pain – Page 2 – CONUS Battle Drills

Merry Christmas from the Taliban

Christmas Firefight…

Although I’ve told this story many times, there is an element of it that I’ve kept to myself because I didn’t think it was socially acceptable, but recently i’ve seen enough papers, articles, and posts to realize that I’m not the only one that has felt this, and so, for the first time the whole story:

December 2005 Afghanistan

Captain Teague, our company commander, had apprehensively gone on leave the two weeks prior, and like most of the men of Bravo company, he was eager to return to Afghanistan. We were getting into firefights on a weekly or bi-weekly basis, so leaving for three weeks or more meant that you were likely to miss one, and none of us wanted to miss one. Had we been given the option, i’m sure most of the Bravo men would have deferred on leave to be there with their brothers in combat. Teague got lucky and nothing happened in the three weeks during his absence, and I think it was the day he got back (or the next day) that we got into the largest firefight of the entire deployment.

Camp Tillman was a small base named after the Arizona Cardinals player killed in Afghanistan. It sat less than two kilometers from Pakistan right along a major supply route for enemy fighters. We slept in concrete buildings with one metal door, around 30 guys to a room. I slept right by the door to be easy to find and so I could get up quickly if need be. I was deep in REM sleep when the metal door violently swung open and SGT Harvey Lewis yelled, “The base is getting attacked!” as he shimmied past my cot towards his gear in the back of the room. I stood up and pushed the door open to see for myself. I remember thinking that I didn’t hear the familiar sounds of whooshing rockets or mortars, so his words didn’t make sense. When I pushed the door open I saw, through the bright moon-lit sky, hundreds of tracers and heard the sharp cracks of AK rounds pinging all around the base.

My heart leapt, and this is the part I’ve never told, I was excited for this fight. Enemy fighters within our lines, inside the base, this is the kind of shit they make movies out of! I slipped my feet into my boots, pulled the laces tight and tucked them into the sides. I threw my plate carrier over my head, grabbed my LCE and helmet, snapped my NODs into place and kicked the door open. I was the first one out of the hooch wearing only shorts and a brown t-shirt under my gear and I didn’t look back, I knew my guys were coming. I could hear the distinct sound of an AK firing and I was moving towards it quickly. Those fuckers had breached our wall and I was about to place some controlled pairs center mass to teach all of them a lesson.

My senses were extremely heightened. The cold night air filled my lungs, I could feel the snow crunching beneath my feet…movement on my periphery! I spotted something out of the corner of my right eye (I had a monocular night vision) and spun quickly. The PEQ-2 infared laser stopped right center mass on the target when I noticed it was a friendly and my thumb lightened pressure on the selector switch leaving the weapon on safe. I continued rapidly moving to the edge of the building towards the sound of the AK.

I reached the corner and could hear my soldiers pouring out of the door behind me and the AK firing on the other side of the wall. This was it, I was about to come face-to-face with the invading hoard, the adrenaline was coursing violently through my veins and I let out a sharp breath to steady myself as I spun out around the corner. My thumb pressed tightly against the selector switch and my trigger finger slipped onto the trigger. With my left hand I squeezed the pressure switch on my gangster grip turning the infrared laser onto the target, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t an invading hoard.

A single solitary Afghan soldier with his back against the HESCO wall had his eyes closed, his AK over his head, and was holding the trigger firing full auto into the darkness. That man had no idea how close to death he came at my hands. In a fraction of a second I recognized he wasn’t the enemy and released the pressure on the selector switch once again.

The enemy never did actually breach our perimeter, despite bringing over three hundred men to attack our small outpost of only 120 men. What they didn’t take into account is that Camp Tillman, although small in numbers, every one of us was either a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne or a Green Beret, basically some of the baddest motherfuckers on the planet. We fought them off for several hours, then bombed them with a predator (when it finally showed up), then chased them down and got into another firefight right on the border. The fight started the night of December 22nd and basically ended in the late afternoon of the 23rd. Not one US soldier was killed, and we covered the Afghan mountainside with the blood of our enemies.

I tell this story for two reasons, one, because I just celebrated the 10 year anniversary of that fight, and two, because I want my brothers to know that they are not sociopaths for loving what they did. There were two types of people on September 11th, there were those that were glad they weren’t on the planes, and those that wished they had been on the plane. The former don’t understand the latter, and on that cold December night in Afghanistan, I was surrounded by the latter.

Most of us in shorts and t-shirts laying in the snow, surging with adrenaline and excitement as we dealt a serious ass-whooping to the enemy. It may be difficult for civilians to understand, but I actually enjoyed the firefights. It was fun, it was a challenge, and ten years later, I remember that night and the fight the next day fondly, as do many of my brothers. That’s one of the reasons getting out was so difficult. I now understand why guys like Michael Jordan, or Peyton Manning, or Mike Tyson have such a hard time calling it quits, when you’re doing something you love, it’s hard to walk away.

Preventing Veteran Suicide

Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Every day a veteran somewhere takes his life. It’s one of the most tragic circumstances and often the deaths that hit us hardest when we get that phone call.

I’ve had four friends take their lives. They all bothered me, but one in particular keeps coming to mind because he reached out to me years before and I feel like I could have done more.

Rob Kislow was a young private in my platoon when we deployed to Afghanistan in 2005. I had only been the platoon leader for a matter of weeks before we deployed, and I had been in the Army for less than a year. About a month into our deployment, our platoon was sent to support a special forces team in a rural part of Afghanistan along the Pakistan border.

My platoon was going to be split up into two separate units to run missions in the area and I took the mission that I thought was going to be the more dangerous one; I didn’t want to miss out on the action. On June 10, 2005, soldiers from Bravo company 3^rd platoon got into one of the largest firefights of that entire deployment, and I was hours away on a separate mission…on foot.

When I think of the worst days in my military career, June 10^th is always near the top of the list. I sat by the radio for hours listening to my guys get shot up, completely unable to do ANYTHING to support them. I watched as helicopters flew over my position heading to the fight, trying to find a way to get there to no avail.

The fight went on for hours, and I could hear the 9-line MEDEVAC requests come in with explosions in the background. One killed, two evacuated, several others injured but ambulatory.

SFC Victor Cervantes, a Green Beret just days away from going home, was part of the ODA team that came to join the fight in progress; he was killed by the enemy while clearing a wadi.

Rob Kislow was shot three times, once in the ankle, once in the wrist, and the third bullet penetrated his helmet and came out the other side, scraping along the back of his head. Rob saw the guy that shot him, but because the Afghan soldiers didn’t wear a uniform, he hesitated before taking a shot to avoid friendly fire, and was blasted by a burst of 7.62 from the enemy’s AK. PFC Collazo saw this and took the enemy out, thinking Kislow had been killed when he saw the helmet fly into the air. Collazo began to administer first aid and Rob was evacuated, eventually making it to Walter Reed where they determined that his leg needed to be amputated.

When we returned from the deployment, the company commander, 1SG, myself, and my platoon sergeant went to visit Kislow at Walter Reed. As soon as we walked in, Rob looked at the PSG and said, “Fuck You Sergeant!” We all froze and the big vein in the center of my PSG’s head popped out immediately, Rob continued, “You can try to smoke me all you want! I can do flutter kicks all day!” He began doing flutter kicks in his bed, the nub where his leg would have been flew up and down. We all had a good laugh, some hugs, and sat and talked with him for some time.

I don’t remember much what we talked about that day, but I do remember him calling for the nurse. He said something about “phantom pain” and “this fucking button isn’t working” referencing his medication dispenser, then yelled, “it’s a fucking TEN ok!” He seemed to be in constant pain.

I didn’t know what to do or say. I was a 23 year old kid and I had no training on how to deal with this. What did he need to hear? What could I say to help? I didn’t know, so I sat there in silence, hoping that just being there was enough.

Months later I got a call from Rob late one night. I was sitting on my couch watching TV when my phone rang. I answered chipper, but Rob was in a bad place. We talked for about an hour, most of which was me listening to him cry, “my fucking leg is gone sir! It’s fucking gone. I failed you guys. I should have been there. I came home too soon.” He repeated that over and over, and again I didn’t know what to say. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember hanging up and sitting there on my couch in silence. The TV was still on, but muted, and I thought about my friend…but I didn’t do any more.

If I had known that was the last time that I would hear Rob’s voice, I might have gotten into my car and driven the four and a half hours to Walter Reed. I was a single guy, I didn’t have much else going on in my life, I could have done it.

Rob battled with PTSD for almost seven more years after that phone call, but he never once contacted me again beyond an accepted friend request on Facebook. Two years ago I was stunned to find out that he took his life and his fiancée’s mother’s life too. I thought he was ok, I had no idea.

I’m not sure that I could have changed anything if I had been more involved, but because I wasn’t, that thought remains in my mind. It’s the reason I’ve made an effort to get back in touch with my old buddies. It’s why I have asked you to do the same, and it’s why I started this endeavor.

All the time, money, and effort put into making CONUS Battle Drills happen will be worthwhile if we can keep even ONE guy from taking his life. If I can help a guy through the stressful transition time to start a career, bolster his relationship with his wife, and connect with his children, maybe I can show them there’s hope after all. Maybe I can make it easier to take the time to deal with the demons in his mind. If nothing else, maybe I can show him that he’s not alone, there are millions of us out there that will call him brother.

So if you are reading this, get in touch with someone and let them know you’re there. It will be good for both of you, and if you have had suicidal thoughts, please call the number below and get help. Life is worth it, it’s beautiful, and you shouldn’t miss out.

1-800-273-8255

-LJF

Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body

The best soldiers are those who are able to deal with large amounts of pain and keep moving forward. Anyone with a tab or a trident will tell you that your mind will give up long before your body will. You can handle the pain, you just need to know that you can handle it.

I’ve seen a man shot in the face and keep fighting, I’ve seen amputees finishing marathons, and I’ve seen countless men finish 20 mile ruck marches in bloody boots. It’s the mental drive, the decision that quitting is not an option, that allows you to push your body to the extreme and accomplish great feats.

What we often forget is that when the mission is over, you go get fixed. The mission called for it and you heroically ignored your own wounds to expose yourself again and again to enemy fire, sustaining multiple wounds, but now the mission is over, and you need to get those wounds addressed. That’s easy to figure out when you have a bullet hole in your face.

But what do we do when those wounds are emotional? Too many of us keep pretending that the mission is ongoing. It’s important in battle to be stoic, to be able to see horrific things and move along to accomplish the mission, but if you keep that up forever, you’re never going to heal. I’m not saying you’re broken or that you need to go see some shrink because your feelings hurt, but you need to expose those demons to the light.

Here’s what I want you to do: In the next 48 hours from when you read this, go find a buddy that has been in combat as well. Find someone that you really trust (we all have at least one guy), maybe he was there with you, maybe not, but get in touch. Have a beer and tell some war stories, but not just the fun ones, but the tough ones as well.

Just talk.

Some of you might actually need some real therapy, so this is not a substitute for that. For the rest of us who are generally functioning members of society but sometimes want to smack stupid motherfuckers in the face in the office, this is for us.

It may be exactly what your buddy needs too.

-LJF

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