of morphine… I’m much better than all right.”

“OK. Well, you’re going to head back now in the Sergeant Major’s truck. They’re going to take you straight back to the aid station to get that arm looked at.”

I started to argue that I did not want to leave the guys behind without a medic, but Josh stopped me cold.

“We’ve got it here. Jason’s right over there driving that truck, and the rest of the company medics are here. If you get an infection or something we may have to send you home, and that’s no good for anybody. You did a good job here today, soldier. Now go get patched up so that we can get you right back out there and do this all again tomorrow.”

I smiled a little bit, realized there was nothing I could possibly say to refute that, so instead picked up my aid bag and rifle.

“I’m staying on comms, give me a call if something here starts to go south, I’ll run back here if I have to.”

“We got this handled, tough guy. Now go get cleaned up, you smell pretty ripe,” Josh said as he slapped me on my good arm. “But in all seriousness, good job today. Be proud of yourself; not everybody can keep their cool in a situation like that.”

I nodded, turned around, and walked to the Sergeant Major’s truck, where I sat down in the back, shut the door, and closed my eyes, feeling as tired as I ever imagined I could.

“Wow,” was my last thought, “I really do smell pretty bad.”

Chapter 20

The End of an Era: Leaving 022, Back to Iraq

I had been drifting off a bit when I heard the doors of the HUMVEE close; opening my eyes, I saw the Battalion Sergeant Major in the seat in front of me. The truck quickly filled with people and we set off for the short drive back to FOB Kutschbach. The aid station staff obviously knew we were coming; by the time we arrived they already had another IV set up and morphine waiting for me.

I handed off the medical notes that Bobby had scribbled to indicate what he’d done and given me as treatment, and the lead medic picked up his syringe of morphine, injected another five milligrams into my IV, and looked at me.

“You obviously weigh enough to be OK with more. Are you doing OK on the pain?” I smiled a little and looked at him as he began to remove my ACU jacket, shirt, and the wound dressings.

“I’m good for now,” I replied.

“OK. Well, let me know if you need any more. We’re a full-service clinic, and we don’t want any unsatisfied customers leaving here! You’re going to BAF with the Sergeant Major and Commander as soon as you’re done here, and that’s a mighty long ride. Just let me know if you need some more pain control before you leave.”

Within a few minutes our Battalion Surgeon was with us, and began going over strength and sensory tests with me. I couldn’t feel any of my left fingers anymore, which was beginning to scare me. Knowing anatomy and physiology can be terrifying when you’re the one who’s hurt; all the worst possible scenarios started to flood my brain as we went through the tests.

Before he finished Josh and Ray peeked their heads into the aid station to make sure I was OK, but before I could say anything they were back outside and the Battalion Sergeant Major was on his way in to ask how long until we could leave. The Battalion Surgeon told him we were good to go, and as I began to grab my gear he laughed a bit.

“We’ll have someone take that for you, Rob. Just get your ass in the truck and take it easy.”

By the time I got outside there were three HUMVEE’s already loaded with people and ready to go, so I asked J-Lo and Ray to grab my gear before they left since I didn’t know where I was going to end up that day. As I sat down in the back seat of the lead HUMVEE, the Battalion Sergeant Major took the passenger seat again. We pulled out of the gate to head back to BAF, and it took everything I had to keep my eyes open.

The last thing I wanted was to be asleep if we got ambushed on the way back, which was always a pretty good possibility driving out of the Tagab. Knowing we had The Colonel with us, I figured we had some air cover somewhere, but wasn’t counting on it to save us.

We were back at BAF before I even knew it and were quickly led to the main hospital. They had received the call that we were inbound as soon as we left FOB Kutschbach, and were ready for us. They were even nice enough to meet us at the front with a wheelchair, but I waived them off, and there was no arguing. They could tell exactly who we were by our uniforms and knew I would walk as long as I had the strength and ability.

I was led to an exam room and was immediately given a shot of Fentanyl, which introduced a completely new round of fuzziness to my brain. It was right on time, as my arm had become extremely sore and was sending small electrical shocks every few minutes from my shoulder to my fingers; my left fingers were still completely numb, and it had begun to spread further up my arm at this point. Immediately after the Fentanyl I was led to an X-ray and then back to the exam room, where The Colonel joined me.

I can’t remember his name, but there was a former 82nd Airborne soldier there promoting a book about his time in Vietnam, and all I could remember was someone saying he was the most highly decorated soldier alive. He came in and shook my hand as I sat on the table.

Along with him came a small gaggle of people, and as he spoke to me quietly and then to them, his words became buzzing in my head. I was so exhausted I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying, and he shook my hand again as I tried to squint and figure out what was going on. As soon as he and his entourage left the room, I looked over at The Colonel and heard myself mumble.

“Sir, would you mind if I closed my eyes for a bit?” He just smiled and nodded, and I was out.

At some point the doctor came in with my X-rays, showing metal lodged in my arm, back, and shoulder. There wasn’t anything at that facility that they could do to remove it, and since it looked like the bleeding had been controlled, I was as good as I could be. They bandaged the arm up again, and soon after they left the room I saw my team walk into the clinic. The Captain had taken some shrapnel as well, and The Colonel had to force him to let the clinic do an X-ray and bandage him up.

We were only feet from where we had visited Tom and Ted the night they had been shot up, and it was really weirding me out so I asked if we could get going. I stopped to pick up some antibiotics, painkillers, and Motrin at the pharmacy on the way out, and soon we were at the trucks again. The guys had packed my gear in the back and explained on the way that we would be staying at our command hooch on BAF that night and then heading back to Shank in the morning.

When we arrived at the hooch and started unloading our gear I looked through everything to make sure my belongings were in order. The guys had packed everything, including my jacket and shirt from that morning, and as I reviewed my stuff I couldn’t believe I was still in one piece. My jacket was torn to pieces with dark red blood all over it, my gloves had turned from green to completely crimson, and the M203 barrel on the bottom of my M4 was splattered with blood. I pulled the pen light out of the arm of my jacket to see if it still worked and noticed a bullet hole going right through the top of it.

“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick!” laughed Josh from behind me. “Another quarter-inch and that would have been in your arm.”

I was still pretty surprised just to be breathing, so all I could do was laugh to myself as I turned the penlight in my hands. We assembled all our gear together in the room, set up some cots, and started messing with each other. If you walked into the room, you would have never been able to guess we had been in the middle of a firefight that morning, less my bloody uniform on the ground. I put on a clean one and washed the remaining blood from my hands; we then made our way to the chow hall.

.

Chow on BAF was quite a nice treat, as they had more options than you could shake a stick at, and since we didn’t make it there too often we enjoyed it. I was still so high from the painkillers that I had absolutely no appetite, but as soon as the guys saw I wasn’t eating they started making fun of me for letting a little thing like getting shot take away my appetite, and so I started to nibble away.

We took our time eating, joking, and finally walking back to the hooch, and as we made our way inside Jake stopped me.

“You need to call Cindy. The company is black on comms until you talk to her, and you need to tell her before someone else starts the rumor mill.”

Jake was normally the one who was pissed that I was always trying to get on the phone with Cindy, but this time he handed me the sat phone.

“Take as much time as you need, but you need to tell her before someone else does.”

I nodded, took the phone, and tried to figure out what I would say to her. Looking down at my watch, we were just a few days from my birthday and just a couple of weeks from Christmas—what a great present for her! I turned on the phone, still trying to figure out what I was going to say as I dialed.

She must have recognized the number, as she picked up immediately.

“Hey babe. How’s it going?” she asked.

“Pretty good, pretty good… are you alone?” I asked.

“Sure, why?” I heard some hesitation in her voice.

“Babe, I need you to sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

I could hear the shuffling of papers in the background; she had probably been doing office work when I called.

“OK, what is it?” she asked with fear in her voice.

“Uh, well, um, you see… I don’t really know how to put this, so I’ll just tell you. I got shot today. I just got out of the hospital at Bagram. I’m OK; they patched me up and I’m all good.”

Silence.

I don’t know how much time went by without either of us talking, so I added, “Can you please call my family and let them know what happened? I don’t think it will be on the news, and I don’t think they know anyone to hear any rumors, but just in case.”

We talked for another twenty minutes or so, and once I felt like she was OK and understood I was OK, I had to get off the phone; my eyes were getting heavy again, and I was starting to mumble as I fell asleep while talking. After another few “I love you’s” and “Take care of yourself’s” I walked back into the hooch and passed out.

I could hear the guys all around me joking with each other, reading, playing their PSP’s and whatever, but as soon as I closed my eyes it all went away. I was awakened later that night by J-Lo, gently shaking me to get up to eat. I looked around and saw the rest of the team waiting for me before heading out, so I quickly put my boots and jacket back on and joined them.

Having a good lunch and dinner was a luxury we hadn’t been very accustomed to on this deployment, so it was quite the treat to eat at BAF again that night. There was even a midnight chow we could come back for, and I was pretty sure we would. Knowing there wasn’t much to do back at the hooch we took our time eating, again, and sat around the table joking with each other, just like we were sitting at a bar, making fun of one another like nothing had happened. It was a great feeling to be with a group of guys like that, who could shrug off just about anything and be able to joke about it just hours later.

The sun had been down for a long time when we finally left the chow hall, and we made our way to the rec center to watch some TV and see if there was anything interesting to do. They had hard-wired computers with Internet, movies, and TV playing in different rooms, and we split up to do whatever we wanted to do until midnight chow. I made my way straight to the computers, found one with AOL Instant Messenger, and immediately started messaging Cindy.

It was very hard going, as I still couldn’t feel the fingers of my left hand, but I was fast enough to make due with just the right. We had been talking for only a few minutes when Josh came in and squeezed my shoulder.

“Hey bro, we have to get back right now. The Captain just got a call; there’s some VIP coming to the hooch to meet with us.”

Nobody knew exactly who it was, but The Captain had made it obvious that it was someone we had to be very respectful to, so we got back to the hooch as quickly as possible. We hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when the door opened and a General walked into our small hooch.

Now, most Green Berets do everything they can to stay clear of any General, as they are usually unimpressed with our lack of or respect for the normal military staples like short haircuts, salutes, and marching maneuvers, but he was walking into our hooch, so we couldn’t get out of this one.

I had never seen an actual General rank on a uniform before, and as I quickly looked at his nametag I recognized who he was: the 82nd Airborne Commander, who was also the on-the-ground commander for all American forces in Afghanistan. As soon as he recognized who it was, Jake called the room to attention and we all snapped to.

“As you were,” The General said quickly and set down the papers and boxes he was holding. As he looked around the room at us, he started into his speech, thanking all of us for fighting the good fight and for all that we had done. It was a very short speech, and at the end he held up the papers he had brought; Purple Heart awards for The Captain and I, along with the actual medals and coins.

After The General awarded us with the medals, his assistant asked who was the 18D. When I rose my hand and said, “Here, sir,” he asked what I was doing up and walking around.

“Well, sir,” I answered, trying to be as respectful as possible, “I am a Green Beret and I could sit around and whine and cry all day, but I think they’d take my tab and kick me off the team.”

They got quite a laugh out of that, smiled, shook our hands, and headed out of the hooch. The Captain called us to attention again as they left the room, and as soon as the door was closed the guys crowded around to look at our new stuff. They always use the term “earn” the Purple Heart, but I felt like it was more of an award for the enemy, congratulating them for having good aim.

It didn’t take long for the guys to start joking around again, and before long Josh looked at his watch and announced it was almost time for midnight chow. The guys started to get dressed and ready to head out, but I was beat. I waved them off and said I was going to hit the sack, and was asleep before they were gone.

I slept all the way through the night, and didn’t even budge when the guys walked back in from chow. My watch alarm went off at 0500 again the following morning, and while the other guys slept through, once it went off I was awake. I got dressed, grabbed the phone to call Cindy again, and then just milled around waiting for the guys to get up.

Once they did we headed to breakfast and were out of the gate before 0900, headed to Kabul and then back home to Shank. The Captain and Jake had a lot of paperwork and things to do in the Death Star regarding the previous day’s mission, so we hung around Camp Warehouse while they took care of everything.

.

We didn’t leave Kabul until the sun was already setting, and by the time we got back to Shank it was getting pretty late. We put our gear away and I realized I was out of clean socks and underwear (“clean” being a relative term here; because I did not want to waste water, I was wearing socks until they were pretty much stiff, and as I unpacked I realized they were all getting pretty ripe). By this time the engineers on the FOB had built an actual bathroom and small Laundromat, so I headed out to do my laundry.

It wasn’t very safe to just leave all your gear there unattended (especially our modified uniforms, which tended to disappear around other military units if left unattended), so I took a book and had a seat on top of an empty washer after starting my load. I wasn’t even halfway through my first round of laundry when Jason barged into the room with a huge smile.

“Rob, get your shit. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

I looked at him incredulously. “Dude, I just put a load in the wash. What are you talking about?”

He stared back at me with a huge grin, beaming. “Rob, trust me, you’re really going to like this. Get your shit and get ready.”

I still couldn’t get what was up, so I asked again.

“What are we doing, and why the hell are you grinning at me like that?”

He tried to figure out the best way to put it as he continued to smile. “We’re taking Jake to BAF; he’s flying back to Germany tonight. I don’t know anything else, but we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

With that I understood why he was grinning and immediately started to smile as well. Jason saw the lights click on in my head; I understood we were finally getting rid of Jake. None of us had been too fond of him, especially after great leaders like Pat and Josh, and it was no secret among the team that I was not a fan.

I grabbed my laundry sack, stuffed it with my clothes—soaking wet and full of detergent—and started to run back to the hooch. The ground was covered in snow by this point, so I just left the bag of clothes outside and under the hooch, figuring it would be a ball of ice when we returned. I was still thinking that Jason might have just been pulling my leg, but as soon as I walked into the hooch and saw everyone getting ready I knew we were going somewhere.

For the first time since we had arrived in Afghanistan nobody said a word. This would normally be the time that music would be playing, people would be hurling insults at each other and laughing as we got our armor on and weapons ready, but aside from the sound of loading of ammo and packing of bags, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Sure enough, we were at the front of the trucks ten minutes after Jason had run into the Laundromat, and The Captain started the convoy brief. He and Jake normally tag-teamed the various parts of the brief, but Jake just stood there quietly and solemnly, not saying anything and staring at the ground as The Captain went through the whole thing. You could tell by team’s expression that nobody knew exactly what was going on, but we weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth—at all.

To get to BAF from Shank we had to go through Kabul, but we didn’t even stop this time. When we finally arrived there after about three hours on the road, then grabbed the same cots as the night before and started to set up. Nobody knew what would come next, and we didn’t say a word as we claimed our cots and put our gear down.

Within fifteen minutes of our arrival one of the B-team guys walked in the front door and told Jake that the truck was ready to take him to the airfield. He didn’t even say goodbye, just started to reach for his bags so he could head out the door. A few of us grabbed his bags for him to carry to the truck, and as soon as we put them in the bed he was off, never to be seen again.

The Captain seemed to know what was going on but wouldn’t talk, and I’ve only heard rumors about what happened, so I’m not going to repeat anything here without knowing the truth. I know that several of the wives saw Jake around base during the following weeks, and as soon as he saw them he would put his head down and go away. From what we were told he was leaving Germany within two weeks, and none of us ever heard from or saw him again.

As soon as his truck drove off, everything changed. We went back into the hooch and exchanged high-fives, silently waiting for The Captain to re-appear and call out “April Fools!” or something like that. But, about twenty minutes later The Captain came back, sans Jake, and just shook his head, knowing he was about to be assaulted with questions.

He wouldn’t talk, no matter how many questions came at him or who asked them, and to this day he hasn’t told us. He still remains a very dear friend, and his wife and Cindy are still quite close, but not a single detail about Jake has been shared. We knew that Jake’s departure put Josh back at the helm, and our operations made a 180-degree turn as soon as we got back to Logar.

.

Green Berets each have various amounts of intelligence experience, and Josh was about as high as it could go. Jake’s modus operandi had been for us to basically drive around dangerous areas and hope to get shot at, trying to steal intel from other units in our area to develop missions. Josh, being a guy with some smarts, experience, and a lot of intel background, put us back on track, actually collecting real-time intel and targeting bad guys rather than hoping to just Forrest Gump our way into getting bad guys.

The day after we got back to Shank, Josh had us pouring through intel reports and marking everything on our large maps of the AO, selecting our own bad guys for targeting and developing missions to get them. Within days we were getting actionable intelligence and kicking down doors, and every target led to a dozen more. Josh felt we had to make up for all the time we’d lost with Jake, and so we were moving at a blistering pace, hunting down every name that would come up on our “shit list” of bad guys.

Being very intelligent people and good, experienced leaders, Josh and The Captain had us supplement our uptick in missions with MEDCAP’s to keep the local villagers on our side. Just as was done in Africa, we would partner with local doctors and medics and go to different villages for a day, bringing as many medics as we could and treating everyone we could see. We would arrive before sun up and leave long after it had set, and I learned a very valuable lesson from Josh: If you take care of a man, he will fight for you. Take care of his family, and he will die for you.

Over the next few months it seemed like we were getting top-tier bad guys every week, changing the pace of the fight. We were choosing the time and place in which we fought, putting the bad guys on the ropes. We did so much damage after Jake left that the Taliban had to change their strategy the following summer, diverting fighters away from the Tagab and sending them to Logar instead, which our replacement team from Alpha Company, 012, took on in great stride and gained even more momentum.

All good things must come to an end, however, and this did as well. We were in the middle of a week of MEDCAP’s when Josh called me to his desk. I had a mild case of food poisoning from eating lunch that one of the villagers had brought as a thank you for treating her son the day before, and was moving at a snail’s pace, having to run to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. Josh saw that I was not doing so hot and therefore didn’t mince words.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, bro, but you’re going to the B-team. Corey has been the company medic for well over a year now, and the Sergeant Major is sending him to SOTIC (Special Operations Targeting and Interdiction Course… Sniper School), and he has to be back in North Carolina in a few weeks. Since you’re leaving Germany soon anyway, it will put us next in line to get a new medic after you go to Colorado, and you’ll have your B-team time done so you won’t have to do it with 10th main.” (This was the common way that guys in 1st Battalion refer to the other three Battalions in 10th Group, located back in the States.)

I didn’t have the energy to argue, and respected Josh too much to do so anyway. I just nodded and excused myself, ran back to the bathroom, and stayed there for a while. As much as I hated it, it made perfect sense. It would have been a smarter move for the Sergeant Major to wait until we got back from combat to start sending guys off to school, but those were the breaks.

I was scheduled to go back to Colorado as soon as we returned to Germany (unless you have a special circumstance, single soldiers are only supposed to stay at 1st Battalion in Germany for two years), and this would ensure that 022 would be getting a new medic soon, whom Jason could train for the next rotation back to Afghanistan when I returned to Iraq with my new team from 10th main.

Josh knew this was eating me up inside, so he did his best to get me into as many fights as possible before I was sent to serve my sentence with the B-team in Kabul, officially taking me off the battlefield and putting me behind a desk.

.

We stayed very busy in the following weeks as I slowly packed up my gear to get ready to move, and on Valentine’s Day of 2008 we finally hit the road. Matty was also leaving, but would be going back to Germany and on to Colorado instead of finishing the deployment with the B-team, so we took him all the way to BAF before dropping me off in Kabul.

The B-team had moved by this point, and was no longer on Camp Warehouse with our own compound, French food, and a German bar across the street. At least that would have been tolerable—drowning my sorrows in a thick German beer every once in a while—but the command had decided to move to the American base at Camp Phoenix, where beer was outlawed and enjoyment was nowhere to be found.

The day the team dropped me off was a solemn one. Chris and John had been brought back to the team to make up for the loss of Matty and I, and I knew they would be in good hands back together again. I shared high-fives with all the guys on the team, some quick hugs, and then I watched as their HUMVEE’s drove off, back to fight the war while I rotted in Kabul.

All in all, it didn’t turn out to be as bad as I’d thought, but I was still quite miserable. Griz had been sent to the B-team before we deployed, so at least I had a friend to hang out with, and 024 had left their base and moved onto Camp Phoenix to run missions around the capital. I also had a lot of friends on 024 (Chad, my roommate, had gone to 024 just before leaving for Ranger school, and Tom was still their senior medic), and since I’d spent time with them in Africa, they knew I was good and would grab me whenever a mission would come up.

In the city things were much different, and missions were run on very short notice. There were intelligence sources all over the place, and a mission would be started by one of them calling and saying they had PID for one of 024’s targets. I would be sitting in the command room, monitoring missions or spell-checking one of The Captain’s SITREP’s [Situation Reports] before it went to higher command when Tom, Sean, or Troy would pop their head in, yell, “Rob, let’s go!” and I would jump in their HUMVEE’s as they rolled out.

They were almost all daytime hits in the middle of the city, which was a little unnerving, but still good to be getting out and doing something. I am an organized type of person, so I had set up a pretty regular schedule to keep busy: up at 0800, run, eat, talk to Cindy. I would take a shower every three or four days—they had real bathrooms and showers—and then hit the gym before lunch.

I had to be in the command center by 1400 every day and would monitor any ongoing missions, break down reports, and edit SITREP’s (they knew I had a college degree, so I had to edit anything going to higher; grammar and spelling weren’t exactly top priority for our Captains as they sent in their daily SITREP’s). I would grab dinner at some point; sit in on our intel briefs (I had a TS-SCI clearance, which meant I was privy to any intel and sat in on the weekly meetings with every American and foreign intelligence agency operating in Kabul), and then monitor any nighttime missions in case they needed medical expertise or a MEDEVAC arranged.

Anytime the Company Commander would have to drive to NATO HQ for a meeting, I would also accompany the convoy as the medic, so I became very familiar with the city of Kabul and the personalities around it. We would run these convoys about twice a week and had a group of Griz, me, the Company Commander, and various other intelligence guys who had been in 10th Group and 1st Battalion for a long time.

.

The snow had finally begun to melt, and we were coming very close to the end of our deployment when I got some good news. The Company Commander walked up to my desk one afternoon and asked me if I was into politics. Not really knowing what he was getting at, I showed him that we had Fox News playing on one of our screens anytime there wasn’t a mission going on. He just smiled.

“Good. You’ll be providing PSD for the Vice President of the United States. Get your gear ready and link up with Troy.”

With that he just walked away, and I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was talking about until Troy came into the command center a few minutes later.

“I hear you’re coming with us,” he smiled at me. “Cheney is landing in two days, and we’ll be providing his PSD, along with some Secret Service. I’ll need you to come with us tomorrow to go over the routes, and we’ll meet with the advance party for the Secret Service to go over the plans. Are you in?”

I was pretty excited about this, but tried to contain myself. If there was going to be any real action in Kabul, it would probably be on this mission, but I did my best to play it cool and simply nodded.

“I’m there, just let me know where and when.”

“Good,” replied Troy. “This will be a plain clothes mission, of course, so meet us at the trucks tomorrow around 0900 and we’ll head out.”

I spent most of the night after my shift packing and re-packing my med bag, making sure all my magazines were loaded and good to go, and putting as much oil on my weapons as possible. Nobody had announced that Cheney would be in town, but the second he touched down at Kabul Airport I knew the Taliban networks would light up and it would be game on.

We drove the routes we had been given, met with the Secret Service and put our snipers in place to watch the airport, the routes, and the Green Zone where the bulk of his trip would be spent. We had expected it to be a very busy day, but after it was all said and done it was not nearly as spectacular as we had expected.

His trip was so short, in fact, I think he was on the plane out of the airspace before most of the Taliban ever knew he was there. We did intercept a few potential suicide bombers, but they never got anywhere near him or the base, and at the end of the day we spent more time merely sharing stories with the Secret Service guys and hearing about how they were drawing straws over who would have to guard Hillary Clinton (she was known to be a complete bitch to her staff).

It was a very anti-climactic day, and I guess a very suitable end to my time in Kabul. We got a lot of cool patches, pins, and things from the Secret Service guys, but I was just glad I’d be leaving soon. Less than a week later I was putting my tough boxes into a truck to drive back to Kabul Airfield and then fly to Germany when the Company Commander called out to me and a few others.

The orders had finally been awarded for our CIB’s [Combat Infantry Badge, the rifle with wreath placed on the uniform of a combat soldier who has actually been in combat], and he wanted to pin them on us before we left the country. It didn’t feel right that I wasn’t getting it pinned with my team, but he was right that it was important to do it while we were still in theatre.

He said a few words, read off our citations (you get a CIB only once, and we each had them from different firefights over the deployment), and pinned them onto our uniforms.

“Aren’t you going to give us blood wings, sir?” I asked, referring to the normal method of putting the award on your uniform without backing for the pins, thus punching the pins into your chest.

He just looked at me and grinned. “You’ve already got enough holes in your body from this place, brother. I’m not adding any more.” The Company Commander was an amazing man who I had grown pretty close to during my time in Kabul, and it meant a lot to get my CIB from him, blood wings or not.

.

With that he waved goodbye, we hopped in the trucks to leave, and my time in Afghanistan was over. We were in the air within an hour, and as soon as the plane was in level flight I moved to a window to watch the country disappear below us. It had been September 11th, which had brought me to the Army, and the fight in Afghanistan which had brought me to Special Forces. I knew I would never be back here to fight again, as the rest of 10th Group was engaged in Iraq, and I would never be an official part of 022 again.

If you can remember the day when you finally moved out of your parents’ house, whether it was to attend college, join the military, or to take a job in another town, multiply that by infinity and you can start to imagine the hollowness I felt in my heart that day. For all of the good times and bad, this had been my fight, Afghanistan was my white whale, and I would never see her as a uniformed soldier again. Most people are overjoyed when they are leaving theatre, but I was oddly miserable.

The next few months were another whirlwind; as soon as we landed back in Germany we were given a week to “disappear and stay out of trouble” by the Sergeant Major. I dropped my gear off in the empty 022 team room and immediately got on the computer to buy a plane ticket to go home and see Cindy. I left two days later, spent a few days with her, and returned to Germany to start out-processing.

I turned in all my gear, left my team equipment on Ray’s desk with my hand receipt, and made arrangements to move back to the States. The guys got back just before I was set to leave, and we had another CIB ceremony in the team room the day I left. It was a great occasion—and the last time we’d all be in one place for a few years.

.

Within a few short months of the ceremony I was out-processed of 1st Battalion and in-processed to 3rd Battalion in Colorado, bought a condo, proposed to Cindy, and on a plane back to Iraq. Josh had arranged with a buddy of his who was a Team Sergeant there that I should go to his team because I still had a lot of fight in me and was a great medic. But I didn’t really know what to expect when I arrived.

By the time I finally made it to Baghdad it was well above 100 degrees during the day and pretty miserable. I missed Afghanistan with the first step I took off the plane, and knew that 022 would be heading back to Shank soon. We kept in touch via e-mail, AIM, Facebook, and the occasional Skype or satellite phone call, and they would give me updates via the Red Side (Top Secret) computers on the same bad guys they were hunting down and rolling up every day. Iraq was a much different war than Afghanistan, and I missed my guys with every single breath, hoping their new medic was up to snuff to keep them alive.

Chris arrived in Iraq not long after me, and was sent out to a team that I worked with quite a lot in Karbala, so we got to spend some time together sharing stories that we heard about what 022 was doing and talking about the good old days. By the time we returned from the Iraq trip almost all the guys were back from Germany and in Colorado, save J-Lo and John, who were sent to Ft. Bragg to be instructors and Josh, who got a job teaching at one of the premier Special Operations schools.

We would get together in Colorado at least once or twice a week, share beers and stories and talk about how none of our teams were half as good or close as 022. To this day I’ve never met a group of guys I can even begin to compare to those men, and I thank God every day for bringing us together. My dad taught me everything that there is to know about life, but it was the great men of Special Forces Operational Detachment - Alpha 022 who showed me how to live it.

BERG HEIL MY BROTHERS.

Chapter 21

Colorado

As hard as it is to understand, the most testing part of my military career was coming home. I survived war, was finally back with the love of my life and for all intents and purposes should have been happy; but, as they say, idle hands are the devils tools, and the devil had his way with me.

It started off innocently enough: I just couldn't sleep. No matter how hard I tried, meditation, movies until I couldn't stand it anymore, late-night phone calls with Cindy, even Ambien didn't do the trick. But, I soon found out that my ticket to sleep came in liter-sized bottles from Russia, and it became the only thing that would drown out the fear of the one thing that had become as much a staple of my life as death and taxes: mortars.

I had lived on the edge for so long, spending every night with one-eye open, either waiting for the call in Germany that would thrust me straight into some foreign land to kill or be killed, or for the sound of the Grim Reaper falling from the sky to take myself or one of my brothers, that sleep was just a nuisance.

It started off innocently enough; a few drinks after work, one or two with dinner and another after my Skype calls with Cindy. Within a month the tolerance for my sleep medication had grown, and I graduated to a bottle a night. Most people have to worry about the nuisance of smells and hangovers, but that's the beauty of a soldiers life: my metabolism was that of a marathon runner, and running five miles every morning at the 7,000 plus foot elevation in Colorado took care of any hangover.

I hid it very well for awhile, but as I hope I've done justice throughout this book, my soul mate knew me better than I knew myself, and wouldn't let me get away with the ruse for very long. I could fool myself as much as I wanted, but I could never fool her, and she wasn't the shy type that would let me get away with it.

As I was back in the States, we were taking full advantage of frequent flyer miles and traveling to see each other every weekend, taking turns with me going to LA or her coming to see me. She knew that I needed some space to deal with my demons, but by her second trip out to me she made up her mind that it was time for my pity party to end.

I still remember the day; I was waiting at the end of the terminal in the small Colorado airport late on a Friday night, and just as always I ran the second I saw her. I can't imagine how many TSA and security guards we've pissed off or embarrassed throughout our relationship, but I couldn't care less. Once Cindy comes into my field of view, still to this day, everything else fades.

I knew she was about to turn the corner before I saw her, just as twins, soul mates, or any people who share an unbreakable bond can understand, and before anybody could stop me I was sprinting down the corridor like a sinner to salvation. She was in my arms and twirling around when I heard it.

If you've ever had or been near a hound dog before, you know that they're bark is heard by as many people as they want to hear it, and as the attention hogs they are, they want the entire world to hear it. The unmistakable howling of her Beagle Shakespeare was echoing off the walls before her feet hit the ground.

Shakes and I hit it off the first time we met, as I am a dog lover through and through, and just as all the men in my life, he has an infectiously sociable personality. By the time we were into the main entrance the elevator doors were opening, and his howling went from loud to earth-shattering. His nose found us the second the doors opened, and the howling transitioned to pointed "hey, look at me's."

.

Cindy sat me down for the stern lecture as soon as we were settled back into the condo, as only a strong Southern woman with a spine made of steel and the resolve of the fires of hell can. As I sat on the couch, she pointed an accusing but loving finger straight at me, her lips pursed as I had only seen my mothers when a lesson needed teaching.

"This ends now."

I chuckled a bit, hoping my charm would pull me through this, like it had so many times before.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Don't play stupid with me. If you're feeling sorry for yourself, you need to cut that stuff out right now. You're in a hard place right now, and I understand that you're dealing with a lot, but I'm still dealing with the idea that I almost lost you. I love you with every part of my existence, but if you don't fix this by the next time I come back, I'm never coming back."

I didn't know what to say, so I just stared blankly, pretending to find interest in something against the blank white wall of my living room.

"Shakes is going to stay with you as long as you need him. I'm sorry that I can't stay here during the week, but he'll be here for you. Jess gave me the number of a good counselor at the Air Force Academy. You will go see him on Tuesday, or I won't be back next weekend, go it?"

For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless. Part of me was exhaustively enraged by the arrogance and sheer balls of this girl, who the hell was she to tell me, a Green Beret multiple-combat veteran what to do. Thankfully, it was only a nano-second before my common sense woke up.

.

I nodded, took the business card she was handing me for the counselor, and promised her I would be there. As soon as she was sure I wasn't bluffing, the finger went down and we went back to the love-filled visits that are typically shared by those in a long-distance relationship. At the end of the weekend she left, Shakes stayed, and I was suddenly getting phone calls every thirty minutes or so from friends and family. I had spent the last few years of my life protecting my brothers with all of my being, spending every second of free time ensuring that I had what it took to save them, and when it was my turn to need that same help, I didn't even have to ask.

I had been through an uncountable stream of counselors and counseling sessions after my mom died, so I had very few expectations for my meetings at the Air Force Academy. I went in with the arrogance and narcissism of a Green Beret in a world of non-combat personnel, expecting the conversation to quickly turn into the obligatory "you've never been there, what the hell do you know?"

He opened with his story, before I got the chance.

In a complete moment of serendipity, it seems that Cindy had found the one counselor in the whole arsenal of the military who could put me in my place.

As he opened with his story of being a dust-off medic in Vietnam, meaning he was the guy on the chopper going into the worst of combat and pulling out its unfortunate victims (and sometimes its unfortunate victors), I was awestruck. For the first time in a long time I wasn't trying to one-up him in my mind, using his paltry experiences to make me feel more justified in the bad things I had done to horrible people. I was on the edge of my seat.

By the time he was telling me about his time in the war, coming home, subsequent divorces and children that wouldn't speak to him, the stubborn combat-vet in him that resonated to the very depths of my soul opened my eyes. He didn't end with an "I told you so" or a "beat that" or anything that I expected. It ended with me realizing that I was standing in front of two doorways that represented the rest of my life.

Behind one door was the road well-traveled by combat vets of all cultures and all wars, that which the general, civilian public cannot understand, and does not feel equipped enough to criticize.....the easy, downward spiral path of drowning my sorrows in the same, liter-sized sleep aids I had been bringing home every night, letting each glass slowly take reality and happiness further and further from my grip.

Behind the other was, unfortunately, the road less traveled for the warriors of my generation. Wars change, culture changes, people change, but one aspect of all of those never does: at some point all warriors question what they've done, and whether or not they are worthy of coming home on planes, while their brothers came home in body bags. Some times we do come home, but it's never done on our own, it only happens when we let someone who understands and loves us open that door.

I was at the precipice of my own decisions, and I was smart and cognizant enough to know that what I did in the next moment would drastically influence the rest of my life. I could easily take the well-traveled road of so many great men before me and disappear into the darkness of my own soul, or I could man up and come home to a family that wanted me, and a woman that completed me.

My next sentence to the counselor was about Spanish Class, and was my first step on the long journey home.

Chapter 22

The Wedding

I was in the bathroom putting the last touches on my dress blue uniform in the early afternoon of October 3rd when Chris walked in, like he always did, to give my uniform a quick once-over and make sure I had everything in the correct place.

“Goddamn, Rob. Who the hell did you steal all the ribbons from?” he smirked while brushing the fingerprints off the brass crossed-arrows on my jacket.

“You know how the Army is, bro. I got most of these just for graduating Basic Training,” I smiled back at him.

When he was satisfied that everything was ready I attached to my belt the sword and scabbard Cindy had bought me for this day and walked outside into the cool breeze and warm sunshine of Southern California. In the small alcove of the men’s room at Graystone Mansion Park there was a flurry of uniforms, as all of the men were already being placed for pictures.

The last few days had been a reunion of sorts, as everyone began to make their way into town and would stop by on their way in, since we didn’t live very far from the airport. The night before had been our rehearsal dinner, and for the first time in a very long time almost all of the people I loved were in the same place.

John, Josh, Corey, and Jason were still in Germany so they couldn’t make it, but each had called to give us their best, so they were there in spirit. Tony had even called during the rehearsal dinner; he was leaving for Iraq the next day and wouldn’t be able to miss that flight.

We spent almost an hour getting pictures taken in our uniforms, and even my dad had tailored his old Navy uniform to go with the full military wedding. All of my Army buddies were wearing their dress blues, and even Chris’s son was wearing a specially made extra-small set, complete with the Special Forces crest and a few ribbons to serve as the ring bearer. The Captain (now The Major) had gone to extraordinary lengths to secure swords for all of the sword bearers and had even found an extra one for the ring bearer.

When we finally got the word that it was time to line up and make our way down to the ceremony, we were quickly put into order. The sword bearers were taken down another path to the rear of the chairs that had been set up for the guests, and we made our formation and started to walk toward the front. Looking at all of the men walking with me, I had representatives of the most important periods of my life: my dad, my best man; Chris and J-Lo, from my days with 022; Taylor, Mike and John, three of my oldest and dearest friends, who when we were together were called the “four horsemen” through all of our lives; and Kyle and Matt, two of my Alpha Kappa Psi fraternity brothers. I knew they were all cut from the same cloth, as they were all poking fun at each other (and me) before we even began taking our first steps toward the ceremony.

We walked across the concrete, through a small garden and were stopped at the top of a stone staircase, through which I could peek and see almost all of our friends and family. When we finally got the word to begin, The Chaplain led the way, taking us down the stairs and across the grass to take our place. The sun was shining and I could feel the breeze on my face as we took our positions. I had worried about my uniform making me sweat outside in the sun, but the weather was absolutely perfect. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Cindy and the bridesmaids hadn’t arrived yet, and as I looked out, past The Chaplain and over the city of Los Angeles, the movie of my life ran in my mind. I couldn’t believe I had made it, that through all the craziness of my life, my rebellious and trouble- filled youth, my rambunctious college years, fighting in two wars, I had found and kept the woman who would have me for the rest of her life, and had survived to see this day when we would marry and become one.

I was still gazing out over the horizon when I heard the music start; we’d hired a string quartet to play, and when they began to play “Iris” by the Goo-Goo Dolls (one of Cindy’s favorite songs), I knew the time had come. I turned around, stopping first to look down at all of the amazing men next to me to try to gather some of their strength to help me keep it together.

As I paused and looked down the line at them, each caught my glance and replied with a smile and a quick nod. My dad always taught me that a man would be judged by the company he kept; looking at these men, and then down the aisle to the great men who were standing with swords at their sides in all of their uniformed glory, I was extremely proud that they felt highly enough of me to consider me their friend, and hoped that one day I could be judged by their greatness.

As the first bridesmaid began to make her way toward the aisle, The Major called the men to attention, and as they snapped to a perfect attention I was filled with an insurmountable sense of pride. I had been very worried that these men would lose their respect for me when I made the choice to leave the Army to marry Cindy and start a family, but the fact they had all stayed by my side, never doubted what I was doing, and were all here to celebrate this day almost brought me to tears.

I looked down the rows of sword bearers at the various stripes, ribbons, and medals that they were wearing and couldn’t help but think of all the untold stories these men had lived; between the eight Green Berets standing there, holding a steady and unwavering position of attention and guarding this day for me were eight CIB’s, several Purple Hearts, uncountable medals, more stripes (indicating years of service) than I could count, and unbelievable stories of patriotism and valor that most people in this great country have never known. I had never been so proud as I was that day, looking out at all of these great men who were standing with me as my brothers.

The last of the bridesmaids began to make her way down the aisle, and as I heard the music switch to “The Wedding March” I took one last look at the men next to me. My dad and Chris both beamed smiles at me, echoing the feelings I had in my heart. I turned my gaze back toward the end of the aisle and everything else faded away. I didn’t see the guests, the friends, the family, but as soon as Cindy and her father began to walk past the men in uniform, she was the only thing I could see. She was an angel to my life, the one who had saved me and kept me going, and she was walking toward me to save me again and make me hers forever.

My legs were trembling by the time she got to me; my dad put a hand on my shoulder to give me his strength, and I barely even heard The Chaplain ask his questions.

“Who gives this woman away?”

“Her mother and I do,” answered her father.

With that he gave her a hug and a kiss, and she came forward to take my hand. Once she was standing across from me, holding my hand and staring into my eyes, nothing else mattered. There was no past, no future, only the present moment shared between us. As I stared deeply into those big brown eyes staring right back at me and tearing up, just as they had in the back of my parents’ car years before on the way to the airport in Florida when this all began, it was all I could do to stare back and smile from every part of my being.

We exchanged our rings, said our vows, and The Chaplain finally said the words I had been waiting to hear all day.

“You may now kiss the bride!” As I lifted her veil and brought her closer to me for the first kiss as man and wife, everyone erupted in applause and cheers. They had watched this relationship grow since the beginning, and we were all surprised that in the end, it had worked out. I don’t know how long we kissed for, but when we finally looked up everyone was on their feet, and Geshe-la, a high Buddhist Llama and close friend of Cindy’s family, was walking toward us. He said a few words blessing us, placed the Tibetan ceremonial gold ribbons around our necks, and gave us both an enormous smile.

He wished us well, and I took one more glance at all of the men next to me, saw a few wet eyes, met all of their smiles, and started our walk back down the aisle. As we came to my brothers at the end, The Major called them to attention once again, this time giving the command to present their swords.

If you’ve never seen a full military wedding, this is probably the most powerful moment of all, and as we walked under the awning of swords, each held by some of the greatest heroes this world has ever known, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride, brotherhood, accomplishment, love, and every other good feeling all at once. The wave of emotions hit me like a freight train, and I must have looked back a dozen times as Cindy and I walked off to the cheers and applause.

.

Cindy and I spent most of the cocktail hour taking pictures, and I was so busy that I never even felt my phone buzz in my jacket pocket. When we finally arrived at the hotel, it was another wave of pride, feelings, and emotion. The sword bearers set up just inside the doorway that we would make our entrance through, and the DJ played an acoustic version of “The Ballad of the Green Berets” as we made our entrance. It was the most perfect ending to this part of my life that I could imagine, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The night was even more amazing than I ever could have expected; of course the guys from 022 and their wives were the first ones on the dance floor, Cindy’s friend made a Green Beret-themed groom’s cake, all of the guys helped me cut the wedding cake with my sword, and the open bar flowed all night (the hotel manager walked in to say goodnight toward the end, saw all of the uniforms, ribbons, and fun being had, and extended the party for another hour… twice).

By the time the reception room was being cleared I was absolutely exhausted and couldn’t think of anything more than sleep, but when we got up to our room it turned out that there were other plans. The wedding party had already made their way to our room as we were saying goodbye to everyone else, and the party was in full swing by the time we got there. We couldn’t get mad, though… neither Cindy nor I wanted that night to end.

After saying hello to everyone I excused myself to the bathroom and took my phone out of my pocket. Noticing that someone had called from a satellite phone number; I listened to the voicemail.

“Hey bro, this is Gary (a friend I met during my time with 3rd Battalion, who had gone on to work for another, very secret organization). I heard that you’re out of the Army now and you and Cindy are finally getting married today. Congratulations on both, but I need to talk to you. I’m not sure if you know, but I’ve been working for another organization since I left Colorado, and we just had a job opening come up for an 18D-qualified college graduate with a TS-SCI clearance, so I put your name in and I have an offer for you…”

About the Author

Robert Patrick Lewis grew up in Kingwood, Texas, where he met his wife Cindy their freshman year of high school. After graduation from high school he attended Texas State University to pursue a Marketing degree. Shortly after September 11th, 2001, he enlisted in the Army’s Delayed Entry program, which allowed him to finish out his college degree, and a few weeks after graduation he left for Infantry Basic Training at Ft. Benning, GA. Initially intended to be an Army Ranger, he was accepted into the 18 X-ray program, which sent him directly to Special Forces Assessment and Selection after attending Airborne school.

Selected as an 18 Delta, Special Forces Medic (one of the most coveted jobs in all of Special Operations), he spent two additional years at Ft. Bragg training to be a Green Beret. After graduation from the Special Forces Qualification Course (SFQC) he was assigned to 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) in Stuttgart, Germany. While assigned to B/1/10 he was an operator on Operational Detachment-Alpha (ODA) 022 and was deployed to Iraq, Africa, and Afghanistan, amongst numerous other training deployments around the US and Europe.

After completing his two-year tour in Germany he was assigned to 3rd Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) located in Colorado. He was immediately deployed to Iraq after his arrival, and left active duty shortly after his return from Iraq in 2009 to marry his wife, actress Cindy Chiu, in October of 2009. At the end of his time in the Army his medals included the Purple Heart, Bronze Star, NATO non-article 5 medal, two Army Commendation Medals, Special Forces Tab, Combat Infantry Badge, Airborne wings, Iraq Campaign Medal with star, Afghanistan Campaign Medal, and many ribbons for his exploits with the Army.

He now lives in Southern California with his wife Cindy, their son and their daughter, where he writes from their home.

Love Me When I’m Gone Glossary

ODA: Operational Detachment Alpha, the operational unit or “team” in Special Forces. The numbering system is used to ascertain your placement in the organization. Special Forces has recently changed this number with the addition of a 4th battalion, so my team is now 0122 (the 1 indicating 1st Battalion).

ODB (or B-team): the logistical support unit in an SF company; the B team is given the “0” designation for team number, like 020. They handle all company-level logistics and personnel management.

SOPC: Special Operations Prep and Conditioning, the first weed-out portion of the Q-course, developed to get candidates in shape for Selection and determine who shouldn’t even bother going.

SFQC (or Q-course): Special Forces Qualification Course, the 1-3 year course in which a candidate goes from SOPC all the way through the various training schools to become a Green Beret

SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape, the survival school which culminates in a Green Beret being a POW

18A: Special Forces Officer

18B: Special Forces Weapons Sergeant, able to recognize, take apart, fix, and operate any weapon or arm in use in the world today

18C: Special Forces Engineering Sergeant, an expert in demolitions and construction

18D: Special Forces Medical Sergeant, required to be the primary care, veterinarian, trauma surgeon, ENT, Sports Medicine Doc, and any other medical provider while a team is on deployment

18E: Special Forces Communications Sergeant, responsible for maintaining communications between a team and with higher.

18F: Special Forces Intel Sergeant, responsible for collecting and exploiting intelligence for targeting and driving an ODA’s missions

18Z: Special Forces Team Sergeant, more commonly called the Team Daddy, responsible for management of the team and all training plans

180A: Special Forces Warrant Officer, the bridge between the officer and NCO’s

Robin Sage: The largest Unconventional Warfare exercise in the word, which Green Berets must pass to graduate the Q-course

Special Forces Tab: The tab worn of the shoulder of a Green Berets’ uniform, commonly referred to as “the long tab,” as it is the longest tab awarded in the Army

Green Beret: headgear worn by Special Forces to delineate them as Special Forces

Spook- term used for intelligence agent

FNG: Fucking New Guy, any new Green Beret who arrives on an ODA; you are the FNG until the next one arrives

Parade Rest: a military stance, commonly used to convey respect for a superior NCO

PT’s: the Army clothing worn to exercise

“Smoke the poor bastard”: the term “smoking” is referred to physical punishment, either for hazing or punishment

PT: Physical Training, the Army term for exercising

SOCMSSC: Special Operations Command Medical Skills Sustainment Course a course which all 18D’s must attend every 2 years to maintain their medical credentialing

OCIE: Organizational Clothing and Individual Equipment

AAR: After Action Review, a meeting held after any training event to go over what was good, bad, anything that needs to be changed and lessons learned

S-Shops: A Battalion sized element and higher has various S-shops, dedicated to filling different logistical duties for that organization

NODS: Night Optical Devices, more commonly referred to as night vision

British SAS: The Special Air Service, Britain’s premier Special Operations Forces

MBITR: Multi-Band Team Internal Radio, the radio which all Green Berets carry to communicate between the team

ORP: Objective Rally Point, a tactical point at which a small unit leaves gear not needed for an ambush and which is designated as the point at which they will meet up if something goes wrong.

Wahhibbi’s: a certain brand of Islam, much more fanatical and violent than others (also referred to as Salafist’s in certain parts of the world, like Egypt)

DLPT: Defense Language Proficiency Test, the language test which all Green Berets must pass in their respective second language to graduate the Q-course

Mefloquine and Mefloquine Dreams: An anti-malarial given to soldiers prior to and during travel to Malaria endemic countries; known to cause crazy, vivid dreams which people report being unable to differentiate dreams from reality.

Dress Blues Uniform: the most formal uniform for the Army, used for occasions more important than the standard green Class-A’s

Green Book of Power: small green book, carried by NCO’s for taking notes during meetings.

MOUT: Military Operations in Urban Terrain; Infantry training for urban operations

Blue Barrels and Blue-on-Blue training: The blue barrels are literally upper-receivers for your M4, painted blue so as to mark that they are for paint rounds, and used for “blue-on-blue” training, where friendly units fight each other.

Ruck Sack: “The Big Green Beast,” the green, rigid-backed backpack used by the US Army

FOB: Forward Operating Base, any secured forward military position, commonly a military base, that is used to support tactical operations

Woobie: Special lightweight Army blanket which reflects heat, and no good soldier leaves home without

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Spanish Class

Chapter 2: Arrival in Germany

Chapter 3: The Whirlwind Begins

Chapter 4: Balad, Iraq

Chapter 5: HAVE ACE

Chapter 6: Scotland

Chapter 7: Africa

Chapter 8: Battalion Ball

Chapter 9: CWT

Chapter 10: Bee-Sting

Chapter 11: Sneak Attack on Los Angeles and Afghanistan Orders

Chapter 12: Litzum

Chapter 13: 022 Heads to Afghanistan

Chapter 14: West to East

Chapter 15: Firefight with The Colonel

Chapter 16: Pat

Chapter 17: Move to FOB Shank

Chapter 18: Night Attack at FOB Kutschbach

Chapter 19: Operation Payback

Chapter 20: The End of an Era; Leaving 022, Back to Iraq

Chapter 21: Colorado

Chapter 22: The Wedding

About the Author

Glossary

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Love Me When I’m Gone Glossary