Coming to grips with my "Luck"

Since returning home from combat last October, I have been fighting a constant battle with my body; physically and mentally.  I always considered myself to be an emotional person and there were not many situations in my life that I took lightly.  I always envied my brother Sean's ability to be so Happy go Lucky.    For me it was different.  I analyze everything, making it very difficult for me to find sense in insensible situations.  War unfortunately does not mesh extremely well with this extreme incongruity.  The Soldiers that seem to fair the best are those who accept some form of total randomness in the world.  Unfortunately this is not me, so when I stepped on an IED, I have been constantly analyzing why me and why then, below is my analysis.

With every IED there are essential parts or components that make up the whole:

- A container- used to house anywhere from 20lbs to 2,000 lbs of home made explosives
- The main charge- usually home made explosive or fertilizer in Afghanistan (Ammonium Nitrate)
- Power source-  used to power the system
- The trigger- In my case this was two pieces of plywood separated by two bike springs and attached in the middle was a negative wire on one plywood and a positive wire on the other.  Stepping on this compresses the springs, the wires meet and the circuit is completed.
- The initiator- Some form of explosive ordnance which creates an explosion and sets off the main charge aka the spark

In my case, the container was a yellow water jug.  Inside was the main charge, 40lbs of home made explosives (picture yourself picking up a 40lbs dumbbell, now that dumbbell is the street equivalent of crude TNT).  Sitting on top of it was a blasting cap or a couple lbs of TNT (obviously not recovered after the explosion).  Attached to that, wires that ran up to the pressure plate of plywood that would soon launch me skyward.

When I say I have analyzed why me and why did this happen, I have never analyzed nor regretted my decisions of that day.  My Platoon was under fire, I took evasive action to cover their flank and got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.  What I have analyzed is why I am still alive today?  See to complete my story of the IED, when I stepped on the pressure plate and those two wires met it did complete the circuit.  However, only the initiator, several lbs of TNT enough to brake every bone in my foot and launch me into the air, went off.  40lbs of home made explosive....never went off.  40lbs that would have surely killed me instantly, probably killed or maimed several of my Soldiers who were approximately 10 meters away and caused massive loss to the Platoon lay there, unexploded, even after the initiator had rendered my foot inept.

Weeks earlier my best friend Todd, whom I wrote about earlier, had found himself in the exact same situation.  Unfortunately, Todd's batch of homemade explosive did go off and I lost my best friend September 9, 2010, only two weeks prior to my incident.  I remember laying in my hospital bed at Kandahar Airfield late on the first night after the accident.  General Hodges (American Forces ISAF- S liaison) had just pinned on my purple heart, and the room now was quiet.  Just me and two other critically wounded Soldiers lay there.  It was the first time I had been in the dark since my world went dark for two minutes immediately following the explosion.  There was one thing I kept thinking about and still ask myself daily.  "Todd had a young wife, a little daughter, and was the most morally and religiously sound person I had ever met.  He was mature, knew his path and was in the prime of his life.  Myself, I was not married, no kids, still a confused 24 year old trying to wander through a world that I couldn't quite figure out.   Why had my life been spared and his life not?  Why was an immature little kid like myself still here, and Emma and gorgeous little Kiley left without a husband and a Dad?  Why?"

My Mom and I drove down Storrow Drive south and made our way out of the city.  The tears had yet to leave her eyes and again she hid behind her sunglasses.  I sat there staring out the window and watching people run along the Charles.  It was a brisk sunny November day but people were out.  My Mom broke the silence, "Its just so sad," she said voice cracking from the tears, "I sat there and I am so thankful you are here, but I know what it could have been.  I saw what it could have been in his eyes."  We had just finished up lunch in Boston with Glenn Weaver, Todd's older brother.  The man was nice enough to bring my Mom a bouquet of flowers just for sacrificing her time to drive me into the city and meet him.  I had smiled as I thought of how Todd esk this was. The lunch was selfishly extensively theraputic for me.  I had gotten to share stories about Todd with someone who knew him, had gotten to tell his brother about Todd and mines talks about death and the afterlife. Most importantly to Glenn, we had gotten to share some of Todd's beliefs on his steadfast religion.

I felt my eyes water up, "Mom I dont know what im doing anymore.  Three weeks ago I was killing people and leading my men, and now im watching people run along the charles, chat about nothing on there cellphones and all the while I cant even drive myself into the city, let alone remember anything for longer than 5 minutes without writing it down.  Why am I here?"  She sniffled and without hesitation said, "Today, days like today and being able to help people like Glenn is why you are still here," a smile broke over her face and I could tell she was going to say a "Mom" thing, "And besides who would I take care of if you weren't back here."

John 15:13- Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends

I still struggle daily with my path and what it is im "doing".  Given that my men are home now, every single one of them safe and sound.  Given that my siblings and family are safe and healthy.  And given how much I truly respected and Loved 1LT Todd Weaver, if I had to go back, there is only one thing I would change about being in Afghanistan...I wish I could have taken his place.  Please dont take this the wrong way, I am not suicidal nor would I ever want to put that pain on my family or friends.  Soldiers share an inseparable bond that can not be explained nor deciphered.  It is stronger than any bond in the world and the only reason my family supersedes that is, well, they were all Soldiers.  And I am sure Todd is smiling down on me saying the same thing or thinking, "Yeah, but I took your place first brother."

The Phone Call

He was hard and tough and wiry- just the sort that won't say die

There was courage in his quick, impatient tread

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head

As the ketamine slowly wore off, I lay there in my hospital bed.  My mind moved in a figure eight motion trying to ascertain what was real and what was nightmare.  The last conscious memory I had was holding my friend Bryson's hand and telling him, "I'll be damned if my family finds out from some idiot at DA (department of the Army).  Get ahold of my family and tell them i'm ok."  But, did this really happen?  Am I actually still alive?  I surveyed my body.  A huge bulky dressing over my right leg and foot, a wound vacuum attached to my right foot to prevent infection, and bandages all along my right thigh that stung. I looked across the ICU room and noticed a nurse behind a desk.  She looked as though she was in her late 50's wearing a Navy uniform and the rank of Major.  As soon as I noticed her i think she realized I was just now coming to the epiphany that my life was forever changed.  She walked over and in a soft southern draw said, "Hey soldier, you wanna call home?"  

During the week it is not uncommon for my Mom to stay up until 12 or 1 am, doing editing for math or tirelessly scouring the news articles from Afghanistan.  It was a normal routine for her.  Her son Sean had just returned from being deployed from July 2009 until August 2010, and now her son Kyle had been deployed since May 2010.  However, on the weekends my parents usually went to bed fairly early.  Catching the end of a Red Sox game and calling it a night.  My Mom's fear since having children was receiving a late night or early morning phone call regarding one of her children, maybe being involved in a car accident or being hurt some how.  So as the phone rang at 3:00 AM her mind instantly went to her two sons, Sean and Robby, who had just attended the Army vs. Duke football game in Durham earlier that day.  She answered, "Hello?"  I said, "Hi, mom,"  and broke down for the first time since the attack five hours earlier.  Everything hit me at once.  I could feel the pressure plate compressing as it launched me into the air, the screams of my section leader as he feared me dead, the total sadness of leaving my men without their leader on a crucial mission, and the total consciousness of knowing my happy go lucky life was forever different.  Tears fell down my face and I remember being embarrassed as the two other badly injured soldiers in my ICU ward, looked over at me.  In reflection, they knew, they had made this phone call probably hours or minutes prior.  

I tried to find the words to say.  I had not spoken to my parents verbally in three weeks.  My Mom was wide awake now, and as most of the older generation does, put me on speaker phone and shoved my Dad to wake up.  She said, "Oh Kyle, what happened?"  I believe she at first thought I was calling to announce one of my friends had been killed, as had been the case weeks earlier.  I tried clearing my throat and croaked out, "I stepped on an IED Mom, im hurt, but im ok."  The tone of the conversation instantly changed, I could hear my Mom step away from the phone and sensed her silence.  From knowing my parents for so long, I could tell my Mom was giving my Dad the look of, "Say something Scott, find out more."  My Dad inquired, "What did you hurt?"  I said, "I broke every bone in my foot, maybe broke my leg," I again paused to regain my composure as I sulkily tried to convey to my parents what was going on, "And I have shrapnel lodged in my right thigh."  My Mom began to cry and my Dad tried to stay strong.  He posed one more command, not a question, but a command, "Come home Kyle."  I replied with the first glimmer of happiness that I had felt since the incident, "I am Dad, I am."

The bond that I shared with the twenty Soldiers on the battlefield, while immense, is no where near that that I have with my parents.  True American Heroes, my parents, both retired US Army Colonels, yes I said both, some people only catch the fact that my father is and do not realize that my Mom is as well. They understand the nature of service and selflessness to the country.  However, as my bond with my Soldiers does not surmount to that with my parents, my parents understanding of service does not surmount to the undying call to protecting their children.  My recovery process, while still on going, has been helped along immensely by this relationship, and I will never forget the phone call that night, mostly for the love and caring nature I heard in their voices.  Thank you all for taking time out of your lives to read what I have to say.  

One of my heroes

So as many of you may know, I came from a military family.  My mother and father were Engineer Colonel's in the US Army for twenty three years.  They both attended USMA and graduated in the class of 1980.  However, as a child I can barely remember any instances where they spoke about the military in front of the kids.  Maybe this was because we were all hell raisers, all playing different sports, at different locations, and at different times.  But, one day when I was young, I remember going through my Dad's stuff in his office and I came across a medal.  This medal was tucked deep down in a drawer, under a bunch of papers.   I opened it up and inspected the ribbon with a heart at the end of it and some funny old man in the middle of the heart (George Washington, but I was no history buff then or now).  I brought it to my Dad and said, "What is this for?"  He said, "Ohh, when Dad was fighting bad people in a bad place, something bad happened, but i'm safe now."  I smiled and ran off to go beat up Sean or make Megan cry.

The doldrums of I-84.  Some of you may know what i'm speaking about.  Its the road that we always take from West Point back up to Massachusetts. And its notorious for its traffic and bad accidents.  This day it didn't bother me.  I had just gotten back from Afghanistan, foot in a massive cast, and my Dad and I were driving home for a few days prior to my reconstructive surgery.  My whole life I had, as common knowledge, known that my Dad was wounded while serving in Grenada. Somewhere along the way I had pieced together that it had something to do with shrapnel, his rear end, and some form of friendly fire.   As we drove, I thought to myself and with a puzzled befuddlement in my head realized, "I have never asked my Dad what happened that day."  Given what had just happened to me, I figured today may be a good day to ask.  I said, "Dad, I didn't want to join your purple heart club, but now that I did, you think you could tell me how you got hurt?"  He smiled, laughed a little bit and said sure.

Grenada was a small country located just north of South America.  In 1983 the US launched Operation Urgent Fury as part of its Cold War strategy to keep the Russian influence away from America.  Units from the 82nd airborne division, Rangers, and this new group called "Delta"  were deployed and charged with securing the island.  After engaging in a complete cluster mess upon landing on the airstrip secured by the Rangers, my Dads company moved down a ridge line to set in security.  Upon daybreak, they were tasked with clearing a compound about 300 meters to their front.  In preparation for clearing they continuously took sniper fire from a nearby building.  With reporters scheduled to come in and observe the raid, my Dad's company commander turned to him and said, "Hey Snook, get your ass to the top of the hill and have them drop some mortars on that building."  My Dad said, "Roger, Sir."  And took off up the hill.

At the top of the hill was Corps headquarters and artillery assets for the ground troops.  My Dad met up with the battalion fires officer and prepared to give him the coordinates.  As he did so, he heard the roar of an A-7 gunship come flying overhead, he thought,"Hmm weird."  He watched as the US Navy plane did a circle and re-attacked.  He cant recall if he told people to get down but he himself dove to the ground as the A-7 began to fire its machine guns into the corps headquarters and surrounding area.  Bullets the size of a first came raining down on the unsuspecting US troops on the ground.  A soldier to his left had a round strike him and sent him flying through the air, his legs were gone.  Several others lay on the ground screaming in pain from rounds that had hit or shrapnel thrown up.  My Dad lay on the ground and watched in horror as the A-7 circled around again for a second gun run.  People scrambled to get as low as possible, hide behind any piece of gods earth as the second run came screaming through.  More people hit and my Dad felt it as his right side began to burn. Shrapnel had caught him but he still felt ok.  People waving and screaming as the A-7 made another turn, except this time, no gun run, just a 500lbs bomb dropped from its payload.  Everyone hit the deck again, hoping for the best, but merely expecting the worse.  5 seconds went by, boooom, the bomb had missed and the A-7 pealed off.  Realizing the relative vulnerability of the unit, a small enemy force had gathered in the wood line and began to open fire on the now dazed troops.  My Dad stood up to counter and was struck by an Ak-47 round that sent him to the ground.  He lay there wondering, "What the fuck just happened."  People screaming all around, the soldier with no legs hanging on to life, another next to him trying to figure out why his boot was now full of blood.  The attack had been repelled, and my Dad looked up to see his highest ranking Non commissioned officer standing over him.  "Give me your hand Snook."  And he threw him over his shoulder and ran Forest Gump style back to the airfield where medical treatment awaited.

The soldier who lost his legs would not make it through surgery.  The numbers are sketchy depending on what source you go to, but several dead and 16-20 wounded in one of the worst friendly fire attacks in our nations history.  A story that rarely gets told.  In fact, you ask the average 15-25 year old now adays, "Tell me about Grenada?"  They would look at you as though you were on drugs or trying to offer them free candy from a white van with no windows.  But, people, with families were forever scared in this short war.  The story is not what makes my Dad my hero.  His ability to be the man he is after encountering this is what makes him my hero.  My Dad never bragged, boasted about his Purple Heart.  Heck the man lost it and refound it in a couple moves that we made  See the cream is in this, we can not control what happens to us in this world, but we certainly can control how we handle it afterwards.   Thank you Dad for your guidance, bravery and humble nature.

Brothers in Arms

While there is certainly no way to adequately follow up my last post, I thought I would share a story about what its like to truly have a Brother in Arms.  My brother Sean is 26 years old and we have been inseparable since I can ever remember.  Sean is my older brother and always provided me guidance on life issues, whether I listened or not was a whole different issue.  When it came time to decide where to go to college is was a no brainer, "Well, Sean goes to West Point, I guess ill go there too."  When it came time to pick a major, "Well, Sean is an Operations Research major, I guess ill do that too."  Time to pick a branch, "Infantry."  Time to go to Afghanistan, "Sure lets do it."

The picture above is taken in June of 2010 at Kandahar Airfield.  Sean's unit was remissioning to Kandahar City and I was getting ready to head to southern Kandahar for our own mission set.  Sean was in month twelve of his thirteenth month deployment.  He agreed to stay an extra month at the request of the Battalion Commander and run the S-4 shop.  "Sean, please run our S-4 shop for the last month.  No contact, just paper work, it wont be any big deal."  Sean being the amazing kid he is said, "Absolutely Sir."  Sean had already had a fairly rough deployment.  He was an executive officer when one of his platoon leaders, 1LT Sal Corma USMA 08, was killed by a pressure plate half a click from their forward operating base.  He had been personally selected to command a small unit in Bala Murghab after two paratroopers had drown in a river and the Army needed to recover their bodies.  He successfully accomplished this mission even though his unit was severely outmanned.  He had watched, while leading a patrol, as an Explosive Ordinance tech accidentally stepped on a secondary IED and was thrown lifeless into the air, be thou at peace.  To say the least, he was tired but said yes to staying on to help the Battalion.

July 14, 2010- Our training meeting usually started with a monotony of pointless Battalion tasks, and I scribbled them down with little to no regard.  But this morning the Company Commander walked in and said, "Hey, no missions today, full force pro.  ANCOP- Hotel California in Kandahar City was overrun last night in a complex attack and RC South is currently on stand by."  I froze, wait a minute, "Sir I need to see the casualty list."  He said, "What?"  I said, "Sir my brother is at that FOB (Forward Operating Base) I need to see the fucking casualty list."

July 13, 2010- My brother stood in the Battalion HQ (Headquarters) tent and brushed over some S-4 tasks.  It was about 2100 (9:00 pm) and he was about done with dealing with the bureaucracy for the day. As he stood there he heard a massive explosion, and instinctively moved outside towards the bunkers.  He ran outside quick enough to see Ak fire and RPG's flying.  He then decided this was no mortar attack.  He sprinted to his tent and was close lined by a low hanging rope, knocking him on his backside.  He got up dazed but continued to the tent.  He grabbed his gear and sprinted back to HQ.  At this point RPG's were being fired into tents, AK's were being sprayed in every direction.  He grabbed a fellow staff officer and started to counter attack.  Buddy bounding, he watched as his buddy partner flew backwards from the impact of an AK round and slammed into a pole, as he turned he watched an insurgent throw a grenade towards him, he tried to get as low as he could behind the generator and braced.  The concussion rocked him, and shrapnel went everywhere, but he was ok.  He watched, as he countered attack, a man came running towards the HQ's, about 100 meters from him and blew himself up as he ran into the Chaplains Assistant.  Four hours later the FOB fell silent, mass chaos ensued as in the pitch darkness they began to try and assess what was going on.  Chris Goeke, USMA 2008, was one of the heroes lost that day.  Several others lay lifeless or wounded.  In a complex attack involving a vehicle IED breach, and multiple suicide vests, as well as RPG and AK insurgents, a nightmare had unfolded.

I prayed as my company commander handed me the casualty list.  His name was not on it, but my heart ached when I saw Chris's name.  A classmate that I was not extremely close to, but knew from IBOLC. A truly sad day for the US Army, but thankful that my brothers life was spared.

I am sure some of my details are off.  I pieced this together from the critical incident report and what my brother is comfortable talking about.  My brother has been there for me since the day I got injured.  He flew in to meet me at the hospital, and two months earlier offered prayers when I was nearly killed by an RPG in July, 3 days after this attack.  We have been attached at the hip since we were kids and what an honor to serve in the same country, at the same time, in the same province.  When all else fails, or falls to the wayside, family is all you have and I can only hope that everyone is as blessed as I am to have such an incredible one.  Thank you for listening.

Those left behind

Today I would like to share with you a little piece of my heart and a story that begs to be told and remembered.  The little girl in the picture to the left is Kiley.  Kiley just celebrated her second birthday this past weekend.  She is like most girls her age, always smiling, playfull, taking naps in random spots in random positions, with little to no cares in the world.  She has an incredible ability to make the most adult like facial expressions questioning your validity with her eyes as she brushes over your words.  Kiley to the  passive onlooker would appear to be your average child, but this child by no stretch is average.

It was 9:30 am, my Mom stood by the door of my Clarksville apartment and waited for me to come out of my room.  I walked slowly around the room in a circle, ensuring I hadn't left anything behind.  In reality I was just seeing how long I could delay getting to the door.  Finally my Mom called how, "Hey Kyle, I think we have to go or your going to be late."  I made my way to the door and we left.  The busses were scheduled to take us over to the airfield at 10:30.  My mom and I made the walk from the parking lot to the staging area for the busses.  It was an overcast day but my Mom had her sunglasses on, I presumed to hide her eyes from the inevitable tears that were coming.  The van pulled up and an NCO said, "Ok guys, 2 minutes then we have to leave."  There were ten of us leaving on advanced party, mostly officers and high ranking NCO's.  My mom and I embraced, said our goodbyes, and as she surveyed the area she looked over towards a young family embracing and said, "Oh thats so sad" and began to cry.


Kandahar Airfield, commonly referred to in the military as KAF, was nothing that me, Todd or Jake ever envisioned it would be.  The roller hockey rink, and volleyball field were only surpassed by the quite comical TGI Fridays located on the boardwalk.  We watched as large soldiers, aka fat bodies, lumbered up and down the boardwalk in search of a pizza or maybe a donut from Timmy Ho ho's.  Back in our sleep area we joked about how crazy it was to have wireless internet even in Afghanistan.  Unsure of what conditions would be like, Todd and Jake had left their computers at home, so I was the only one of the three that had one.  My computer quickly became the local peace pipe and was passed around from person to person.  Jake would call Kelly on Skype and show off his large biceps, and Todd would call Emma and Kiley.  I remember sneaking a peak at the screen and smiling as Emma had set up the webcam on Kiley playing in the child pen so that Kiley and Todd could see each other and baby chat for a minute.  Todd would get off of skype and brag to me and Jake about all the cool stuff Kiley was being able to do.  Me and Jake would nod give the proverbial "Cool man" and then follow it up with, "So which DFAC are we eating at tonight?"  We'd all laugh and then head out.

0900 September 9, 2010-  I sat there in the tactical operations center of Dog Company and mulled over the task list for the day as our morning meeting came to a close.  I walked over to the mIRC chat computer, an aol instant messenger type system that allows different tactical operating centers to talk to each other without clogging up the radio.  Stewie, a 2009 USMA grad and our fires officer, was manning it and I asked like every morning, "Anything crazy going on Stewie?"  He mulled over a couple of the chat screens, scanning for any contact messages, and saw one, "Oh man, dismounted IED up the ARV (Arghandab River Valley), initial report says triple amp (amputee) but the 9 line is kinda weird so im not sure whats going on, no name given."  I said, "Damn man, alright."  I had been up most of the night planning for our next mission and visiting some of my soldiers on guard duty.  I walked back to my tent and fell right to sleep.

Noon, I get shaken awake and tackle the person shaking me.  It was a fellow platoon leader, but in country your always kinda on edge.  I said, "Damn man, you scared the shit out of me."  He said, "Hey man you have to go to the TOC (tactical operations center)."  The TOC was a good 7 minute walk from my tent and at 115 degrees outside one I didn't want to make.  I said, "Shut up Dude, what do they need."  He repeated, "Man just go to the TOC please."  This time I caught his drift, wiped the sleep from my eyes and said, "Woah no, whats going on."  He said, "Look man, just go to the TOC, Bryson needs to talk to you."  I said, "Fuck that just tell me."  After arguing back and forth about him not wanting to and me insisting he finally came out with it, "That triple amputee this morning, he didn't make it."  I said, "Ok."  He said, "It was Todd."

I sat there in the Adams house, surrounded by Army wives most holding young children and trying to make sure they didn't run into anything.  Little Kiley came walking out from her nap and surveyed the room.   She recognized everyone but my face was unfamiliar.  Those of you who know Todd and Kiley know this look.  They have an uncanny ability to give this look of questioning and the two do it in an identical way.  Emma, Kiley's mother, is the strongest person I have ever met in my life.  She takes care of Kiley full time and has done an amazing job of that.  She takes Kiley periodically to Todd's grave site at Arlington and the little two year old runs around with her "Daddy Doll" pictured below, not fully aware yet of her daddies heroism.  1591 soldiers have passed away in Afghanistan since 2001.  With every hero that has paid the ultimate sacrifice there is a Kiley or an Emma or a Mom who has to greet a uniformed personnel at their door and reach for something steady to keep from falling over as the news is given.  A little girl whose Dad will never see another one of her birthdays.  We must not forget that the Army is a family, and part of this family are the children and spouses of our soldiers.  While Todd certainly paid the ultimate sacrifice for our country, we can not forget those left behind like Kiley and Emma who live on.  Strong, they carry the weight of the world for all of us to enjoy this great country.  Thank you Kiley, Emma and Todd.  Happy Birthday Kiley.

The internal scars

War is an astounding amount of force both applied mentally and obviously physically towards two groups of human beings:  the enemy and the friendly.  However, for a large portion of history people inherently focus on the physical aspect of War.  This can easily be attributed to the death, maiming and disfiguring that such conflicts can cause.  There is a whole different level of analysis and insight that can be found if you speak to soldiers about the internal war.   When you take another mans life, whether its in self defense or not, it changes you forever.  I would just like to share a couple of my dark moments to describe my internal war that I have faced since I got home.

October 2nd, 2010- I sat on the hospital bed at Fort Campbell with my Dad standing next to me. Initial reports said that I had multiple fractures, probably needed a cast for a month or two but then I would be fine to return back to my platoon in Afghanistan.  I was expecting to get 30 days of medical leave and we were chatting about what we would do over the next month.
"Oh man, if we could catch an Army football game and even an Eagles game that would be awesome." I said to my Dad with a smile.
"Sure, we can do that."  My Dad replied.  My Dad has been an extreme influence on my life and I am very blessed to have an extraordinary family.  He flew down with my brother, Sean, to meet me as I was carried off the plane on my stretcher.  It was an incredible feeling to see a familiar face again and it was the first time I felt safe again.

As we sat there chatting, the orthopedic doctor walked in.  My dad and I didn't pay her much attention as she shuffled around.  She began to close the curtains around us, and I remember thinking, "Hmm, weird."  She held my charts and started to shake, and I said, "Your about to tell me something really heavy aren't you?"  She replied, "Sir, what is it you do for us in the Army?"  I replied proudly, "Infantry platoon leader."  She looked at my Dad, back at me and said, "Not anymore you don't."  She continued, "Sir, you were misdiagnosed from the initial x-rays, you have nine fractured bones in your foot, all of which are fractured at an angle and require surgery, a fractured heal, a portion of one of your 5th metatarsals is gone, and your joints have been permanently destroyed in your forefoot."  I said, "Um ok."  She continued, "This type of injury is crippling.  I can tell you that you will never run again.  Probably only walk with the aid of a cane.  And if your not operated on in the next five days, you will lose your foot."  The impact of the moment was too much for me.  I closed my eyes, laid back on the bed, and cried.  The mental stress of the past week, getting blown up, leaving my men, traveling on a C-130 strapped down on a litter, having to urinate into a pan because I was not allowed to walk by myself, and now this.  This wasn't happening maybe if I closed my eyes I would wake up and it would be one big bad dream.  I openly cried for five minutes, my Dad hugged me, a strong man whom I have never seen cry, just whispered in my ear, "Its going to be ok, we'll get through this, we'll get through this."

October 4, 2010 - It was my first night back in Massachusetts.  I was scheduled to have surgery in two days down in New York and my Dad had asked me if I wanted to stay in New York or go home for a day.  I didn't want to put him out by driving back and forth so I said New York, however he knew deep down I wanted to comfort of home, so we drove back.  I remember getting home and my mom had put up a banner above our front door, it read, "Welcome home LT Snook.  Prayers to a speedy recovery." My Mom was away on a long planned trip and was devastated that she couldn't be there, but still reached out to me through that.  I went down to our basement, laid up on the couch with my dog Tony, who seemed to sense my injury, and fell into a percoset induced sleep.  I guess my Dad had seen me sleeping and decided to go play golf with my brother Sean.  I woke up 2 hours later in excruciating pain.  The drug medication had worn off and the burning sensation had returned to my foot.  I had to find my medicine.  I searched the house and couldn't find it anywhere.  I tried calling my Dad ten times, but cell phones are not allowed on the course.  I helplessly crutched around the house unable to find relief.  As I crutched through the kitchen, my right crutch caught a chair and I fell to the ground.  I cant tell you how long I laid there transitioning from screaming and crying, anger and sadness.  I used to run marathons for gods sake, and now I cant even walk around my house?  I eventually pulled myself up, went down to the bed in the basement, and broke down again questioning everything.  "Why me? Why will this pain not go away?  I cant do this forever."

March 2011- Finally I had been reassigned to the Warrior Transition Unit at West Point.  They immediately set me up with appointments in regards to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Mild Traumatic Brain Injuries.  I met with a lady at a local hospital and we began going through the tests.  She told me to remember three words and then started. It started off very easy, putting blocks together in patterns.  An activity a well trained 4 year old could accomplish.  We then moved on to numbers.  I felt very confident, I mean hey I was the top Operations Research Major in my graduating class, I had a 4.1 majors average and tied for 1st for top math honors, numbers were my thing.  We started with simple addition, no problem aced it.   We then did some subtraction, aced it.  Multiplication, aced it.  Then we started to divide things.  And it was like a foreign language was introduced into my brain.  The process made no sense. I knew I knew how to do it, but I didn't know anymore.  I sat there with a look of befuddlement on my face and couldn't believe what was happening in my head.  The nurse encouraged me and said it was ok, she said we expected this from the MRI's that had shown some small legions on my brain likely from the concussions I had had.

I prided myself as a tough individual.  A guy who rarely let others see my emotions unless you were within my inner circle of trust (Meet the Parents.)  I always thought that no matter what happened to me in Afghanistan I would fight through it and be the same man I was the day I left.  The Army has a culture of "driving on" or "sucking it up", it wasn't until I saw the physical evidence of injury that I felt ok with the mental aspect of what I was going through.  The legions on my brain helped me justify why I was being the way I was.  Once I was able to accept that I was able to fight my other battles ie. depression, night terrors, anxiety, and paranoia. My simple point in all this is that no one man or women is strong enough to handle the incredible force of War.  So if you have a friend, are a friend or no someone who has been deployed you must realize they will be forever changed when they return and they need your support whether they say it or not.  Thank you all for reading, its truly an honor to speak to so many people.

September 26, 2010

Finally the day had come.  For months we had fainted, poked, and surveyed the area, now it was time to clear.  President Obama had ordered a troop surge the previous November and the whole world waited for the operation to kick off.  Some hoping it would be drastic failure, others excited for results, and most weary at what may be ahead of us.  But see that is the key difference between the passive onlooker and the soldier in combat.  There was only one option for the men of Dog Company: Win.

0445- Its still dark at this point, but you can feel the sun coming soon. All the men were lined in two columns at the exit to the staging area.  We had bought a couple of donkey's at the local market and strapped ammo, water, and food to their backs.  They were located at the end of the column, and did not enjoy the massive amount of weight we had placed on them.  We exited, and started walking south towards the "green zone", the heart of Taliban operations.  As we walked down our new desert road that the British engineers so kindly plowed for us, I remember looking out over the landscape.  The sun was now coming up just over the trees, it was a comfortable 75 degrees, not a cloud in the sky.  I was brought back to a story my grandfather used to tell me.  It was the final day of the Korean war, and he lay in a trenchline looking up to the sky.  He recalls it being a gorgeous night and thinking to himself, "No one should have to die on a night like this."  This same thought raced through my mind and I shook it off as fast as I could.

0730- 2nd platoon is in a firefight off to our southwest but adequately kicking the enemies ass and in no need of our support at this time.  So my platoon continued to clear houses searching for insurgents and or evidence of insurgents.  Call out on the loud speaker, give a ten minute warning, 2,1,30 seconds, then shoot a grenade in the entrance to the house, bomb dog clears the house, Afghan national army clears the house, then the US soldiers go in to exploit evidence.  We repeated this process a couple of times as we worked our way down the row of houses.  Kneeling next to my 203 gunner, SPC G-rat, we were about to repeat this process when a round flew way to close to our face for comfort, impacting the dirt just passed us.  We were getting shot at from our flank, never a good situation.  I spoke with some of the small unit leaders and decided to reposition our 240b, the platoons heaviest dismounted weapon aka machine gun.

0745- I walked with the machine gun team, mine detector out front and radio jammer on one the soldiers backs.  We crawled into a ditch and gathered around each other.  I said, "Bear (one of my section leaders), I want you to put it in right there."  I pointed to a low wall.  He said, "Rahjer."  They crawled up to their position and turned back to say set.  The only two people in the ditch now were my radio operator and myself.  We started taking some small pot shots from that flank again, but this time we were ready.  There is no way I could let my gun team sit there getting shot at and not be there with them.  I got up to move to their position, turned to my radio operator and said, "You stay here, no reason for us both to get fucked up."  I crawled up to where they were but there was not enough space for me to be protected.  I looked left...Damn nothing but thick overgrowth and no good angle, I looked right..."woah" I thought.  The wall had been destroyed from where my gun team was to about 15 meters down the tiny foot trail.  15 meters to my right was a wall, about chest high, perfect cover.  I said, "Hey bear, im going for that wall so I can help you guys spot."  I popped up and ran the basic training phrase through my head, "Im up...they see me.."  I never made it to the "Im down."

-0800- Dust was everywhere.  I felt like a firefighter must feel, trapped in smoke, not sure which direction is up or down.  I felt as though my right leg was on fire and I had no sensation or feeling below my right knee.  I couldn't hear anything, just a high pitched ringing as my conscious slipped in and out.  And in an instant I snapped back, the first sound I heard still brings me chills.  My section leader Bear was screaming, "Fuck....Fuck....no no no, Fuck....medic, get the fucking medic, I think he's dead. Sir? Fuck, Sir?"
I screamed back, "Im here, i'm here.  My leg is fucked up, but im here."
He screamed back, "Thank you god, sit tight were coming to get you."
At this point I remember slipping in and out of shock, I reached down to feel my leg and make sure it was still there.  It was. Thank you god.  I was screaming profanities at the top of my lungs from the shock and the pain. I began to crawl back to my gun position by arching my back and kicking with my left leg.  I got about half way there when Bear saw me and ran over, pissed that I had tried to come back on my own.  He dragged me into the ditch where the medic was waiting.  I pounded the ground in anger, sadness and fear.  Angry that I had run down a path that wasn't cleared, sadness because I knew I was about to leave my men for a long time, and fear because I thought I was going to lose my leg.

I was transported back the Battalion aid station where one of my best friends Bryson met me and held my hand as the doctors loaded me onto the helicopter.  They gave me a shot of ketamine and I woke up four hours later in Kandahar Airfield's ICU.  Earlier that morning, I was a healthy 24 year old.  Doing what I had dreamed of doing for so long, leading men in combat.  Now seven hours later my life was forever changed.  See if there is one thing I have learned from this its that life changes very fast.  There is no speed pedal or brake where you can control the pace at what it moves at.  It lives and breathes on its own accord.  The best thing you can do is maintain who you are, who you surround yourself with and what you stand for.

As always, thank you for listening and I apologize for the language.  

Bridging the gap between Civilian and Military

Over the past ten years our country has been at War.  A resounding phrase that has been used by media outlets and papers alike.  A phrase we far to often breeze right over like common knowledge.  Think of yourself as a nine year old child in America, what else do you know?  But to the one half of one percent of Americans that serve in its Armed forces this phrase brings lifetimes of memories. It has been said that the gap between Military soldiers and the civilian workers has been growing increasingly larger and tense.  Talk to a soldier and quite often he will say, "They [civilians] just don't get it" or "They don't know what it feels like." So I would like to share a couple of my stories to broaden the perspective of what a Military soldier goes through, rather than just tell my civilian counterparts, "You just wouldn't understand."

When we landed at HEM in June of 2010, we ran off the back of the chinook (a large helicopter) and were greeted by some staff personal telling us to keep going straight.  It was pitch dark, maybe midnight by this point, and on forward operating bases lights were not permitted at night.  After moving for what seemed to me like a mile we came to an open dessert the size of maybe ten football fields, surrounded by large 10 foot barriers.  In the middle of this wasteland were 4 twenty man tents.  We moved into the tents and prepared to lay down for the night.   Woke up the next morning to see what I could not the night before, we certainly were in the middle of a giant dessert surrounded by walls.  For the first two months the men of 2-502 would not see a shower, feel the flow of running water, go to the bathroom in porta johns that were emptied twice a week (mind you its 115 during the day in Kandahar) not a great smell.  40 men would sleep in a tent intended for 20 max.  Reflect on what you would do if you didnt have a shower for say 2 weeks, let alone two months. And here is the kicker, we fucking loved it.   Now did we bitch, sure.  Would we have taken showers, haha hell yes.  But we loved what we were doing and even without the creature comforts loved fighting and taking it to the enemy.

Unfortunately the next post is not as uplifting, it contains explicit details and if you prefer not to read it please just skip to the conclusion.  It was a hot summer day in Kandahar, like any other.  Myself and SGT G were busy doing our usual afternoon workout in our makeshift Battalion gym.  With headphones in, Jay Z "On to the next" blaring, we heard a boom, and as always gave each other that quizzical look and almost instantly asked each other the same question, "Outgoing?"  See outgoing mortar rounds quite often sound like incoming mortar rounds, unless of course you are extremely close to the explosion.  We continued our workout and ran down to the CP to do some pullups.  We were located next to the mortar pit when mid pull up we heard another huge boom, this time there was no quizzical look, no question of direction, we were getting mortared and close, the rounds landing maybe 300 meters  to our north vicinity the battalion CP.  We sprinted back to our tents, I through on my body armor, grabbed my helmet, radio and weapon and took off back to the CP.  With my ear piece in I could hear the reports coming in.  A young soldier, maybe the radio traffic operator for the battalion kept repeating the same phrase, "Multiple wounded, all medical personal report to the aid station for mass cal procedures."  A mass cal, short for mass casualty, signifies an event in which multiple people have been injured or killed by one incident.  As I sprinted into our CP, my CO pulled up in our ATV, he had been using it to transport the bodies to the aid station.  At this point it was getting dark and there were to many injured to do medical treatments inside the aid station.  I was ordered to grab as many industrial flashlights as I could and go to the aid station.  When I got there it was insanity.  3 stretchers sat up on poles so they could be chest high to the battalion surgeon, 3 other bodies were laid next to each other on the outside of the aid station.  Someone yelled to bring a light over to the bodies next to the aid station and as I shined it down what I saw has been seared into my brian.  A man who was a US civilian electrician on the forward operating base, except he didn't look like the man I knew.  The concussive blast had caused his body to swell up to three times its normal size and he lay lifeless.  I stood there with the light shining down on him as a medical person took information and placed him in a black bag.  My CO came over at this point and in his Virginia draw said, "Snook, get the fuck out of here, you don't need to see this shit."  I didn't say a word or question him, just handed him the flashlight and walked off. I found out later a mortar round had landed at the entrance to a bunker where several US contractors were having a smoke. I couldn't tell you how many contractors died that day, as crazy as that sounds, maybe its a memory I have suppressed. But as I laid down in my tent that night I thought to myself, "Is this what a 24 year old is suppose to see?  Am I going to go crazy? We just got here and this has already happened, what will I be like in a year?  What the fuck am I doing, im only 24."

While this is gruesome and difficult to write or talk about, it is important for the American civilian to hear.  Over the next couple weeks I will share more of these stories, not all bad like the last one, just in an attempt to maybe help people understand why our young soldiers are the way they are.  We love America and every person who lives within this great country.  All we ask is for a little bit of time to sit and listen to what we have to say.  Thank you all for the support and for reading a little bit of my internal thoughts.

What defines success to you?

For my frist blog post I want to write about what defines success to me.  As with any good argument there are essentially 5 key sections:

1. The claim
2. The reasons
3. The evidence
4. Anticipated objections and rebutal
5. Drawing a conclusion

The claim- So like a High School paper ill open with the definition of "success" according to Webster, "the favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or the attainment of wealth, position, honors, or the like."  Ok so the easiest answer to this question is success is defined as ones ability to make money.  But what I stem to argue is that is has nothing to do with the money that makes you successful, but because you have the money your gained independence is what actually makes you successful.  The idea that you could live your life perfectly sustained on your own work and fruits of that work. 


The reason- Well I think almost anyone in this world would like to define themselves as "successful".  I would actually argue that deep down people inherently want to achieve success more than happiness, but that is another post for another day.  But far to often with the definition of success people do not delve into the second level of analysis which is that of obtaining independence. Certainly a man who drives a Maserati Coupe, eats at the best table at an unobtainable reservation restaurant, and shelves three gorgeous blonds around him is successful correct? So continuing with the analogy, if this man inherited his money through his lets say successful father we can no longer call him successful.  We can most certainly apply another term to him: Lucky.


The Evidence:  In a recent poll over 90% of the US population considers themselves to be in the middle to upper middle class.  Even a 4th grader could tell you this isn't to be.  But it again goes back to the idea that people sometimes are more concerned with appearing successful rather than being it.  Ie, daddy's sports car driving player from earlier.  The truth is success takes work.  And not the work that you may think of.  It is not to say that a banker or wall street gooroo will ever be more successful than your local small business man. 


Anticipated objections and rebutal-  So the puritan will tell you that success is defined by your relationships and whom you surround yourself with.  You can most certainly be in a successful relationship or friendship but that alone will never make you yourself "successful".  True pure raw uncut success is achieved through hard work and the pursuit of independence not happiness.  Many people point to a phrase, "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." But what few recognize is that this phrase falls in the declaration of independence.  These our are inherent rights under being independent.  So one could argue that if you are not independent than you certainly do not have the right to life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness.  
  
Drawing a Conclusion-  I want to make it clear that this write up is in no way shape or form suppose to make myself feel as though I am extremely successful.  Have I had a few moments of success?  Sure I think we all have.  But at the end of my day I do not strive for happiness, I strive for independence because I know that success and happiness can never be fully obtained without it.


I hope you all enjoyed this first post, I plan on doing one a day.  Please if you have any discussion topics let me know.  And thank you all for those who read through my semi educated rant.