FIRST TO FIRE

AFGHANISTAN COMBAT ADVISOR

Andy Schouten

Production Copyright © 2019 by Andy Schouten. Text Copyright © 2019 by Andy Schouten. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

Author’s Note

I wrote this account from my perspective, and I collated most information via archived emails, reports, written statements, daily calendar with notes, and hundreds of pictures. Dates, names, places, and events should be considered very accurate; however, I do not have records of the actual number of Afghan Army soldiers or names and relied on best guesstimates based on memory. I entered a couple of highlights of the day on a calendar every day. I kept my small digital camera in my leg pocket most of the time and took over 1,200 pictures within the theater to remember my experiences later and share them with those back home. I kept a document with a running total of missions, attacks, and more notable highlights that I could share with my rater for evaluation purposes. Finally, I archived almost all my emails, including attachments with pictures, sworn statements, reports, and general information.

The views expressed in this publication are solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the organizations, the US Army, or the US government. This publication displays no political agenda, nor is it a review of US foreign policy in Afghanistan.

Table of Contents

Preface

In military circles, an "Alive Day" holds profound significance. It's a deeply personal and emotional milestone, marking the moment when a soldier narrowly escaped death—a day they should not have survived, but did. For many veterans, it becomes a day of reflection and gratitude, similar to a personal, unofficial holiday that only they fully comprehend. Unlike traditional holidays, which often focus on collective celebrations, an Alive Day is an intensely individual experience, steeped in the complexity of survival, resilience, and the weight of the lives that were lost in the same circumstances.

An Alive Day isn't about celebrating the injury or trauma experienced, nor is it about commemorating the loss of comrades. Rather, it’s a quiet acknowledgment of survival itself—the raw, powerful realization that you are still here, despite the odds. It's a day marked not by fanfare, but by personal reflection. Some may remember the split-second decision that spared their life during a firefight, while others may recall the gut-wrenching sound of a bomb detonating nearby, with sheer luck, they emerged unscathed. For some, it’s a flashback to the terrifying near-miss of a bullet whizzing past their head, or the sound of a grenade exploding in the distance, knowing it could have been their end.

These days can be full of complex emotions—relief, sorrow, guilt, and gratitude often mingle together. It's a moment when the soldier is forced to confront the fragility of life, realizing that amid chaos, they were granted another chance at life. But even though the day holds deep meaning, it’s not necessarily one that’s shared with others. The celebration of life that follows such a close call is often a solitary experience—an inner dialogue of what might have been, and an acknowledgment of what remains.

Alive Days often serve as a turning point in a veteran’s life. They can act as a reminder to cherish the present, to live with purpose, and to find meaning in the days that follow. It’s a chance to honor those who didn’t make it, to carry their memory forward, and to make the most of the life that was spared. In many ways, an Alive Day becomes a deeply personal form of healing—one that involves not just surviving but learning how to live again with the weight of what survival means.

For me, that day is September 8, 2006.

As a machine gunner stationed in the turret of a gun truck, I occupied the most exposed position—vulnerable, yet crucial. On that day, a roadside bomb exploded directly behind our truck. In an instant, black smoke and dust consumed me. My reflex was to duck, but in truth, no movement could shield me from the force of the concussion blast. The explosion hit with such power that I felt as though I had been shoved into the turret by an invisible, violent hand. For a split second, I thought, This is it.

When the smoke cleared enough to see, I turned to look behind our truck. A gray plume of smoke billowed into the air, and my driver’s voice cut through the chaos over the headset: “Are you okay?” Miraculously, I was. Aside from symptoms of a mild concussion, I emerged without so much as a scratch.

The same could not be said for others. An Afghan Army pickup truck tailing us bore the brunt of the explosion. Its occupants weren’t as lucky. The smell of the aftermath—a horrific blend of cordite, burning fuel, human flesh, and the dusty air of Afghanistan—was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. It’s a scent I can never adequately describe, nor do I ever want to smell again.

Scents have a strange way of anchoring memories. Most of my childhood recollections have faded over time, yet the smell of fresh-cut grass and clover in summer can transport me instantly to my grandmother’s house. I can’t remember my age or the details of those visits, but that aroma brings back a flood of feelings. The smell of that explosion is different. It doesn’t just trigger memories—it haunts them.

Surveying the scene after the blast, I saw the twisted hood of a truck flung to the opposite side of the road, a stark reminder of how close I had come to death. Shards of debris had flown past me like shrapnel from a grenade, missing me by inches. How did I walk away unharmed? To this day, I can only attribute it to the Grace of God.

Every year, on September 8th, I email the driver of our truck to wish him, “Happy Alive Day!” It’s a tradition that honors the fragility and resilience of life. While my military career holds other close calls and traumatic events, this day stands apart—a defining moment of survival that I will never forget.

Situation Report

“Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.” – Chinese Proverb

Afghanistan’s modern history became a focal point of global attention in the late 20th century. In the aftermath of the Soviet withdrawal in 1989, the country spiraled into civil war, leading to the rise of the Taliban in the 1990s. The Taliban established an authoritarian regime, enforcing strict interpretations of Islamic law. Under their rule, Afghanistan became a haven for terrorist organizations, including Al Qaeda. By the late 1990s, Osama bin Laden had established training camps in the country, planning attacks against Western targets.

The most infamous of these attacks occurred on September 11, 2001, when Al Qaeda operatives hijacked four commercial airliners, striking the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and bringing unparalleled devastation to the United States. Nearly 3,000 lives were lost, and global order was shaken. In response, the U.S. launched Operation Enduring Freedom on October 7, 2001, targeting Al Qaeda and the Taliban regime that harbored them.

By November, U.S. Special Forces, working closely with the Northern Alliance—a coalition of Afghan resistance groups—had overthrown the Taliban government. While Osama bin Laden evaded capture during the Battle of Tora Bora in December, his network was disrupted. In December 2004, Afghanistan’s first democratic elections resulted in Hamid Karzai becoming the nation’s president, marking the beginning of efforts to establish a new government and rebuild the country.

Concurrently, the U.S. military faced intense challenges in Afghanistan. Operation Anaconda in 2002 exemplified the complexity of the conflict, as U.S. and coalition forces battled entrenched Al Qaeda fighters in the Shah-I-Kot Valley. This operation, taking place in my future battlespace, was among the largest and most intense engagements of the early war. Planned as a swift offensive to destroy a significant Al Qaeda stronghold, it quickly evolved into a brutal, extended fight. Coalition forces, including U.S. Army, Navy SEALs, and Air Force personnel, faced heavy resistance in the unforgiving terrain. Al Qaeda fighters, well-fortified in caves and high-altitude positions, used the mountainous environment to their advantage, forcing U.S. forces to adapt under fire. The battle highlighted not only the determination of the enemy but also the courage and adaptability of coalition forces. Despite facing logistical challenges, adverse weather, and steep terrain, the operation ultimately disrupted enemy operations and established a precedent for future engagements in the region.

Task Force Phoenix and the Evolution of Combat Advisors

In 2003, Combined Joint Task Force Phoenix took on a groundbreaking mission: the formation of Embedded Training Teams (ETTs) to act as combat advisors. The concept, though not entirely new, was ambitious—leveraging conventional forces like the 10th Mountain Division to train and mentor Afghan troops. At the heart of the mission was a simple yet monumental goal: transforming the fledgling Afghan National Army (ANA) into a self-sufficient force capable of operating independently.

Combat advisors were tasked with a broad spectrum of responsibilities that spanned leadership mentoring, staff support functions, operational planning, and training. They served as both instructors and liaisons, providing Afghan forces access to critical combat enablers such as close air support, field artillery, and medical evacuation. However, this role required more than technical expertise; it demanded cultural fluency, adaptability, and the ability to build trust in a volatile environment.

By the time Task Force Phoenix disbanded in 2010 with the establishment of NATO Training Mission-Afghanistan, approximately 6,000 personnel had served under its banner. Despite its dissolution, the lessons learned and sacrifices made during this period remain a cornerstone of modern advisory operations.

Challenges in Training and Resources

From 2003 through 2006, the training pipeline for combat advisors was ad hoc at best. Preparation varied widely depending on location, as training programs were scattered across installations in the United States. It wasn’t until October 2006 that the Army centralized combat advisor training at Fort Riley, Kansas, creating a standardized program.

However, the challenges were far from over. Unlike Special Forces, who undergo years of rigorous training to master foreign internal defense, combat advisors received a mere six weeks of preparation. This training gap was compounded by a lack of dedicated resources. Advisors often relied on hand-me-down equipment from conventional forces, creating logistical challenges and morale issues.

Despite these shortcomings, combat advisors like Captain William Swenson and Corporal Dakota Meyer exemplified the mission’s highest ideals. Both were awarded the Medal of Honor for their extraordinary valor during the Battle of Ganjgal in 2009, highlighting the critical role advisors played in the Afghan conflict.

Cultural Nuances and Everyday Life in Afghanistan

Living in Afghanistan was as much about understanding its people as it was about accomplishing the mission. The Afghan way of life, steeped in tradition and shaped by centuries of tribalism and faith, felt like stepping into a different world. To work effectively as combat advisors, we had to navigate and respect these differences, even when they clashed with our own norms and expectations.

The call to prayer, echoing from minarets five times a day, was a poignant reminder of the centrality of Islam in Afghan life. It was more than a ritual; it was a rhythm that ordered their day and connected them to their communities. Fridays, the Islamic holy day, were a time of rest and worship, and as advisors, we adapted to this schedule. It became our downtime too, a rare opportunity to clean weapons, catch up on sleep, or unwind with a movie. Greeting customs were an early lesson in cultural sensitivity. A simple “Salaam-Alaikum” followed by “Alaikum-Salaam” could set the tone for an interaction, showing respect and a willingness to engage in their terms. Body language was equally important—sitting with your heels pointed at someone was considered rude, and the left hand, viewed as unclean, was never offered in a handshake. These small gestures spoke volumes about respect and understanding in a land where honor was everything.

The Role of Family and Tribal Loyalties

Family and tribe were the bedrock of Afghan society, often taking precedence over national identity or government allegiance. In many ways, Afghanistan was not a unified country but a patchwork of tribal regions, each with its own customs, loyalties, and grudges. Tribal feuds could span generations, with grievances passed down like family heirlooms.

The Afghan people’s loyalty to their tribes often complicated our mission. An Afghan soldier might prioritize his tribal leader’s wishes over his commanding officer’s orders or divert resources to benefit his family. This made trust a rare and precious commodity. As advisors, we had to tread carefully, always aware that alliances could shift with the wind.

The concept of corruption, so deeply ingrained in Afghan culture, was another hurdle. What we saw as fraud or theft was often viewed by them as a necessary means of survival. Police checkpoints demanding bribes, commanders skimming pay from their soldiers, and contractors inflating prices were common. While frustrating, these practices reflected a society where formal institutions were weak, and personal connections often outweighed rules.

Gender Dynamics and Societal Norms

Afghan society was deeply patriarchal, with strict roles for men and women. Women were rarely seen in public, and when they were, they were usually cloaked in burqas that left only their eyes visible. Conversations about gender roles often reveal an insurmountable cultural gap. For instance, the phrase "women are for procreation and boys are for recreation" reflected a troubling aspect of Afghan gender dynamics that was hard for us to reconcile.

Male camaraderie in Afghanistan also had a different expression. It was common to see Afghan soldiers holding hands or walking arm in arm, a sign of trust and friendship. For many Americans, this custom felt unusual, even uncomfortable, given the cultural connotations back home. While some advisors embraced the practice to strengthen bonds, I chose to respect it from a distance.

The rumors about “man love Thursdays” were persistent and often accompanied by warnings from our interpreters to avoid the Afghan Army side on those nights. While I never personally witnessed anything, the interpreters' advice was enough to convince me to steer clear. Whether rooted in truth or exaggeration, these stories underscored the cultural and moral complexities we faced.

Faith and the “Inshallah” Mentality

“Inshallah”—“if God wills it”—was more than a phrase; it was a philosophy that permeated Afghan life. This fatalistic outlook could be both humbling and exasperating. On one hand, it reflected a profound trust in divine will, a resilience born of enduring decades of war and hardship. On the other hand, it often clashed with the precision and urgency required in military operations.

Time, as we understood it, held little meaning for many Afghans. Few owned clocks or kept calendars, and most didn’t know about their birthdays. Meetings rarely started on time, and deadlines were often met with a shrug and a smile. The “Inshallah” mindset extended even to combat. Afghan soldiers would fire their AK-47s in the general direction of the enemy, trusting that if Allah willed it, the bullets would find their mark.

For us, this approach was maddening. We were trained to value precision, planning, and efficiency—concepts that often felt alien in the Afghan context. Teaching backward planning or emphasizing the importance of punctuality requires infinite patience and the ability to celebrate small victories.

Resilience Amid Adversity

Despite the frustrations, there was much to admire about the Afghan people. Their resilience in the face of relentless adversity was remarkable. Decades of war had left deep scars, yet they continued tilling their fields, raise their families, and cling to hope. Children worked alongside their parents, learning the skills needed to survive in a harsh and unforgiving land. The Afghan sense of community was another source of inspiration. Whether it was sharing a meal, offering tea, or welcoming a stranger, hospitality was a deeply ingrained value. Even in the most impoverished villages, we were met with warmth and generosity that belied the hardships these people faced daily.

Where Are We Going?

In the fall of 2005, I was serving in an active status as a Captain in the Wisconsin National Guard, assigned as the brigade fire control officer. Earlier that year, I had transitioned out of my role as a Multiple Launch Rocket System (MLRS) battery commander, a position I had held with pride and determination. I had also completed my MBA, marking a significant milestone in my personal and professional development. My wife and I were on the cusp of starting a family, navigating the delicate balance of fertility treatments and hopeful anticipation.

Just before Thanksgiving, the brigade commander called. He asked if I’d be interested in deploying with him for an Embedded Training Team (ETT) mission to Afghanistan. At the time, I had little understanding of what this would entail. The weight of the decision loomed large, not only because of the professional responsibility but also due to the personal sacrifices it would demand.

At first, I hesitated. The decision to deploy was not just about military duty; it was about my personal life, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to step away from everything I had been working so hard to build. My wife and I had been navigating the complexities of starting a family, and the thought of leaving during such a pivotal moment weighed heavily on me. I shared my concerns with my commander, hoping for understanding or flexibility. On Monday morning, however, he made his decision.

I was slated for mobilization in early January 2006, leaving me just over a month to reconcile the responsibilities of military service with the demands of my family life. Deployment became a reality, bringing with it a tidal wave of emotions. The fleeting comfort of knowing I would spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my wife and family became a precious gift, one that I clung to as the days quickly counted down.

The mental tug-of-war was constant. On one hand, I felt the call to serve, the pride of being part of something larger than myself. On the other hand, the pull of my family and the fear of missing critical moments were overwhelming. Each decision felt like a step into the unknown. As I began to prepare for deployment, time with my family became increasingly precious.

It wasn’t just about the holidays—it was about cherishing moments I feared might never come again. I took every opportunity to savor the time with my wife, knowing that the future held uncertainty. The weeks leading up to my deployment were a whirlwind. I had to tie up loose ends, complete paperwork, and make arrangements, all while trying to stay present with my wife during the holidays. As I boarded the plane to our training base, I carried with me the strength of those last moments with loved ones, knowing they would sustain me during the long months ahead.

Chickenhawk

My military journey began years earlier, shaped by a childhood fascination with service and adventure. From fighting battles with G.I. Joe figures, to obtaining my Eagle Scout rank, I was captivated by the discipline and purpose of the military. My earliest ambition was to become an Army helicopter pilot, fueled by countless readings of Chickenhawk by Robert Mason. That book opened my imagination to the challenges and exhilaration of flying under fire as Mr. Mason did in Vietnam. However, my poor eyesight ultimately grounded those ambitions, forcing me to recalibrate. With my pilot aspirations no longer an option, I turned my attention to the Marine Corps, drawn by their storied traditions and elite reputation.

That dream shifted by a chance encounter during my high school years. At 17, I was working in a small-town restaurant in central Wisconsin, serving dinner and washing dishes, when an Army National Guard recruiter walked through the door. He presented the split-option program as the perfect opportunity: I could attend basic training after my junior year, complete advanced artillery training after my high school graduation, and serve part-time while pursuing college and a civilian career. The pitch resonated. It allowed me to satisfy my desire for military service without abandoning my educational goals or a future outside the armed forces.

In 1993, I shipped to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri for basic training. The experience was grueling, transformative, and unforgettable. Drill Sergeants Crider and Lyons were larger-than-life figures whose lessons, sharp wit, and relentless discipline left an indelible mark on me. They embodied everything I believed a soldier should be—resilient, fearless, and unyielding in their standards. I carried their teachings with me long after I left Missouri.

The following summer, I reported to Fort Sill, Oklahoma for advanced artillery training, immersing myself in the world of field guns, calculations, and teamwork. I graduated as the honor graduate, a recognition that affirmed my decision to join and ignited a deeper passion for the field of artillery. On weekends, I explored Lawton, Oklahoma, where the local clubs provided a modest escape for a teenage soldier under the legal drinking age. It was a time of growth, camaraderie, and first taste of independence.

In the 1990s, the National Guard was widely regarded as a strategic reserve force—a component of the military that would only be called upon in the direst circumstances. Deployments to combat zones were seen as improbable, and most training revolved around preparing for state-level emergencies such as natural disasters, riot control, or public safety missions. This strategic reserve status meant that being under-resourced was the norm. Equipment was missing, often worn out or outdated, training budgets were constrained, and operational readiness expectations were minimal.

As a young Field Artillery Fire Direction Specialist, these resource limitations were just part of the job. The gear we worked with was far from cutting-edge, and the tools for plotting fire missions were analog and manual—a stark contrast to the technology used in later years. Despite the challenges, this period in the Guard holds some of my fondest memories, especially given the nickname "Chickenhawk" in reference to the short and mighty cartoon character.

The Happy Place: A Night on the Gunline

One moment stands out vividly, etched into my memory so deeply that it became a "happy place" I revisited during therapy years later. It was during a warm, dark, and exhausting night of a field training exercise. The area was alive with the hum of generators and the rumble of vehicles, their engines purring like distant thunder, providing a strangely comforting background symphony.

I had just completed the calculations for an especially complex fire mission—one that required intense focus and precision. This wasn’t a typical fire-for-effect mission; it involved synchronizing illumination rounds with high-explosive projectiles. The task was to light up the battlefield with the brilliance of artificial day while delivering devastating effects on the target below. My heart raced as I worked through the variables: wind direction, air pressure, humidity, and the precise timing required for the dual-purpose mission to unfold seamlessly.

The smell of cordite lingered heavily in the air, a sharp, acrid scent that somehow became intoxicating over time. It was the unmistakable signature of artillery fire—a smell that clung to the skin, clothes, and equipment long after the guns fell silent. I remember liking it in an odd way, associating it with the powerful sense of purpose and adrenaline that came with firing the howitzers.

When the order to fire finally came, the night exploded in a series of brilliant flashes. The bright orange flames leapt from the muzzles of the guns, illuminating the faces of the crew as they worked in perfect unison. It was a strange kind of beauty, chaotic yet coordinated, harsh yet mesmerizing. The thunderous booms followed each flash, a deep, resonant sound that you could feel vibrating in your chest.

As the first illumination round burst overhead, the landscape transformed for the observers. The battlefield below was bathed in a ghostly white light, the shadows dancing like specters among the trees and rocks. The high-explosive rounds followed, their impacts sending up towering plumes of dirt and smoke, the flashes reflecting off the illuminated ground like some surreal war painting.

In that moment, everything seemed to align perfectly—the calculations, the teamwork, the sheer power of the artillery. It was a reminder of the purpose behind all the grueling training and long hours. The chaos around me felt like order, the noise like music. Despite the exhaustion and cold, there was a sense of accomplishment that was almost euphoric.

Despite the noise, the chaos, and the weight of responsibility, there was a strange sense of calm and exhilaration in that moment. I felt a profound connection to the process—the precision of the calculations; the teamwork required to execute the mission, and the raw power of the artillery. It was a moment where everything seemed to align perfectly, and I knew I was in the right place, doing the right thing.

Into the 'Stan

The first day of mobilization, January 5th, 2006, coincided with my 30th birthday—a milestone I celebrated not with cake and candles, but with a short meeting to get to know the team I’d be deploying with. Our Wisconsin advisor group comprised 16 personnel, an even mix of officers and sergeants, initially assigned to support an Afghanistan National Army brigade headquarters. While I had occasionally worked with a few of the officers, the majority were unfamiliar faces. Our group was a patchwork of soldiers from across the state, each bringing their unique experiences from different units.

The following days were a whirlwind of family briefings and equipment checks. We meticulously ensured every canteen, sleeping bag, and piece of gear was accounted for—a process that seemed both tedious and surreal, as the reality of deployment began to set in. On the third day, we attended an emotional send-off ceremony. Saying goodbye to my family and wife was heart-wrenching, a moment filled with tears, hugs, and unspoken fears. Amid the bittersweet chaos, I even managed five seconds of fame during a brief interview with the local news. After the ceremony, we changed into civilian clothes, boarded a bus, and began the journey to Mississippi for mobilization training, leaving behind everything familiar.

At Camp Shelby, we joined four brigade-level and five battalion-level advisor teams from other states. We were housed in bunk beds within a concrete block barracks, sharing the space with another state’s advisor team. The facilities were basic—restrooms were a short walk away in another building, and the area included a dining facility, laundry trailers, and a small shoppette about five minutes away. Despite the Spartan conditions, we still had our personal cell phones and could call home almost daily. Internet access was scarce, making those calls a vital lifeline to the world we had temporarily left behind.

The Mississippi weather in January and February was a stark contrast to the freezing temperatures of Wisconsin. While it was cold enough to warrant wearing snivel gear—like polypropylene layers and long underwear—there were also days when fleece jackets sufficed. Training days were filled with a mix of generic and role-specific preparation. We attended classes, qualified on rifle ranges, became certified as combat lifesavers, and navigated land courses.

However, the Afghanistan-specific training left much to be desired. We received classes on tactical satellite radios but lacked satellite time to practice using them. Our evening Dari language lessons, though well-intentioned, proved futile when we were later assigned to a Pashto-speaking area. Many instructors, despite their expertise, often referred to Iraq—a completely different combat environment from Afghanistan—leaving gaps in the applicability of the lessons.

One highlight was the training on foreign weapons. Handling and firing AK-47 assault rifles, PKM machine guns, and Dragunov sniper rifles provided invaluable familiarity with equipment we might encounter in the field. These sessions stood out amidst an otherwise flawed training program, offering a rare sense of practical readiness.

Camp Shelby’s days were a mix of anticipation, frustration, and camaraderie. Though the training wasn’t perfect, it marked the beginning of a journey that would test our skills, resilience, and adaptability in ways we couldn’t yet imagine.

The day we left Camp Shelby was a blur of activity and anticipation. It also marked the day we were supposed to start taking doxycycline, our daily anti-malaria pill—a fitting start to the chaos that would become our deployment. Wake-up time came at 3:00 a.m., that dreaded hour that always seemed too early but arrived too soon. The morning kicked off with a flurry of movement: frenzied packing, last-minute items stuffed into bags, and hurried trips to the awaiting semi-truck. The air was thick with tension and adrenaline as we scrambled to get everything together.

In the midst of all that, I made a rookie mistake. In my rush, I took my first dose of doxycycline on an empty stomach. Within minutes, nausea hit like a freight train. Doubled over in the restroom, dry-heaving instead of helping load the truck, I learned a brutal lesson: always take your meds with food. It seemed like such a simple thing in hindsight, but in the chaos of deployment prep, I had missed it.

Once that episode had passed, the rest of the day unfolded in familiar military fashion: “hurry up and wait.” The “hurry up” was frantic—loading trucks, checking documents. Then came the waiting: we boarded a bus to the airport, only to be stuck for hours in the hangar, watching the clock tick away. The anticipation was palpable, but the process felt like it was moving at a glacial pace.

Chartered Airliner

Eventually, our chartered commercial airliner arrived, and we filed aboard. I was fortunate enough to claim three seats to myself, offering a small luxury amidst the hectic travel day. As I settled in, I gazed out the window, reflecting on the journey ahead. What lay beyond the horizon was uncertain, but for the moment, the quiet comfort of my solitary space offered a welcome reprieve.

We landed at Manas Air Force Base in Kyrgyzstan just before midnight on February 24, marking the beginning of our 365-day deployment. Accommodations were crowded tents with bunk beds. If you were unlucky enough to get the top bunk, like I did, you were met with a near-constant barrage of light, airflow, and a roof inches from your face.

Still, there were perks. As an Air Force base, the dining facility was exceptional. For a few days, we lingered in limbo, waiting for our next flight while enjoying the luxury of good food.

On February 27, our Wisconsin advisor team boarded a C-17 cargo plane bound for Kabul International Airport. The sheer size of the plane was awe-inspiring. Built to carry 100 airborne soldiers with their gear—or even an Abrams tank—it could take off on short runways and perform complex aerial maneuvers. Inside, the vastness of the plane made me feel small.

Halfway through the flight, the pilot dimmed the lights and instructed everyone to put on helmets as we crossed into hostile airspace. The weight of the moment settled in as I strapped on my helmet, wondering what lay ahead. This was it—we were officially in a warzone.

When we landed in Kabul, we were issued partial magazines for our pistols and boarded a curtained bus that took us to Camp Phoenix. It struck me as surreal—those precautions in the air contrasted with the exposed bus ride through the city. We were instructed to put our helmets on in the air and then riding in a standard bus with "magical", impact-resistant curtains on the windows.

Friendly Forces

"Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself." – Anonymous

Combined Forces Command - Afghanistan

The U.S. command structure in Afghanistan was intricate, resembling a sprawling wire diagram with numerous overlapping relationships. At the top of the hierarchy, Lieutenant General Karl Eikenberry commanded the Combined Forces Command – Afghanistan (CFC-A), which was headquartered in Bagram. CFC-A coordinated with the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), embassies, and other diplomatic missions. Beneath CFC-A, the 10th Mountain Division, led by Major General Benjamin Freakly, was responsible for executing primary counterinsurgency operations, defeating enemy forces, and overseeing Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs). These PRTs played a vital role in supporting civil affairs and enhancing local infrastructure.

Task Force Phoenix

Central to the mission of CFC-A was Task Force Phoenix, an initiative tasked with training and mentoring the Afghan National Army (ANA) and Afghan National Police (ANP) to conduct sustained counterinsurgency operations independently. This mission was vital in creating a self-reliant Afghan security force capable of maintaining stability and combating insurgent threats across the country.

Task Force Phoenix operated under the command of Brigadier General John Perryman and was a multinational effort, reflecting the coalition nature of the war in Afghanistan. Advisor teams from Canada, Romania, France, and several other nations brought diverse expertise and perspectives to the mission. Each contributing country played a unique role, embedding their advisors within Afghan units to provide mentorship in tactical operations, logistics, leadership, and administration.

One of the most remarkable aspects of Task Force Phoenix was the international cooperation it fostered. Canadian advisors brought their experience from NATO operations, Romanian teams introduced innovative training techniques, and the French offered insights gained from their long history of counterinsurgency operations in Africa. This diversity of approaches created a rich environment for sharing ideas, even as it occasionally led to operational friction due to differing military doctrines and communication styles. The success of Task Force Phoenix relied on the shared commitment of all contributing nations to the overarching goal: enabling Afghan forces to stand on their own. This unity of purpose, despite the inevitable challenges, was a testament to the strength of the coalition.

Task Force Phoenix was a cornerstone of the coalition's efforts in Afghanistan. Its mission was ambitious and fraught with challenges, but it laid the foundation for what many hoped would be a self-sustaining Afghan security apparatus. The experiences I had during this time were some of the most impactful of my career, shaping my understanding of leadership, perseverance, and the complexities of modern warfare.

As a part of this broader mission, I worked closely with units that were instrumental to Task Force Phoenix's success: the 2nd Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment (Task Force Catamount) and the 4th Battalion, 25th Field Artillery Regiment (Task Force Wolfpack). Both units were part of the storied 10th Mountain Division, a division known for its adaptability, resilience, and history of operating in challenging environments.

Task Force Catamount

Task Force Catamount, with its roots in the infantry, embodied the core principles of light infantry warfare—mobility, versatility, and the ability to operate in austere conditions. The battalion worked tirelessly to secure key areas, conduct patrols, and provide on-the-ground support to Afghan forces. Their efforts were not only about tactical success but also about instilling confidence and competence in their Afghan counterparts.

Task Force Wolfpack

The artillerymen of Task Force Wolfpack brought the power and precision of field artillery to the fight, a capability that was both strategic and symbolic. Artillery operations in Afghanistan often required pinpoint accuracy, given the mountainous terrain and the proximity of civilian populations. Wolfpack’s mission extended along the Pakistan border that forced it to spread into small gun teams.

The Tip of the Spear - Shaft in the Rear

Being a combat advisor often felt like serving at the very tip of the spear—a critical yet vulnerable position where we faced the enemy head-on. Like Special Forces missions, our work was specialized, intense, and high-risk. We were embedded deep in the action, conducting missions that placed us directly alongside Afghan soldiers in remote and often hostile environments.

The proximity to the fight was constant, and though we were technically advisers, we didn’t sit on the sidelines. Yet, for all the intensity of combat, there were moments when our role felt more like a tightrope walk between command and mentorship. While we were the “tip of the spear,” our lack of direct command authority often left us feeling like the "shaft in the rear"—vulnerable and under-supported. Without the ability to directly command resources or personnel, we were often at the mercy of a complex and fragmented chain of command.

Navigating a Complex Chain of Command

The advisory structure added layers of complexity to an already challenging mission. Some missions were directed through advisory channels, while others were monitored by the 10th Mountain Division. At times, it felt as though we had numerous superiors, each with their own priorities, but lacked the authority or resources to execute our mission effectively.

This lack of command authority became particularly evident in moments of critical need. Securing air support, artillery, medical assistance, or even basic supplies often required navigating a labyrinth of requests and approvals. The fragmented nature of the coalition effort—comprising not only ISAF and the Afghan Army but also Special Operations Forces, other national militaries, government agencies, NGOs, and private contractors—further complicated coordination.

The scarcity of resources was a constant obstacle. Unlike larger, better-supported units, we operated with minimal logistical backing. While the 10th Mountain Division and ISAF provided overarching support, the on-the-ground realities often left us scrambling. Air support, for example, was not always available when we needed it most. Medical evacuations and artillery support were similarly challenging to secure in a timely manner.

Even basic necessities like ammunition, fuel, and water required careful management. This lack of consistent support reinforced the sense of isolation that often accompanied our missions. We were expected to act as liaisons, advisors, and warriors, yet we frequently lacked the tools and backing to fulfill these roles effectively.

Despite these challenges, there was a profound sense of purpose in our work. Being embedded with the Afghan Army provided an unparalleled opportunity to make a direct impact on the fight against insurgency. It also offered a unique perspective on the complexities of the war and the resilience of those we served alongside.

The Fobbit

The term "Fobbit" emerged as military slang during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, blending “FOB” (Forward Operating Base) with “hobbit.” It referred to soldiers who rarely ventured outside the protected confines of their base. Fobbits typically worked in support roles, ensuring the logistical and administrative functions that kept operations running smoothly. Their routines were relatively safe, predictable, and detached from the tensions faced by those conducting missions beyond the wire.

Life as a Fobbit had its advantages. Larger bases, like Bagram or Kandahar, offered comforts that were rare in the austere outposts scattered across Afghanistan. Dining facilities served hot meals with options like grilled chicken, pasta, and even dessert bars. Many bases had recreational facilities, including gyms, movie rooms, and internet cafes. Living quarters were air-conditioned, offering a stark contrast to the harsh climate and constant dust and sand.

However, this comfortable existence came at a price. Fobbits rarely interacted with the local population or experienced the gritty realities of combat missions. For some, this led to feelings of detachment or guilt, knowing their peers were facing danger daily outside the wire. Among those on missions, there was often a sense of disdain for Fobbits, who were viewed as disconnected from the “real” war.

Warfighters - Beyond the Wire

In contrast, “warfighters” experienced a vastly different perspective. These soldiers conducted missions beyond the wire—patrolling villages, clearing routes, engaging with the local populace, and facing the ever-present threat of ambushes or indirect fire. Their daily routines were unpredictable, grueling, and often dangerous. They carried not only their body armor and equipment but also the emotional toll of constant danger.

Warfighters saw themselves as the sharp end of the spear, believing their missions were the true measure of success or failure in the broader campaign. The divide between Fobbits and warfighters often created tension, with each group misunderstanding or underappreciating the contributions of the other.

As advisors, we found ourselves straddling the line between these two worlds. We could generally be classified into two categories:

Brigade-level and above advisors: These advisors operated primarily from large bases, engaging with higher-level Afghan leadership and focusing on strategic planning. Their role was more akin to that of a Fobbit, spending most of their time within the relative safety of the base.

Battalion and company advisors: These advisors were embedded at lower levels, often accompanying Afghan units on missions. They engaged directly in the day-to-day realities of warfighting, advising during firefights, and facing the same risks as their Afghan counterparts. Battalions and companies usually occupy small, remote bases, often a distance from amenities.

As a battalion-level advisor, I fell into the second category. I spent much of my time embedded in the chaos of combat operations, living and working side by side with Afghan forces. However, there were moments when I visited larger bases for resupply, meetings, or a brief respite.

I appreciated the amenities on these larger bases—hot meals, a chance to catch up on emails, and a night in an air-conditioned room felt like a luxury after weeks in the field. These visits were brief reminders of the comforts I had left behind, highlighting the stark contrast between life as a Fobbit and life beyond the wire.

Despite tensions between the two groups, both were essential to the mission. Fobbits ensured the logistical machinery kept running, providing supplies, intelligence, and coordination for missions. Warfighters executed those missions, often relying on Fobbits for support.

For me, the balance was clear. While I respected the work of Fobbits, I couldn’t imagine spending an entire deployment confined to a base. The challenges and dangers of operating beyond the wire, though daunting, offered a sense of purpose and immediacy that was deeply fulfilling. Each group had its role, and together, they formed an interconnected web—the modern battlefield.

Life Support of the Warrior

In Afghanistan, military bases were central hubs for operations, logistics, and security. There were two main types of bases: U.S. bases, usually managed by U.S. forces and their NATO allies, and Afghan Army bases, which were operated by Afghan forces with support from international advisors. The differences between these bases mattered when it came to security, amenities, and the overall mission. While U.S. bases were more organized and fortified, with modern infrastructure, Afghan Army bases often faced limited resources and the challenges of operating in an active combat zone.

Task Force Catamount, a key unit within the 10th Mountain Division, controlled most of the U.S. bases in our area of operations. These bases were crucial to regional stability, providing safe havens for U.S. and allied forces to carry out their missions. They hosted infantry units, Provincial Reconstruction Teams (PRTs), and logistics personnel, all supporting the larger goal of stabilizing Afghanistan.

US and Allied Bases

U.S. bases were often located on the outskirts of towns or in areas considered relatively safe, though the constant threat of insurgent attacks meant security was always a concern. Bases like Camp Phoenix and Bagram Airfield were some of the larger installations, featuring robust facilities such as dining halls, airfields, medical stations, and living quarters. While these locations were seen as secure, the ever-present tension of living in a warzone affected every part of daily life. Mortar and rocket attacks were infrequent, making even mundane activities feel risky.

The security of U.S. bases relied on a mix of measures: a wire perimeter, vehicle checkpoints, and a network of watchtowers, surveillance cameras, and armed guards. The most iconic and effective form of base fortification was the HESCO barrier—an industrial-strength sandbag wall that became the hallmark of U.S. base construction in Afghanistan. These barriers surrounded bases to protect personnel and equipment from projectiles and explosions.

Building these walls wasn’t easy, but it was efficient. With just two soldiers and a front loader, about ten yards of HESCO barriers could be set up in 20 minutes. The barriers offered strong protection against small arms fire and mortars, though they were not impenetrable to more sophisticated weapons like rockets or heavy artillery. The towering walls provided a sense of security and were an essential part of the base's defense.

Afghan Bases

While U.S. bases were heavily fortified, Afghan Army bases faced more significant challenges. These bases were often situated in rural or remote areas, away from major urban centers, and lacked the infrastructure and resources that U.S. bases enjoyed. The Afghan Army had a much smaller budget, fewer resources, and less experienced personnel to manage base operations. As a combat advisor, I frequently found myself on Afghan Army bases, where conditions were often very different from those on U.S. bases. The amenities were basic, and the security situation was more uncertain. While U.S. bases had HESCO barriers, Afghan bases often had makeshift defenses like low stone walls and sandbags. Without advanced surveillance equipment, perimeter security often relied on local Afghan forces, who might not have had the training or resources to respond effectively to breaches.

Despite these challenges, Afghan Army bases were essential to the operational landscape. They served as primary locations for Afghan forces to launch counterinsurgency operations, conduct training, and provide security to local populations. Combat advisors, like myself, were embedded within Afghan units on these bases to mentor and train them, helping the Afghan Army build the capacity to operate independently. The long-term goal was for Afghan forces to assume full responsibility for security within their borders.

In some areas, like Bermel, both U.S. and Afghan Army forces were present, creating a unique environment where two forces, with different levels of training, equipment, and resources, coexisted. In these cases, the U.S. military typically managed overall base security, but Afghan units had their own sectors with more rudimentary defenses. These mixed bases highlighted the dual mission of supporting Afghan forces while providing a secure area for U.S. and coalition personnel.

On these shared bases, combat advisors worked directly with Afghan Army units, training them in various military operations, from basic infantry tactics to advanced counterinsurgency strategies. The presence of Afghan forces also fostered mutual dependence, as both sides relied on each other for survival and mission success. While this dynamic occasionally led to friction, it also created opportunities for cross-cultural learning and collaboration.

Living on these bases—whether U.S. or Afghan—was far from the comforts of home. The oppressive summer heat, the biting winter cold, and the ever-present dust and sand made life in Afghanistan a constant endurance test. Even in the relative security of a base, the atmosphere was one of constant vigilance, with little downtime or sense of safety. The reality of being in a warzone never felt far away.

The sensory environment within the base was a mix of routine and danger. The hum of generators running 24/7, the rattle of automatic weapons on the firing range, and the occasional blast of a mortar shell punctuating the stillness were all part of daily life. The air was thick with the smell of diesel, sweat, and dust, and the physical discomfort of wearing body armor, carrying weapons, and enduring extreme temperatures was a constant reminder of the harsh realities of war.

While the bases offered structure and security, they were also a constant reminder of the larger mission: helping Afghan forces build a capable, self-sustaining military. The conditions on these bases—whether U.S. or Afghan—tested the resilience of the soldiers who lived and worked there. Despite the difficulties, the shared goal of stability, security, and peace for Afghanistan kept us focused, knowing that each day was another step toward achieving that mission.

Kit

The gear we carried was both a lifeline and a burden, adding considerable weight and complexity to every mission. Body armor, essential for protection, was the cornerstone of our loadout. Each plate weighed about eight pounds, and with front and back plates, the total weight quickly added up. With additional pouches and gear, we often carried an extra 50 pounds or more, making each movement deliberate and taxing.

There wasn’t a standard way to wear gear—arrangements depended on personal preferences and needs. Some soldiers attached their gear directly to their body armor, like I did, to keep everything consolidated and easily accessible. Others wore modular vests over their armor, which allowed for quicker removal and more flexibility during downtime. While the Army issued us the basics, many of us spent extra money on custom pouches, holsters, and accessories to tailor our loadouts to our roles and preferences.

The body armor itself was the smelliest and dirtiest piece of gear we had. Constant exposure to sweat, dust, and grime created an odor that was almost indescribable—a rancid mix of body odor and battlefield dirt. It was impossible to clean, and over time, the stench became so entrenched that every time I put it on, it was an assault on the senses. But despite the discomfort, it was a non-negotiable part of our kit. The armor was our shield, our only layer of reassurance in the unpredictable chaos of the battlefield.

Uniforms

The US Army introduced a new battle uniform during my deployment, transitioning from the classic green camouflage uniform with polished black boots to a grey digital print pattern paired with tan suede boots. On base, our uniform typically included a hat, an M9 pistol, and an M4 rifle. Combat advisors usually carried both weapons: the pistol in a holster and the rifle secured in our quarters when not leaving the base. We wore the Army physical fitness training uniform for fitness activities, sleeping, or downtime, but we kept civilian clothes packed at the bottom of our duffle bags, which were reserved for leave periods. When venturing off base, we donned full battle gear: pistol, rifle, helmet, body armor, first aid kit, and ammunition. My body armor was equipped with seven magazines of rifle ammo, three magazines of pistol ammunition, two fragmentation grenades, a Garmin GPS, a compass, and a handheld radio. I used my uniform pockets to carry a variety of essentials—digital camera, tourniquet, Palm Pilot, flashlights, and laminated cheat cards for things like medevac requests and close air support.

Hygiene

Maintaining hygiene in the field was an ongoing challenge, with the level of comfort and convenience heavily dependent on the size and resources of the base. Larger bases were equipped with trailers featuring plumbing, sinks, and showers, providing a semblance of modern amenities. However, even these facilities were far from luxurious. Shower stalls were often makeshift concrete structures, offering minimal privacy. Water was frequently heated in black tanks mounted on the roofs, relying on the sun to provide warmth. Showers were strictly timed to ensure everyone had access, leading to occasional awkward situations. I vividly recall one incident where a brigade officer impatiently urged my sergeant to hurry up while he was mid-shower—a moment that became a source of shared, albeit reluctant, humor.

Smaller bases presented an entirely different reality, where rudimentary facilities reigned. Outhouses and burn barrels were the norm, and their pervasive stench was an inescapable part of daily life. Piss tubes—PVC pipes buried in the ground—were common for quick relief without leaving posts, though they often emitted a foul odor that rivaled or surpassed that of the outhouses. The lack of proper sanitation was a constant reminder of our austere surroundings, and adjusting to these conditions became an essential part of the deployment experience.

Hygiene became even more challenging during missions or patrols away from the base. When nature called, the process was far from dignified. Soldiers would dig small holes, take care of business, and bury the evidence—an awkward and vulnerable task made even more difficult by the cumbersome gear we always wore. I’ll never forget one convoy where a fellow combat advisor was suddenly stricken with diarrhea and had no choice but to squat by the roadside, a stark illustration of the less glamorous realities of deployment.

Personal grooming was another logistical hurdle. I carried an electric razor for shaving but always kept a Mach 3 razor as a backup. On larger bases, barbershops were occasionally available, offering a brief reprieve from the do-it-yourself routine. However, on smaller bases, I had to cut my hair myself using clippers I’d brought along. Though some of my colleagues had their own clippers and offered to help, I often felt guilty accepting their time and effort for something so trivial. These small tasks, while seemingly insignificant, underscored the balance between personal care and the shared struggles of maintaining morale in such a demanding environment.

Bottled Water

Access to drinking water was a constant and critical concern throughout the deployment, especially given the harsh and arid environment of Afghanistan. The water from base sinks was non-potable, meaning we relied entirely on bottled water for hydration. This dependence made the logistics of water supply a priority, and the availability of clean drinking water was a continuous focus for sustaining both health and morale.

While on patrol, I frequently filled my CamelBak hydration system with bottled water for convenience and mobility. However, the CamelBak had its drawbacks—it was cumbersome to refill, and cleaning it properly was a persistent challenge, especially in field conditions. During downtime, plastic water bottles were the go-to solution for most soldiers. They were easy to use and store, with stashes often kept in gun trucks or near our bunks for quick access.

The temperature of the water was another consideration that impacted comfort and morale. Refrigerated water was a rare luxury, so most of the time, water was stored at room temperature or, in the heat of summer, became uncomfortably warm. Water bottles left in gun trucks under the relentless Afghan sun could reach temperatures that made drinking them feel more like a chore than a relief. Despite this, staying hydrated was non-negotiable, and we adapted to the circumstances, drinking warm water as needed to avoid dehydration in the intense heat.

Occasionally, we were fortunate enough to have access to flavored drinks like Gatorade or energy drinks, which provided a welcome change from plain water. These were considered small luxuries and were typically rationed or consumed sparingly to stretch out supplies. Early in my deployment, Red Bull was a common sight, offering a quick energy boost when needed. However, as time went on, it was replaced by Rip Its, a smaller, less glamorous energy drink that quickly became a staple in our daily routines. Whether it was for hydration or a quick jolt of caffeine, these small comforts provided moments of normalcy and boosted morale in an otherwise demanding and austere environment.

Food

The food situation in Afghanistan was as varied and unpredictable as the operational environment itself. The quality and quantity of meals differed dramatically between bases, with the larger, more established bases generally offering better dining options than the smaller, more isolated ones. Even within the larger bases, however, the food wasn’t exactly a five-star experience.

At places like Camp Phoenix, the dining facilities were better equipped, and meals were prepared by contractors who were responsible for feeding thousands of soldiers daily. The options were somewhat familiar, featuring items like pizza, burgers, and a variety of traditional dishes. However, despite the variety, the food often left much to be desired. For example, "surf and turf" was a particularly disappointing dish. The steak, which was meant to be the highlight of the meal, was consistently overcooked—tough and lacking flavor—while the "crab legs" had a rubbery texture that made them nearly inedible. It wasn’t unusual to find a basic, repetitive menu of overcooked meats, under-seasoned vegetables, and bland sides. The idea of a hot meal after a long day in the field was comforting, but the reality of eating subpar food was something most soldiers had to simply accept.

By contrast, dining facilities at smaller bases like Gardez were much more basic, and the food served there was often uninspired. While we had access to fresh vegetables later in the deployment, which was a welcome change, the standard fare typically consisted of pre-packaged meals, canned goods, and items that had been stored for long periods. These meals, while nourishing, lacked the diversity and quality that could boost morale during an otherwise grueling day. Sometimes, the food was prepared and served by local nationals, adding another layer of unpredictability. At least the hot meals gave us something to look forward to in the evenings, though they often weren’t the highlight of our day.

Despite the limited options, food became a source of comfort, however small. Whether we were sharing stories around a makeshift stove or joking about the unappetizing quality of our "surf and turf," food allowed us to connect and experience some semblance of normalcy amid the chaos of deployment. It wasn’t about gourmet meals; it was about the camaraderie and the brief escape it provided from the hardships we faced daily.

In the end, though we grumbled about the food, we learned to make the best of it. Eating a hot meal, regardless of its quality, was an act of survival in itself—a reminder of the small pleasures that could be found even in the harshest of conditions.

Gun-Trucks

The M114A2 Up-Armored HMMWV ("gun truck") was one of the most used vehicles during our deployments in Afghanistan. It was part of the first generation of armored vehicles, predating the MRAPs (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles) that would later become standard. Though it wasn’t as advanced or protective as the MRAPs, our gun trucks provided vital mobility and protection during combat operations, and it became a familiar presence on every mission. It was designed with the intent to offer protection from small arms fire and small shrapnel. The vehicle was reinforced with thick armor plating on the sides and heavy doors that could withstand a barrage of bullets. The windows were also bulletproof, which offered some peace of mind when traveling through areas where ambushes and sniper fire were a constant threat. Still, despite this armor, it was always a vehicle of compromise. It was far from comfortable, and the protection it offered was only relative.

One of the most critical features of the gun truck was its gun turret. This was the opening hole on the top of the vehicle where the weapon mount would be placed. Around the turret, there was a short, armored wall, designed to provide some protection for the gunner. It was just high enough to shield the soldier from small arms fire and shrapnel at chest height and below. However, the chest and above of the soldier’s body remained exposed, and the turret itself did little to protect against a more direct or heavy fire, such as a high-powered rifle or RPG. The gunner’s role was always one of vigilance—constantly scanning for threats while being exposed and ready to return fire.

However, while the gun truck may have provided some protection in a firefight, it did not provide much relief from the extreme temperatures. The vehicle was designed to be rugged and functional, not luxurious. It was extremely hot in the summer and brutally cold in the winter. The summer months were particularly grueling, as the temperature inside the vehicle could easily rise well above 100°F, making the already uncomfortable environment unbearable. The air conditioner, if it functioned at all, did little to help. The hatch on top, which was often opened to allow the gunner to operate, meant that any cooling effect was quickly lost to the open air. In the winter, the situation wasn’t much better. The heater would work intermittently, but even when it did function, it was never enough to truly warm the interior of the vehicle. The heat from the engine or the body heat from the soldiers inside provided temporary relief, but the cold steel and the exposure to the elements made long trips in the mountains nearly as unbearable as the summer heat.

Beyond the physical discomforts of temperature extremes, the gun truck was incredibly loud—the constant drone of the engine and the rattling of the armor as it barreled over rough terrain were ever-present. The noise was so deafening that communication, even with a radio, became a challenge. Often, the driver or gunner had to rely on hand signals to communicate with others in the vehicle, and any orders from higher-ups would be shouted over the roar of the engine. Despite the discomforts, the noise, and the heat, the gun truck became a vital tool for us, providing mobility, protection, and a semblance of security in dangerous conditions.

In-Country Military Communications and Radios

Despite technological limitations, the need for local communication remained crucial. Tactical radios became our lifeline, but these too had their limitations. The mountainous terrain of Afghanistan obstructed our signals, and we had to rely on satellite connections or repeaters to bridge the gaps. Even then, communication was not guaranteed. There were times when the radios would fail, and we would be left relying on hand signals or runners to convey critical information.

Satellite communication, while a reliable option for more complex operations, came with its own set of difficulties. Establishing a stable connection required a clear line of sight to the sky, which wasn’t always possible in combat zones. Further complicating matters were the transmission delays, which slowed down the already painstaking process of coordinating air support, artillery, or logistical resupply. Each mission seemed to be a delicate balancing act of waiting for the right connection at the right moment.

In the chaos of it all, the one thing that remained constant was the use of radio call signs. Each unit and individual was assigned a specific call sign to ensure proper communication. My call sign, “Vampire 1,” identified my role as the personnel officer in the Afghan Army's 1st Infantry Battalion. The call signs were crucial for preventing confusion in the field, but even they didn’t always guarantee clarity. Miscommunications and unclear transmissions were frequent, often leading to delays or, worse, dangerous misunderstandings.

Communications to Home

At Camp Shelby, where we trained before heading overseas, internet and email access were limited and heavily restricted. However, once in theater, the communication challenges increased ten-fold. There was a small internet and phone center at Camp Phoenix, and even smaller center at Gardez, but it was always packed with soldiers, and the connection was painfully slow. Checking emails or sending even a short message required an extraordinary amount of patience. The lines for the phones were long and the calls rushed, making meaningful conversations nearly impossible. This inconvenience, seemingly trivial at first, was a prelude to the communication struggles that awaited us in the theatre of war.

In Afghanistan, staying connected with loved ones back home was a logistical and emotional challenge, one that underscored the vast physical and temporal distance separating us from the lives we’d temporarily left behind. Communication options varied depending on the size and location of the base. Larger bases offered small phone banks where soldiers could make calls, but these facilities were often overwhelmed. Long lines snaked through the camp, forcing us to wait hours for our turn. When you finally reached the front, your reward was often a mere 10 minutes on the phone—just enough time to say, "I’m okay" and exchange a few hurried updates before the next person took their place.

Even when you got through, the calls were rarely smooth. The quality was frustratingly poor, with dropped signals, garbled audio, and a constant backdrop of camp noise that made it feel like you were shouting into a wind tunnel. The distance wasn’t just physical—it was audible, with every delay and crackle in the line serving as a reminder of just how far away home really was. On smaller bases and remote outposts, the challenge intensified. Without phone banks, we relied on calling cards and shared satellite phones, both of which came with their own set of hurdles. Using a calling card was an exercise of patience. The process began with dialing an 800 number, followed by painstakingly entering the card’s 16-digit PIN. After that, you could finally punch in your home phone number, hoping the call would connect on the first try. Each misstep—an incorrectly entered number, a dropped connection, or a malfunctioning line—meant starting the entire process over again.

Adding to complexity was the time difference. Afghanistan is about 9 ½ hours ahead of the U.S., so aligning schedules with family back home was no small feat. The time disparity meant that a popular window for making calls was very early in the morning, just as we were finishing our night shifts or starting our day. While most of the camp was still asleep, those of us with families would queue up in the dark, cradling steaming cups of instant coffee and waiting for our chance to connect.

The early-morning timing gave us the best chance of catching loved ones in the evening hours back home—when they were winding down, tucking kids into bed, or sitting down for dinner. It was an awkward but necessary compromise. These calls became a lifeline, a brief escape from the dust, danger, and monotony of deployment.

Despite the dropped calls, delays, and painfully short conversations, the simple act of hearing a loved one’s voice was enough to brighten even the hardest day. Those fleeting moments of connection reminded us why we were there and gave us something to hold onto during the long nights and endless days. For all the frustration and effort it took, making that call—whether at a crowded phone bank or with a calling card in the early hours—was always worth it.

Email, while a slightly better option, came with its own set of challenges. The computers were shared among dozens of people, and the time slots were scarce. The connection speeds were agonizingly slow, and the system was often overwhelmed. Imagine spending an entire evening waiting for a turn at the terminal, only to have the system crash right before you could hit “send.” Those little frustrations, while common, compounded over time, leaving us feeling isolated and helpless in an environment that was already emotionally demanding.

In some cases, soldiers turned to Afghan cell phones as an alternative, even though they came with their own set of problems. The signal was unreliable, and international calls were prohibitively expensive. Still, the ability to make even a brief call home, to hear a familiar voice, was worth the occasional frustration. But, as much as we longed for a genuine connection, the barriers of distance and technology often made it feel like we were grasping straws.

Snail Mail

Yet, even in this digital age, it was the old-fashioned mail that held the most sentimental value. Care packages from home, letters, and photos became lifelines. The delivery process, however, was riddled with its own set of challenges. Convoys were responsible for bringing mail to forward operating bases, but security concerns often delayed or interrupted deliveries. A letter could take weeks to arrive, and packages sometimes took months. Even with these delays, mail provided a crucial psychological boost, offering a taste of home amid the harsh realities of war.

Though the postal system was far from perfect, it still allowed us to stay connected, however imperfectly, with those we loved. The smell of familiar snacks, the sight of handwritten notes, and the warmth of a package from home kept our spirits alive. But the unpredictability of the system also added an element of anxiety. We never knew when our next letter would arrive, and sometimes we had to go for long stretches without hearing from anyone.

As much as these communication challenges were frustrating, they also served to highlight the emotional toll of being deployed. The inability to connect with loved ones on a deeper level created a sense of isolation, making the already difficult environment even harder to endure. Conversations, when they happened, were rushed and often superficial, leaving both soldiers and their families feeling unfulfilled. The delay between sending an email and receiving a response could weigh heavily on a soldier’s mind, fostering feelings of loneliness and disconnect.

Despite the obstacles, we adapted. We learned to make the most of the limited resources available. Each brief conversation, each email sent, each piece of mail received became precious. These moments, small as they were, offered a sense of connection to the world beyond the wire. They reminded us of the people we were fighting for, the lives that awaited us back home, and the reasons we had volunteered for this mission in the first place.

Enemy Forces

"There are unknown unknows." - Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld

In Afghanistan, identifying the enemy is rarely as straightforward as in conventional warfare. There is no clear front line, no uniforms, no neatly organized enemy battalions marching into view. The insurgents blend seamlessly into the fabric of society, making it nearly impossible to distinguish them from the civilians they hide among. They are not only enemy combatants but also the farmers, shopkeepers, and workers going about their daily lives, contributing to the difficulty of distinguishing friend from foe. The local populace is often caught between loyalty to family and tradition, survival, and the constant pressure of fear—fear from both the occupying forces and the insurgents themselves.

Weapons

The most common weapon on the battlefield is the AK-47, a symbol of both resistance and devastation. A simple, rugged, and reliable weapon, the AK-47 is favored by insurgents because of its availability, ease of use, and destructive power. It is an indiscriminate weapon. In many ways, it becomes emblematic of the ambiguous nature of the threat. Soldiers often report hearing the signature "pop-pop-pop" of AK-47 rounds in the distance, but without knowing who is firing them, they are left guessing whether the shooter is an insurgent preparing for an attack or simply a local firing off shots for another reason entirely. In this environment, every gunshot can feel like a potential threat, and every person with a rifle could be a combatant or a civilian.

Beyond the AK-47, another powerful and terrifying weapon is the Improvised Explosive Device (IED). These deadly contraptions are often made from common materials—fertilizers, wires, and old artillery shells—yet their impact is devastating. IEDs can be buried on roadsides, hidden under piles of rocks, or even attached to vehicles. The threat of an IED is not just physical; it is psychological. Every time a soldier drives down a road, steps off a convoy, or walks through a market, they are hyper-aware of the potential for a hidden bomb to be detonated. The stress of always being a potential target, always expecting the worst, is an unspoken weight that soldiers carry with them each day.

The strategic use of IEDs forces soldiers to reconsider every decision, every movement, and every route they take. There is no guaranteed safety. The enemy does not need to engage directly in a firefight; they can remain hidden, only to reveal their presence when it’s too late to stop them. The long stretches of isolated roads, the village paths, the narrow mountain tracks—they all become spaces of tension, where the distance between safety and catastrophe can be measured in mere inches.

When insurgents do engage in direct combat, they often rely on small arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs). RPGs are incredibly powerful, capable of piercing armored vehicles and causing mass destruction. Soldiers hear the unmistakable sound of a rocket’s propulsion—a high-pitched whistling followed by a deadly thud when it strikes its target. The initial instinct is always diving for cover, but soldiers learn quickly that there’s little use in worrying about the incoming round. It will either hit or miss. In a way, that brief moment between the launch of the rocket and its impact becomes a terrifying routine. Soldiers know that the next rocket may be aimed at them. It’s a fact of life in combat, and soldiers develop a kind of resigned acceptance to the chaos.

"The Rules"

It’s not just the IEDs that make this conflict so unpredictable, but the rules of engagement (ROE) that soldiers must follow. In most conventional battles, the enemy is easy to identify. However, in Afghanistan, the rules are blurred. Soldiers are trained to respect the principle of discrimination—distinguishing between combatants and civilians. However, this task becomes nearly impossible in a place where insurgents often live among the population and take refuge in plain sight. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere.

For instance, a farmer may appear to be simply working his land with a shovel, but he could just as easily be concealing a weapon or guiding insurgents to a target. A child could be playing near a military convoy, but that same child might be on a suicide mission, carrying an explosive device hidden under their clothing. The soldiers must make life-or-death decisions based on scant information, and this constant uncertainty is mentally exhausting. The moral weight of these decisions becomes an invisible burden that soldiers carry, unsure whether the person they’ve just passed is a threat or an innocent civilian.

However, this psychological toll is one of the most devastating aspects of the conflict. Over time, soldiers learn to live with a constant undercurrent of anxiety. The initial fear of combat, the dread that accompanies every loud noise or sudden movement, gives way to something deeper—a sense of mental fatigue, a gradual erosion of peace of mind. It’s not just the fear of death that looms over them, but the weight of perpetual alertness. Their minds are always racing, scanning their surroundings for signs of danger, anticipating the next attack. It becomes exhausting. It is as much a mental fight as a physical one.

Psychological Warfare

Combat fatigue also takes a toll on soldiers’ perceptions of the world around them. The longer they are in-country, the more difficult it becomes to discern the truth. Are the locals truly supporting the insurgents, or are they simply afraid to speak out? The constant question of who is an ally and who is an enemy twists soldiers' perceptions. Over time, the boundary between the two becomes more difficult to navigate. A villager who seems friendly today may be a part of the insurgent network tomorrow. Trust becomes a rare commodity, and soldiers often find themselves doubting even the most basic assumptions about the people around them.

The insurgents are not only fighting a traditional war—they are fighting a war of perception. They know that the psychological toll they inflict on soldiers is just as important as the physical destruction they cause. They aim to wear down the soldiers' morale, to make them question their mission, and to create confusion and fear within the ranks. This psychological warfare extends beyond the battlefield. The insurgents rely on networks of propaganda, spread through radios, pamphlets, and even social media, to influence public perception, both locally and globally. By turning the people of Afghanistan against foreign troops, they hope to erode support for the international presence, making it more difficult for the coalition to maintain control.

This relentless cycle of mental and physical strain shapes the soldiers’ behavior. They grow increasingly cynical, distrustful, and emotionally numb. Small acts of kindness from locals, like offering a cup of tea or helping to fix a vehicle, become rare moments of relief—a brief respite from the stress. But these gestures also serve as reminders of the complexity of the situation. Soldiers know that not all locals are enemies, but they also understand that they cannot afford to trust everyone. The line between ally and adversary is thin and constantly shifting, and that uncertainty hangs like a dark cloud over everything they do.

The psychological cost of war is not just about the moment-to-moment danger of combat; it’s about the cumulative effect of living under such intense pressure day after day. Soldiers learn to adapt to this environment, to survive it, but they never truly become immune to it. The enemy’s presence is a constant, its tactics evolving and adapting to counter the soldiers’ own strategies. This is the nature of modern warfare—unpredictable, ever-changing, and mentally taxing.

As the soldiers grow more attuned to the enemy’s patterns, they begin to understand that this war will not be won by firepower alone. It will take more than just bullets and bombs; it will require understanding, patience, and an ability to read the shifting tides of the local population. It will require the soldiers to adapt, to think, and to be ready to make decisions in an environment where right and wrong are not always clear. In the end, survival in Afghanistan is as much about mental resilience as it is about military strength.

Eastern Afghanistan: Rugged Terrain and Tactical Challenges

Eastern Afghanistan, the region where much of the conflict between the U.S. and NATO forces and the Taliban took place, is a particularly challenging environment. This area is defined by its mountainous terrain, dense forests, and deep, winding valleys, which have provided natural sanctuaries for insurgents and a major obstacle for military operations.

The region is dominated by the peaks of the Hindu Kush and the Tora Bora mountains, where jagged rocks and steep cliffs make mobility difficult for both military and civilian traffic. The narrow roads that cut through these mountains are often winding, dusty, and prone to rockslides. The few paved roads are frequently subjected to IED attacks, ambushes, and other forms of insurgent activity, making movement slow and dangerous.

The weather in eastern Afghanistan is unpredictable. The summers bring oppressive heat in the lowlands, with temperatures reaching upwards of 100°F (38°C), while the mountain regions are much cooler, especially in the higher altitudes. In the winter, snow and ice often isolate villages in the mountains, further complicating travel and supply routes. The spring and fall seasons are more temperate, but dust storms are common, reducing visibility and creating respiratory hazards.

The valleys of eastern Afghanistan, particularly in areas like Paktia, Khost, and Nangarhar provinces, are home to a significant population. These areas feature narrow, fertile strips of land where agriculture is possible, though the presence of opium poppy cultivation is widespread, contributing to both the economy and the illicit trade. Despite the natural beauty of the region, with its terraced fields and meandering rivers, the environment is harsh for those who live in these remote areas. The scarcity of clean water, combined with limited medical facilities and basic infrastructure, often means that daily life for locals is fraught with challenges.

On top of these natural barriers, eastern Afghanistan’s proximity to Pakistan, and particularly the tribal areas along the border, has made it a key area for insurgent groups. The rugged terrain allows insurgents to slip across the border with ease, using caves and caves systems as hiding places. This has made operations in this area particularly complex for foreign forces. In many cases, insurgent forces used the dense forests and mountain passes to launch surprise attacks and then disappear into the natural cover, making them difficult to target.

The constant combination of harsh environmental conditions and the ever-present threat of insurgent activity made eastern Afghanistan one of the most tactically complex regions in the country. Navigating the region’s terrain was a challenge in itself, as most of the roads in the operational areas were little more than poor-condition dirt paths or dried riverbeds. Outside of Kabul, paved roads were a rarity, limited to the Ring Road—a circular highway encircling the country—and a few spurs, such as the route from Kabul to Gardez.

Traveling along these unimproved routes was an exercise in patience and endurance. It was difficult to exceed 10 miles per hour, turning even short distances into agonizingly long journeys. Driving times were drastically extended, forcing convoys to spend hours vulnerable on open roads that were prime targets for ambushes, roadside bombs, and sniper fire.

The environment itself became a formidable adversary, shaping not only the logistics of movement but also the tactics employed during operations. Military convoys had to carefully navigate winding roads, and every bump or curve brought the potential for hidden threats. Troops needed to remain constantly vigilant, their eyes scanning for signs of disturbed earth, suspicious objects, or anything out of place that might signal danger.

This combination of poor infrastructure, harsh terrain, and insurgent activity made every mission a test of resilience. The unforgiving environment shaped military strategies, constrained operational timelines, and dictated how effectively we could execute our objectives in the region. Despite all the challenges, there was a striking beauty to eastern Afghanistan—its dramatic mountain vistas, its vibrant but isolated communities, and the unyielding sense of resilience found among the Afghan people. Yet for all its natural beauty, the region remained a place of constant danger, where both the terrain and the people seemed to reflect the ongoing tension between tradition, modernity, and conflict.

The First Assignment

“A new job is like a blank book, and you are the author.” — Unknown

Kabul

Driving through Kabul was an adventure. The roads were a patchwork of decaying pavement and dirt, riddled with potholes large enough to swallow a tire. Open-air shops spilled onto the sidewalks, creating a chaotic maze of goods, pedestrians, and livestock. There were no real traffic rules—just the vague guideline of staying on the right and avoiding collisions.

Kabul itself was a city of contrasts. From the windows of our gun truck, we could see crumbling mud-brick homes perched on hillsides, scattered with occasional concrete buildings marked by the scars of decades of conflict. Children played in the dust, their laughter echoing even as the harsh realities of poverty, pollution, and war loomed over them. Vehicles ranged from battered Toyota Corollas to brightly decorated jingle trucks.

One of the most fascinating sights in Afghanistan was the jingle truck. These heavily decorated trucks, used to transport goods, were like moving works of art. Each vehicle was adorned with vibrant paint, intricate patterns, and bold colors, often featuring motifs of flowers, birds, and geometric designs. Chains and bells hung from the bumpers, creating a cheerful jingle as they rolled down the rugged roads. Beyond their aesthetics, jingle trucks were a symbol of pride, blending function and artistry in a way that reflected Afghan craftsmanship and resilience.

The city noise was constant—the blaring horns, street vendors shouting, and military convoys pushing through the pandemonium. It was a cacophony that mirrored the unpredictability of the mission ahead. The smells were a mix of sweet and acrid: the aroma of fresh naan from clay ovens mingled with the stench of open sewage and diesel exhaust. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the hazy air, blending with the fine dust that settled on everything.

The city was alive with activity. Merchants hawked everything from spices to electronics, while donkey carts trundled alongside motorbikes and jingle trucks. There was an energy to Kabul that was both invigorating and overwhelming—a constant reminder of the resilience of its people amid hardships.

Camp Phoenix

Camp Phoenix, located on the eastern edge of Kabul, was a sprawling base in a semi-urban setting. It housed Task Force Phoenix headquarters, elements of advisor teams, and hundreds of personnel. The camp itself was a mix of functionality and creature comforts.

In contrast to Kabul, life on the base felt isolated and regimented. The compound’s walls provided a physical and psychological barrier, separating us from the city’s chaos. Inside, there was order: gravel paths, rows of B-Huts, and the hum of generators.

At the heart of the camp stood a two-story shoppette with a barbershop, the familiar Green Bean coffee shop, a Dairy Queen, a pizza joint, and a PX convenience store. Outside, a Subway van offered sandwiches that, frankly, didn’t look quite right. The gym, with its ever-stocked popcorn machine, was far more interesting than the weightlifting equipment.

The base had its own rhythm, governed by training schedules and the monotony of daily life. The sounds here were different—less chaotic but still loud. Helicopters thundered overhead, diesel engines roared through the compound, and distant jets occasionally punctuated the relative calm.

While we had access to amenities like dining facilities and internet rooms, the sense of isolation was undeniable. The walls kept the city out, but they also kept us in, creating an artificial environment that was both a refuge and a reminder of the dangers that lay just beyond the perimeter.

Adjusting to the Unexpected

Camp Phoenix was a brief but memorable stop, and two distinct moments from my time there stood out, etching themselves into my memory with clarity and humor.

The first was my unexpected introduction to earthquakes. I was stretched out in our transient B-Hut, trying to steal a moment of relaxation watching a movie. My headphones were in, muffling the world outside. Suddenly, I felt a low rumble beneath me, a vibration that grew in intensity. At first, I thought it was just the hum of the ever-present generators or perhaps an armored vehicle rolling by. But then my cot vibrated with an almost rhythmic determination.

Before I could fully process what was happening, chaos erupted. One sergeant, apparently convinced we were under attack, leaped to his feet, shouted something about incoming fire, and bolted out the back door. The sight of him sprinting outside, clutching his pistol in one hand while completely ignoring his helmet and body armor, was both alarming and absurd. His urgency was commendable, but his lack of gear made him look more like someone late for a dinner reservation than a soldier responding to an attack.

Amid the commotion, another sergeant, a Californian with a laid-back demeanor that seemed impervious to crisis, casually leaned against a support beam and said, "Relax, it's just an earthquake." His tone was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it immediately reduced the tension. The room fell quiet for a moment as we processed his words, and then a few nervous chuckles bubbled up, eventually giving way to full-blown laughter. The absurdity of the situation—a sergeant fleeing unarmored while another dismissed it as just another day—turned a tense moment into a shared joke.

The second notable event at Camp Phoenix was the surprise visit of President George W. Bush and First Lady Laura Bush on March 1. At first, I had no idea anything unusual was happening. The day started like any other, with the steady drone of generators and the routine buzz of activity around the camp. But as the morning wore on, I noticed an unusual number of attack helicopters circling overhead. Their constant presence was hard to ignore, their blades slicing through the air in a way that made the usual noises seem almost serene.

Curiosity turned to suspicion when I saw a noticeable uptick in security measures—more guards, stricter checkpoints, and an unmistakable tension in the air. It felt like something significant was unfolding, but no one seemed to have answers. Later, I learned that President Bush and the First Lady had visited both Kabul and Bagram Air Force Base, their presence marked by the heightened security and the attack helicopter activity I’d noticed earlier.

While I didn’t get to see them personally, the mere knowledge of their visit added a layer of surreal significance to the day. Here we were, halfway around the world, in a place where every day was unpredictable, and yet, for a brief moment, we were connected to the highest levels of US leadership. It was a strange but welcome reminder that even in the chaos of deployment, the work we were doing mattered enough to draw the attention of the Commander-in-Chief himself.

These two moments—one filled with humor and humanity, the other with a sense of gravity and connection—captured the essence of life at Camp Phoenix: unpredictable, intense, and always leaving you with a story to tell.

Our initial training in Kabul was a whirlwind. It included briefings on the cultural and operational environment, equipment familiarization, and driver’s training with up-armored Humvees—affectionately called “gun trucks.” But no amount of training could fully prepare us for the chaotic sensory overload that was Kabul.

The Split

Upon arriving at Camp Phoenix, our Wisconsin advisor team, along with eight other teams from Camp Shelby, was split and assigned to various Afghan Army corps. It was surreal—after months of preparation, we were finally being broken into smaller teams, each tasked with an integral part of the mission. The Camp Phoenix compound, on the outskirts of Kabul, felt like a temporary home, but soon, we were scattered across Afghanistan, each of us taking on new responsibilities.

About half of our Wisconsin team was deployed to the 205th Afghan Army Corps in Kandahar, while the rest went to the 203rd Corps in Gardez. This division set the stage for vastly different experiences, as the Afghan Army’s regional commands presented their own levels of intensity and challenges. The 205th Corps, based in the relatively secure city of Kandahar, had more resources, but it was still very much in the fight. The 203rd Corps, however, became the focal point of our attention, handling some of the most volatile regions in Afghanistan.

The 203rd Corps was responsible for critical regions, including Paktia, Paktika, Ghazni, and Khowst. These provinces had long histories of instability, and the insurgency had grown more complex by the time we arrived. Many of these areas were used by insurgents crossing from Pakistan, making them high-priority for counterinsurgency operations. The terrain was mountainous and rugged, adding to the difficulty of operations.

In this region, my role was both strategic and tactical. It was not only about teaching counterinsurgency tactics but also navigating the political and cultural complexities within the Afghan Army. Many Afghan soldiers had limited formal training, and their experience was inconsistent at best. Infrastructure in these regions was either nonexistent or under constant threat. In some areas, we relied on local leaders to provide order, though we knew these alliances were fragile.

The cities of Kabul, Gardez, and Kandahar had been ravaged by years of war. Despite the ruins—bombed-out markets, destroyed homes, and crumbling government offices—life continued. The markets remained full of vendors, their stalls often in the shadow of military patrols or roadside bombs. Yet, the resilience of the Afghan people was clear, as they strove to survive in a land long torn by conflict.

The first days of deployment often feel like a trial by fire, and for me, the blank book of this new mission in Afghanistan was about to be filled with the most complex, trying, and rewarding chapters of my career. The moment we began the journey, communication with loved ones back home became a source of frustration and emotional strain. The physical and emotional distance was palpable, and no matter how much technology advanced, there was always a gap between what we wanted to say and how we could say it.

The convoy arrived in Gardez after dark under blackout conditions, making it hard to see anything. Upon arrival, we learned we'd be splitting up between two brigades, and our smaller group would work with the second brigade operations center. I was assigned as a brigade signal officer advisor and tasked with assisting the brigade personnel officer with Afghan Army pay operations. In the beginning, the advisors had to sleep in a transient tent before moving to an empty B-Hut once equipment was relocated. With the team understaffed, it was common to operate at 50-75% of the authorized strength.

Gardez

The Gardez base was medium-sized, located on the southeast side of the city, and bordered by hills. The Afghan base occupied a roughly three-by-three-block area, with the US advisor compound occupying one block. We had our own perimeter, dining facility, fitness room, medical clinic, and maintenance area. Walking across the gravel compound became quite annoying, especially in the dust, which covered everything.

The first days were slow as I got acquainted with the base and met both US and Afghan personnel. My training involved learning about heavy weapons, including the automatic grenade launcher. The brigade advisor team didn’t conduct combat patrols but occasionally went on ground assault convoys to collect Afghani currency and mail.

At the Gardez base, life initially felt mundane, with a typical day of routine work in the operations center. My tasks included setting up computer programs, maintaining communications equipment, and managing the Blue Force Tracker system. I wasn't directly mentoring but occasionally visited the Afghan Army side of the camp for pay operations and meetings. Interactions with Afghan officers were challenging, especially with the unsanitary conditions in their dining facility.

In mid-March, we had a convoy to Bagram Air Force base for a briefing and maintenance. The experience at Bagram was vastly different from Gardez, with modern amenities and far fewer security concerns. Bagram felt like a US base, with shops, food options, and even a USO building for entertainment.

The first assignment was just the beginning, a blank page upon which I wrote my story. And despite the hardships, the frustrations, and the moments of doubt, it was a story I was proud to tell.

The Fighting Season

Then, in March, my role took a significant turn when I was assigned to a combat patrol for the first time. This would be my first experience venturing beyond the wire in a true combat capacity, and I felt a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. As the medium machine gunner, I was assigned to the vehicle tasked with providing overwatch and security. The weight of the responsibility wasn’t lost on me—this wasn’t just a routine patrol; this was a real mission, with potential threats lying around every corner. The landscape, a rugged and unpredictable terrain, was strewn with danger, from improvised explosive devices (IEDs) to enemy ambushes, and every mile felt like a new test of our readiness and resolve.

Our objective for this patrol was to establish traffic control checkpoints in a remote area, an assignment that, while seemingly routine, came with its own set of challenges. The road was little more than a narrow dirt trail, winding through mountainous terrain. The checkpoint had to be set up in a spot where traffic could be monitored, and where we could ensure the safety of the surrounding area. We were often under the watchful eyes of local civilians, who either eyed us with suspicion or curiosity, and we had to remain vigilant at all times. Despite the relative lack of enemy activity, the tension was palpable, and every movement was calculated. As the machine gunner, I constantly scanned the surrounding environment, watching for any signs of hostile intent. The days of operating within the safe confines of the base seemed far behind me now, and reality had set in.

The patrol itself was uneventful, a blessing in a place where violence could strike at any moment. Yet, even in quiet moments, there was no true sense of relaxation. Every stop, every checkpoint, and every interaction with the local population was tinged with the potential for danger. Fortunately, we had a smooth run that day, and after establishing the checkpoints, we shifted gears for the second part of the mission: engaging with the local community.

We had brought candy, school supplies, and other small gifts to distribute to the children in a nearby village. The contrast between the tense moments of the patrol and the simple joy of interacting with the children was stark. Their faces lit up as they received the items we handed out, their smiles breaking through the hardened exterior of the warzone. The children, dressed in ragged clothes, were far removed from the luxuries that most of us took for granted, and yet they approached us with a sense of trust, eager to receive whatever small comfort we could offer.

As I handed out the candy and school supplies, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. On one hand, it was a moment of connection—a brief, shining reminder that despite the chaos and destruction around us, there was still humanity, still hope. On the other hand, it was a reminder of the fragility of that hope. These children, living in a war-torn country, deserved so much more than the scraps we could give them. And yet, in that brief moment, I felt that we had made a small difference in their lives. It was a fleeting experience, but it was one that would stay with me throughout the rest of my deployment. In the midst of the hardships and dangers, it was these small acts of kindness that reminded me of why we were there—why we were fighting, why we were enduring, and why we continued to push forward.

The return to base that day was uneventful, but the impact of the patrol stayed with me. For the first time, I felt fully immersed in the complexities of our mission, balancing the operational realities of establishing security and controlling the movement of traffic with the human side of the conflict—interacting with the children, seeing their smiles, and understanding that even in the midst of war, there were moments of connection, moments that made the struggle feel worthwhile.

First Incoming

The excitement of the day’s successful mission quickly turned to unease as nightfall descended on the base. What had begun as a peaceful evening, with the sounds of distant chatter and the low hum of generators, shifted into a state of heightened alertness. It was then that the unmistakable sound of incoming rockets shattered the calm. The sudden, sharp whistle of the projectiles was quickly followed by the familiar explosion sound. It was a jarring reminder of the reality we faced every day in Afghanistan—no moment was truly safe, and danger could strike without warning.

Adrenaline surged through me as I scrambled to my feet. Training took over, and in a matter of seconds, I had my body armor strapped on and my helmet securely fastened. I made my way quickly to the nearest bunker, a small concrete structure designed to provide some measure of protection against incoming fire. Inside the bunker, the sounds of soldiers moving quickly and muttering quietly filled the space, as we huddled together, waiting for the next impact. Though the initial shock of the attack was unsettling, the leadership maintained a sense of calm. Our commanders assured us that the rocket threat was minimal, emphasizing that the enemy often lacked the sophisticated equipment and expertise necessary to launch effective strikes. These were typically crude, improvised rockets, fired from a distance with little accuracy or precision. Still, the fact that they could strike without warning and inflict damage, however minimal, kept everyone on edge.

As we sat in the darkness of the bunker, the minutes felt like hours. It was a surreal experience—knowing that we were constantly at risk, yet having to remain patient, ready to act but powerless in the moment. The familiar sounds of the night had been replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thumping of our own hearts. We were at the mercy of forces we could not see, forces that were far too familiar with the art of disruption, using surprise and fear as their primary weapons.

Even though the rockets were often ineffective and poorly aimed, the psychological toll was significant. Each attack, regardless of its actual impact, served as a reminder that the enemy was persistent, and that we were not in control of the situation in the way we might have liked to believe. There was always the possibility of a more accurate strike, a more focused assault, and that was something we could never afford to ignore. Every attack, no matter how small, could be the precursor to something larger—something more devastating.

After what seemed like an eternity, the all-clear signal eventually came, but the sense of unease lingered. I knew that this wouldn’t be the last time we would hear the whistling of incoming rockets. It was a harsh reality, one that would become all too familiar over the course of the deployment. And yet, despite the constant threat, we remained vigilant, determined to fulfill our mission and continue our work. The leadership set the tone for how we would move forward—cautious, prepared, but never allowing the fear of the unknown to consume us.

In the hours that followed, as we resumed our sleep schedule and the base slowly returned to its normal rhythm, I couldn’t help but reflect on the nature of the conflict we were engaged in. In many ways, it wasn’t the immediate danger of rocket attacks or ambushes that made Afghanistan so challenging—it was the constant presence of risk, the unpredictable nature of the enemy, and the feeling that we could never truly let our guard down. This war wasn’t about large, decisive battles, but about enduring, about weathering the small, relentless assaults on our safety and our sense of normalcy. And while tonight’s rocket attack might have been an inconvenience at best, it was a potent reminder that the real fight was not just in the battles we fought, but in the constant readiness we had to maintain, day after day, to face whatever threat lay ahead.

Bazaars

In the weeks that followed, our missions expanded beyond the confines of military operations into more community-based engagements. One of the most notable of these was our participation in local bazaars, which offered an opportunity to interact directly with the Afghan people in a way that was different from our usual military encounters. These bazaars were bustling markets, filled with vibrant stalls offering everything from fresh produce to handmade goods. The air was thick with the aroma of spices, roasting meat, and the occasional cloud of dust kicked up by the movement of people and animals.

Visiting these markets was a unique experience. As soldiers, we were always cautious, ever vigilant of the potential threats in the environment, but in the bazaars, the tension often gave way to a more personal connection with the locals. Afghan vendors, many of whom were eager to engage with us, would call out their wares with a mix of curiosity and hospitality. Some would wave at us from their stands, offering trinkets or small tokens of local craftsmanship, while others would offer the warmth of a smile, a gesture of mutual acknowledgment amidst the broader backdrop of conflict.

We were encouraged to make small purchases, not only as a way to support the local economy but also as a means of building rapport with the people we were working alongside. I found myself drawn to various handmade items, including intricately carved wooden jewelry boxes that were beautifully detailed. These wooden boxes, each one unique, became a symbol of the people’s resilience and creativity amidst the hardship of war. I sent several home as gifts to loved ones, knowing that they would serve as a reminder of the connection we had forged with the Afghan people in such a challenging environment.

The bazaars were more than just shopping excursions—they were a window into the heart of Afghan culture. Despite the pervasive tension of the ongoing conflict, these interactions allowed us to see another side of life in Afghanistan. The laughter of children playing in the dusty streets, the bartering and haggling between vendor and customer, the occasional moments of lightheartedness that broke through the grim realities of war—these were the things that humanized the experience for me. They reminded me that the people of Afghanistan were not just a part of a conflict zone, but individuals with families, traditions, and lives that, for all the chaos surrounding them, carried on as best they could.

Still, the undercurrent of danger was never far from the surface. Each trip to the market, though filled with moments of levity and exchange, was approached with the same caution we applied to every other mission. We were never truly out of harm’s way, and while the bazaars offered a rare glimpse of normalcy in a land at war, the constant risk of roadside bombs, insurgent attacks, or other threats loomed over everything. Every interaction, every purchase, and every moment spent in the market was tempered with the knowledge that the war was always just beneath the surface.

My time in Gardez was marked by routine, but it also held moments of quiet reflection. And in the midst of all the challenges, I began to understand the gravity of the work we were doing. Even in a foreign land, I hoped that I could make a difference.

Vampires

“The strength of the vampire is that people will not believe in him.” – Garrett Hill

About a month into my assignment as the signal officer, the brigade team leader approached me with an unexpected question: how did I feel about becoming a team chief for the Romanian advisor battalion team? It was a surprising proposal, and I barely had time to process it before he informed me four days later that I’d be reassigned to the Afghan Army's 1st Infantry Battalion. On April 7th, I would officially step into my new role as the battalion team leader.

The day before my reassignment, the brigade advisor team embarked on a short patrol into Gardez. Our mission was to visit the ancient fortress and the local Disarmament, Demobilization, and Reintegration (DDR) site. Stepping into the shadow of the massive fortress left me awestruck. Its sheer scale and weathered walls spoke of centuries of history. I learned that the fort had once served as the stronghold of the 3rd Corps of the former Afghan Army. Standing there, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the region’s turbulent past.

The DDR site, situated in the northern part of Gardez, was a stark contrast to the imposing fortress. Known as the boneyard, it was a grim reminder of Afghanistan’s years of conflict. Scattered across the site were remnants of tanks, trucks, and weapons from the Soviet invasion. Most of the equipment was stripped of engines and critical components, rendering it unusable. For me, seeing these relics up close was a strange mix of fascination and nostalgia. As a young officer in the Field Artillery Officer Basic Course back in 1998, I had spent countless hours memorizing the specifications of Russian weapons from flashcards. Now, those very weapons lay before me, silent and decayed, relics of a bygone war.

After the visit, our interpreters treated us to lunch from a local vendor. It was my first authentic Afghan meal, and it was nothing short of incredible. We sat together, enjoying plates of fragrant rice and kabobs served with fresh naan. The lamb, seasoned with onion and cilantro, was tender and flavorful, offering a taste of Afghanistan that I hadn’t yet experienced. That simple meal left a lasting impression, marking the beginning of my connection to Afghan culture beyond the military context.

Vampires

The Afghan Army 1st Battalion combat advisor team was structured to reflect the unique, multinational collaboration essential for the mission's success. The team, a blend of U.S. and Romanian personnel, was designed not only to provide mentorship but also to bridge the gap between the Afghan Army’s existing capabilities and the operational needs of the broader international coalition forces. On the tracking spreadsheet, specific roles were assigned to U.S. personnel, who worked alongside their Afghan counterparts, but the bulk of the advisory force was composed of Romanian officers and sergeants.

The U.S. officer’s primary responsibility was mentoring the Afghan Army battalion personnel officer, a critical role focused on enhancing the battalion’s administrative and logistical operations. This position was vital in ensuring the battalion's success in managing its internal affairs and supporting larger operational goals. Alongside the officer, a U.S. sergeant was stationed within the battalion’s headquarters company. The sergeant’s role involved assisting with communications, training, and coordination, ensuring the battalion could function efficiently and support both internal operations and external missions.

However, it was the Romanian contingent that truly formed the backbone of the advisory team. The Romanian officers and sergeants brought their own expertise, experience, and distinct approach to the advisory role. Their contributions were indispensable in helping the Afghan Army navigate the complexities of modern military operations.

Adding to the uniqueness of the team, the call sign “Vampire” was designated to the Romanian team, a nod to their origins from Transylvania. This call sign became an iconic part of their identity within the operations, symbolizing their presence and adding a layer of mystique to the multinational collaboration. The Romanian team’s distinctive role and the "Vampire" call sign made them stand out, both among their Afghan allies and fellow coalition forces.

Romania, in keeping with their military policies at the time, deployed its soldiers equipped only with AK-47 rifles. This was a stark contrast to the standard gear provided by the U.S. military to its personnel, and it placed additional strain on the advisor team to ensure that all necessary equipment was available. Task Force Phoenix, under U.S. leadership, took on the responsibility of supplying the Romanians with the proper tools for the job—everything from modern rifles to communication equipment, vehicles, and heavy weapons. This disparity in equipment posed logistical challenges and required careful coordination to maintain accountability and ensure the Romanian advisors had everything they needed to perform their duties effectively.

Role of US on Romanian Team

For accountability purposes, it was crucial to have a U.S. officer assigned to work directly with the Romanian advisors. This officer’s responsibility was to handle funding, manage hand receipts, and oversee the distribution and maintenance of all equipment, vehicles, and heavy weapons. In practice, I often found myself in this role, working closely with the Romanian Major who led the team, ensuring that resources were allocated properly and that all items were accounted for in the complex, often chaotic environment of an active combat zone.

The Romanian Major, while experienced and effective in his leadership role, was supported by my involvement as the senior U.S. advisor. In many ways, I became the bridge between the Romanian advisors and the larger coalition efforts. My duties extended beyond daily interactions with the Afghan personnel to include participating in brigade meetings, where we discussed the coordination of efforts, resources, and future missions. Additionally, I was involved in mentoring the Afghan Army battalion commander and executive officer—roles that required a nuanced understanding of both military tactics and local culture.

The Afghan Army’s battalion leadership was not accustomed to the level of mentorship that we were trying to provide, which meant that our role was often one of gentle guidance rather than direct intervention. We worked closely with the battalion leadership to help them develop their own systems, ensuring they had the tools and knowledge necessary to operate independently. My experience in these interactions was both rewarding and challenging, as the cultural differences and language barriers often made it difficult to communicate effectively, but it also provided valuable insight into the complexities of rebuilding an army from the ground up.

Despite the inherent challenges, the teamwork between the U.S. and Romanian advisors, as well as the cooperation with Afghan Army leadership, was critical to the success of our mission. Over time, our relationships with the Afghan officers and enlisted soldiers deepened, allowing for more direct and impactful guidance. The language barrier, while often a frustration, was overcome with patience, trust, and the shared goal of improving the battalion’s overall capabilities.

Throughout my time working with the Afghan Army 1st Battalion, I gained a deeper understanding of the complexities of mentorship and the importance of intercultural collaboration in a conflict zone. The combination of U.S. and Romanian advisors, with their different cultural backgrounds, skills, and experiences, was a microcosm of the larger international effort in Afghanistan—one that relied heavily on cooperation, flexibility, and resourcefulness in order to achieve even small victories.

Gross, a new sergeant assigned to the battalion team, became the paying agent, interpreter manager, and mentored the senior Afghan Army sergeants. We had a gun truck with a heavy machine gun and another with a medium machine gun for the Romanian advisor team. We were also responsible for six pickups for the remaining Romanian soldiers, along with radios and other equipment. A couple of weeks later, a new officer advisor assumed the logistics officer duties, handling hand receipts. Our advisor team’s radio call sign was "Vampire," and Gross and I made a stencil of a vampire bat to put on the doors of our gun trucks. The name stuck—our role felt like that of a vampire: unseen, strategic, and enigmatic.

Terra Pass

The Afghan Army battalion had a weekly duty to establish a checkpoint on Terra Pass, a critical mountain pass located about 30 minutes from the base. The purpose of the checkpoint was to ensure that the Afghan Army corps leadership could travel safely to and from Kabul, typically on Thursdays and Saturdays. While this operation may have appeared straightforward, the reality was often far from efficient. The routine consisted of deploying a dozen or so Afghan Army soldiers in pickups, accompanied by a few combat advisors, mostly from the Romanian contingent, to provide guidance and supervision. On these days, Gross and I would sometimes join the team, riding along in the gun truck, but it often felt like we were simply wasting half of the day for very little gain.

The Afghan Army officers, whose understanding of checkpoint operations was limited, would generally send a couple of soldiers up into the nearby mountains to keep an eye on the terrain, perhaps looking for any signs of enemy activity or potential ambushes. Meanwhile, a few other soldiers would remain by their pickups, standing guard with no real means of interacting with passing traffic. This left the combat advisors stationed near the Afghan Army vehicles, awaiting further instructions or guidance.

The inherent inefficiencies of this setup were evident as the hours passed by with little to show for it. The Afghan soldiers weren't authorized to stop passing vehicles, which meant they had no authority to check for suspicious individuals or enforce any sort of security beyond a visible presence. This reality often led to long stretches of idle time, where everyone simply sat around, observing the flow of traffic but doing very little to actively engage with or control it. It was a strange contradiction—on the one hand, we were there to provide security and ensure the safety of the Afghan leadership traveling through the pass; on the other hand, the lack of authority to act or intervene left us feeling like we were merely going through the motions.

The situation was made more frustrating by the lack of structure in the operation. The soldiers, with their limited training and experience, had little understanding of how to set up an effective checkpoint. While they were well-intentioned, their actions often lacked coordination, and the overall impact of the operation seemed minimal. The combat advisors, tasked with mentoring the Afghan forces, spent much of their time standing by, offering guidance but rarely engaging in meaningful activities. We were caught in a paradox: we were supposed to be mentoring and advising, yet there was little opportunity to do so beyond the most basic interactions.

The hours spent at Terra Pass highlighted the larger challenges of the mission: the mismatch between the Afghan Army's current capabilities and the needs of the coalition forces. While these checkpoints were important for maintaining some semblance of security in the region, they also exposed the limitations of the Afghan forces' ability to take meaningful action. For advisors like Gross and me, it was a stark reminder that the work we were doing was often slow and painstaking, with little immediate payoff. However, it also underscored the importance of our presence—sometimes, merely being there, observing, and offering advice was enough to help the Afghan soldiers slowly build the skills and confidence they needed to take on greater responsibilities in the future.

Dismount

On April 26th and 27th, our mission took a significant turn as the Afghan Army battalion was assigned a challenging task: conducting long-duration dismounted patrols to bolster security in Gardez. The aim was to increase the visible presence of Afghan forces in the city and reassure the local population. Gross and I were tasked with leading the patrols, guiding a group of about a dozen Afghan Army soldiers through the urban landscape.

We set out on two very long foot patrols that pushed us physically beyond what I was accustomed to. The first day was grueling—over eight miles of walking through the rugged, uneven streets of Gardez under the scorching sun. The second day was slightly shorter at six miles, but the wear and tear on my body compounded as we went along. By the end of the patrols, I was sore, drenched in sweat, and badly sunburned, with my muscles aching in ways I hadn’t experienced before. As an artillery officer, I wasn’t physically conditioned for such a demanding task; my usual operations involved vehicles, artillery, and less strenuous activities. But here, there was no option to take shortcuts. This was infantry work—dismounted, foot-mobile, and relentless.

The physical strain was tough, but what made it even harder was the fact that I had to keep going. I couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of the Afghan soldiers who had been doing this kind of work for much longer. They were carrying their AK-47s and little else, while I was burdened with full gear, including a flak vest, helmet, and combat load. Every step felt heavier as I pushed myself to maintain my pace and energy. I had to dig deep, both mentally and physically, to keep moving. I reminded myself that my role as an advisor was not just about sharing knowledge and expertise—it was also about leading by example. I couldn’t afford to falter or show any signs of exhaustion, no matter how much my body screamed for relief.

Despite the physical hardships, the mission was important, not just in terms of security but in terms of building rapport with the local population. As part of the "hearts and minds" campaign, we distributed balloons and candy to the children we encountered along the route. It was a small gesture, but it seemed to have a big impact on the locals, who smiled and waved as we passed by. These moments of connection were valuable—perhaps the most meaningful aspect of the patrol. The children’s faces lit up when they saw us, and for a brief moment, the tension of the mission lifted as we experienced the simple joy of bringing a smile to their faces.

The patrols, while uneventful in terms of enemy engagement, left a lasting impression on me. The physical toll they took on my body was significant, but the deeper impact was in understanding the nature of the Afghan Army’s work. This wasn’t just about strategy and operations—it was about enduring the daily grind, sometimes without recognition or reward. For the Afghan soldiers, this was their normal. For me, it was an eye-opening experience, reminding me of the grueling realities they faced every day. And as we trudged back to base at the end of each long patrol, I couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the men I was advising, who carried on despite the hardships, never hesitating to put one foot in front of the other.

Training Romanians

One of my primary focus areas during this time was ensuring a smooth transition for the Romanian advisors, as the entire Romanian team was preparing to leave, with a new team set to arrive. I worked closely with the brigade team leader to organize a transfer of authority ceremony, presenting each soldier with a certificate of appreciation. Most of our efforts centered on developing a training plan for the incoming Romanian advisors on vehicles, weapons, and radios, as this would be new equipment for them. Gross served as the primary instructor with me assisting and teaching a few classes. The Romanian advisors underwent nine days of intensive training, covering everything from Blue Force Tracker and communications to close air support, medevac requests, medium machine guns, and gun truck familiarization, all including live-fire exercises. The new Romanian team seemed to have a better attitude than the previous group, and they embraced the training. This experience was the deployment I had envisioned when I first received the assignment—a series of small group classes, demonstrations, and hands-on practices.

As the team chief, my role was exponentially more complex and demanding than my previous assignment as a signal officer. The responsibilities piled on from every direction, and the added challenge of managing a multicultural team made the task even more intricate. The most immediate difficulty came from working with the Romanian soldiers. Known for their historical difficulty in cooperating with other international forces, the Romanians added a significant layer of complexity to the operations.

The language barrier was perhaps the most formidable obstacle. Only two or three of the Romanian soldiers spoke English with any level of proficiency, and the rest relied heavily on Romanian and some rudimentary Russian for communication. In contrast, the Afghan Army soldiers, whose language skills ranged across different dialects of Pashto and Dari, required interpreters to bridge the gap. These interpreters were invaluable but not always fluent in every dialect or capable of conveying every nuance of the conversation. To complicate matters further, the Romanians communicated in Romanian and occasionally relied on Russian phrases, while the Afghan interpreters were proficient in their native dialects and English, but not necessarily conversant in Romanian or Russian. In the midst of this, I was trying to lead and coordinate operations.

It felt like being in the middle of an endless game of telephone, where messages were constantly distorted as they passed from one person to another through multiple languages. What was said in English would be interpreted into Romanian, translated into Afghan dialects, and then conveyed back to me through the same convoluted process. Every step required patience, attention, and a deep understanding that not everything would be communicated with perfect clarity.

In practice, this meant that communication was often slow and tedious, requiring layers of translation. I had to rely on a Romanian officer who spoke both Romanian and a bit of English to act as a translator when communicating with the Romanian Major. Since the Major only spoke Romanian, this created another layer of abstraction. I found myself managing not just the operational tasks of the team but also navigating a web of linguistic hurdles and trying to ensure that every key message was accurately relayed and understood by everyone involved.

Beyond just translating words, there was the challenge of translating intent and ensuring that the Romanians and Afghan soldiers understood the bigger picture. The cultural and organizational differences between the Romanian forces and the Afghan Army created additional friction. While the Afghan soldiers were often accustomed to a less formal structure, the Romanians adhered to a rigid hierarchy and military protocol. This discrepancy in expectations added further strain to the coordination efforts, as I constantly had to adjust my approach to accommodate both the Romanian and Afghan cultures.

The most significant challenge, however, was not just dealing with the different languages and cultural differences—it was the toll it took on the team dynamics. Communication was key to success, and when that was hindered, it often felt like our operations were running in slow motion. I was forced to think creatively, relying on visual cues, gestures, and even writing things down when possible, as I tried to bridge the gaps between the various factions. It was a delicate balancing act, and I quickly learned that clear communication wasn't just about the words you used—it was about understanding the cultural nuances, showing empathy, and being patient in the face of frustration.

Despite the many hurdles, the experience of navigating these challenges helped me grow as a leader. It reinforced the idea that success isn't just about completing a mission—it’s about the people you lead and the ways in which you find common ground with them, even when it feels like you’re speaking entirely different languages.

The Romanians also had vastly different living conditions compared to the rest of us, which added another layer of complexity to my already demanding role as team chief. While the rest of us adhered strictly to the military’s regulations—especially the prohibitions on alcohol—the Romanians operated under a different set of rules. They were allowed to have beer and alcohol in their B-Huts, which became a source of tension and frustration. Their access to alcohol made their experience on base feel less restricted, contributing to a stark contrast between their daily routine and the more sober, disciplined lifestyle most of us adhered to.

Lack of Authority

As the team chief, I was technically in charge of the entire team, but my authority did not extend to the Romanians. This created an awkward and challenging dynamic. The Romanians answered to their own chain of command, and their Major, who was well-acquainted with their unique living arrangements and privileges, enforced a different set of expectations. I found myself in a position where I was responsible for the coordination and overall success of the team’s operations, but I lacked the ability to enforce the same level of discipline or consistency across all members.

The lack of authority over the Romanians often placed me in what felt like a never-ending babysitting role. I was constantly managing and attempting to resolve issues that arose from the cultural and behavioral differences between the Romanians and the rest of the team. At times, this felt like I was caught in a frustrating loop of conflict resolution—attempting to mediate between different factions, handle personality clashes, and maintain order while working with people whose behavior and actions were outside my control.

Leader's Visit

Shortly after the Romanians completed their training, I focused my attention on the spring re-stationing plan. Gardez housed most of the Afghan Army brigade, and the objective was to relocate forces around the area to other bases. The Afghan Army battalion was set to transfer to Bermel and the border control point in Shkin, to replace the unit there who would move to Gardez for lower operational tempo.

On April 19th, I flew by Blackhawk helicopter for a leader’s visit to Bermel and Lwara. A Blackhawk is a four-blade, twin-engine medium-lift helicopter, designed to carry 11 equipped troops, with a range of 370 miles at 170 miles per hour, typically equipped with medium machine guns. The visit allowed me to meet the combat advisors we would be replacing and to get a firsthand look at their base. First, we flew to Lwara, where I met a fellow Wisconsin officer advisor who was preparing for a mission. I tagged along to see their operations center and small base, tucked deep in the mountains. An advisor explained how Afghan soldiers used goats to move supplies up to mountain observation posts. I watched as Afghan bakers made naan bread, or "foot bread," in a small kitchen with a dirt floor and an open flame. One man kneaded the dough, while another man used his foot to stretch the dough and slap it against the oven. Despite the unconventional technique, the naan was delicious, a testament to Afghan ingenuity.

Bermel

Next, we flew to Bermel, a remote base situated in a flat valley, offering a striking contrast to the urban hubs we had visited. The Marine intelligence officer, a seasoned and pragmatic advisor, gave me a comprehensive tour of the base. The layout was deceptively simple, yet its design was crucial for the operations it supported. Bermel was small—about the size of a city block—but every inch of its space was maximized to meet the needs of both US and Afghan forces operating there.

The base was split down the middle, with one half dedicated to US forces and the other for the Afghan Army. On the US side, the environment was far more fortified and sophisticated. Marines and infantry units occupied this side, with towering concrete watchtowers providing an elevated view of the surrounding valley. These watchtowers, positioned strategically around the base, allowed soldiers to monitor for any potential threats coming from the surrounding mountains or villages. Beneath these towers, a network of operations centers, barracks, and essential facilities were dispersed, offering a sense of security and operational readiness. The dining facility, where soldiers gathered for their meals, was a critical social hub, and the gym, though modest, provided some respite from the relentless routine. There was also a medical bay to treat the wounded or sick, as well as maintenance bays where vehicles and equipment were repaired and kept in working order.

On the Afghan Army side, the layout was simpler but no less important. The Afghan soldiers lived in brick barracks, which were less fortified than the US side but still served as the backbone of the base's operational capacity. There was a small medical clinic where the Afghan Army tended to their wounded, though resources were limited compared to what the US side could offer. The contrast between the two sides of the base reflected the different levels of support, infrastructure, and training between the two military forces. While the US side was heavily fortified and technologically advanced, the Afghan Army side remained a more rudimentary setup, demonstrating the challenges faced by the local forces as they worked to build capacity in a conflict zone.

The main gate to the base was located on the Afghan Army side, making it the primary entry point for both Afghan and coalition forces, as well as local civilians. Adjacent to the gate was the local district center, which served as both a logistical and administrative hub for the surrounding area. The district center played a key role in maintaining governance and local authority in an otherwise isolated and volatile region.

Bermel’s setting, tucked away in a valley surrounded by rugged mountains, felt like a place forgotten by time. The isolation of the base—sandwiched between distant mountain ranges and far from major urban centers—was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it made the base harder to detect and attack, offering a measure of security. On the other hand, the remoteness added layers of difficulty to logistics and resupply operations. The terrain around Bermel was unforgiving, with dirt roads, rocky paths, and unpredictable weather patterns complicating movement and supply lines. It was a place where survival often felt like the most important mission, where both the US forces and Afghan soldiers had to rely on their resourcefulness, resilience, and each other to make it through each day.

Living in this environment was not for the faint-hearted. The Wild West-like atmosphere of Bermel echoed throughout the base, where every decision, every action, was driven by a sense of necessity and pragmatism. It was a place where the daily struggle to survive could sometimes overshadow the larger mission at hand. Yet, despite the challenges, there was a quiet determination in the air—a shared understanding that this outpost in the mountains was essential for the broader effort to stabilize the region, maintain security, and push back against the insurgency.

Missing Ice Cream

On the night of May 10th, the stillness of the hour was abruptly shattered around 11:30 pm by the unmistakable sound of a powerful explosion. The ground trembled, and immediately after, the frantic shouts of soldiers echoed outside the B-Hut, signaling the unmistakable warning of incoming rocket fire. The sharp, metallic clang of adrenaline shot through me as I sprang into action. Without hesitation, I grabbed my protective gear and hastily donned it, my heart racing as the urgency of the situation set in.

I quickly made my way to the operations center, where I found Gross, who had already started to coordinate the response. We both grabbed handheld radios, our primary means of communication in moments like these. The new Romanians, not yet accustomed to the chaos of indirect fire, needed extra attention. Gross took responsibility for tracking the Romanian personnel, making sure they were accounted for during the chaos. Meanwhile, I reported directly to the brigade operations center to check in with the brigade team leader, providing situational awareness and confirming that the response was on track. Time was of the essence, and every second spent in uncertainty heightened the tension.

While I was on the radio with the brigade team, I dispatched two Romanians to the Afghan Army area to help account for their personnel. It was imperative that we verify the safety of all soldiers, as the anxiety of the attack weighed heavily on everyone. Minutes passed with a slow, creeping dread. We checked each location, confirming the whereabouts of everyone involved. However, there was one Romanian soldier unaccounted for—"Ice Cream." It was unlike him to be missing, and with no time to lose, Gross and a few senior Romanian advisors immediately set out to search for him.

They combed through the area, the radios crackling with sporadic communications as they swept the perimeter of the base. After a few tense moments, Gross and the team found Ice Cream—alive, but hiding under a truck, clearly shaken by the shock of the attack. He had reacted instinctively, seeking cover. It was a relief, but the reality of the danger remained ever-present. The ordeal lasted only minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Soon after the search, the "all clear" was issued. The rocket had landed several hundred yards away from our position, near the helicopter landing zone. Fortunately, no injuries or damage had occurred, and the attack was deemed ineffective. It was a reminder that intelligence and the enemy's capabilities were often miscalculated—despite their attempts to strike, the rocket had landed well outside of its intended target. The enemy, as anticipated, lacked the necessary equipment and expertise to deliver a precise hit.

Contentious Combat Awards

As senior leadership in Gardez prepared for their imminent return to the States, an unexpected point of contention arose—one that would shake the morale of some and cause division among others: the Combat Action Badge (CAB). This badge, awarded to soldiers who had actively engaged with the enemy or been directly engaged while in a hostile area, was one of the military’s most coveted symbols of valor and service. Yet, despite months of deployment in a combat zone, many soldiers, particularly those in leadership positions, found themselves without the coveted award.

The qualification for the CAB was clear in theory: it required soldiers to be actively engaged with the enemy or to have been engaged by the enemy in a hostile environment. The widely accepted criteria—being within the blast radius of a rocket or mortar attack—was often the benchmark for qualification. However, this seemingly straightforward measure became a point of controversy. In a dynamic and unpredictable combat zone like Afghanistan, the lines between combat and non-combat were anything but clear. Unlike traditional battlefields, where soldiers could be on the frontlines and engage in direct firefights, the conflict in Afghanistan was far more asymmetric, characterized by insurgents blending into civilian populations and attacks coming from hidden, elusive positions.

This ambiguity led to heated debates within the ranks. Some felt that if they had endured rocket and mortar fire, participated in convoy operations, or provided security under the constant threat of an attack, they should be entitled to the badge. Others argued that the nature of modern combat—where engagements often occurred in the form of indirect fire, ambushes, or IEDs—complicated the process of determining who truly deserved the recognition. The question became: When does the battlefield truly start? And when does it end?

The discussion about the Combat Action Badge grew increasingly philosophical, becoming a reflection of the larger war itself. The battlefield in Afghanistan was indistinct, chaotic, and constantly shifting, just like the criteria for earning the badge. The enemy was not easily identifiable, and engagements could happen at any moment, in any form. Soldiers would often find themselves in constant anticipation, waiting for a threat to materialize from any direction—there were no frontlines, no clear-cut areas of operation, and no guarantees of safety. The nature of the conflict meant that while some might have felt entitled to the badge based on their proximity to danger, others might have had a different view of what truly constituted combat.

The dispute over the CAB became a metaphor for the elusive and intangible nature of combat itself. Just as the combat zone blurred the lines between safe and dangerous, between civilian and combatant, the meaning of "combat" seemed almost as evasive as the mythical vampire—a creature whose existence was often doubted or misunderstood, yet whose presence was deeply felt by those who encountered it. Combat, like the vampire, was something that could not always be seen or touched, but its impact was undeniable.

For many soldiers in Gardez, the conversation about the CAB was not just about a piece of cloth or a pin—it was about recognition for their sacrifices and the uncertainty of a war where the rules, like the battlefield itself, were ever-changing. It was a conversation about what it truly meant to serve in a conflict where the line between combatant and noncombatant, between civilian and soldier, was never as clear as the uniform they wore. In this war, just as in the debate over the CAB, clarity was often hard to come by.

Spring Restationing

The first part of our battalion finally departed on May 21st. The group consisted of Gross, myself, six Romanian advisors, a couple of interpreters, and just over 100 Afghan Army soldiers. We were eager to get underway, but it wasn't long before we hit our first snag—our gun truck got a flat tire. Gross and I found ourselves on the side of the road, learning firsthand just how massive and heavy a gun truck tire is compared to a regular civilian tire. It was a humbling experience, but one that highlighted the real-world challenges we would be facing.

Our original plan had been to make the journey to Bermel alone, but about an hour outside of the city, we were met by a Marine combat advisor team and some Afghan Army soldiers. They had intercepted enemy radio transmissions indicating that an ambush was in the works. Fortunately, the additional support from the Marines and their Afghan partners acted as a deterrent, and the enemy did not follow through with the attack. The trip continued, but our day was far from over. We made a stop at the border control point to drop off Gross, a Romanian advisor, and a few Afghan soldiers. From there, we had another two-hour drive ahead of us, and by the time we arrived in Bermel and checked into the transient B-Hut, it was well past midnight. It had been an exhausting day, and sleep was a welcome relief.

The next few days were spent orienting ourselves with the area and building relationships with the Marine combat advisors. We went on several patrols with them and their Afghan soldiers, covering Malaksay, Marghah, and distributing humanitarian aid to the locals in Mangratay. It was an eye-opening experience, one that emphasized the complexity of working with different military units, as well as the everyday struggles of the Afghan people.

Many considered Bermel and Shkin to be some of the most hostile areas in Afghanistan at the time. The Afghan Army battalion already stationed there had been operating in the region for some time with their combat advisors—US Marines from 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment. The border control point was a small Afghan Army-controlled site, with only a couple of buildings to serve as barracks. Afghan Army soldiers rotated monthly with the rest of the battalion stationed in Bermel.

Waziristan

Directly across the 100-yard border, a Pakistani checkpoint stood in stark contrast to our position. It was not just a checkpoint, but a well-established post, with an observation bunker perched atop a neighboring hill that provided a clear and commanding view of the entire area. From their vantage point, the Pakistani forces could easily monitor any movement on our side of the border, yet the presence of a Taliban flag flying proudly from a nearby building’s rooftop was impossible to ignore. The flag, a symbol of defiance and militant control, seemed to mock any notion of neutrality or oversight from the Pakistani authorities. The Taliban’s brazen display of power in such a volatile border area raised unsettling questions about Pakistan’s official stance on the ongoing conflict, particularly regarding its relationship with insurgent groups operating along the border.

The situation was further complicated by the local dynamic, which blurred the lines between nations and factions. The area, which stretched across both Afghanistan and Pakistan, was a patchwork of shifting allegiances and tribal governance. This 7,200-square-mile region, referred to as Waziristan by the locals, was not governed by the formalized systems of either Afghanistan or Pakistan. Instead, it was a land where tribal control superseded national borders, where the Pashtun tribes governed the territories in a centuries-old system of autonomy and local authority. The tribal leaders, or khans, exercised more power over the land than the governments of either nation, making the region a hotbed of insurgency, smuggling, and cross-border militant activity.

In this complex environment, the role of Pakistan as a neighboring state was called into question. While the Pakistani military had a visible presence at the checkpoint, its true level of influence or control over the region was ambiguous. The fact that the Taliban flag flew so openly just a few hundred yards away from the Pakistani checkpoint suggested a lack of effective enforcement or a tacit acceptance of their presence. Whether the Pakistani government had any direct ties to the Taliban or was simply unable to control the insurgents operating in Waziristan was a matter of heated debate. However, the situation on the ground made it clear that the conflict in the borderlands was far more than just a local issue; it was a complex, multifaceted problem with regional implications.

The tribal control over the area made it a labyrinth of alliances and rivalries, with shifting loyalties depending on the issue at hand. In this territory, the concept of national borders seemed irrelevant. The Afghanistan-Pakistan boundary was often a mere line on a map, with little practical significance to the people who lived there. This lack of respect for formal borders meant that militants and insurgent groups could easily move between Afghanistan and Pakistan, making it exceedingly difficult to curb cross-border terrorism, smuggling, and armed conflicts. In this environment, traditional military strategies were of limited use, and understanding the intricacies of tribal politics became essential for any mission in the region.

The presence of the Pakistani checkpoint, coupled with the visible Taliban flag, left me with a sense of unease and a deeper understanding of the complexities of the situation. It was a vivid reminder of how the battle against insurgency in Afghanistan was not just a matter of fighting militants within Afghanistan’s borders; it was a fight that transcended national lines, involving neighboring countries, local tribes, and insurgent groups that operated freely in the borderlands. It also underscored the geopolitical challenges we faced in trying to bring stability to the region, with foreign powers, tribal politics, and local insurgencies all complicating any effort to impose control or peace.

Mountain Climbing

On May 24th, we set out on a mounted patrol, heading into the nearby mountains. After a while, we dismounted and began the grueling climb to the summit of a 10,000+ foot peak. To lighten our load, I followed the Marines' lead and removed my body armor plates, along with some of my other gear, as we started the ascent. The climb was difficult and taxing; we moved slowly, navigating narrow, rocky paths with sheer drops on either side. I struggled to catch my breath, and my muscles burned with each step. Every time we reached a new rock ledge, I had to pause and gather my strength.

When we finally reached the top, the exhaustion was nearly overwhelming, but the view made it all worthwhile. We came upon an abandoned observation post, likely once used by fighters, evidenced by the makeshift rock walls and combat positions. The absence of any hostile forces there was a stroke of luck. In hindsight, we were fortunate to have found it vacant, especially since most of us had left our body armor and heavier gear at the base of the mountain to lighten our load. The peace and quiet at the top was surreal, though the challenge of descending was nearly as difficult as the climb itself. The loose ground and gravity pulled at us, urging us down faster than we wanted to go, but we made it safely to the bottom, grateful for the experience.

The next day, we visited the border control point. Gross had spent most of his time in Shkin but frequently visited the border control point. The conditions there were appalling—dusty, cramped, and under-resourced. During our visit, some of us entertained the idea of walking across the border to the Pakistan checkpoint. There was a brief debate over whether this was a good idea, but eventually, we decided to go ahead and cross without the extra body armor to make ourselves appear less of a threat. The crossing was quick and somewhat surreal, and as we snapped a few pictures of our illegal border crossing, we couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. We soon turned around and made our way back, aware that we had just engaged in a small act of defiance in a region where such acts often held deeper significance.

Too Dangerous

As the days went on, the situation around Bermel began to evolve. Our Romanian advisors had ongoing discussions with their counterparts in Gardez, raising concerns about the increased enemy threat surrounding Bermel. The Marine combat advisors had a full complement of gun trucks with heavy weapons, making them well-prepared for such a hostile environment. On the other hand, the Romanians were typically limited to pickups with AK-47s, and there were discussions about the Romanian country agreement, which restricted them from operating in areas considered too dangerous. Ultimately, the decision was made to swap the Afghan Army battalions, with the Marines staying in Bermel and the Romanians moving to Gardez.

This change in assignments caused a great deal of frustration for Gross and me. The shift came during the re-stationing process, and with it, we found ourselves without a clear mission. We were left in a kind of limbo, unsure of where we would be deployed next. After a few days of uncertainty and a couple of convoys through Gardez, we were reassigned to support the combat advisors in Sharana. It was another chapter in our time in Afghanistan, one that reminded us of the unpredictability and frustration that often accompanied military life in a combat zone.

Rockets Red Glare

"Bombs bursting in air." – The Star-Spangled Banner

Sharana

Sharana was approximately 7,000 ft. in elevation, and the surrounding area was arid with very little vegetation, dry riverbeds, some farm fields, and mud-walled Afghan homes. About the size of a city block, the Afghan base supported about 250 combat support Afghan Army soldiers and was in the stages of bringing in the Afghan Army brigade headquarters. The US personnel had an inner compound surrounded by HESCOs that was roughly the size of a football field.

The sleeping quarters were made of bricks with a slightly reinforced plywood roof and had two or three rooms per building and three or four persons per room. The room closest to the restroom was designed as the operations center and contained a couple of computers, standard team equipment, and an extensive planning table. Around the corner of our operations center was a small HESCO bunker. The general layout of the advisor base was a horizontal "T," with the top of the "T" being the restroom and the sleeping quarters along the base of the "T" across from each other, creating a mini alleyway.

Two gates separated the US compound from the Afghan Army compound. We kept the smaller gate unlocked to allow access to the interpreters. The more massive metal gate was kept closed and locked with a combination padlock, which we would have to open every time we took the gun trucks. The Afghan Army soldiers operated the main entry gate to the base and manned watchtowers around the perimeter. Electric power came from the generator located immediately behind the row of sleeping quarters. The combat support advisors were the primary US personnel, and there were a Task Force Catamount representative and a few contractors for the district governor. There were approximately two to three dozen US personnel total.

The first couple of weeks in Sharana were a whirlwind of new experiences, and much of it passed in a blur of routine, familiarizing myself with the environment, and adapting to the unrelenting pace of military life in a combat zone. As a newcomer, I spent most of my time in the operations center, getting a crash course in the daily workings of the base, and adjusting to the demands of staff duty. There was little time to reflect—just an ongoing cycle of briefings, meetings, and operational needs that kept my mind constantly engaged.

My primary focus during this period was acclimatizing to the operational tempo and the intricacies of the mission, though the full scope of what was expected of me was still unclear. It wasn’t until later that I truly began to grasp the depth of our objectives and the challenges we would face in this region. As a quasi-signal officer with a background in computer networking, I was initially tasked with setting up the necessary communication infrastructure for the brigade operations center. This was a critical responsibility—ensuring that the connections were stable, secure, and reliable for the brigade advisor team when they arrived was vital to the success of the mission. I spent hours routing cables, configuring equipment, and ensuring that every piece of technology was in place to facilitate smooth communication in a highly dynamic and high-stakes environment.

In between these technical tasks, I was also sent on a few patrols and convoys to familiarize myself with the lay of the land. These patrols were eye-opening. Each mission added another layer of understanding about the terrain, the complexities of moving through hostile environments, and the unpredictability of combat. The convoys and patrols became practical lessons in survival, discipline, and observation. Even though I had prepared for this role in the abstract, the real-world conditions were far more challenging than I could have imagined. The constant threat of roadside bombs, ambushes, and unpredictable engagements kept everyone on high alert.

Despite the intensity of the operational environment, there were moments of quiet reflection—mostly during downtime when I was alone in the operations center or on the road, contemplating the mission and its objectives. I began to understand the deeper significance of our presence and the nuances of the relationships we were building with local forces and the Afghan people. But it was a gradual realization, and the broader mission was still something I was learning to navigate.

I didn’t interact much with the outgoing officer or the artillery company. My primary task was to familiarize myself with the gun truck and weapons system, including handing receipt of the vehicle. The Afghan Army artillery company had recently received two D-30 howitzers—a 122mm towed weapon capable of launching 45-pound rounds up to 9.6 miles. However, due to ongoing patrols and checkpoint duties, they had yet to receive the artillery training they desperately needed. Gross, who had joined the team alongside me, had hoped to be the reconnaissance company combat advisor, but he made an early exit after forgetting his rifle during a convoy to Gardez; he was reassigned to another infantry battalion.

Terps

Interpreters were the lifeline of communication in Afghanistan, bridging the significant language and cultural gaps that could have otherwise derailed our missions. The limited number of Afghan soldiers who spoke English made interpreters indispensable to our daily operations. These individuals were not only translators but also cultural advisors, helping us navigate the nuances of Afghan customs and etiquette, which was critical for building trust and fostering effective partnerships. While stationed in Sharana, I had the privilege of working with a dedicated interpreter named Obie, whose exceptional skills and character left a lasting impression on me.

Before meeting Obie, interpreters were assigned to our group on an as-needed basis. For instance, when traveling to the Afghan Army base in Gardez for meetings, the advisor would stop by the interpreter B-Hut, where a translator would be quickly assigned. While this system worked, it lacked the continuity that was vital for building rapport and understanding over time. Obie changed that dynamic entirely. Despite being younger than many of his peers, his mastery of English, combined with his knowledge of military and artillery-specific terms, made him invaluable. He quickly became a trusted companion, accompanying me on most missions and ensuring that our communications with Afghan counterparts were clear and effective.

Obie’s story was as inspiring as it was emblematic of the resilience and ambition of many Afghan interpreters. While working with us, he dreamed of immigrating to the United States, a goal he pursued with unwavering determination. I was proud to support him by writing a letter of recommendation for his Green Card application. His journey didn't end there. After moving to Colorado years later, Obie returned to Afghanistan for another year as an interpreter, demonstrating his commitment to the mission. Later, he sought higher education in the United States, a pursuit I was honored to support by writing additional letters of recommendation for both his bachelor's and master's degree programs. His story is one of countless examples of the profound impact interpreters had on our mission and the enduring bonds that formed during those challenging times. Their contributions went far beyond translation; they were bridges between worlds, making our shared objectives possible.

Primary Gun-Truck

My gun truck was considered the crown jewel of our convoy fleet, the one that everyone else looked to for a sense of confidence in an environment where danger could be lurking around every corner. At the heart of it was a heavy machine gun, capable of laying down a relentless stream of fire to suppress or neutralize threats. Alongside it, we had tactical satellite and high-frequency radios that kept us connected with the operations center and the rest of the team, no matter how remote the location. The truck wasn’t just armed—it was equipped with a suite of electronic countermeasures designed to jam enemy signals, specifically targeting the kind of remote-detonated IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) that were so common in the region. To add a personal touch, we even had a speaker for an iPod, a small luxury that made long hours in the truck a little more bearable. Music, however loud or quiet, provided a slight sense of normalcy in a place where everything else felt far from ordinary.

The supplies we carried were a stark reminder of the constant danger we faced. Our truck was loaded with an array of munitions that spoke to the preparedness required for any contingency. Among the items were star clusters, used for signaling and illumination in the darkest hours of the night, and thermite grenades, designed to melt through metal with an intensity that could neutralize even the most formidable of enemies. Claymore mines, a tried-and-true anti-personnel weapon, were stored in places that allowed us to deploy them quickly if the situation called for it.

There was also a stockpile of armor-piercing ammunition, a grim acknowledgment that we might encounter enemy vehicles capable of withstanding normal rounds. In such cases, we needed the firepower to engage targets at range and with precision. The truck’s most intimidating feature, though, was the AT-4 anti-tank weapon. This 84mm recoilless, single-shot weapon could destroy armored vehicles, and we kept it close at hand, should the worst-case scenario ever unfold. Though it felt like something from a battlefield movie, it was an integral part of our survival strategy.

Perhaps the most curious piece of equipment in my truck was a throwaway AK-47, an odd addition that was never fully explained. Its purpose was always a bit of a mystery to me. It was there to serve as a backup weapon—something for our interpreter or the combat advisors to use if things escalated to a full-scale battle and they found themselves separated from the main force. Its role felt symbolic, like something meant to ensure that no matter what happened, we had a way of fighting back.

Despite all the heavy weaponry, armor, and ammunition, the throwaway AK-47, along with the rest of our gear, remained largely untouched. We never had to use it. But its presence served as a constant reminder of the fragility of the situation we were in. Every day was a gamble, and our truck was our last line of defense against the chaos that could erupt at any moment. It was a stark picture of the reality we faced—a place where the tension between survival and violence was never more than a heartbeat away.

Cooking in Sharana

Sharana did not have a dining facility nor any assigned cooks for the US contingent. We only had a small food pantry, small cooking appliances, and a small freezer and were responsible for our own meal preparation. Cooking in Sharana became a collaborative effort and there was a duty roster for cooking shifts. Breakfast, lunch, and any snacks were on your own and the cooking roster would provide the dinner meal. Breakfast was often a quick affair, typically consisting of a Pop-Tart, which was easy to grab and eat on the go. Lunch was predictably simple, with Ramen noodles becoming a near-daily staple. The hot plate and microwave allowed for basic meals, but I quickly learned that there was little room for variety.

The conditions were far from ideal—there were no stoves or ovens available, and freezer space was a rare commodity. Our makeshift pantry consisted of a microwave and a hot plate, though these were less of a convenience and more of a test of patience. If you tried using both appliances at the same time, the circuit breaker would inevitably trip, forcing us to adapt. This led to a preference for cooking outdoors, where the grill became the central fixture of our culinary routine.

The grill itself was a spectacle of ingenuity. Fuel was sourced from blocks of super hardwood, which we soaked in diesel for hours before lighting them up. This preparation was no simple task—just starting the fire took nearly an hour, and during that time, the scent of diesel filled the air, creating a surreal atmosphere. Once the fuel finally burned off, we were left with a fire capable of cooking a meal. But the entire process was a lengthy ordeal. Cooking would begin around 2:00 pm, and by the time we cleaned up, it was often close to 7:00 pm—time spent cooking that was as much about patience and persistence as it was about the end result.

When it came to the meals themselves, I took on the bulk of the responsibility. I became the designated cook, preparing a wide variety of dishes whenever possible. Spaghetti and meatballs, stir-fry, steaks, and burgers were the staples of our field dining. The steaks, while far from the tender cuts we might’ve been accustomed to, were the easiest to prepare. They often became the default meal, especially when other plans fell through or ingredients didn’t hold up. The challenge, however, was in cooking them to an acceptable standard.

Despite the limitations, there was a sense of camaraderie that came with these cooking efforts. Each meal was a shared experience, a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos of our deployment. The process of preparing food, with all its challenges, also became a form of communication—a way for us to bond and keep our minds off the isolation and tension surrounding us. While the meals themselves may not have been gourmet, they were a vital part of our survival and the small pleasures we held onto during those long, demanding days.

Missing Anti-Tank Weapon

On June 7th, I received a call that would kick off a tense and critical task: an anti-tank weapon had gone missing. The initial report suggested that it had fallen off one of the gun trucks during a convoy, a consequence of a poorly secured strap that had failed to keep the weapon in place. The mishap raised immediate concerns, not only for the potential loss of an essential piece of military hardware but also for the possibility that the weapon might fall into enemy hands. The investigation was still ongoing, and the sergeant responsible for the weapon’s security faced serious consequences, including the prospect of financial liability for the loss.

The potential implications of the situation weighed heavily on us all. An anti-tank weapon, especially one that could be wielded against our own vehicles, could shift the balance of power if used by insurgents. The urgency of recovering the weapon was clear, and every minute spent in uncertainty felt like an eternity. While we waited for more information, the possibility that the weapon had been taken by enemy forces seemed all too real.

Two weeks later, I helped a brigade advisor convert the investigation report into a PDF, and that’s when I learned a remarkable piece of news: a local national had found the weapon. Rather than selling it or keeping it for himself, the individual had chosen to return it, handing it over to a tactical human intelligence agent. The agent, in turn, delivered the weapon back to our team, averting what could have been a significant setback. While the return of the weapon was a relief, it also underscored the volatile and unpredictable nature of our environment—things often didn’t go as planned, but sometimes, the most unexpected events could lead to positive outcomes.

The investigation into the incident continued, and the investigating officer ultimately recommended a letter of reprimand for the sergeant involved. It was a reminder that even small oversights could have far-reaching consequences in a combat zone. Despite the reprimand, I would find myself on missions with that sergeant later on. The experience left a lasting impression on me—the importance of maintaining a high standard of accountability and vigilance, especially when lives and critical assets were on the line. It also reinforced the complex, often contradictory nature of life in the field: moments of failure were tempered by unexpected victories, and the line between success and disaster was often razor-thin.

All Alone

It was the night of June 16th, and the heat of eastern Afghanistan was beginning to intensify. The sun had long set, but the oppressive warmth still clung to everything. Inside our room, though, it was bearable thanks to the Chico air conditioner humming quietly in the corner, keeping the temperature at a reasonable level. I was lying on a temporary bunk constructed of 2x4s, wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, covered lightly by sheets and a thin blanket. Though I had only been assigned to this unit for less than two weeks, I had plans to move to a new bunk the next day. The thought of a new arrangement, a fresh start, was a small comfort.

At approximately 1:00 am, I was abruptly awakened by the deafening sound of an explosion that shook the ground beneath me. It was followed quickly by another, louder blast. The sound was so powerful that the whole room seemed to reverberate. My mind scrambled to make sense of the situation, and as I lay there in the darkness, I heard the distant shout, "Incoming!" The words echoed in my ears, instantly triggering a surge of adrenaline. My first thought was to get to the bunker as quickly as possible.

I fumbled in the dark, grabbing my glasses, boots—without socks—body armor, helmet, and pistol. My heart raced as I tried to focus. The chaos around me was surreal, my mind struggling to catch up with the urgency of the moment. I could hear the shuffling sounds of my bunkmates getting ready too, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was racing them to the bunker, like an unannounced competition. As I was about to leave, it struck me that it was still the middle of the night, and I quickly scrambled for my night vision goggles. I rifled through my rucksack, and for the first time since deployment training, I slipped them on. I was anxious but determined, knowing they would give me the edge I needed in the darkness.

I was the first to leave the room. My boots slapped against the concrete as I sprinted down the 20-yard-long alleyway that led to the bunker. As I ran, I realized the profound isolation of the situation. The world around me, once familiar and routine, was now shrouded in darkness. My mind raced as I adjusted to the weight of my gear and the unfamiliar world illuminated by the eerie green glow of the night vision goggles.

The nighttime in Afghanistan was profound in its darkness. Outside Kabul, streetlights were a rarity, and most homes were lit only by candles or oil lamps. The military base I was on followed strict blackout conditions. No white lights were allowed to prevent enemy detection, so we had to use red or green lights for basic tasks. My night vision goggles, which amplified the faintest ambient light, turned the world into a grainy green landscape. It was disorienting but essential, and as I stumbled through the unfamiliar, I couldn’t help but feel more isolated than ever before.

When I reached the bunker, I had a brief sense of relief. I was the first to arrive, my chest heaving with the rush of adrenaline. Inside, there were only two unknown Afghan interpreters huddling for cover. I had “won” the race, or so I thought. But as I crouched down, my eyes scanned the dark corners of the shelter, and I realized with mounting unease that nobody else had followed. Where was everyone else? My mind raced as panic began to set in.

I left the shelter in haste, exiting the bunker into the disorienting chaos of the night. The sounds of battle filled the air—automatic gunfire, loud booms, and the constant explosion of distant mortar rounds. I retraced my steps down the alleyway toward the sleeping quarters, but there was no sign of my fellow advisors. I checked our room—empty. The world felt smaller and more detached, and I felt my isolation grow with each passing second.

I thought perhaps the others had gone to the Afghan Army side of the base to help coordinate the defense, so I rushed through the small open gate, hoping to find someone. On the other side, I saw Afghan soldiers running around, heading toward a shipping container to grab more ammunition. My night vision goggles illuminated the scene, but there was no one I recognized. It was like I had stepped into a different world—one where I was a stranger, unseen by the Afghan soldiers and entirely alone.

As tracer rounds streaked overhead, I felt the vulnerability of being in the open. Each tracer was followed by four regular bullets that I couldn’t see. My fear heightened with every flash, and I knew I couldn’t stay out there for long. I needed to find my team. I turned and ran back toward the U.S. compound, but instead of retracing my steps down the alley, I headed for the parking area where our gun trucks were stationed. As I neared the small lot, I saw one of the trucks running with a U.S. soldier loading the machine gun on top. A wave of relief washed over me. I had found someone—finally. But the truck was about to leave, which meant the gate needed to be unlocked. I ran back toward the entrance, my sense of urgency growing.

Locked In

The padlock on the gate was a simple barrier, but it might as well have been an insurmountable obstacle. The night vision goggles made it impossible to see the numbers on the lock, and my frustration began to boil over. I didn’t have my flashlight, the one tool I needed to solve the problem. Normally, I kept it in my battle uniform jacket pocket, but I was wearing my physical fitness uniform, which had no such pocket.

I struggled with the lock, panic rising as I felt the pressure of the gun truck moving closer. Then, Larson—a fellow Wisconsin advisor—arrived with a flashlight. Together, we managed to unlock the padlock just in time for the gun truck to pass through the gate.

But no sooner had we opened it than a massive explosion rattled the ground beneath us. The shockwave hit hard, and Larson muttered something about the size of the blast. For a brief moment, I tried to brush it off, telling him it was likely the Afghan Army firing their artillery. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. The Afghan Army didn’t have the capability to launch such a heavy bombardment, and my statement felt hollow, even to me.

We quickly moved toward the operations center, the heart of our coordination efforts. The atmosphere was chaotic—people shouting over radios, coordinating movements, trying to make sense of the unfolding attack. As I stood near the door, it struck me that I was the only one in shorts and a t-shirt. Everyone else was in full battle gear. Nobody asked where I had come from or why I was dressed the way I was. I felt like an outsider in my own unit.

One of the leaders called for volunteers to move more gun trucks to the outer perimeter. Despite my attire, I was directed to a truck and assigned as the driver. As I drove with two brigade advisors to a position on the eastern perimeter, the gunfire and explosions had slowed. The silence that followed was almost as unsettling as the chaos before it.

The attack had lasted about 40 minutes, involving around 30 mortar rounds, rocket-propelled grenades, and machine-gun fire from various directions. The damage was mostly contained to some plywood structures, though the treadmill we used for exercise was destroyed. The randomness of it all struck me. Nothing was sacred in war—not even a treadmill. The attack made me realize just how unprepared I was, despite my desire to project an image of a seasoned officer.

We had a short team meeting the following day about what happened but ended up being a discussion to establish a combat advisor night watch, or base security force. There was discussion on a group of advisors went to the top of the restrooms to set up observation, a group of combat advisors set up the operations center, and another group of advisors responded in the gun trucks. During this attack, my first actual engagement, I realized I was unprepared. I intended to make a good impression with my new team. Beginning the next day, I made double sure that my uniform and equipment were laid out in a particular order.

Afghan Police

On July 9th, I could feel the excitement building as my leave period to go home for two weeks was fast approaching, so I spent most of the day packing and preparing for the much-needed break. However, just as I was starting to relax, a mission came up. It wasn’t anything major—just a short operation from 9:00 to 11:00 pm to search some mud-walled Afghan homes south of our base. Intelligence had indicated that there might be a weapons cache hidden in one of the homes. It was a standard search mission, and I assisted the Afghan Army platoon leader with perimeter security. We returned to base, and I was still looking forward to my leave, hoping that the night would stay uneventful.

But around midnight, everything changed. We were alerted that we needed to respond as a quick reaction force to an enemy attack on an Afghan Police station located on the border between Ghazni and Paktika provinces. The situation was urgent, and the attack was ongoing. The mission quickly escalated as we gathered our gear and formed our team. The plan was simple: link up with Afghan Police elements in Sharana and rush to the aid of the Afghan Police station under attack. Our mission would consist of six combat advisors in two trucks and approximately 24 Afghan Army soldiers in their pickups. We didn’t have much time. We needed to leave immediately.

I was behind the wheel of one of the gun trucks, Ressler was manning the heavy machine gun, Steward was in the front passenger seat, and our interpreter, Obie, was in the rear passenger seat. As soon as we were loaded up, Ressler set up the machine gun while I focused on conducting radio checks. Steward worked with the Afghan Army soldiers, getting them into position. Our gun truck had just received a new electronic countermeasures system, which was crucial for the mission, but it also posed a problem. The system would interfere with our radio signals, so it was essential that I completed the radio checks before activating it. Once everything was ready, we received the directive: "Go, go, go!" The mission was on, and we didn’t hesitate. I activated the electronic countermeasures and we rolled out of base.

Two Afghan Police pickups were waiting for us on the main road in Sharana, ready to help guide us to the Afghan Police station. One of the infrastructure projects in the area was the paving of roads, and the route from Sharana to Ghazni was almost complete. We were able to drive at a reasonable speed, bypassing barricades and heading down the newly paved road. The smoothness of the ride was a sharp contrast to the tension building inside the vehicle. Not far past the barriers, we came across an Afghan policeman who had abandoned his weapon and was fleeing from the Afghan Police station. He jumped into the back of one of the Afghan Police pickups, visibly shaken.

As we paused, Ressler noticed that we had lost sight of the other gun truck. We tried to establish radio contact with them, but the electronic countermeasures had most likely interfered with the signals. Despite the issue, we decided to continue the mission with the countermeasures still on. I drove on, using my night vision goggles, but soon found it hard to see clearly. A bright light ahead of us was washing out my night vision, making it difficult to make out the road. Without the night vision, there wasn’t enough visible light to see, and with it, the glare was blinding. It was a precarious situation, but we pressed forward.

Steward made the decision to dismount and take a linear approach with the Afghan Army soldiers and Afghan Police. He wanted to get everyone into position, but as he did, Ressler discovered another issue: our heavy machine gun, which was supposed to be ready for action, didn’t have the required headspace and timing mechanism to operate properly. It was a critical malfunction, and the gun could only fire one round at a time. Despite this, we pushed on, moving slowly as the Afghan Army soldiers began firing their AK-47s, sending tracer rounds into the night sky. They also launched a couple of rocket-propelled grenades, which flew in the general direction of the bright light ahead of us.

The AK-47 tracers fired in what I can only describe as the "Inshalla" method—aiming upwards without real precision—were not close to their target. After a brief but intense volley, the shooting stopped, and everything fell eerily quiet. The silence lingered as we slowly continued our approach toward the light and, eventually, the Afghan Police station. As we arrived, the scene was chaotic but not unexpected. The enemy had already withdrawn. The police station building was riddled with bullet holes, and one of the Afghan Police pickups was on fire, also heavily damaged by gunfire.

When we arrived, we were soon joined by the other gun truck. The combat advisors in that vehicle had feared the worst when they couldn’t reach us over the radio. They had seen the fire and the tracers and had assumed we were in the middle of a firefight. Fortunately, we were all safe. We established an overwatch with our gun truck while the Afghan Army conducted a sweep of the area. The immediate threat was gone, but the damage to the Afghan Police station was evident.

The following day, we conducted another patrol to assess the battle damage. The attack had left its mark and the mission had been chaotic, intense, and far from what I had expected when I first set out that night. It had reminded me, once again, how quickly things could change and how much we depended on each other in the face of danger.

Home, Sweet Home

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." – Mark Twain

It took me 42 days to complete what was supposed to be a two-week leave, a journey marked by the unpredictability and constant delays that came with traveling in Afghanistan. Travel planning in a combat zone was always a calculated gamble—everything depended on the whims of convoy schedules, flight delays, and the unpredictability of the battlefield. What should have been a straightforward, two-week process turned into an ordeal as I navigated the maze of logistical hurdles that came with deployment travel.

Outbound

I started my journey on July 16th with a convoy to Zormat, a small, remote outpost where I would switch to another convoy bound for Gardez. By the time I reached Gardez, I was already exhausted, and the journey was only beginning. I spent a couple of days in Gardez, waiting for the next leg of my journey to unfold, surrounded by the noise and bustle of soldiers, contractors, and vehicles.

From Gardez, I boarded yet another convoy; this one headed for Camp Phoenix in Kabul. The convoy itself was relatively uneventful, but the mounting exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. I had come to terms with the fact that the flexibility of my schedule was something that belonged only to those fortunate enough to be on a "normal" leave. For the rest of us, "leave" was a series of calculated steps, each one subject to unpredictable variables—weather, insurgent activity, and logistical nightmares.

Finally, on July 20th, I boarded an armored Suburban with a group of contractors bound for Bagram. The contractors were seasoned veterans of the region, and their nonchalance provided a strange contrast to my own unease. In the back of that Suburban, I finally allowed myself to exhale a bit, knowing that I was closer to the end of the journey. But the comfort was fleeting—traveling through Afghanistan was never a simple task, especially when trying to move between bases or airports.

Every leg of my journey had been filled with a mix of anticipation, exhaustion, and frustration. Bagram was the hub for so many operations and flights, but the idea of reaching the airport didn’t bring the same sense of relief I had expected. While I had made it this far, there was still a long wait ahead, with the final leg of my journey still uncertain. The constant delays, the back-and-forth between bases, the unforeseen setbacks, all added layers of fatigue to an already taxing experience.

By the time I finally arrived at Bagram, the journey had taken a toll—not just physically, but mentally as well. Even as I stood at Bagram, the culmination of my long journey, I knew that the next steps would be filled with more waiting, more uncertainty, and more delays. It was a reality of life in a war zone that few could truly comprehend.

The flight from Bagram to Kuwait on July 22nd was unlike any other journey I had experienced. We boarded a C-17 jet cargo plane that had been retrofitted with passenger seats—practical, but far from luxurious. The interior was cramped and utilitarian, with little to distract from the unsettling knowledge that this was a military transport, not a commercial flight. Despite the unremarkable setting, the flight itself was surprisingly smooth. The usual turbulence was absent, and I began to think that perhaps the worst was behind me, that the ordeal of travel was nearing its end. But that was far from the case.

As we approached Kuwait, everything shifted. The pilot executed a combat landing—a maneuver designed to quickly and safely get the aircraft on the ground in hostile territory. My stomach lurched as the plane dipped and swooped. The sharp drops and tight, sudden turns creating a disorienting, rollercoaster-like sensation. The roar of the engines seemed to amplify the tension in the cabin, and I could hear the nervous murmurs of my fellow passengers. In those moments, the reality of war and the dangers of the air above seemed to press in on me. It felt as if we were hurtling towards the ground at breakneck speed, every second fraught with uncertainty. But the crew remained calm, their practiced efficiency offering a silent assurance that this was part of the plan and had extra vomit bags handy.

When the wheels finally touched down with a hard thud, the relief was short-lived. The pilot's voice came over the intercom, informing us in a matter-of-fact tone that the outside temperature was a blistering 124°F at 4:30 pm. As the plane's doors opened, I could almost feel the heat before stepping into it. The rush of hot, dry air hit me like a wall—a searing blast, akin to stepping directly into the blast of a blow dryer. The extreme heat enveloped me instantly, making it hard to breathe as the sweat began to bead up on my skin. I wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the exhaustion from the long journey that made my head spin, but everything around me seemed to shimmer in the oppressive warmth.

Even though I had heard about the extreme temperatures in Kuwait, nothing prepared me for the reality of experiencing it. I could almost feel the sweat evaporating from my body the instant it made contact with the air, and every breath felt like inhaling hot, dry sand. As I gathered my gear and made my way off the tarmac, I couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could get used to this kind of environment. But it wasn’t the heat that dominated my thoughts—it was the strangeness of the smooth flight followed by a chaotic and intense arrival.

The next day, we boarded a civilian flight to Atlanta, Georgia, marking a sharp contrast to the rugged, military transport we had become accustomed to. The plane was filled with the hum of typical airport chatter and the occasional clink of a coffee cup. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, we had a two-hour layover in Germany, a brief moment to stretch my legs and gather my bearings. It was strange to be on solid ground and out of the constant, unpredictable rush of military life. The terminal was a sterile blend of modern amenities and corporate efficiency—so different from the rough, makeshift atmosphere I had gotten used to in the combat zone. For a moment, it almost felt like I was escaping a distant memory, though I knew it was just a temporary reprieve.

After a short time, we were back on a plane heading for Atlanta, the final leg of a journey that had been nearly a weeklong. The flight was smooth, but the anticipation of returning home left me in a daze. As we descended toward the United States, the landscape below looked almost too vibrant, too familiar. It was as if I were seeing the world through a foggy lens, struggling to comprehend the stark contrast between the austere environments I had just left behind and the comforts of home.

Home

On July 24th, I finally arrived back in Milwaukee. Stepping off the plane, the cool, clean air felt refreshing, almost overwhelming after the dry heat and the constantly oppressive atmosphere of the desert. When I finally spotted my wife in the crowd, everything else seemed to blur away. The long separation, the grueling travel, the overwhelming exhaustion—all of it melted away in that moment. Her smile, the warmth of her embrace, the sense of being grounded again, made everything feel worth it. There, in the bustling airport, it was as if time had stood still, and the only thing that mattered was that we were finally together again. The reunion was filled with a joy so pure that it felt like a new beginning, a chance to reconnect, to step into the familiar rhythms of home. As we walked together out of the terminal, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief—relief that I was home, finally, after everything.

The roads were fast, the traffic light, and the grass—oh, the grass—was so green it looked almost unreal. It was a world I hadn’t experienced in months, and yet, it felt strangely distant, like I was a stranger in my own land. I had grown accustomed to the dusty roads, the arid landscape, and the disorienting sense of urgency that came with every mission. But here, everything was calm and peaceful in comparison. Despite being fatigued, physically exhausted from days of travel, and feeling less-than-clean from the grime of long flights and the constant motion of moving from one location to another, there was something inherently soothing about the simplicity of home. The roads weren’t pocketed with craters, the buildings weren’t fortified, and there was no constant hum of generators or the ever-present sound of distant gunfire. For the first time in a long time, it seemed like the world was quiet, and my mind could finally catch up.

We had several special events lined up, each one designed to give us the chance to unwind and reconnect with the familiar joys of home. One of the first adventures was a trip to Wisconsin Dells and Mt. Olympus Waterpark, a perfect mix of thrills and relaxation. We tried our hand at jet boats, slicing through the water at high speeds with the wind in our faces. The adrenaline rush was something I hadn’t felt in months, and it was a welcome change from the constant tension of deployment. Later, we found ourselves laughing over mini-golf, a simple pleasure that felt almost too easy after the chaos we’d left behind.

It wasn’t just the activities, though. It was the simple things that brought a sense of peace—things I had taken for granted before. Green grass and trees, lush and vibrant, something I hadn’t seen in so long. The kind of greenery that only comes from a place where the soil is rich and the air is fresh. Modern cars, sleek and fast-moving, traveling on highways that were smooth and effortless. The hum of the road beneath me felt like a quiet luxury after months of bouncing over dirt roads in dusty military vehicles. The rush of speed, the freedom to move at my own pace, was a subtle reminder of how far I had come.

I had always been someone who appreciated the simple pleasures of life, but after months of deprivation and uncertainty, they took on a new meaning. The things I had once overlooked—green grass, fast highways, a private bathroom—suddenly became symbols of normalcy, of home, and of peace. It wasn’t just about the luxury of comfort; it was about the return to a life that I could control, where I could find moments of calm amidst the chaos.

As we continued to explore and enjoy these comforts, I found myself more and more grateful for everything I had returned to. The reunion with my wife, the freedom of civilian life, and the small everyday pleasures that had been missing for so long. Each of these moments felt like a gift, a reminder of how much I had fought for, and how much I had to be thankful for. After all the uncertainty and the hardships of deployment, these simple joys became a form of healing—a quiet celebration of life’s more peaceful moments.

My family had planned a day of adventure on the water, and we set out on a pontoon boat ride through the serene waters of the Chain-o-Lakes. Afterwards, my wife and I went to Door County and we stayed at a resort to celebrate our anniversary, nestled among the trees with a view of the water, and I took in the calm of it all, knowing I was fortunate to be back in such a beautiful place after the intensity of combat zones.

I even had the chance to try jet skiing for the first time, and it was an experience I would never forget. I drove the jet ski around Sturgeon Bay, the hum of the engine beneath me as I admired the "tall ships" drifting along the waterway. But as we neared the end of our ride, I made the mistake of trying to take a sharp turn while going too slow, and the next thing I knew, we were flipping over into the water.

At that moment, the world slowed down. As I hit the water, I realized that the dry compartment on the jet ski, meant to keep my belongings safe, was far from waterproof when submerged. I frantically reached for my bag, and in the process, I discovered that my digital camera had somehow survived the mishap. Though wet, it was still intact, and I managed to salvage it. I couldn't help but laugh at my own clumsiness as we clambered back onto the jet ski, but it was all part of the adventure.

When we returned to shore, the mishap became the stuff of family jokes, but it didn't diminish the beauty of the experience. We spent more time at the Wisconsin State Fair, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of all the familiar sights—the deep-fried foods, the rides, and the livestock exhibits that always made me feel like summer had truly arrived.

And then, there were fireworks at Riverfest in Watertown. The sky exploded with color, and the crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed as each burst lit up the night. I wanted to enjoy the moment fully, to bask in the joy and wonder of it, but I couldn't help the lingering unease. After experiencing real explosions not long before, it was hard to quiet the instinctual reaction that made me tense at every flash and boom. The sound of the fireworks, so familiar and festive to everyone else, reminded me too much of the chaos and danger I had left behind.

In-Bound

On the morning of August 9th, I boarded my flight back to Atlanta. This time, saying goodbye to my wife was much harder. The transition back to deployment felt more daunting than it had before. When military personnel return from leave, they gather at the USO office in Atlanta, where we are paraded through the airport, greeted with applause and cheers. After a chartered flight from Atlanta, through Germany, and finally to Kuwait, I spent two days there due to flight cancellations before heading back to Bagram on August 12th.

At Bagram, I was bumped off my scheduled Chinook flight, which left me stuck in transient status for over a week. The days blurred together as I passed the time walking around the base, observing the steady hum of activity, and finding refuge in the USO. Some soldiers opted to sleep; others dove into books, but for me, sitting still felt like a luxury I couldn't afford. I spent hours wandering the corridors, unable to shake the restlessness that came from the uncertainty of my travel plans. I watched movies to distract myself, but even that felt fleeting—a temporary escape from the monotony of waiting.

The days stretched on, each one feeling a bit longer than the last. But, like all things in the military, my time in limbo eventually came to an end. At 2:30 am on August 21st, the long-awaited moment arrived. A Chinook helicopter was ready to take me back to Sharana. The thought of finally leaving Bagram behind was a relief, but there was an underlying excitement that stirred within me as I prepared to board the massive aircraft.

Chinooks are truly impressive machines. The CH-47 is a twin-engine, tandem-rotor, heavy-lift helicopter that is as powerful as it is versatile. It can carry 40 soldiers or an astonishing 24,000 pounds of cargo, making it an invaluable asset in combat zones. Designed to perform exceptionally well at high altitudes, the Chinook has earned a reputation for its resilience in challenging conditions—conditions like those I was about to face. As we lifted off, the vibrations of the rotors beneath me reverberated through the cabin, a powerful reminder of the helicopter’s raw strength.

Despite the fatigue from the days of waiting, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe as we soared through the air. The journey to Sharana, though still a helicopter ride, felt like a fresh start. The turbulence of waiting, of being stuck in limbo, had faded into the background. I was moving again, headed toward a new destination, and for the first time in days, I felt a small sense of peace settle over me.

Pir Kowti Planning

Upon my return to Sharana, Ressler and I dove straight into artillery training. It felt good to be back in a familiar routine, sharpening my skills and focusing on the task at hand. However, just as I began to settle into the rhythm of things, Ressler's leave was scheduled, leaving me to handle things on my own for a while. While I had grown accustomed to the ebb and flow of assignments during deployment, this shift marked the beginning of a new chapter. I was soon tasked with supporting a mission that would take me away from the training grounds and into a far more unpredictable situation.

The Afghan Army soldiers stationed in Orgun-E were planning a large-scale sweep mission in the Pir Kowti Valley, a region known for its difficult terrain and the presence of insurgent forces. The mission was to be a joint operation, supported by Task Force Catamount and the Afghan Army brigade headquarters. It was a complex and high-stakes undertaking that would require precise coordination and careful planning. The stakes felt higher now—this mission would be a test of both our strategic planning and the relationships we had forged with the Afghan forces.

On August 29th, we departed for a two-night planning session, our minds set on finalizing the details of the operation. The journey was long and grueling, but as we made our way toward Orgun-E. During those two days of planning, the atmosphere was intense. We pored over maps, strategized every possible route, and coordinated the logistics of what would be a complex, multi-pronged assault. The coalition forces would be working side by side with the Afghan Army, but there were challenges that would arise from this partnership—language barriers, cultural differences, and the unpredictable nature of the terrain itself. We spent countless hours refining every detail, knowing that success depended on flawless execution.

As we sat around the makeshift tables, exchanging ideas with our Afghan counterparts, I felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. While we were focused on tactical considerations, there was a more profound sense of duty beneath the surface. We weren’t just planning a mission—we were part of something larger. This operation was about shaping the future, about establishing trust and demonstrating that Afghan forces could take the lead in maintaining security.

The planning session was exhausting, but it was necessary. Every minute spent refining our approach was one step closer to ensuring the success of the operation. By the time we were ready to return to Sharana, I knew that the real work was just beginning.

The next day, while the headquarters staff remained deep in their planning sessions, I was assigned a different, equally critical task. I joined an Afghan Army infantry battalion advisor team to conduct traffic control points (TCPs) along a key route. The weather was relentless, with heavy rain pouring down as we set out. The dampness soaked through my gear, but the work had to be done. The Afghan Army soldiers were accustomed to such conditions, and their resilience was evident in their no-nonsense approach to the task at hand.

Muddy IEDs

The convoy was escorted by route clearance support, a necessary precaution when operating in an area known for its IED (Improvised Explosive Device) threat. The rain only compounded the danger, making it harder for both the enemy and our team to spot hidden threats in the muddy landscape. As we moved forward, the route clearance team identified a series of roadside bombs, each one carefully placed along our path. With precision and expertise, they safely neutralized eight separate IEDs, each detonation sending shockwaves through the air. The blasts were loud and thunderous, a reminder of the persistent threat lurking on every road, but each successful neutralization made the return to Orgun-E that much safer.

Still, the process was time-consuming. Every device had to be carefully located and rendered safe, which stretched our timeline considerably. The rain, too, made everything more challenging. It turned the roads into slippery, soupy messes, further slowing our progress. What should have been a routine return to Orgun-E became a drawn-out journey, with each minute feeling like an eternity.

As the convoy pressed on, the constant threat of roadside bombs was never far from our minds. We had to maintain vigilance at all times—traffic control points were a small but crucial part of the larger security efforts, but the enemy was always looking for ways to disrupt our operations. Every corner, every seemingly innocuous stretch of road, held the potential for danger.

Eventually, after what felt like an endless series of delays, we completed the security sweep and began our convoy back to Sharana. The journey was exhausting—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The damp clothes weighed heavy on my shoulders, but it was the constant awareness of the dangers we faced that kept me on edge. As we finally entered the safe zone of the base, I couldn’t shake the images of the IEDs we had encountered, each one a stark reminder of the fragility of life in this environment.

During our absence from Sharana, the base underwent a notable upgrade. A mobile kitchen trailer had arrived, along with two US Navy food service personnel tasked with preparing meals for the troops. This new addition was a welcome change, especially after weeks of relying on makeshift outdoor grilling methods. Though I didn’t get to fully enjoy the benefits of the kitchen trailer, as I was often away between missions, the simple fact that it existed was a morale booster for everyone on base. For the first time in what felt like ages, we didn’t have to deal with the usual rotations of cooking duties or struggle with limited resources. The convenience of having a proper kitchen—complete with a stove, refrigerator, and a variety of ingredients—was a luxury we had all come to appreciate, even if I could only experience it in fleeting moments.

Air Assault

I spent only two nights in Sharana before it was time to head back to Orgun-E for the Pir Kowti mission. The brief respite was welcome, but the next task loomed large, and I had to refocus my mind on the mission ahead. The operation in Pir Kowti Valley was a large-scale effort, and this time, I was involved in a specialized role. Upon arrival, I was eager to get involved in every aspect of the operation, especially when I received a brief class from Task Force Catamount’s mortar section on the 120mm mortar. The mortar, an essential piece of artillery in our arsenal, had been a subject of interest for me ever since I joined the team, and I was eager to witness it in action and, ideally, fire a round myself.

Steward and I were assigned as combat advisors for a group of 15 Afghan Army soldiers, tasked with providing security for the mortar section during the operation. This meant that our focus would not only be on ensuring the safety of the mortar crews but also securing the surrounding area in what could be a high-risk environment. The plan was to execute a tactical maneuver known as an air assault—our security element and the mortar section would be airlifted by Chinook helicopters onto a mountaintop just outside the sweep area. From this vantage point, we could establish an effective defensive perimeter while the sweep mission was underway.

The operation’s timeline was tight. After being inserted onto the mountain, our team would remain in position for a couple of days, providing security and ensuring that the mortar section could operate without interruption. The mountain’s altitude would provide a tactical advantage, allowing us to control access to the valley below, but it also presented its own set of challenges. The isolation, the rugged terrain, and the unpredictable nature of the enemy's movements would require constant vigilance.

The air assault would be a thrilling part of the mission. The idea of being transported by Chinook helicopters—one of the most iconic and powerful aircraft in the military's arsenal—added an adrenaline-fueled element to the operation. As we prepared for the mission, I couldn’t help but think back to the previous experiences that had led me to this point. Every operation, every step, and every challenge had shaped me into a combat advisor capable of guiding Afghan soldiers through operations like this.

As we set our plans in motion, the excitement of the mission was tempered by the realization of the dangers ahead. Our job was to advise and guide the Afghan Army, but we also had to be prepared to act if things went awry. Every operation, no matter how well-planned, had its risks. But in the end, the goal was simple: to accomplish the mission, maintain the safety of our forces, and help the Afghan Army strengthen its operational capabilities.

The evening air was thick with anticipation as the Afghan Army soldiers practiced their entry and exit drills on the back ramp of the Chinook helicopter. The repetition was vital, as every movement needed to be precise during the upcoming air assault. I watched with a mix of admiration and impatience as the soldiers honed their skills. I was eager to get into position, to see the operation unfold and finally get my hands dirty in the mission I had been preparing for. By the time we took off from Orgun-E after dark, the sense of urgency and focus in the air was palpable.

The flight was brief—just a couple of miles—but the Chinooks took their time, circling the area several times before landing. This deception was a standard tactic, designed to confuse any potential enemy watching from below and to ensure that we could secure our landing zone without interference. As the helicopter’s powerful engines hummed in the night, I could feel my body tense with anticipation. The wind from the rotor blades whipped through the aircraft, adding to the surreal feeling of the moment.

By the time the Chinook finally touched down, my legs had gone numb from crouching on my rucksack near the ramp. The hard metal of the Chinook’s interior, combined with the awkward position I had been forced into during the flight, left me momentarily disoriented. I had to shake off the discomfort quickly, focusing on the mission at hand. There was no room for hesitation, no time to dwell on the aches or soreness that accompanied the long journey here.

As we disembarked, the confusion on the ground was immediate. The Afghan Army security element was supposed to be inserted first, but as we landed, it became clear that mortar section were already in position. This miscommunication was frustrating, but not unexpected in the chaos of combat operations. My mind raced through contingency plans as I tried to organize the team, but the fog of war made it difficult to see the full picture.

Steward quickly took charge of the situation. He wasn’t rattled by the disorganization; instead, he moved with purpose, directing the Afghan soldiers to their designated positions in order to ensure perimeter security. His leadership in this moment was a relief. I fell into my role, setting up our own positions to cover the Pir Kowti Valley. The mountain range stretched out beneath us, and the quiet of the night was unsettling. It was hard to believe that just hours before, we had been in the midst of the roar of Chinook engines and the anticipation of the assault. Now, the only sounds were the distant howls of the wind and the occasional shifting of our team as we got into position.

Stay Alert - Stay Alive

Over the next two days, our task was simple: maintain alertness and keep the perimeter secure. The valley below us was expansive, and it felt as though our eyes could never take in enough of the surrounding terrain. We conducted periodic spot checks, making sure that the Afghan Army soldiers were awake, alert, and focused on their surroundings. The responsibility was constant. Every rustle in the brush, every distant sound, could be a threat.

As the days passed, the tension remained thick. We were far from the security of our base, surrounded by rugged terrain, and the ever-present threat of enemy combatants lurking in the shadows. But there was also a sense of quiet pride in the work we were doing. We were teaching the Afghan soldiers how to be effective in the field, how to secure their own country, and how to hold their ground in the face of adversity.

The mission unfolded slowly, like a stretched-out moment in time. Most of it was uneventful, with the mortar section only firing a single illumination round on the first morning to light up the valley below us. It was a quiet, almost anticlimactic start. The Afghan soldiers, while vigilant, seemed to settle into a routine as the hours passed. One soldier, perhaps eager for some distraction, showed me how to pick seeds from an unknown plant. I watched him with mild curiosity, trying to push the gnawing boredom from my mind. The landscape was beautiful but stark, offering little in terms of excitement or change.

Steward and I took turns keeping watch, our eyes constantly scanning the rugged terrain for any signs of movement, any indication that the enemy was watching or waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The stress of the situation left little room for sleep. Over the course of 60 hours, I managed only five hours of rest, and even then, it was fitful at best. The constant awareness of the mission, the need to be ready at any moment, made it nearly impossible to fully relax.

By the time we extracted from the mountaintop on the second day, I was drained, both physically and mentally. It had been a tense, exhausting two days, but it was over. We boarded the Chinooks for the return trip, and as soon as I stepped off the helicopter and into the familiar surroundings of our base, I crashed into bed. My body ached from the constant alertness, and sleep came in a flood, claiming me almost immediately.

Alive

On September 8th, we conducted a convoy to return to Sharana with 13 Afghan Army pickups and three gun trucks. Positioned in the middle of the convoy, I served as the medium machine gunner, while Steward drove, and two brigade advisors joined us as passengers. We left Orgun-E mid-morning under a blazing sun, the heat radiating off the dry, rugged terrain. Despite our exhaustion, there was a collective sense of accomplishment—our air assault mission had been successful, and spirits were high.

Typically, when my sergeant and I went on missions, we preferred to keep the radios on speakers rather than use the intercom system. But on this convoy, Steward insisted on using the intercom, so we both wore headsets. To help keep myself entertained and alert, I slipped in my earbuds and played music softly on my iPod. Alanis Morissette was playing when the monotony of the two-hour drive was shattered by a deafening explosion.

The blast came out of nowhere. One second, we were navigating a dusty dirt road through rugged hills, rounding a slight curve. Next, the world erupted. The sound was so violent it seemed to swallow everything, leaving only chaos in its wake. The vehicle jolted violently, shaking me to my core. For a moment, it felt as if time had frozen. I found myself lowered in the turret - thinking that I must have ducked to avoid the blast. In reality, the massive concussive blast knocked me out for a second. Steward stated he had asked if I was okay three times before I responded.

When I peeked over the top of the back hatch, my heart dropped. A massive cloud of grey and black smoke billowed into the sky behind us. Steward’s voice crackled through the intercom, asking if I was okay. Disoriented and struggling to process what had just happened, I responded in confusion, “I don’t see anyone behind us.” My mind raced—had we been hit? Was the explosion meant for us? The radio was alive with frantic chatter, and Steward made the call to stop the gun truck and head back toward the blast site.

As we turned around, thoughts of secondary explosions and hidden threats filled my mind. Someone over the radio mentioned a possible triggerman in the area. Steward barked at me to charge the medium machine gun, and I quickly loaded it, though I had no idea where to aim. The disorientation was palpable, but I knew I had to be ready for anything.

When we reached the explosion site, the air was thick with acrid smoke and the gut-wrenching stench of burning rubber, charred flesh, and dust. Debris was scattered everywhere. A twisted Afghan Army pickup lay overturned behind a boulder, its hood blown clean off. A small crater marked the point of the explosion. Beside it, the lifeless body of an Afghan soldier lay crumpled on the ground. The sight was surreal and horrifying—a stark reminder of the violence we faced daily.

The other combat advisors and Afghan soldiers rushed to the destroyed vehicle, combat lifesaver bags in hand. Steward directed one of the officer advisors to work with the Afghan soldiers to establish a security perimeter. Meanwhile, I stayed with the machine gun, scanning the surroundings for any sign of a threat. The severity of the destruction left me in disbelief. I had been so close to that blast, and yet here I was, unharmed. Was it luck? Was it my position in the vehicle? I couldn’t shake the thought that it could have easily been me.

Medical assessments were grim. The injuries were severe, and it was clear that some of the soldiers wouldn’t survive without immediate evacuation. Steward worked quickly, setting up a portable satellite radio antenna to contact Orgun-E and request a medevac. Despite the challenging terrain and spotty communication, he managed to get through and relay our situation. I took over the radio, coordinating with the medevac team and confirming the landing zone while remaining vigilant at the machine gun.

When the Blackhawk helicopter finally arrived, there was a brief sense of relief. The wounded were loaded, but the reality was sobering—despite our efforts, not everyone could be saved. Among the casualties was the Afghan Brigade Command Sergeant Major, a loss that sent shockwaves through the unit.

As the medevac departed, the cleanup began. Afghan soldiers used other pickups to drag the wreckage closer to the road. Concern lingered about secondary roadside bombs, and we called for Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) support from the Sharana Provincial Reconstruction Team. Hours later, the EOD team confirmed our fears: two additional explosive devices were buried near the crater. The team safely detonated the devices in place, and a jingle truck arrived to haul away the mangled vehicle.

It was a long afternoon in the hot sun and I thought my headache was from not drinking enough water during all the excitement. There wasn't the awareness of mild traumatic brain injuries during that timeframe. Before we returned to our base in Sharana, our gun truck broke away to stop at the Sharana Provincial Reconstruction Team. There, a contractor downloaded our countermeasure system’s data. He explained that the roadside bomb had been remotely triggered, but our electronic countermeasures delayed the detonation until the bomb was outside the “protective bubble.” While the system had saved our lives, it hadn’t been enough to protect the vehicle behind us.

That night, as I reflected on the events of the day, the weight of what had happened began to sink in. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving me with a mix of gratitude and guilt. I may or may not have indulged in a restricted beverage to steady my nerves. The loss of the Afghan Brigade Command Sergeant Major was a harsh reminder of the unpredictable and unforgiving nature of combat.

Keep Moving

Within 48 hours, we were back to preparing for the next mission. The brief respite was just enough time to clean weapons, inspect vehicles, and catch a few hours of restless sleep. The road ahead remained dangerous, but there was no time to dwell on the past. The mission always came first.

The battalion team leader gathered us the day after our rest, providing a briefing that once again turned our focus back to the mission at hand. Intelligence had surfaced indicating that a suicide bomber was targeting the local Afghan district governor, someone of significant importance in the region. While the potential for a civilian casualty was a cause for concern, what unsettled me even more was the looming threat of another attack on our base. The governor’s complex, where the intelligence suggested he would be, was located next door to our headquarters. It wasn’t just a potential threat—it was nearly on our doorstep.

The weight of that news settled over me like a heavy cloak. Our base was already a target—being so close to an Afghan government official only made us a more obvious target. I could feel the tension ripple through the team. We had barely recovered from the roadside bomb attack, and now this new threat loomed large, adding to the constant stress of our daily lives in this volatile environment.

We began our preparations again, quickly transitioning from the brief moment of respite back into full mission mode. The thought of the suicide bomber targeting the governor sent a wave of urgency through me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the threat was more imminent than we’d like to believe. The sense of danger was palpable, the uncertainty of what would come next gnawing at us as we geared up for another operation.

To mitigate the threat, the battalion team leader organized us into four groups for a mission he called a "check-patrol-bush." I had never heard of such a mission before, but the idea seemed straightforward: it would combine elements of a presence patrol, a checkpoint, and an ambush. Sergeant Advisor Glidden and I would lead the main element, supported by Obie and the gun truck with the medium machine gun, along with 15 Afghan Army soldiers in three pickups. The second group, led by two other advisors, would make up the quick reaction force, supported by 30 Afghan soldiers. Meanwhile, two more advisors would depart the base and set up an overwatch position on Bataana Hill, a small hill just a few hundred yards northwest of our base. From this vantage point, they’d be able to spot traffic from several miles away. Our battalion team leader remained back at the base, monitoring the radios.

The mission was straightforward in theory. We would depart the base after dark with our lights on, making a presence patrol down the dry riverbed. After about a mile, we would switch off our lights, enter silent mode, and set up for an ambush. The checkpoint team would then jump out, assessing whether the vehicles approaching were friend or foe. If they were enemies, the ambush team would spring into action.

Check-Patrol-Bush

Though I was an artillery officer, my role was not in infantry tactics, and I was uncertain of the exact nature of the operation. Glidden, as the sergeant combat advisor to the headquarters company, had more experience, but neither of us had worked with the Afghan Army reconnaissance commander or his soldiers before. Nonetheless, we proceeded with the mission briefing and conducted pre-combat checks with the Afghan soldiers after dinner. By 7:30 p.m., we were ready to move out.

With our lights on, we drove south down the dry riverbed, eventually arriving at a site ideal for the ambush. Glidden instructed the Afghan reconnaissance commander to set up observation points to the north and south to provide strong overwatch, which would support the ambush. We posted the gun truck in a nearby overwatch position. About 30 minutes later, we radioed our grid coordinates to the battalion team leader and Weist on Bataana Hill.

The battalion team leader, after receiving our grid, asked Weist if he could spot us from his position. When Weist replied he couldn’t, the battalion team leader instructed us to flash our headlights so Weist could identify us visually. Despite our misgivings—given that we had already turned off our lights and entered quiet mode for the ambush—Glidden and I complied, flashing the headlights three times. Still, Weist couldn’t identify us. The battalion team leader insisted we try again. Despite my doubts, I complied, moving the vehicle about 15 yards to higher ground, flashing the lights again. Finally, Weist acknowledged seeing the flashes.

By then, things were growing quiet as we waited for any traffic to pass through the dry riverbed. The battalion team leader, seemingly oblivious to our tense situation, began radioing about football scores. Glidden and I exchanged glances, muttering that we were more interested in the mission than in sports scores. The battalion team leader, however, continued his updates, prompting me to turn down the radio.

Around 11:00 p.m., things took an unexpected turn. The Sharana Provincial Reconstruction Team began conducting mortar illumination missions. These rounds were close enough to illuminate our position, putting us at risk of being seen. We radioed the battalion team leader, who denied that the illumination rounds could be targeting our area. After providing our coordinates and clarifying that the rounds were, indeed, near us, the Provincial Reconstruction Team canceled the illumination missions.

Firefight

As if that weren’t enough, about 30 minutes later, multiple gunshots rang out to our right. The Afghan Army swiftly returned fire. Glidden immediately radioed a situation report to the battalion team leader, who instructed us to remain in position. We were in a defilade in the riverbed, which gave us some cover, but there was no clear line of sight to the enemy forces. I fired several suppressive rounds with the medium machine gun, hoping to create some space. The gunfire soon slowed and ceased.

Realizing the threat was still there, Glidden and I moved the gun truck into a more advantageous position on higher ground, about 20 yards to the right. As we took up our new position, enemy fire resumed, this time from a greater distance. We deduced that two or three insurgents had come around the corner of an Afghan home to our right and, spotting the Afghan Army pickup and our gun truck, had opened fire with AK-47s. The Afghan Army quickly pursued, but after a brief engagement, they broke off the chase.

The battalion team leader alerted the quick reaction force to assist, but, in typical Afghan Army fashion, the response was delayed. The force, composed of only 15 soldiers instead of the intended 30, was slow to mobilize. Frustration mounted as we struggled to maintain communication with the Afghan reconnaissance commander and ensure security around our position. Despite repeated efforts, gaining control of the Afghan Army soldiers proved to be an uphill battle. By the time the quick reaction force arrived, the enemy had already fled on motorcycles, and the situation de-escalated.

However, the frustrations didn’t end there. The Afghan reconnaissance commander, resistant to our guidance, delayed security measures and left us scrambling to ensure we weren't caught off guard. Eventually, after an exasperating two-hour wait, the Afghan Police arrived to search the suspected home. After their search came up empty, the all-clear was given, and we were able to return to base around 4:30 a.m. Fortunately, no casualties or damage were sustained by U.S. or Afghan forces, but we later learned that the insurgents were likely connected to the suicide bombing plot against the district governor. Our actions that night had likely disrupted their plans. The events of that night would stay with me, especially when I later realized that the firefight occurred on the morning of September 11th. It struck me as a poignant coincidence—firing a machine gun in a firefight on the fifth anniversary of the September 11th attacks.

Andar

Two days after the firefight, I was tasked with another mission alongside Weist, Glidden, and Obie, serving as combat advisors for a multi-day operation. Our group included roughly 30 Afghan Army soldiers in six pickups, integrated with Task Force Catamount elements and supported by route clearance engineers. Under the cover of darkness on September 13th, we convoyed for three hours to establish a passage point near Miri, in the Andar district of Ghazni province. As we waited for sunrise, questions swirled in my mind: Why were we operating in another unit’s area of responsibility? Why was I paired with these advisors and this particular group of Afghan soldiers? Exhaustion from pulling base security the previous night and the long drive overtook me, and I dozed off in the driver’s seat. Thankfully, Glidden, who was manning the gun, stayed awake.

At dawn, still groggy, Glidden handed me a pinch of Red Man chewing tobacco, insisting it would help me wake up. It did—for about ten minutes—before nausea set in. I quickly learned Red Man and I were not compatible.

The next three days settled into a repetitive rhythm. Most of Task Force Catamount worked to establish a temporary base at the Miri district center in preparation for a grand opening and a meeting with Afghan elders. Meanwhile, other elements conducted patrols to nearby villages. Our routine was predictable: drive to the outskirts of a village, dismount, leave a security detail with the vehicles, and patrol on foot to meet with elders. Task Force Catamount leadership discussed villagers’ concerns—unwanted visitors, resource needs—while Afghan soldiers mingled with locals and provided additional security. After a few hours, we’d return to the vehicles and move to the next location.

Nights were spent in makeshift vehicle formations, weapons aimed outward, with rotations of sleeping in the dirt, on top of the gun trucks, or crammed into truck seats. I discovered a small hack: removing the seat backs from the rear gun truck seats to create a semi-flat sleeping surface. My sleeping bag became a sanctuary of sorts, and baby wipes served as my morning shower. A battery-powered razor helped maintain a semblance of grooming, though it felt futile against the ever-present dust and grime. Meals consisted of water, Gatorade, MREs, and a stash of Pop-Tarts, with extra ammunition and rucksacks secured on the truck ramp.

Glidden managed the machine gun, Weist served as the primary advisor to the Afghan soldiers, and I handled the driving and coordination with Task Force Catamount leadership.

The only significant event occurred on the first day, when a Task Force Catamount gun truck hit a pressure-plate roadside bomb. The vehicle was damaged, but the crew miraculously escaped serious injuries. The explosion rattled us—both physically and mentally—as the damaged vehicle was only a few spots ahead of ours. Reports of nearby enemy activity prompted us to set up a checkpoint in a narrow alley while the recovery team worked on extracting the damaged truck.

Babysitting

The Afghan soldiers were a constant source of frustration, making the mission in Andar one of my most exasperating experiences as an advisor. We had no real rapport with this group, and they continually ignored instructions, slept during their watch shifts, and caused unnecessary drama. While Task Force Catamount and the advisors used night vision goggles and blackout lights, the Afghan drivers, lacking such equipment, frequently flashed their headlights, ruining everyone’s night vision. Adding to the irritation, they discarded entire cases of Halal meals, demanding food from local restaurants instead. When we refused, citing funding constraints, they escalated their complaints to their generals, accusing us of neglect. Their defiance and reliance on us for every minor inconvenience made the ten-day mission feel like an eternity.

One tense moment occurred when Glidden became nauseous, likely from dehydration. I prepared to administer IV fluids but hesitated when he vomited. The bright red Gatorade he had consumed earlier alarmed a passing medic, who mistook it for blood. Thankfully, it was a false alarm, and my first-aid kit went unused.

By September 16th, we converged at the Miri district center to establish checkpoints and secure the area. The grand opening on September 17th drew Afghan elders, Task Force Catamount leaders, and the 203rd Afghan Army Corps leadership, who arrived in Blackhawk helicopters. Briefly, I spotted the Wisconsin advisor leaders—a fleeting connection to home amidst the chaos. The presence of an A-10 Thunderbolt “Warthog,” providing close air support with low flybys, brought some reassurance. Its distinctive growl left an impression I’d never forget.

As the mission dragged on, monotony set in. After Glidden and Weist were replaced by an engineer sergeant advisor, I assumed more responsibilities, including extended patrols. One dismounted patrol stretched over seven miles through a relentless dust storm—a grueling trek that left me counting the days until my replacement.

After ten long days, I finally returned to Sharana, desperate for a hot shower, real sleep, and a reprieve from the unrelenting grind of dirt, stress, and frustration.

Field Artillery - King of Battle

“Do not forget your dogs of war, your big guns, which are the most-to-be respected arguments of the rights of kings.” – Frederick the Great

Throughout my 27 years of service, my most rewarding and enjoyable experiences stemmed from my artillery assignments. I thrived in artillery fire direction and gunnery, progressing through various roles, and was honored to serve as the last brigade fire control officer before my unit transformed. The intricate calculations and problem-solving of fire direction brought immense satisfaction, as did being part of a critical team. We depended on data from multiple sources to deliver precise effects, employing charts, tabular data, and advanced automation.

Artillery gunnery in the U.S. Army is governed by an extensive manual of over 700 pages, covering ballistics, meteorology, safety, and specialized munitions. Each role within the team is vital. Observers call for fire, the FDC computes the technical and tactical data, and gunners execute the orders to deliver rounds to target. This synchronization allows the observer to refine the fire until the target is neutralized or suppressed, ensuring support for maneuver units.

The calculations behind artillery fire are as vast as they are precise. Determining range, direction, elevation, and the appropriate powder charge for a shell to travel miles away is just the beginning. Artillery is an area weapon, designed to deliver effective results within a 50-yard radius of the target. Achieving this requires accounting for a multitude of variables: the target’s elevation relative to the howitzer, the temperature of the powder, wind speed and direction, air density, and even the rotation of the Earth. Each adjustment must be precise, as the stakes are high. The intellectual and operational challenge of fine-tuning these variables under pressure was deeply fulfilling.

By the early 2000s, computer systems began transforming artillery calculations, and I quickly became an expert in their use. These ruggedized systems performed complex computations in seconds, making them indispensable for advanced systems like the MLRS (Multiple Launch Rocket System). However, these systems introduced new challenges, such as extended setup times and managing data transmissions over radio frequencies. While the speed and automation of computers were undeniable assets, they lacked the tactile engagement of manual calculations. The rhythmic sequence of commands, the chatter of radios, and the orchestrated adjustments of a human team brought a level of involvement that a computer's beep could never replicate.

For me, mastering the art of manual artillery calculations became a lifelong calling. It wasn’t just about crunching numbers; it was about synthesizing those numbers into actionable results. The ability to predict and adapt to real-world variables in dynamic situations gave me a profound sense of purpose. There is no room for error in artillery; each computation must be exact, and every decision is a matter of precision and trust.

The challenges of manual calculations—whether determining range, applying deflections, or adjusting for environmental conditions—are immense. They demand intellectual rigor and practical expertise. Recalculating fire solutions in real time, interpreting subtle shifts in terrain, and accounting for evolving weather conditions create a dynamic and rewarding complexity. These numbers, though abstract, translate into decisive action on the battlefield, shaping events and outcomes in tangible ways.

Field artillery is a discipline that blends scientific principles with human judgment, precision, and adaptability. For me, it’s been more than a career—it’s been a calling, a pursuit of mastery, and a journey defined by the perfect union of intellect and action

Russian Artillery (D-30)

The D-30 was known for its simplicity, reliability, and mobility. At just under 5,000 pounds, it could be quickly moved by trucks or towed by military vehicles, making it highly mobile in rough terrain. It was designed for rapid deployment and could be set up and fired in minutes. However, its range was limited compared to more modern artillery systems. The D-30 had a range of about 15 kilometers (9 miles), sufficient for many conventional operations, but challenging for more complex missions where targets were farther away.

Tactically, the D-30’s 122mm shells were capable of significant damage, especially when fired in volume. The shells were designed for various uses, including high-explosive, smoke, and illumination rounds. Despite its simple operation, the D-30 required precision and coordination, with the fire direction kit playing a vital role in calculating the correct trajectory and coordinates to ensure accurate hits.

I also became familiar with adapting U.S. artillery concepts to other systems, such as the Russian D-30 howitzer. Many principles of gunnery and fire direction carried over, but the D-30 introduced unique challenges. Much of the marking on the gun and its instructional materials were in Russian, requiring translation to ensure proper operation and safety. Furthermore, the Russian system uses a 6000-mil measurement for angular adjustments, compared to the 6400-mil system employed by the U.S. A mil is a unit of angular measurement similar to a degree but divided into more increments for greater precision. While the concept is the same, the differences in scale and markings demanded careful attention and conversion to ensure accurate fire direction. Learning to navigate these distinctions added another layer of complexity but also underscored the universal principles of artillery—precision, adaptation, and teamwork.

Standby. . .

During my deployment to Afghanistan, all field artillery support came from coalition forces, and there was an urgent drive to enable the Afghan Army to take over their own fire support operations. The Afghan Army artillery soldiers had received limited training, mostly focused on direct fire during their initial training. The command structure, specifically Combined Forces Command – Afghanistan, was keen on getting the Afghan forces proficient in indirect fire with their D-30 howitzers. My partner, Ressler, and I were tasked with making that transition a reality.

Soon after returning from the Andar mission, I shifted from infantry support to artillery operations. Together with Afghan Army artillery officer Obie, I attended the first Afghan Army artillery conference at the Kabul Military Training Center. This three-day event brought together Afghan artillery leaders and combat advisors to assess the state of Afghan artillery companies and provide necessary guidance. The Afghan Army also conducted a live-fire demonstration with several D-30 howitzers, though their firing techniques differed significantly from U.S. methods. Their sights, training materials, and firing tables were all different, and the absence of standardized observer training was a critical challenge in teaching them how to effectively employ indirect fire.

By September 2006, the Afghan Army artillery company had received five additional D-30 howitzers and a fire direction kit—a critical piece of equipment for coordinating and calculating indirect fire. Ressler and I threw ourselves into the task of setting up basic artillery training for the Afghan Army during my leave. While I was away, he took the lead on much of the groundwork, but we worked together relentlessly to lay the foundation for what would become a critical part of our mission. The Afghan soldiers, many with little formal training, needed to be taught everything from the ground up. Our goal was to equip them with the necessary skills to operate their artillery systems effectively, despite the many challenges along the way.

In the following days, we shifted our focus to refining the Afghan soldiers' skills. We set up aiming circles to ensure they could properly align their guns and consistently hit targets. We introduced firing tables—detailed charts that provide the necessary data to make precise artillery calculations. These would become essential tools as they learned to gauge distance, angle, and other variables. We also worked on perfecting their crew drills, ensuring they could operate together smoothly under pressure. Each step of the training was a victory, but it was clear that the mountain we had to climb was still towering.

The obstacles we encountered were constant, and often discouraging. Perhaps the most pressing was the lack of reliable instructional materials. Many of the manuals and guides we were given were incomplete or, in some cases, entirely in Russian. While the Afghan soldiers had some understanding of artillery, the materials they had were outdated, unclear, and left us to fill in the gaps. Some documents were little more than rudimentary field notes, written in a mix of languages or shorthand that was hard to decipher. We often found ourselves improvising, using any available resource to ensure the soldiers understood each concept.

Access to key documents and equipment was also limited. There were days when we had to make do with what we had—using makeshift tools or finding creative solutions to continue moving forward. We didn’t always have the luxury of ideal conditions or complete resources. But we persevered, knowing that the success of this training was vital for the Afghan Army’s path toward self-sufficiency.

Despite the setbacks, we remained committed to the task. Every day, the Afghan soldiers grew more proficient, and with each new lesson, their confidence began to build. While we were facing significant challenges, it was evident that we were making meaningful progress. The success of their first live-fire exercises, the steady improvement in their skills, and the growing cohesion of the artillery team proved that our hard work was beginning to pay off.

As the days passed, I felt a sense of pride in our accomplishments, but there was no time to rest. The mission was ongoing, and much work remained. Yet, in that brief moment, watching the Afghan soldiers execute artillery drills with more precision, I felt we had taken a significant step forward. We had overcome so many obstacles, and the possibility of a self-sustaining Afghan artillery unit seemed within reach.

Prepare to March

A little over a week after the artillery conference, Ressler, Obie, and I found ourselves on the move again. We transported two D-30s, several truckloads of ammunition, and 15 Afghan artillery soldiers to Shkin. Our mission was to integrate into Task Force Wolfpack sections and conduct indirect fire operations. It was an exciting but daunting task, requiring us to not only coordinate with Afghan soldiers but adapt to the complex operational environment of Afghanistan.

The challenges were significant. Obtaining clearance for artillery fire was one of our first hurdles. Given the classified nature of many Special Forces missions, getting permission to fire in certain areas was often difficult. Coordination with higher command was critical to avoid friendly fire and minimize collateral damage. Additionally, the D-30’s range limitations restricted the areas we could target, forcing us to be strategic in our fire support and limiting our ability to provide long-range artillery assistance.

Despite these difficulties, the mission was a crucial step in building the Afghan Army’s artillery capabilities. Though the D-30 wasn’t the most advanced weapon, it was a start—a foundation for the Afghan soldiers to build upon. They were learning to operate artillery, calculate firing solutions, and coordinate with other units. Integrating the D-30s into Task Force Wolfpack’s operations was an important milestone, signaling progress in an environment where every day brought new challenges.

After several days in Shkin, the mission took an unexpected turn. We were reassigned to Bermel, further north, where we arrived to find the soldiers stationed there unprepared for our presence. This led to us operating in a transient capacity. The situation at Bermel was far from ideal, with minimal infrastructure, and we quickly realized that the Marine combat advisor team assigned there was still in the early stages of settling in. They were in the process of getting established. While they were housed in a more secure building, we were assigned to a B-Hut—a temporary, prefabricated structure offering only basic shelter.

Back to Bermel

Living conditions at Bermel were rough, even by combat zone standards. The B-Hut was cramped, and the heat made it difficult to get meaningful rest. The hum of generators, the dust from the desert, and distant artillery fire added to the tense atmosphere. Despite these challenges, we got to work immediately. The Afghan soldiers stationed at Bermel were eager to learn, but their lack of preparation meant we had to provide significant guidance.

Our first priority was coordinating with the Task Force Catamount fire support officer to integrate Afghan artillery into ongoing operations. The officer was crucial in helping us understand the intricacies of fire coordination at Bermel. As always, clearance for fires was a concern—making sure artillery wouldn’t harm friendly forces, civilians, or assets. In such a volatile region, this was a critical issue. Every shot fired had to be coordinated with higher commands to prevent friendly fire or escalation.

The technical challenges were compounded by the constant pressure of making decisions on the fly. With minimal infrastructure, we once again found ourselves reacting to a fluid situation. Yet, despite the adversity, the work we did in Bermel was some of the most rewarding of my time in Afghanistan. There was a palpable sense of purpose in every mission, knowing we were making a difference, even when the odds were stacked against us. The Afghan soldiers, though unprepared, were motivated to learn and improve, making every challenge feel like an opportunity for progress.

One of the significant concerns during this mission was the Afghan Army’s handling of their artillery ammunition. They had hundreds of high-explosive rounds precariously loaded onto a couple of cargo trucks. These rounds represented not just an operational risk but a potential future threat. If left unsecured, the rounds could easily "walk off" and later be repurposed into roadside bombs or other improvised explosive devices (IEDs).

Adding to the unease was the consistent threat of rocket attacks in the area. With the frequency of recent rocket fire, there was a very real danger of a stray rocket hitting one of the cargo trucks, triggering a catastrophic explosion. Such an event wouldn’t just endanger lives but could also cripple the Afghan Army's operational capacity and lead to devastating consequences for nearby personnel and infrastructure.

Despite the urgency, storage options at Bermel were woefully inadequate. There were no secure facilities capable of safely housing such a massive quantity of high-explosive artillery rounds. However, the Marine team leader attached to our operations recognized the gravity of the situation and offered an innovative solution. They committed to providing two shipping containers, which could be buried and reinforced with sandbags to serve as makeshift ammunition bunkers. While far from ideal, this setup would provide some measure of protection against rocket fire and reduce the risk of accidental detonation or theft.

Targets of Opportunity

Meanwhile, the Afghan Army’s D-30 howitzers presented their own challenges. These artillery pieces were emplaced just outside the main perimeter of the base. While their location allowed for easy access through the rear gate, their positioning left them completely exposed. There was no cover or fortification to shield the howitzers or their crews from incoming fire. This lack of protection made them highly vulnerable—not just to enemy action but also to the harsh environmental conditions and the ever-present risk of accidents.

The combination of unsecured high-explosive rounds, exposed artillery positions, and the ongoing threat of rocket fire created a tense and precarious situation. Addressing these issues required a delicate balance of improvisation, collaboration with the Marines, and careful coordination with the Afghan Army leadership. Despite the hurdles, securing the ammunition and improving the defensive posture of the artillery positions became a top priority. The consequences of failing to do so were simply too great to ignore.

As the weeks passed, we experienced a steady increase in rocket attacks. What initially seemed like a nuisance escalated into an immediate danger. The rockets often landed near the perimeter, and the fear of them striking a vulnerable target was ever-present. The emotional toll was profound, with constant stress and uncertainty. But even with the threat of rockets looming, we continued our work with relentless determination.

For the three weeks that I was at Bermel, we experienced 11 rocket attacks. I tracked the rocket attacks with impacts inside of the outer perimeter, and there wasn't an attack with less than six rockets. One of the rocket attacks had 21 rockets. The rocket attacks started as a nuisance but quickly changed into real danger with injuries, and an Afghan Army soldier killed in his bunk when a rocket impacted his quarters. You feel helpless during a rocket attack because you don't know where they will land or how many there will be, and you can't do anything but seek cover and hope that a rocket doesn't impact next to you. The first couple of attacks, Ressler and I ran to the Marine combat advisor building for cover, but we were in the way by standing around in the hallway. We decided that it would be safe to use our gun truck for cover as it should stop any shrapnel.

Additionally, we could turn the radio onto the Task Force Catamount net to listen to the updates from the operations center and the artillery sections to give us better situational awareness. Our gun truck stopped some shrapnel as a rocket impacted within yards of us. A piece of shrapnel put a hole in our gun truck hood about the size of a half pencil but didn't appear to damage anything in the engine compartment. Another piece of shrapnel put a small crack and chip in the passenger side windshield, right where I was sitting. The bulletproof windshield stopped the shrapnel and looked like medium-sized stone damage from highway driving in a standard car. The damage wasn't significant, but the windshield would have to be replaced to maintain the protection's integrity. One Task Force Wolfpack soldier was wounded on his hand from shrapnel during one rocket attack, and an Afghan Army artillery soldier incurred a small head wound from shrapnel in another rocket attack. One rocket landed in the construction yard and started a small fire.

Bermel had a radar system that could detect incoming rockets and provide the fire direction center the grid coordinates to shoot back; however, the radar could only detect 107mm rockets as the 122mm rockets had a lower flight path. There wasn't a prominent voice in the sky or an alarm for incoming rockets like some of the more massive bases. Messages went across the radio nets, and everybody started yelling and running for cover. If the rocket impacted nearby, you could hear the short whistle sound. If the rocket impacted close, it was just an explosion sound without the whistle. Task Force Wolfpack almost always fired rounds at the launch points for counter-fire. Still, the enemy usually had the rockets set on timers, so there were no enemy personnel in the area. There was a time or two with a subsequent explosion report, which indicated that the counter-fire likely destroyed new rockets waiting to fire.

Bermel also had a Joint Land Elevated Netted Sensor System (JLENS) for additional observation beyond the machine gun towers. The JLENS was a high-tech camera on a tall tower with day and infrared full-motion video cameras with impressive zooming capabilities. From the computer system in the operations center, you could operate the camera's direction and zoom and obtain grid coordinates. Depending on the rocket attack's launch spot, the JLENS could be used to see the counter-fire effects. I would use the JLENS to observe our Afghan Army artillery fires because the Afghan Army didn't have trained observers.

Fire!

Ressler and I made a great team as he had expertise in the mechanical working of the howitzer and crew drills, and I knew fire direction and gunnery. Ressler worked with the Afghan Army sergeant and crew, and I worked with the Afghan Army artillery officer. The Afghan Army artillery officer was able to set up the firing plotting board to determine direction but didn't know how to do the rest of the gunnery calculations. I was able to use the firing tables and information from the US fire direction center to compute the gunnery calculations. The Afghan Army artillery officer would transmit the gun commands on his Afghan Army radio to the Afghan Army artillery sergeant. I would radio the controls to Ressler to ensure they were applied correctly.

On October 19th, we finally had a green light to fire. The Afghan Army artillery officer plotted the target on the side of the mountain on his firing plotting board, and I calculated the gun commands for the Afghan Army artillery officer to transmit. Ressler decided to use an extra-long lanyard and parked our gun truck behind the D-30 to provide cover in case the D-30 misfired. I used the JLENS to observe the D-30 and the impact and recorded the entire fire mission. The first Afghan Army indirect fire, approximately eight miles away, occurred at 10:59 am Greenwich Mean Time on October 19th, 2006

The sound of the D-30 firing was a lot louder than the US field artillery. The Task Force Catamount fire support officer and I didn't observe the impact but thought we saw smoke just over the ridgeline and decided to repeat the fire mission to confirm. We didn't see the second impact but saw smoke in the same location. And then, the moment came—a moment of awe and triumph.

I made a gunnery correction, and we observed the third round impacting within 50 yards of the target point. We called for three more rounds and saw all rounds impacting around the target. Ressler and I used a few of the shell casings to make a "thank you" gift to Task Force Catamount fire support officer and company commander. We took pictures, and I used the JLENS recording to make a short video. Task Force Catamount mounted the canister and photos on the wall in the dining facility. Ressler and I decided to write a short article for the Field Artillery Journal, a professional publication at the US Army field artillery headquarters. Our report, First to Fire, was published in the January-February 2007 edition of the Field Artillery Journal.

Though that fire mission was the first of many to come, it stands as a benchmark—an irreplaceable symbol of what we had achieved. It wasn't just a military achievement—it was the embodiment of the bond we had forged with these soldiers, the trust we had nurtured, and the progress we had made as a team. It was a moment that underscored the tremendous impact of our work. The echoes of that success extended far beyond the immediate mission—it marked the transformation of a group of previously uncertain, inexperienced soldiers into a force that could fire with accuracy and confidence.

As the rounds impacted their designated targets, I felt a deep sense of pride. The sense of achievement was not just about the technology, the artillery, or the precise execution—it was about knowing that we had done something monumental together. It was about recognizing that the work we had done, the training we had shared, and the relationships we had built had culminated in an outcome that would resonate well beyond the immediate scope of the battlefield. For me, this fire mission was more than a task accomplished. It was a defining moment in my career—one that continues to stand as one of the greatest accomplishments of my life.

I spent some time that night reviewing why we were off target on our initial rounds. There are five requirements for accurate fires: target location, firing unit location, weapon information, meteorological information, and computational procedures. I was confident in the target location with the use of the JLENS, and I was satisfied with the firing unit location with the use of GPS. Propellant temperature and muzzle velocity variations wouldn't have significant impacts with range. The main requirement that would affect the result of the rounds impacting long would be the meteorological information. In reviewing the firing tables, I determined that I needed a range correction for the air pressure. Since our base altitude was about 7,500 feet, and the round would travel over 8,000 feet above this, the air pressure at 15,000 feet would be lower, causing the round to go further. This calculation would explain why our first two rounds impacted over the ridgeline. The next day, with the air density information that I obtained from Task Force Wolfpack's fire direction center, we fired four final rounds at two different targets and all round impacted near the targets.

Coin of Excellence

On the morning of October 22nd, I received word from the Task Force Catamount company commander: General Abdul Rahim Wardak, Afghanistan's Minister of Defense, and Lieutenant General Karl Eikenberry would be arriving in Bermel that afternoon. Their visit was intended to honor the efforts of our forces, as well as the Afghan Army infantry battalion, which had achieved a significant victory in a firefight on October 17th, resulting in an estimated 25 enemy casualties. The commander suggested we prepare a fire mission for a live-fire demonstration as part of the event. With that in mind, we spent the morning meticulously preparing, ensuring that everything was aligned for a flawless execution.

The arrival of General Wardak and Lieutenant General Eikenberry was an extraordinary spectacle. A coordinated convoy of helicopters—Blackhawks, Apaches, and Afghan Army helicopters—descended upon the area, escorted by an entourage that included the 203rd Afghan Army Corps Commander and his advisor. The sight was a dramatic testament to military coordination and power. After the helicopters landed, the Afghan Army aircraft powered down while the others departed, and the dignitaries began their tour.

Their first stop was the Afghan Army infantry battalion's area, where rumors circulated that cash bonuses were being distributed—an acknowledgment of their success in the firefight. As the Afghan dignitaries engaged with the soldiers, we quickly realized an unexpected problem: the Afghan Army helicopters were parked directly in line with our intended target area for the live-fire demonstration. This oversight effectively prevented us from firing live rounds, leaving us with no choice but to pivot to a dry fire mission instead.

Despite the change in plans, the demonstration proceeded smoothly. We showcased the precision and professionalism of our artillery team, and afterwards, Lieutenant General Eikenberry personally recognized the efforts of the Afghan Army crew, Ressler, and me. In military culture, challenge coins hold immense value—they are symbols of distinction, awarded for exceptional performance. Receiving one from Lieutenant General Eikenberry, representing Combined Forces Command – Afghanistan, was an honor that surpassed words. It remains one of the most meaningful accolades of my career, one that I will always treasure.

After the photographs and brief exchanges, the Blackhawk helicopters returned to extract the delegation. Just as the last helicopter lifted off, we found ourselves under rocket fire—a familiar and sudden threat. The Afghan Army artillery officer and I were already en route to the operations center to conduct the fire mission demonstration, but the attack changed our pace from a brisk walk to a full sprint as we sought cover.

Counter-Fire

Upon reaching the operations center, the Task Force Catamount fire support officer urgently asked if we were prepared for a counter-fire mission. Thanks to the preparation made earlier for the demonstration, we were ready. The Afghan Army artillery officer immediately plotted the grid coordinates of the rocket origin, provided by the radar system. I calculated the gunnery solution and issued the necessary fire commands, while the Afghan officer relayed firing instructions to the crew. Within moments, six rounds were in the air, heading toward the enemy position. The mission was halted when the Apache helicopters returned, requiring deconfliction in the airspace.

Weeks later, I learned that the counter-fire mission had resulted in ten enemy casualties. The Apache helicopters performed a battle damage assessment after reaching the target area and reported back to the operations center. Reflecting on the mission, I realized the vital role I played in calculating the gunnery solutions that ultimately shaped the mission's outcome. But as for the casualties, my feelings remained neutral—I wasn’t there to witness the effects firsthand, nor did I know the exact nature of the enemy casualties.

What stood out to me was the realization that the years of training and expertise I had developed as a field artillery officer had been tested in combat—and proven effective. The satisfaction wasn’t about the casualties or the destruction—it was about fulfilling my duty to ensure the mission was executed accurately and contributed to the safety of those around me. It was about understanding that the work we did had real consequences, and that’s what defined true service: focus, precision, and impact.

That chain of events, from the recognition of our artillery team to the successful counter-fire mission, became a defining chapter in my military career. It marked the culmination of everything we had worked toward—the proof that the Afghan soldiers we trained could stand their ground in battle, and that their success would continue to resonate long after we departed. For me, that was a victory worth celebrating—one that will always be a source of immense pride.

Eid

For the next week at Bermel, the Afghan Army ceased operations due to a religious celebration, and we lacked clearance of fires. Task Force Wolfpack, already short on personnel, was stretched thin. To assist, I helped man one of their M119A2 howitzers and even participated in firing. The M119A2 is a 105mm towed howitzer requiring a crew of at least five soldiers to fire three 30-pound rounds per minute, with a range of up to 10.9 miles. Task Force Wolfpack maintained one or two stationary howitzers at most bases in eastern Afghanistan. Although I wanted to contribute more, I wasn’t stationed with the Wolfpack and couldn’t be immediately available for counter-fire missions, limiting my role to assisting with a few pre-planned missions.

During this period, a CNN media crew—Jennifer Eccleston, a cameraman, and a producer—moved into our B-Hut for five days to embed with Task Force Catamount elements. Ressler and I spent time answering their questions about the area and military terminology. We also convinced them to feature our Afghan Army artillery soldiers in their story, showcasing the cooperative efforts. The segment aired on CNN Newsroom on November 9th, providing a rare glimpse into the capabilities of Afghan forces.

Initially, Ressler and I were informed by the battalion team leader that we’d remain at Bermel for a couple of weeks. However, delays and leadership decisions extended our stay and ultimately changed the plan. Leadership decided I would be reassigned to Gardez as the 203rd Afghan Army Corps Fire Support Coordinator, while Ressler would stay behind to train the next rotation of Afghan Army soldiers. This reassignment was part of a broader initiative by our Wisconsin advisor team leader to consolidate efforts. While I wasn’t thrilled about returning to Gardez, the persistent rocket attacks at Bermel had begun to take a psychological toll. I was eager to leave the constant tension behind.

On November 4th, a Blackhawk helicopter arrived to transport me to Gardez. I was the sole passenger, which was an unusual experience. Using the headset, I was able to listen to the flight crew’s communications, including discussions with the Apache helicopter escort. During the flight, I caught part of a conversation about possible muzzle flashes in the distance. The Apache pilot confirmed neutralizing the target, a stark reminder of the ever-present threats in the region.

As we flew, the landscape below included the whale-shaped terrain feature from Operation Anaconda. It was surreal to pass over such a significant historical site, a landmark tied to one of the earliest major battles of the war. The view provided a moment of reflection amid the chaos, a brief pause in an otherwise relentless mission.

Fire Support Coordinator

Almost all of the Wisconsin advisor team had at least two assignments. Part of our team was initially assigned to the 205th Afghan Army Corps in Kandahar and then transferred to the 203rd Afghan Army Corps in July. With constant personnel rotations and changing requirements, it was difficult to keep track of everyone. No one in Gardez was expecting me, and I didn't have a designated bunk, desk, or anywhere to go. I had my rucksack from my mission at Bermel, but the rest of my gear was in Sharana, which I would receive on a future convoy. I found an empty bunk but ended up moving B-Huts several times before they established a Wisconsin B-Hut.

As the newly appointed Fire Support Coordinator, I found myself in an uncharted territory, a position with no established list of duties or responsibilities. There were no precedents, no clear framework to follow, so I had to carve out my own path. Every day was a new challenge as I navigated the complexities of the role, often relying on my ability to adapt and think on my feet.

One of the first hurdles I faced was finding a workspace. Camp Phoenix was always bustling with activity, and space was a precious commodity. I had to be resourceful, often occupying a space someone else had vacated temporarily, only to move again when they returned. It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to make do. As chaotic as it seemed, I had to focus on the bigger picture and keep the mission moving forward, despite the logistical obstacles.

Mongolians

One of my key duties was coordinating the Mongolian team. Mongolia had sent about a dozen soldiers, each an expert in servicing the D-30 howitzers, and they came equipped with all the necessary tools to maintain the artillery pieces. Their mission was to provide maintenance and repair services for all the D-30s across the five corps areas, a task that required a significant amount of coordination. My responsibility was to ensure that the two brigades under my command could get their D-30s to Gardez, where the Mongolian team would be stationed, and make sure there was space for them to work. It wasn’t as simple as just shipping the artillery pieces off. The logistical coordination to move the heavy equipment, manage the timing, and find the right resources was a constant juggling act. On top of that, I had to manage expectations, communicate with all parties involved, and ensure the mission went smoothly.

But coordinating the Mongolian team was just one part of my role. Another critical aspect was mentoring the senior Afghan Army artillery officer on the corps staff. Ideally, I was supposed to guide him through the intricacies of fire support and artillery coordination, helping him develop his understanding and leadership in the field. However, this task proved to be far more difficult than I had anticipated. The officer’s frequent absences made it challenging to establish any consistent mentorship, and without an interpreter, communication was an additional barrier. There were times when I would be ready to meet with him, only to find that he wasn’t available. And when he was present, the language barrier created a gap in effective communication, making it hard to convey crucial concepts about artillery operations, tactics, and strategy.

Despite these challenges, I had to keep pushing forward, trying to adapt to the circumstances and find ways to make progress. I relied on my ability to communicate non-verbally, using drawings, gestures, and diagrams to help explain complex ideas. I also worked closely with other advisors and staff members who could bridge the language gap when possible. The situation was far from ideal, but I had to do the best I could with the resources at hand.

Every day presented new obstacles, but it was also an opportunity to learn, grow, and develop new skills. The position may have lacked structure, but I was determined to build something meaningful from it. The challenges were immense, but so were the rewards. Each step I took in establishing fire support coordination, mentoring, and logistics brought me closer to the ultimate goal: ensuring that the Afghan Army artillery units were capable, self-sufficient, and ready to respond to the challenges they would face in the field.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Gardez was an experience I’ll never forget, though not for the reasons I had hoped. As the holiday approached, there was little indication that it would be anything more than another day in a foreign land. But despite the challenges, the contractors made an effort to bring some semblance of tradition to the camp. They deep-fried one turkey, a unique and somewhat adventurous twist on the usual holiday fare, while another was roasted in the oven. It wasn’t the full spread I was used to back home, but it was a thoughtful attempt at making the day feel special.

In keeping with tradition, officers were tasked with serving the holiday meal. I took my place in line, and with a sense of duty, I helped serve the oven-roasted turkey. As I handed out portions to the soldiers and contractors, there was a strange disconnect in the air. The holiday season, often a time for family, laughter, and comfort, felt distant in this harsh environment. We didn’t have the familiar decorations, the warmth of a crackling fire, or the comforting aroma of pie filling the room. Instead, we were surrounded by the ever-present backdrop of military life—barracks, armaments, and the dusty, desolate terrain of Afghanistan.

I tried to push through the mundane atmosphere, reminding myself that I was there for a purpose, that I was serving alongside brave men and women who were all experiencing the same sense of displacement. But it was hard not to feel the absence of the familiar sights and sounds of home. I missed my family’s laughter around the dinner table, the warmth of my wife’s smile, and the simple comforts of being surrounded by loved ones. The day dragged on, and though I appreciated the effort to make it feel like a holiday, it was clear that this Thanksgiving was unlike any I had ever known.

In many ways, it was a stark reminder of the sacrifices we were all making, each in our own way. It wasn’t the holiday I had hoped for, but it was a moment of reflection nonetheless—about what I had left behind and what I was working to protect. As the day wore on, I couldn't help but feel that it was a small, quiet reminder that the things we take for granted—the warmth, the family, the traditions—were the very things we were striving to preserve.

Qatar

My four-day pass in November had been delayed until mid-December, a decision that left me with a lingering sense of anticipation. In addition to our two-week leave, the military allowed us the opportunity to earn a four-day pass to Qatar—if mission requirements, rank, and schedules permitted. It wasn’t guaranteed for everyone, and the timing often felt like a game of chance. I was fortunate to finally get my chance, and on December 4th, I left Gardez at 7:30 am in a small convoy that would pass through Sharana and Ghazni on our way to Camp Phoenix. It was a grueling day, compounded by heavy snow that seemed to fall in a relentless curtain, obscuring the road and slowing our pace. We arrived at Camp Phoenix at 7:00 pm, tired but relieved that the journey was over. I was lucky enough to be driving, enjoying some respite from the bitter cold thanks to the gun truck's heater, while our gunner quickly turned into a snow-covered Popsicle, the wet flakes sticking to his gear and skin.

After spending a few days in transient status, I was finally able to board a flight from Bagram to Qatar. The timing was fortuitous—arriving just after midnight, we had almost a full extra day ahead of us, provided we made it through the required briefings and a short nap. Unfortunately, I didn’t take any photos of my time there due to strict photo restrictions, but the experience was just the change I needed.

Qatar was sunny and warm, and I was able to wear shorts and a polo shirt. The base was pretty spread out, and massive warehouses contained everything. The sleeping quarters were 12-man rooms with bunk beds, and the lights stayed off because personnel were coming and going during all hours. The dining facility was about a 15-minute walk, but it was worth it as it was by far the best food during the whole deployment. They had real plates and flatware and even had dessert coolers and Baskin Robbins ice cream. It was about a five-minute walk from our sleeping quarters to the morale building, which contained a computer lab, game rooms, video game consoles, and a bar area in the rear. You were limited to three drinks and had to scan your identification card when you purchased the $5 cocktails.

I connected with two combat advisors from other units, though we didn’t spend much time together outside of dinner and drinks. We were each absorbed in our own activities during the day. Qatar’s warm sunshine felt like an immediate, luxurious relief from the cold, snow-drenched world I had just left behind in Afghanistan. I bought my wife a stunning pearl necklace and earrings from the shoppette as a token of my time away, and I indulged in some comforting meals at Chili’s, eating there twice during my stay.

In between those small luxuries, I spent a lot of time in the computer lab, checking emails, catching up on news, and playing video games like Halo and Grand Theft Auto, small distractions that kept me connected to the outside world, if only for a brief moment. But the real highlight of my pass came on the third day, when I signed up for an excursion into the desert dunes. Our group piled into Land Cruisers and headed off-road, making our way into the vast, endless dunes of Qatar. The vehicles had to deflate their tires for better traction as we navigated through the shifting sands. We made a stop at a small resort near the Persian Gulf, where we were treated to a barbecue lunch. It was a welcome break from the typical military rations I had grown accustomed to. After eating, we played sand volleyball and waded into the warm waters of the gulf, the heat a stark contrast to the frigid winds of Afghanistan. Despite not knowing anyone in the group, I found myself enjoying the experience. It was refreshing, a rare and much-needed respite from the monotony of life in a combat zone.

Returning to Camp Phoenix, I attended a USO show featuring the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, comedian Al Franken, country singer Keni Thomas, and others. The performance was exciting and served as a welcome distraction from the pressures of deployment. As I trudged back to my tent afterward, my feet were frozen from the cold air. The reality of our situation came crashing back. The fleeting comforts of Qatar and the USO show couldn’t fully erase the isolation of our existence in this faraway place.

Christmas

By December 23rd, I was back in a convoy, this time as a gunner in a 5-ton truck heading back to Gardez. I had 12 packages waiting for me, but I decided to wait until Christmas morning to open them, wanting to make the occasion feel more like the holidays. That evening, as if to remind us of the ever-present isolation, we received a couple of inches of snow. It was a small, quiet moment that seemed to underscore the distance between us and the world we had once known. Still, the snow fell gently, as though wrapping us in a quiet reminder that even in the harshest of places, there are moments of stillness—moments where, for just a while, you can forget about the challenges and focus on the simple, yet profound, beauty of being alive.

Christmas Day was anticlimactic and there was more flare with Thanksgiving. It was a very low tempo day, and the highlight was opening my awaiting packages. The packages I received were a lifeline during my deployment. Letters, postcards, and especially care packages with Starbucks Double Shot Espresso and Jelly Belly Sport Beans made a huge difference. My wife sent useful items, like fresh sheets and my preferred body wash. They were small comforts, but they grounded me during the long months away from home.

Saint Barbara - Patron Saint of Field Artillery

As the Fire Support Coordinator by title, my role quickly morphed into something far broader. In practice, I became a special projects officer, tasked with overseeing a range of initiatives that went far beyond the technical aspects of artillery. One of my most significant responsibilities was planning the Saint Barbara Artillery Award ceremony, set for January 6th. The event held deep personal and professional meaning, as it was not only a recognition of the hard work we had put in, but also a celebration of our shared commitment to the Afghan Army’s development. Both Ressler and the Afghan Army artillery officer were selected to receive the Honorable Order of Saint Barbara, the prestigious military honor that symbolizes the highest regard for artillerymen. It was a fitting acknowledgment of their dedication to the mission and to the soldiers under their command.

The ceremony itself, though modest with around 50 US and Afghan Army personnel in attendance, was deeply moving. In a place where the typical day-to-day often felt like a grind, this small yet meaningful event allowed us to reflect on the progress we had made. It was a rare opportunity to pause, acknowledge the milestones, and recognize the effort that went into transforming a group of soldiers, some with little artillery experience, into an operational fighting force. The Saint Barbara ceremony, simple as it was, became a highlight of our time in Afghanistan. It served as a reminder of the significance of our mission—both the tactical victories and the personal growth we achieved together, regardless of the challenges we faced.

Alongside the ceremony, I coordinated a command and staff exercise that focused on improving the Afghan Army's operational coordination. The scenarios we worked through—bus rollovers, roadside bombs, and other real-world threats—were all designed to push the Afghan soldiers to think critically and react swiftly under pressure. The goal was to enhance their ability to respond effectively to emergencies, not just in combat situations but in everyday incidents that might affect their ability to maintain order and security. These exercises required a delicate balance of education and guidance, as many of the Afghan soldiers lacked the experience or understanding of how to plan for such events. I found myself stepping into the role of a mentor, often offering insight based on the extensive training I had received throughout my career.

Each of these experiences—whether it was the award ceremony or the staff exercises—served to strengthen the ties between us and our Afghan counterparts. They were a testament to the enduring impact of our work, the positive outcomes that emerged despite the complexities and difficulties we faced daily. Looking back, these projects might have seemed like small achievements in the grand scope of the mission, but in many ways, they were some of the most rewarding moments. They reminded me that, even in the most challenging environments, there is value in fostering relationships, in teaching, and in building a legacy of knowledge and preparedness.

Winding Down

By mid-January, the Wisconsin advisor leaders had rotated out, and with their departure, the atmosphere in Gardez shifted. The sense of urgency and purpose that had once filled the days gave way to a quieter, more reflective period. The last few weeks of my deployment were spent in a kind of limbo, where the primary activities were checking emails and watching movies to pass the time. There was little to do beyond keeping the operations running on a day-to-day basis and wrapping up final tasks. The Wisconsin B-Hut had an Armed Forces Network connection, which offered some entertainment, but the options were sparse. The programming was repetitive, and the same shows aired on loop. However, one unexpected highlight was Emeril Lagasse’s cooking show. In a place where meals were often simple and functional, watching Emeril whip up gourmet dishes offered a rare escape. The laughter and energy of his show became a welcome distraction from the monotony of the cold, grey days that seemed to stretch on endlessly through the Afghan winter.

As the deployment neared its end, the focus began to shift from the Afghan Army to the Afghan National Police (ANP). This transition was not without its challenges. There was a growing sense of uncertainty regarding the ability of the Afghan Police to maintain and effectively utilize the equipment we were leaving behind. The older M16 rifles and aging gun trucks posed a particularly significant concern. While the Afghan Army had shown some progress, albeit slowly, the same confidence was not afforded to the Afghan Police. The lack of proper training, leadership, and infrastructure within the police force created doubts about their ability to manage the equipment. The Afghan National Police had long struggled with corruption, inefficiency, and a lack of cohesion, and as our focus shifted to them, there was a palpable wariness among the advisors.

The move from advising the military to supporting the police felt like a step backward in some ways. We had spent so much time and effort building up the Afghan Army's artillery and tactical capabilities, only to face the daunting task of instilling similar discipline and training in a police force that seemed much less equipped to handle the responsibility. The shift highlighted a broader issue—while the Afghan Army was beginning to show signs of independence, the police force was still struggling to get a foothold. Advisors were beginning to question whether the Afghan National Police would be able to step up to the challenges left behind by the departing coalition forces.

This uncertainty began to weigh heavily on the advisors. As we finished up our tasks and prepared for our eventual return home, there was a lingering question about the sustainability of what we had built. The Afghan Army’s future seemed in flux, and the police force, while now in the spotlight, appeared to have a long road ahead. Despite the skepticism, we pressed on, wrapping up the final phases of our deployment with the hope that the training and equipment we had provided would help both the Army and the Police maintain order in the years to come—though the reality of that outcome remained uncertain.

Freedom Bird

"Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen." - John Le Carré

Our final month at Gardez felt like a blur, consumed by the relentless wave of paperwork and logistical preparations that seemed to multiply every time we turned around. The countdown to departure began in earnest, but the hours felt heavy as we navigated the final formalities of closing out our deployment. By February 15th, the end was in sight, and we were ready to leave. The convoy to Camp Phoenix marked the first leg of our journey home. As we made our way through the familiar routes, it felt almost surreal—like we were crossing a threshold from one world into another, from the daily grind of deployment to the anticipation of home.

The convoy was a mix of excitement and exhaustion. We all knew what was ahead—customs inspections, equipment turn-ins, and all the usual checks, including the notoriously meticulous Navy Customs inspection, which felt like a final hurdle to jump before we could truly begin our journey home. The inspections were thorough, as always, but they seemed trivial in comparison to everything we had endured in the past year. The long hours spent preparing vehicles, organizing gear, and ensuring everything was accounted for didn’t feel like an end so much as a final step in a much larger process.

Bronze Star

Before we left Gardez, the personnel officer handed me my Bronze Star Medal and certificate. There was no fanfare—no formation, no ceremony, no public acknowledgment of the award. I simply packed it away in my bags, more focused on the task of getting home than on the piece of paper and medal in my hands. At the time, I felt a mix of emotions: relief at closing this chapter, annoyance at the bureaucracy surrounding the process, and indifference toward the lack of a formal presentation.

The truth is, military awards often come with a side of drama, politics, and, sometimes, disillusionment. I’ve seen officers who were relieved of their duties for poor performance leave the war zone with a Bronze Star for service. Meanwhile, I’ve known junior-ranked soldiers who went above and beyond in combat, demonstrating incredible courage, but didn’t receive the recognition they deserved. This discrepancy wasn’t necessarily a reflection of their actions but a result of headquarters juggling award quotas or simply prioritizing rank and position over merit.

One particular story stands out to me. A peer of mine was in a terrible firefight where his partner was gravely injured, losing a leg to an RPG blast. My peer, by contrast, walked away with a minor scratch on his elbow. Yet, because he sought medical attention—essentially just a band-aid—he received a Purple Heart. Meanwhile, others in that same firefight, who faced equal or greater peril, received nothing. These inconsistencies highlight the subjective and sometimes arbitrary nature of the awards system.

For my Bronze Star, I feel like I was awarded what I deserved. I wasn’t looking for glory, and I wasn’t interested in embellishment. When my rater asked for input on my evaluation and award recommendation, I provided a document summarizing my highlights—specific actions and accomplishments during my deployment. To my knowledge, most of what I submitted was used verbatim because, frankly, my rater didn’t have direct knowledge of everything I had done. This wasn’t unusual; in large units and complex operations, leaders often rely on subordinates to provide a clear picture of their contributions.

Even so, the prestige of the Bronze Star felt diminished by the politics and drama that often surrounded awards. The stories of undeserved medals or overlooked accomplishments cast a shadow over the entire process. What should have been a meaningful acknowledgment of service sometimes felt more like an administrative checkbox.

For me, the medal itself was less important than the work it represented. My focus was on the mission, on my team, and on the knowledge that I had done my best in every situation. While I didn’t need a public ceremony or special recognition, it would have been meaningful to see a more consistent and equitable system for awarding and recognizing service.

Ultimately, the Bronze Star now serves as a quiet reminder of my time in Afghanistan—not of prestige or drama, but of the challenges, the accomplishments, and the moments that defined my deployment. And while the award itself may have been handed to me without ceremony, the memories and lessons of that time will always hold a deeper significance than any medal ever could.

Combat Artillery Badge

On a more personal note, I’ve come to appreciate the significance of an unofficial award that resonates more deeply with me than any formal decoration: the Combat Artillery Badge. Prior to 2005, the only combat badges available were the Combat Infantryman’s Badge (CIB) and the Combat Medic Badge (CMB). Many other combat arms branches, including artillery, were left out of the official combat badge system. In response to this, a Wisconsin Representative proposed the idea of establishing combat branch awards specifically for field artillery, engineers, and cavalry. However, the Army ultimately settled on the Combat Action Badge (CAB), which did not specify any particular branch or specialty.

For me, the Combat Artillery Badge represents a personal, unofficial acknowledgment of my direct engagement with enemy forces through artillery—something I’ve done countless times throughout my career. Though it may not be an official award, the Combat Artillery Badge symbolizes the unique role that artillery plays on the battlefield. It’s a badge that speaks to the experiences and sacrifices of those of us who serve in artillery, and it carries a significance that no amount of bureaucracy can diminish.

In combat, artillery is often the unseen hand of destruction, with impacts felt long before the enemy even knows we’re there. While infantrymen and medics have their own badges to commemorate their frontline service, artillerymen too deserve recognition for our vital role in shaping the battlefield. The Combat Artillery Badge is my way of marking those moments when I have been the one launching rounds that made a real difference, the moments when my firepower engaged the enemy with precision and force.

In the end, the Combat Artillery Badge is a symbol that transcends rank or official recognition. It’s about knowing I did my job to the best of my ability, providing fire support that saved lives and turned the tide of battle. And while I may not have received it through an official military ceremony, its meaning to me is far greater than any formal award could ever convey.

Wheel's Up

When we finally left Gardez for the last time, I had only one thought in my mind: going home. The relief was palpable. It was more than just the physical distance from a war zone; it was the weight lifting off my shoulders, the sense of having weathered the storm and emerged on the other side. As I boarded that "freedom bird," I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. There was pride, for sure—a quiet pride in having completed my mission and made it through. But there was also relief, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I had made it home, and for all the hardship, the isolation, the danger—it was the greatest feeling in the world.

After nearly 12 months in theater, we finally arrived in Gulfport, Mississippi, on February 22nd. The warm, damp air felt foreign after the arid winds of Afghanistan, but it was a welcome change. We were greeted by Wisconsin advisor leaders who had come to meet us, offering a sense of familiarity and camaraderie that hadn’t been felt in a long time. After spending months operating in isolation, far from home, the sight of friendly faces was a balm for the weariness that had settled into our bones.

Our time in Gulfport was brief, consisting of demobilization at Camp Shelby, where we underwent the typical processing and paperwork to transition back into civilian life. The camp buzzed with the activity of soldiers completing their final checks, and there was an air of anticipation mixed with fatigue. The whirlwind of debriefings, medical exams, and equipment handover filled our days, but the end of the process was in sight, and with it came the long-awaited return to normalcy.

Finally, the day came when we boarded the bus for Madison. The ride was quiet—everyone seemed lost in their thoughts, perhaps reflecting on the past year, processing the chaos and sacrifice, and wondering what life would be like now that it was all over. For me, the silence was punctuated by a deep sense of relief. It felt good to be heading home, to return to family, to familiar routines, to the warmth and security of life outside the harsh realities of deployment. But at the same time, there was a bittersweetness to the journey—the recognition that we had left behind people and experiences that had shaped us in ways we might not fully understand just yet.

As the bus rolled through the familiar streets of Madison, there was a quiet comfort in knowing I was home. The months of uncertainty, danger, and sacrifice had finally ended, and the feeling of relief washed over me. But even in that quiet ride, I knew I would carry the lessons, memories, and experiences of my deployment for the rest of my life.

After Dark

Despite everything—the grueling days of work, the months of isolation, and the constant dangers faced—there was a deep, undeniable sense of gratitude that surged through me when I finally made it home safely. It wasn’t a given, not by a long shot. Every day carried the weight of uncertainty, and each mission held its own set of risks. I didn’t always follow the rules. Sometimes, I made quick decisions in the moment, choosing practicality over protocol. My eye protection was often just dust goggles, and my helmet didn’t always sit squarely on my head. In hindsight, there were moments I could have made better choices, but at the end of it all, I survived. I came home, and that in itself felt like a victory.

The combat advising experience taught me more than I could have ever expected. It was a window into a world and culture that I would never have understood from a distance. Afghanistan wasn’t just a mission or a job; it was a complex, multifaceted place with a history, people, and traditions that shaped everything around us. The challenges of working with the Afghan Army and helping them build a foundation for their own defense capabilities made me appreciate the nuances of their culture in ways no other role could have. There were moments where we connected, despite the barriers of language and custom, and those moments of understanding were profound.

But there were also painful lessons, the hardest being the solitary nature of my deployment. Soldiers often speak of the camaraderie of deployment, of the bonds formed under fire and in the trenches. But for me, my experience was defined by solitude. With each new mission, I found myself working with different teams, rotating between units and personnel. There was little continuity, no chance to build those deep, lasting friendships that many others experienced. The bonds I formed were brief, transient, and often overshadowed by the next set of orders, the next task, the next mission.

Despite this, I did what I could to capture the experience. I wrote down my thoughts in notes, emails, and took photos when I could—small ways of preserving a piece of that time that would fade otherwise. Those notes, those photos, became my anchors, things I could return to later when the noise of daily life started to drown out the memories. In the years to come, I would reflect on them with a sense of awe at the things I had seen and done—things that had shaped who I was.

Many of my missions and adventures were with different people, and I am grateful that I captured my experiences with notes, emails, and photos to encapsulate my personal experience. I was involved with 55 convoys, 32 patrols, 21 rocket attacks, 12 base security force missions, four roadside bomb attacks, three quick reaction force missions, and two firefights. I pulled the trigger on the M119A2 howitzer in response to the enemy, and I fired the short suppressive fire on the medium machine gun in response to the enemy. I never fired my pistol or rifle. The numbers themselves can never capture the full essence of what those missions represented. The long hours of stress, the moments of terror, the camaraderie forged through shared hardship, and the quiet moments of reflection in between. No number could ever tell the complete story of the life I lived during that time. The experiences of those months, the people I met, the lessons I learned—those were the things that would stay with me, far beyond the dates on a calendar or the numbers on a mission report.

Transition

“Don’t judge people. You don’t know what kind of battle they are fighting.” — Unknown

It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when the shift began, but over time, I started to feel something change within me—something I couldn’t quite place at first. About eight years after returning from Afghanistan, the emotional weight of those years began to settle in. Initially, everything seemed fine. I was back in the rhythm of civilian life—working, spending time with my family, adjusting to the routine of normality. But beneath the surface, I sensed that something was missing, something was off.

Recognizing the Shift

At work, my engagement began to fade. The energy I once brought to my job—the drive to excel and push myself—evaporated. Tasks that had once challenged me now felt tedious and draining. I couldn't find the same sense of purpose in my work that had once fueled me. At home, my daughter was growing more independent. While I was proud of her, it left me feeling a sense of distance, as though I was becoming a bystander in her life rather than an active participant. Watching her transition into adulthood was bittersweet—an affirmation of time passing, but also a reminder that I was no longer the center of her world.

My marriage, which had always been a source of stability, began to feel like it was drifting. It wasn’t a dramatic shift, but over time, it became clear that the connection I once had with my spouse was now clouded by unspoken tension. We were comfortable, yes, but that comfort came at a cost. We no longer shared the closeness and depth of communication that had once made us a team. It felt like we were just going through the motions, day by day, with no real sense of intimacy or shared direction.

Adding to this sense of disconnection was the complete absence of a support network. I had returned home from Afghanistan, but in many ways, I had never reconnected with the people around me. Friends had moved on, and while I had colleagues, they didn’t understand the depth of what I had been through. Without camaraderie and shared understanding, I felt more alone than I had during my deployment, even when surrounded by others.

Memories Resurface

The memories from Afghanistan, the ones I thought I had buried, began to surface. At first, it was just fleeting thoughts—a flash of a moment, an image, a sound—but soon, they became persistent and haunting. They were no longer just distant recollections; they were vivid, uninvited, and constant. The faces of Afghan soldiers, the sounds of gunfire, the tension of every patrol—they became more real as the years passed. I couldn’t shake them. They would come at random moments, often when I least expected it. The memories crept in during quiet times, in the middle of the night, or while I was alone with my thoughts. No matter how hard I tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave.

With these unwanted thoughts came a shift in my behavior. I began to withdraw from people, to isolate myself. I stopped engaging in social situations that once brought me joy. Even the smallest reminder of my past—whether a conversation, a certain sound, or a place—would make me retreat. I found myself avoiding anything that might trigger those memories, even though I didn’t fully understand what was happening to me.

Seeking Understanding

Looking back, I realize now that this period was the beginning of a deeper struggle, one that I couldn’t have understood at the time. It wasn’t just a phase or a passing feeling; it was a slow descent into something far more profound. The weight of those years in Afghanistan didn’t just fade away with time. It lingered, like an uninvited guest, influencing my actions, my relationships, and my mental state. The hardest part was that I couldn’t fully recognize it for what it was. I didn’t have the words or the understanding to explain why I was pulling away, why I felt like I was slowly losing control. But as the months passed, I began to realize that the emotional wounds I had carried from Afghanistan weren’t just going to disappear—they needed to be addressed, faced, and healed.

Understanding post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was neither quick nor simple. It wasn’t something that could be easily diagnosed or fixed. The term itself is broad, but the reality is far more complex. PTSD doesn’t have a universal set of symptoms or a cookie-cutter manifestation. It shows up differently for each person, like a shadow that can’t be fully grasped, and trying to pin it down felt like chasing something elusive. Some days, I barely recognized the person I had become, as though I was watching someone else deal with the toll that my time in Afghanistan had taken on me.

The hardest part of this process was realizing how deeply these symptoms were affecting me. I spent a long time not understanding why I felt so detached, irritable, and distant. I couldn’t explain the waves of anxiety or the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that sometimes washed over me. The anger and numbness that would surface out of nowhere seemed inexplicable at first, and I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t even know the right words to describe what I was experiencing. I had spent months, even years, trying to manage on my own, chalking up the disconnection and unease to simple “stress.” But it was more than that.

Confronting Stigma and Redefining Strength

What made it even more difficult was the stigma surrounding PTSD. I had always been taught that soldiers were supposed to be tough, to endure, to keep going no matter what. Admitting weakness, vulnerability, or needing help didn’t fit into that image. There was a perception—both in myself and others—that reaching out for help would make me seem weak or broken, a label I couldn’t bear. I’d heard the stories and witnessed how some soldiers who sought help were treated differently, how their struggles were met with sympathy at best, or worse, dismissed entirely. The fear of judgment kept me silent for much longer than I should have. I didn’t want to become one of those soldiers who was considered “damaged,” so I suffered in silence, convincing myself that I just needed to push through it, that I was fine, even when I wasn’t.

But eventually, after what felt like an eternity of battling internal conflict, I came to terms with my experience. I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t a failure or a character flaw—it was a natural, albeit painful, response to the trauma I had endured. Post-traumatic stress wasn’t just about the traumatic event itself; it was about the aftermath, the lingering, invisible injuries that followed. The explosions I’d witnessed, the lives I’d seen altered, the tension of every mission—they didn’t just vanish when I left Afghanistan. They stayed with me, and they would continue to do so unless I acknowledged them.

It was a long journey, and I had to learn how to redefine what strength meant. I had spent so much time associating strength with silence, with stoicism, and with keeping my struggles hidden. But true strength, I came to understand, was about confronting the damage, accepting that it was part of me now, and taking steps to heal. It wasn’t about erasing the past—it was about learning how to carry it in a way that didn’t break me.

I had long held the belief that PTSD was something that only affected others—the “weak” soldiers, those who turned to alcohol or violence as a way of coping. I thought PTSD was something you could see—a visible wound, like a broken leg, with a clear treatment plan. I never imagined it could manifest so subtly, creeping in over time, without clear boundaries. And I certainly never imagined that it would affect me.

I’ve come to understand that PTSD is not a sign of weakness. As former President George W. Bush pointed out, the “D” for disorder should be removed because PTSD is an injury, not a disorder. The problem with labeling it as a disorder is that it implies the person had a flaw to begin with—something inherently wrong with them. General (Ret) Peter Chiarelli, former Vice Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army, echoed this sentiment, emphasizing that PTSD is an injury—something that happens to a person, not something they bring with them into the military.

The Help

"Don’t let your struggle become your identity." – Unknown

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an immensely complex condition, and its treatment is as varied and unique as the individuals it affects. At its core, PTSD is a result of exposure to extreme trauma—whether in combat, accidents, or personal loss—and its effects can shape a person’s entire worldview. The treatment process is multifaceted, often requiring a combination of psychotherapy, pharmacological support, and self-care practices. In addition to these primary medical treatments, lifestyle changes, physical activities, and social support networks can all play crucial roles in the journey of recovery. Each person’s path is different, and part of the challenge is finding the right combination of tools that allows healing to take place.

Therapy

The two most commonly prescribed therapies for PTSD are Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) and Prolonged Exposure Therapy. Both have been shown to be effective for a large portion of patients, with success rates of about 60%. These therapies aim to reduce symptoms, help individuals build healthy coping mechanisms, and restore a sense of self-worth. Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT), a specific form of CBT, encourages patients to confront the traumatic memories they’ve buried and learn to process them in a more manageable way. Over time, this allows individuals to reshape their narrative and reduce the emotional weight these memories carry. In addition, Prolonged Exposure Therapy and Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) are frequently used to treat PTSD, and both have garnered strong support in the therapeutic community for their effectiveness in reducing trauma-related symptoms.

For me, however, behavioral health was an area that I had always avoided. As a soldier, I was accustomed to relying on my own strengths and pushing through difficult situations. I had always been outside the reach of military hospitals, using my military health insurance to see my civilian doctor instead. I had heard stories of others seeking help, but the idea of opening up to someone—a stranger, no less—felt daunting. However, after a particularly challenging period in early 2017, I finally took the step of seeking a referral to behavioral health from my primary care doctor, hoping to get some guidance on managing the struggles I had been keeping under the surface.

I remember walking into my first therapy session with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I wasn’t sure what to expect, how vulnerable I should be, or how much of my past would be scrutinized. I even wondered if my experiences would somehow make it into my official records. The idea of people knowing about my difficulties terrified me. But there was something in me—something urging me to finally seek help. What I found that day was a therapist who understood me in ways I hadn’t expected. My therapist had served in the National Guard, so she had firsthand experience with military culture and lingo. She understood that the trauma we experienced wasn’t just about physical injuries, but the mental toll that came with it. That was something I wasn’t sure I’d find in a civilian therapist.

Over the course of the first five sessions, I opened up slowly. My therapist made sure I didn’t feel pressured to go too fast, creating an environment where I felt safe to explore my feelings at my own pace. However, after a few weeks, she informed me that she would be leaving for another opportunity. We discussed transitioning to another therapist, but by that point, I was unsure if I even needed the help anymore. I had begun to feel like I understood myself better, like I could manage on my own. This reluctance to continue therapy was a theme that would come and go throughout my journey, but for now, I decided to step back.

More Therapy

However, by early 2018, I knew I wasn’t finished with my healing process. I had not yet resolved the internal struggles, and the weight of my trauma was becoming more difficult to carry alone. I returned to behavioral health, where I was matched with a second therapist. This time, she wasn’t familiar with the military, but she was skilled and empathetic. Despite the cultural disconnect, she helped me make substantial strides in understanding my trauma and its impact on my life. Over the next year, I underwent Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT), EMDR, and Written Exposure Therapy. These therapies, though often difficult, were vital in helping me confront and process the trauma I had buried for so long.

I came to realize that having a therapist with military experience has both its advantages and challenges. On the one hand, they speak the language, understand the structure of military life, and can relate to experiences that most civilians simply cannot. This can reduce the need for long explanations and foster a sense of understanding. For instance, I didn’t have to explain acronyms like "GAC" (Ground Assault Convoy) or "UAH" (Up-Armored HMMWV)—my therapist understood these terms implicitly. However, at times, I felt an uncomfortable tension. Despite her military background, I sometimes felt judged by her because of my vulnerability. I was torn between my identity as an Army officer—a role that demanded strength and resilience—and the emotional vulnerability I felt in therapy. This paradox became one of my greatest hurdles, but also an area of growth as I began to reconcile the soldier I had been with the person I was becoming.

One of the therapies my therapist suggested was EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). I had never heard of it before, but she explained that it involved identifying a "safe place" and then processing the traumatic events while following her moving fingers. It sounded odd, almost too simple, but I trusted her and was willing to give it a try.

My first task was to create a mental image of a "safe place." Initially, I had trouble visualizing something calm and peaceful. I considered the idea of a beach, but I quickly realized that I didn’t enjoy sunlight due to past sunburns. Instead, I thought back to a quiet, peaceful moment from my days as a junior artillery officer. I had often found tranquility in the sound of howitzers firing under a starry sky. But this wasn’t the right "safe place" for EMDR, so I continued searching. Eventually, I found my “safe place”— mowing the lawn on a cloudy day. The routine, solitude, and satisfaction of completing the task became symbolic of my healing. This exercise was more than just a mental escape—it was an active tool to process emotions and memories that had been buried for years. I was able to face the trauma directly and begin to heal.

For many, medication plays an important role in the treatment of PTSD. Antidepressants, particularly selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) like sertraline, are often prescribed to help regulate mood and reduce anxiety. For me, when sertraline was prescribed, it wasn’t to "fix" my PTSD. It was about managing the anxiety and depression that had begun to overwhelm me. The change wasn’t immediate or dramatic—it wasn’t about feeling euphoric or overly “happy.” Instead, it was more like easing the pressure from a high-pressure system. It allowed me to gain control of the emotional turbulence within me. While the highs and lows didn’t disappear entirely, the medication helped smooth out the extremes, allowing me to function at a more balanced level.

Medication is not a cure-all. I quickly learned that it wasn’t a magic bullet but a small, essential adjustment to the chaos of my mind. It became a long-term journey, one that required regular check-ins with my doctor to adjust dosages and find the right balance. Like therapy, it wasn’t about finding the perfect solution. It was about creating space for healing.

The Journey of Running: From Fitness to Marathon

Running can significantly enhance physical fitness while releasing endorphins that boost mood and reduce stress. For me, running became a source of relaxation and enjoyment—forty minutes of decompression and a much-needed mental reset.

My running journey began shortly after redeploying in 2007. Inspired by a peer, I decided to run more, partly out of a desire to stay competitive and improve my Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT) scores, which included two minutes of push-ups, two minutes of sit-ups, and a two-mile run. While I consistently scored well, I wanted to position myself better for my next assignment. Starting was challenging—I began with just two miles a week, slowly adding days and distances. Winters saw me running on treadmills in the basement while watching the local news, but by the fall of 2009, when I started working in Madison, my routine had transformed. I ran five miles every weekday and up to ten miles on Fridays. Running had become more than exercise; it was part of my identity.

I invested in proper running shoes and apparel—specialized shorts, pants, shirts, and jackets. Initially, I listened to music on my digital media player, but I soon found it distracting. Instead, I embraced the rhythm of my footsteps and the natural sounds around me, especially while running scenic trails like Milwaukee's Oak Leaf Trail and Madison's Starkweather Creek path.

By 2010, running had become second nature, and my confidence soared. Though I had never run more than ten miles, I decided to challenge myself and signed up for my first-ever race: the 2010 Madison Marathon over Memorial Day weekend. My training runs were capped at 14 miles due to time constraints, but I maintained an eight-minute mile pace during those sessions, giving me confidence in my endurance. My goals for the marathon were clear: my primary goal was to finish, my secondary goal was to complete it in under four hours, and my tertiary goal was to run the entire course.

However, the weather on race day presented an unexpected challenge, with record-high temperatures in the upper 90s. Race officials eventually black-flagged the event, urging runners to stop and board buses at water stations. Despite this, I was determined to finish. I stayed with my original pace group for the first 18 miles before exhaustion and the oppressive heat forced me to take walking breaks. Along the route, kind residents sprayed runners with hoses and set up sprinklers to provide some relief from the heat.

By the final stretch, my aching feet and fatigue slowed my pace significantly, but I pushed on, alternating between walking and running. Ultimately, I crossed the finish line in 4 hours and 22 minutes, achieving my primary goal of completing the marathon, though I fell short of my secondary and tertiary goals.

Despite the challenges, the experience was deeply rewarding. The Madison Marathon was a testament to my resilience, dedication, and ability to adapt in the face of adversity. It reinforced my belief that running is as much a mental challenge as a physical one—a discipline that has shaped not only my fitness but also my character.

Emotional Support

For much of our marriage, my wife and I didn’t see ourselves as "pet people." Aside from a goldfish our daughter received one Christmas, we had avoided bringing pets into our home. However, after persistent pleading from our daughter and her well-researched arguments about the benefits of having a dog, we decided to welcome a puppy into our lives. She recommended a Maltipoo, citing its small size, hypoallergenic coat, child-friendly nature, and trainability. Enter Molly, a cream-colored Maltipoo who would forever change the fabric of our family.

Molly quickly became much more than a family pet. Her presence brought comfort, companionship, and a sense of purpose. For someone like me, who has struggled with symptoms of PTSD, Molly became a natural source of emotional support. Her unconditional love and reliance on me for her care created a bond that provided stability during difficult moments. Whether it was her joyful welcome when I walked through the door or her comforting snuggles at the end of a stressful day, Molly had a remarkable ability to soothe my anxieties.

Having Molly also encouraged me to engage in routines that were both therapeutic and grounding. Her need for daily walks became a healthy ritual, giving me a reason to step outside, get fresh air, and focus on something other than my own thoughts. Long walks through the neighborhood not only helped me reconnect with nature but also provided opportunities to interact with neighbors. Over time, I learned the names of almost every dog in the area and began chatting with their owners. These simple interactions helped me feel more connected to my community, which was something I had struggled with in the past.

Spending time with Molly also allowed me to experience moments of mindfulness. Sitting outside on the lawn, watching her chase leaves or sniff around the yard, reminded me to slow down and appreciate the small joys in life. Her playful energy and unfiltered curiosity were infectious, pulling me out of my head and into the present moment.

For someone dealing with PTSD, moments of connection and calm can be profoundly healing. Molly provided those moments in abundance. Her unwavering loyalty and affection gave me a sense of safety and comfort that I hadn’t realized I was missing. Unlike conversations with people, where I often felt the need to filter my emotions or reactions, Molly accepted me exactly as I was. She didn’t judge, she didn’t ask questions—she simply offered love.

Molly’s impact extended beyond emotional support to practical benefits. Her presence created structure in my day, as her needs became a priority. Feeding her, playing with her, and ensuring her well-being added a sense of purpose and responsibility that helped me navigate challenging times.

While I haven’t pursued an official emotional support animal designation for Molly, her role in my life mirrors what these animals provide: comfort, stability, and companionship. Emotional support animals, especially dogs, are known to help individuals with PTSD by reducing stress, lowering anxiety, and fostering a sense of calm. Molly fulfills all of these roles effortlessly, not because of a designation but because of her natural ability to bring joy and love to those around her.

Molly’s presence has not only helped me cope with the challenges of PTSD but has also strengthened our family bond and enriched our daily lives. She has taught me the power of unconditional love, the importance of connection, and the healing potential of simple moments shared with a devoted companion. I never imagined how much a small dog could change my perspective and bring such profound comfort, but Molly has become an irreplaceable part of our lives, proving that sometimes, the smallest creatures can make the biggest difference.

A Personal Written Journey

Written narrative exposure therapy proved to be the most beneficial form of healing for me. As an introvert who often relied on withdrawal as a coping mechanism, I found writing to be the ideal way to express myself. Writing allowed me to take my time, reflect deeply, and be honest without the fear of immediate judgment that verbal communication might bring. It provided a quiet, thoughtful outlet that fit seamlessly into my life—I could jot down notes at work during lunch breaks or write on my iPad while my daughter was at swim practice.

The flexibility of writing was empowering. Using electronic documents, I could revise, start, and stop as needed. Writing felt personal and deliberate, granting me control over what I chose to share and with whom. Between therapy sessions, I wrote about traumatic events repeatedly, each time adding more details and describing the sensory environment. This process of revisiting and refining my experiences not only helped me process the trauma but also provided clarity and insight.

Narrative therapy is particularly effective because it allows individuals to externalize their emotions, shifting the overwhelming weight of internal turmoil into a structured form where it can be processed more objectively. Writing about traumatic events creates a safe space to explore difficult memories and fosters a sense of control over one’s story. It also enables individuals to identify patterns in their thoughts and behaviors, which can lead to a better understanding of their triggers and coping mechanisms.

For me, the act of writing became a way to break the silence that often accompanies trauma. By translating chaotic and painful memories into coherent stories, I could make sense of them, reduce their emotional intensity, and reframe my perspective. Writing helped me move beyond raw reactions to deliberate reflections, transforming my experience from something overwhelming into something I could understand and manage.

Additionally, written narrative therapy provides the opportunity to revisit one’s writing over time, facilitating a deeper understanding of personal growth. As I continued to write, I could see how my perspective shifted and how far I had come in my healing journey. Revisiting earlier pieces allowed me to add context, clarify emotions, and even recognize moments of strength I hadn’t noticed before.

The therapeutic benefits of writing extend beyond emotional regulation. It also fosters self-awareness, helping individuals identify their values, beliefs, and priorities. Writing about my experiences provided insight into my motivations, resilience, and capacity for growth. It allowed me to focus not just on what happened but also on how I responded and what I learned.

Written narrative therapy is a versatile tool for healing, accommodating the pace and needs of the individual. Whether it’s through journaling, structured exercises, or storytelling, it offers a way to process, reflect, and ultimately transform trauma into a source of understanding and strength. For me, it has been a deeply personal and profoundly effective method of finding peace, clarity, and empowerment.

Veterans Yoga Project and Mindfulness

Veterans Yoga Project (VYP) began when Dr. Daniel J. Libby, a Postdoctoral Fellow with the Yale University Department of Psychiatry at the West Haven VA Medical Center in Connecticut, observed a critical connection in veterans recovering from post-traumatic stress (PTS). He found that veterans who developed empowering self-regulating practices experienced better outcomes, transitioning from post-traumatic stress to post-traumatic growth more effectively.

A pivotal moment in VYP’s formation occurred during one of Dr. Libby’s early “mindful yoga” classes when a veteran shared that he no longer needed sleep medication, as meditation had become his tool for rest. This transformation, rooted in self-empowerment and mindfulness, inspired the foundation of VYP, which began as a training workshop to equip yoga teachers with the skills to support veterans in recovery. Over time, the program expanded into the VYP Teachers Alliance, offering a supportive community and continuing education for teachers working with veterans. Today, VYP serves not only those in recovery but also their caregivers and veterans who now teach and share these tools as part of their own growth journey.

For me, mindful resilience—a cornerstone of VYP—has been profoundly beneficial. While I practice active yoga classes occasionally, it is the mindful resilience techniques, such as grounding and breathing exercises, that resonate most deeply. These practices were pivotal in VYP’s origins as a treatment for PTSD, and I can attest to their transformative impact.

When I first attended VYP meetings, I found it unusual that each session began with breathing and grounding exercises. However, over time, I grew accustomed to this ritual and even began looking forward to it. These simple yet powerful practices foster a sense of calm and presence, which has been invaluable in managing stress and maintaining mental clarity. My journey with VYP has reinforced how these techniques, though subtle, are vital tools for healing and growth—both for myself and for the broader veteran community.

Healing from PTSD is a long and winding road, but it’s one that I’ve learned to navigate. It requires self-awareness, support, and the courage to face the darkness head-on. Every step I take—whether through therapy, medication, writing, or running—brings me closer to understanding myself and reclaiming my life.

Ugly Stigma

“PTSD is not the person refusing to let go of the past, but the past refusing to let go of the person.” – Unknown

Stigma surrounds the invisible injury aspects of PTSD. It is easy to feel compassion for a soldier who has lost an arm or a leg in combat, but when it comes to a soldier returning with PTSD, there is no obvious physical sign of their suffering. PTSD doesn’t wear its injuries like a badge that everyone can see. It is a hidden wound, often misunderstood by those who have never experienced it. Even more than its invisibility, PTSD varies dramatically from one individual to the next, making it difficult for outsiders to grasp. Each veteran has a unique journey, with individual triggers that can set off memories or flashbacks, specific events they replay in their minds, and ways they avoid situations or people that remind them of the trauma. The diversity of reactions and experiences in PTSD means that the path to healing is equally varied, with different types of treatments and strategies that work for different people.

The general image of a veteran with PTSD is often colored by stereotypes. The media tends to paint a picture of a male, likely struggling with substance abuse, prone to violent outbursts, and possibly harboring homicidal or suicidal tendencies. A Google® image search for “veteran PTSD” brings up numerous photos of white males in Army uniforms, bent over with their hands on their heads, appearing distraught. In fact, one of the most prominent images in the search results is a cartoon that depicts a civilian greeting a returning soldier with the words, “Great to have you home, Bro! And NOT a scratch on you…” while standing next to a male in uniform, whose name tape reads “PTSD,” with a ticking grenade in place of his head. This image encapsulates the prevailing narrative—that PTSD is a ticking time bomb, a source of fear and unease. Unfortunately, such depictions only deepen the misunderstanding of PTSD, linking it subconsciously to mass shootings or violent incidents. In reality, most veterans with PTSD are not violent but are instead grappling with internal battles that others cannot see.

Disorder vs. Injury

The abbreviation “PTSD” has become widely recognized, yet when the term is spelled out as post-traumatic stress disorder, it carries a host of additional connotations. To many, the word "disorder" suggests that something is fundamentally wrong with a person—that it is a flaw or a defect, something that existed before the traumatic event. This is part of the reason why PTSD is so hard to talk about, especially in the military, where mental toughness is prized and vulnerability is often seen as weakness. In contrast, the word “injury” carries with it the connotation of something that happened at a specific moment in time, something external, something that can be treated or healed. PTSD is more like an injury to the mind, and just like a physical injury, it has long-term effects on the person’s ability to function and their overall well-being.

Unlike a physical injury, PTSD doesn’t carry visible signs. There is no arm sling, no wheelchair, no noticeable limp to indicate that a person is suffering. This invisibility makes it far harder for others to recognize when someone is in need of help or support. I recall how, when I was recovering from knee surgery, people were quick to offer help—holding doors open for me, carrying my bags, offering encouragement. It was easy to see my injury, and people instinctively offered support. But when it came to PTSD, I often felt like I had to explain myself, to justify the emotional scars I carried. There is a unique burden in discussing PTSD, especially when it’s so easily misunderstood by others. Unlike a broken arm or a visible wound, the pain of PTSD is abstract and internal, making it hard to explain to people who have never experienced it. The trauma is invisible to others, which can lead them to question its legitimacy, adding an emotional weight to the struggle.

This societal distinction between physical and mental injuries is also evident in the way military injuries are honored. Wounded veterans, those with visible injuries like burns, amputations, or other physical scars, are often met with public displays of gratitude and admiration. On social media, images of these individuals are shared widely, accompanied by heartfelt messages that express appreciation for their sacrifices. But when it comes to those suffering from PTSD, the recognition is not as clear or public. The Purple Heart, one of the most esteemed military decorations, is awarded to those who have been wounded or killed in action. It is a symbol of sacrifice, yet PTSD is not considered eligible for the award, despite its potential to be just as debilitating as a physical injury. This exclusion is a painful reminder that, in the eyes of society and even within the military, mental injuries are often not viewed as equally worthy of recognition.

Personal Gain

I’ve witnessed instances where military personnel have exaggerated or fabricated their injuries to boost their public image or for personal gain. I find it frustrating to see individuals who have been awarded for reasons that don’t truly reflect their service, while those who carry invisible scars like PTSD go unrecognized. This inconsistency isn’t just a flaw in military culture—it reflects the broader societal tendency to value visible injuries over invisible ones. The result is that many who suffer from mental health issues like PTSD are left without the recognition or support they need, despite the severe impact it has on their lives.

In the case of disability compensation, PTSD presents additional challenges. Military disability payments, which are tax-exempt, are determined based on the severity of a service member's disability. PTSD can often result in a significant rating, but because PTSD is an invisible injury, some may be tempted to exaggerate their symptoms to obtain better benefits. The Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) does not grant disability compensation solely based on a PTSD diagnosis. Instead, veterans must provide extensive documentation of their symptoms and the impact PTSD has on their lives, both socially and professionally. The VA assesses PTSD based on its severity, determining whether it causes significant impairment to a veteran’s ability to function in daily life.

Navigating the VA’s disability rating system can be an emotional and frustrating process. PTSD is categorized alongside other mental health conditions, like depression, anxiety, and schizophrenia, all of which have varying degrees of severity and corresponding disability ratings. The rating can range from 0%, indicating minimal impact on daily life, to 100%, indicating total impairment. The severity of symptoms can fluctuate over time, making the process of obtaining benefits even more difficult. This variability highlights the complexities of PTSD—it’s a condition that affects each individual differently, and its impact on one’s life is not always easy to measure. The process of applying for disability compensation, with its required documentation and forms, can be emotionally exhausting. It forces veterans to relive the trauma they experienced, adding another layer of stress to an already difficult situation. For many, this bureaucratic process becomes an additional hurdle to healing, as it’s not only difficult to open up about their struggles but also mentally and physically draining to prove the extent of their condition.

Understanding

The ongoing stigma surrounding PTSD underscores the need for greater education and understanding. PTSD is not a sign of weakness or failure; it’s a legitimate injury that can be just as debilitating as a physical wound. We need to change how we view mental health issues, especially within the military. It’s essential that veterans who suffer from PTSD receive the recognition, understanding, and support they deserve, rather than being stigmatized for something beyond their control.

My journey toward recognizing and addressing my own PTSD was a slow and painful process. At first, I brushed off the symptoms—irritability, trouble sleeping, a constant sense of unease—as temporary issues that would pass with time. I didn’t immediately make the connection between these experiences and my deployment. It took months, even years, to recognize that the emotional weight I was carrying was tied to the trauma I had endured. When I first sought medical help, the focus wasn’t on PTSD—it was on general anxiety, social anxiety, and even the possibility that I was on the autism spectrum. It wasn’t until later that the true nature of my struggles began to emerge.

Body Aches and Pains

The physical toll on my body, compounded by the emotional weight of PTSD, made navigating daily life extraordinarily challenging. Over the years, my body has endured an immense amount of wear and tear, leaving lasting impacts that extend far beyond the physical. My knee, once injured years ago, became a chronic source of pain and dysfunction, necessitating eight surgeries, including a total knee replacement. However, the replacement was far from a solution. The accumulation of internal scar tissue from previous procedures left me with constant pain, severe stiffness, and a drastically reduced range of motion. Simple tasks like bending, standing for extended periods, or navigating stairs became significant obstacles that I had to face every day.

Beyond my knee, my left great toe was fused, further limiting my mobility. This small yet critical joint affected my ability to walk smoothly and maintain balance, exacerbating the challenges I already faced. To add to this, my vision began deteriorating, further restricting my independence and compounding the frustration I felt. These physical conditions were not just isolated problems; they interacted and compounded, making every movement and action a reminder of my limitations.

Living with chronic pain and physical restrictions takes a toll not just on the body but also on the mind. The unrelenting discomfort became a constant companion, and the mental exhaustion of managing that pain weighed heavily on me. The emotional toll of PTSD, layered on top of my physical conditions, created a cycle that felt impossible to escape. Pain fueled frustration, frustration deepened emotional distress, and the resulting despair made managing my health even more difficult.

Every day felt like an uphill battle—a challenge to maintain a sense of normalcy in the face of constant adversity. Tasks that once came effortlessly now required careful planning and energy conservation. Social interactions and daily responsibilities became overwhelming as I struggled to balance the physical pain with the emotional weight I carried. Despite these difficulties, I found moments of resilience and strength, determined not to let my physical and emotional struggles define me entirely.

While my conditions continue to pose significant challenges, acknowledging their impact has been a vital part of my journey. Understanding how intertwined physical and emotional health can be has allowed me to seek holistic approaches to healing, addressing both the body and the mind.

Sound of Silence

I carried my burden largely in silence. My deployment had been different from the typical narrative of a soldier returning home, and I felt isolated in my struggle. I didn’t have the same support network that many others had, and the shame of admitting that I wasn’t okay weighed heavily on me. I feared that people would think I was weak, that I should just “move on” like so many others had. But the truth was, I couldn’t. The scars I carried were invisible, but they were deep, and they were real.

It wasn’t until years later that I truly understood what was happening. Accepting the diagnosis of PTSD was a turning point, but it wasn’t easy. The shame, the stigma, and the fear of judgment made it difficult to seek help. At first, I hid the signs of PTSD, hoping no one would notice. I was embarrassed by my struggles, and I didn’t want to be labeled as someone who couldn’t handle the pressure of military service. The impulse to hide my vulnerability, to pretend that everything was fine, was overwhelming. It wasn’t until I finally sought therapy and started opening up that I began to see a path forward.

In therapy, I learned that hypervigilance was one of the most difficult aspects of PTSD. For years, I had lived in a constant state of alertness, always on edge, always waiting for something bad to happen. It’s a form of survival mode, and it never truly turns off. “Operation Chill,” my therapist called it—an ironic term, given how difficult it is to slow down after years of living in fight-or-flight mode. Trying to relax, to let go of the tension, felt unnatural. The challenge wasn’t just about unwinding—it was about confronting and addressing the deep wounds that PTSD had left.

As I continued therapy, I began to recognize that PTSD doesn’t have to define me. I learned coping strategies to manage the symptoms, and over time, I started to rebuild my life. But it was not a linear process. PTSD ebbs and flows, and there are still times when the darkness of the past creeps in, triggering memories and emotions that I thought I had buried. The key, however, is that I’ve learned to recognize those triggers and cope with them in healthier ways. The journey is far from over, but with time and understanding, I’ve come to understand that my trauma doesn’t make me any less of a person. I’m learning to live with it, not fight against it.

The journey toward healing from PTSD is long and difficult, but it is also a process of reclaiming control. By talking about the struggles, by acknowledging the stigma, and by reaching out for help, we can begin to break down the walls that perpetuate the silence and shame surrounding PTSD. I hope that, in time, future generations of veterans will not have to endure the same kind of isolation and judgment that so many of us have faced. The reality is that PTSD is just as valid and worthy of support as any physical injury. It’s time we start treating it as such.

Charlie Mike

“Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.” – Dr. Seuss

The phrase “Charlie Mike” is one that is etched in the hearts of military personnel across the globe. It’s shorthand for “continue mission,” a call to persevere no matter the circumstance. But over time, this simple phrase has taken on a deeper meaning for me—one that transcends the tactical battlefield and extends into the quiet, often unseen battle of living with PTSD. It’s a guiding principle, a reminder that even in the hardest moments, we push forward. We continue the mission, no matter how challenging or painful it may be.

In my 27 years of military service, I acquired more than just medals and recognition—I became someone who was shaped by experiences both harrowing and transformative. Service in the military taught me the value of leadership, the importance of character, and the immeasurable power of teamwork. I was trained to lead in times of chaos and to remain calm under pressure. But it also gave me a deep understanding of the human experience—how we relate to one another, how we rise above adversity, and how we continue to push forward when the road ahead seems insurmountable.

Through my time in the military, I learned that leadership wasn’t about issuing commands or showing strength—it was about connecting with others, inspiring them to rise to their best potential, and standing shoulder to shoulder with them through challenges. True leadership comes not from authority, but from the ability to serve others, to listen, to guide, and to be a source of support. I found that these principles didn’t only apply to the battlefield—they applied to life.

The values instilled in me during my service—integrity, honor, respect, and duty—became my compass, guiding every decision I made, whether in the heat of combat or in the more mundane, yet equally significant, moments of everyday life. These principles shaped how I approached my relationships, my work, and even my own internal struggles. They served as the foundation upon which I built not only my military career but also the person I became, long after I hung up my uniform.

Faith was another pillar that sustained me throughout my military service and continues to guide me today. The lessons of compassion, fairness, and love rooted in my faith provided me with the strength to face both the external and internal battles that came with service. It reminded me that doing what is right isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. The Lord’s commandments—to love one another, to show mercy, and to seek peace—gave me the tools to approach leadership with empathy and humility, and to understand that every person, regardless of rank or background, deserves respect and kindness.

Beyond the moral teachings, the military also provided me with incredible opportunities for personal and professional growth. The educational benefits I received were a game changer. I earned a Master of Business Management degree and a Professional Human Resource certification, credentials that would have been out of reach had I not been in uniform. But these achievements were only a small part of the value I gained. The real education came through experience—the kind that can’t be taught in a classroom. I learned how to problem-solve under pressure, how to manage people from all walks of life, and how to adapt to constantly changing circumstances. The military taught me that the true measure of success isn’t how well you plan, but how well you adapt when things don’t go according to plan.

Looking back, I am filled with gratitude for the extraordinary experiences I had—experiences that only military service could offer. I’ve stood on foreign soil, witnessing moments in history that few others would ever have the chance to see. From navigating the intricate tunnels beneath the Korean Demilitarized Zone to savoring Dunkel Weiss in the historic beer gardens of Germany, these moments weren’t just adventures—they were opportunities to grow, to learn, and to connect with the world in ways I hadn’t imagined. I’ve shared chai with Afghan elders in a village far from home, learning their ways and hearing their stories. I’ve fired howitzer cannons, feeling the ground tremble beneath me, and launched rockets in combat, experiencing the rush and intensity of warfare. These memories will stay with me forever, reminders of a life lived with purpose, passion, and intensity.

But with all the highs came deep lows. The true cost of service isn’t always visible. For me, it wasn’t just about the physical toll of deployments or the loss of comrades—it was about the unseen scars that come with carrying trauma home. PTSD is not a disorder; it’s an injury. I’ve learned to recognize that distinction, and in doing so, I’ve been able to begin the journey of healing. For years, I tried to ignore the symptoms, hoping that they would fade with time. But as time went on, I realized that ignoring the signs wasn’t going to make the pain disappear—it was only making it worse.

Therapy became a turning point for me. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, nor was it an easy process, but it was a necessary one. In therapy, I began to understand that healing is not linear. There are good days and bad days, setbacks and breakthroughs. The road to recovery is winding and unpredictable, but it’s also full of opportunity for growth. I learned that healing isn’t about erasing the past or forgetting the trauma. It’s about learning to live with it, understanding how it shapes you, and finding ways to move forward despite it.

Avoiding the harmful coping mechanisms I had relied on in the past, such as alcohol and isolation, became a key part of my recovery. While it would have been easy to retreat into unhealthy habits, I learned to redirect my energy into healthier outlets. I found solace in physical activity, in mindfulness, and in building stronger relationships with my family. These practices gave me the strength to face the challenges ahead and helped me rediscover a sense of purpose and direction.

Retirement marked a pivotal moment in my life—a chance to pause and take stock of everything that had come before. For the first time in decades, I could truly breathe, free from the constant pressures of deployments, orders, and unrelenting responsibilities. Yet, as much as I tried to embrace this new chapter, there was an awkwardness to retiring in my upper forties. It felt strange, almost premature, to step away from a life of purpose and structure that had defined me for so long. I often caught myself wondering if I had earned this time. Was it too soon to rest?

But deep down, I knew the answer: I had paid my dues, in full and then some. I had given everything I had to my career, to my country, and to the people I served alongside. I reminded myself daily that I deserved this time—a time to heal, to reconnect, and to rediscover the parts of life that I had set aside for so many years.

Slowly, I began to embrace the slower pace of civilian life, savoring the simple moments that I had previously overlooked. Time spent with my wife, daughter, and our dog became my greatest joy. We’d share quiet meals, go for long walks in the neighborhood, and simply enjoy being present with one another. These small, seemingly insignificant moments became the foundation of the peace I had been searching for—a peace that only now, in retirement, I could fully appreciate.

Volunteering with nonprofit organizations has given me a renewed sense of purpose. Through my work in accounting and bookkeeping, I’ve been able to continue contributing, using the skills I honed in the military to support causes I care deeply about. This has allowed me to stay engaged in meaningful work while maintaining the balance I need to prioritize my mental and emotional well-being. It’s become clear to me that my desire to serve others didn’t end with my military service—it’s simply evolved into a new form, one that allows me to make an impact in ways that align with my current values and priorities.

I’ve come to realize that fulfillment isn’t found in erasing the past—it’s found in embracing it, integrating it into the present, and using it to inform the future. My military career was an important chapter in my life, one that I will always look back on with pride and gratitude. But it’s not the end of my story—it’s just one part of a much larger narrative. The future is full of opportunities for peace, joy, and meaningful contributions, and I’m eager to continue writing about it.

“Maintain perspective.”

“Don’t judge people. You don’t know what kind of battle they are fighting.”

“You don't know what you don't know, you know?”

“Don’t yuck other people’s yums.”

These simple reminders have become part of my daily life. I think of the cartoon that shows two people looking at the same number—one sees a “6,” the other sees a “9.” Both are right, depending on their perspective. This illustrates how we view the struggles of others. PTSD, like all challenges, is deeply personal. Some people find solace in therapy, others in family, fitness, or solitude. The key is to foster understanding and empathy, breaking the stigma and offering support where it’s needed most.

“Charlie Mike” isn’t just a military term—it’s a philosophy for living. No matter the obstacles, no matter the setbacks, we continue. We push forward. We keep fighting the good fight. Life is about persistence, resilience, and the unwavering belief that tomorrow is another opportunity to keep moving. Each step forward is a victory, even if the path is unclear. As Dr. Seuss wisely reminds us, “Tomorrow is another one.”

The mission doesn’t end. It continues—one step, one day, one moment at a time.

Biography

Andy Schouten’s journey in the Army began at just 17 years old when he enlisted in field artillery. His passion for service and leadership led him to become an officer through Marquette University’s ROTC program. Over the years, Andy served in a variety of field artillery officer assignments, each contributing to the depth of his military career. His expertise was honed through numerous military exercises, unique missions, and unparalleled experiences—such as being inside a tunnel under the Korean Demilitarized Zone, savoring a Dunkel Weiss in a German beer garden, firing howitzer cannons, launching rockets, and navigating tracked vehicles in challenging terrains.

In 2006, Andy was deployed to the rugged, austere mountains of Afghanistan as a combat advisor. His yearlong deployment marked a pivotal moment in his career, where he lived alongside and trained Afghan Army units. This deployment not only provided him with extensive combat experience but also immersed him in a culture vastly different from his own. His days ranged from eating Afghan foot bread to engaging in life-threatening firefights, all of which profoundly shaped his perspective on war and life.

After returning from Afghanistan, Andy shifted his focus to military Human Resources, where he managed the careers and well-being of hundreds of personnel. His keen eye for detail and his deep sense of duty led him to serve as the Deputy Inspector General, a role in which he became an objective fact finder and problem solver. His ability to assess complex situations and bring about practical solutions was invaluable to the teams and organizations he worked with.

His deployment experiences, particularly in Afghanistan, laid the groundwork for his first autobiography, where he shared the challenges and triumphs of his military career. His second book delves into a deeply personal subject: the impact of post-traumatic stress. This raw, vulnerable account provides insight into his struggles and recovery process, offering a testament to the resilience and strength of those who face invisible wounds.

Andy retired as an Army Major after 27 years of distinguished service, with 20 years spent in an active-duty status. Throughout his career, he demonstrated exceptional leadership, dedication, and a commitment to the values instilled in him during his time in the Army. His legacy not only lives on through his service but also in his writings, where he continues to inspire others with his story of perseverance and healing.