by Travis Mills
On a different jump, the wind shifted direction just before I hit the ground. I landed on my feet, then bounced on my butt, flew end over end, and hit my head. A kaleidoscope of colors and images swirled in front of my eyes. I figured I had a concussion, but if I admitted that then I’d need to sit out for a while and probably repeat part of my training. No way was I going to do that. Instead, I took three Advil that night and went to sleep. I had a jump scheduled the next day and didn’t intend to miss it for anything.
Our fifth and final jump was a nighttime jump with full equipment—a loaded rucksack and a rifle. I was nervous for this jump, full of adrenaline, and dove out of the plane like Superman. My left leg got caught in the risers and my parachute collapsed. I couldn’t see the ground coming up at me because of the darkness, but by the rush of wind I knew I was streaming deadweight like an anvil from the sky. I popped my reserve chute out, but I’d popped it out at too low an altitude for it to fully deploy. Seconds before impact, I did the only thing I could think of: I reached up and yanked my foot out of the risers. My main chute caught a puff of air and I hit the ground with a thud. I lay there for a moment, taking stock of my surroundings. I could still breathe. Nothing appeared to be broken. I’d lived. I let out a war whoop of a yell, collected my chute, and went to rejoin the rest of my team.
On graduation day from airborne school, sometimes you receive your jump wings, and sometimes you get what’s called your “blood wings.” It’s an old school tradition, officially prohibited, where the jumpmaster goes to pin your wings on your uniform, but instead of pinning your wings onto the cloth, he lines them up and punches them into your chest so the point goes into your flesh. Mine went into my collarbone. It was pretty painful, but I was happy and proud to have my wings. I was a full-fledged airborne infantryman now.
It’s hard to describe that feeling fully. Confidence and capability (and undoubtedly arrogance) coursed through my veins. I felt like I could do anything. It’s an old military slogan, but ask any new paratrooper, and he’ll tell you the same thing—
We were all ten feet tall and bulletproof.
—
I graduated from military training in August 2006 and went home for a week to see my family, then drove over to Fort Bragg in North Carolina to become part of the famed 82nd Airborne Division. Becoming part of the 82nd was something I chose. I could have gone to three other places—Louisiana, Alaska, or Italy. But I wanted to be part of the 82nd. The division fights longer, harder, and better than anyone else in the world, although that’s just my humble opinion. We were the toughest outfit around, and we believed it thoroughly.
The 82nd Airborne Division has a proud history. Originally formed in 1917, the division has played a major role in almost every international skirmish since, including World War I, World War II, Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, the first Gulf War, Haiti, Bosnia, Kosovo, and the present-day global war on terror. The division also helped out during the search-and-rescue operations associated with Hurricane Andrew, Hurricane Katrina, and the destruction caused by the massive Haitian earthquake of 2010.
It’s hard to describe the 82nd unless you’ve been part of it yourself. Our job as paratroopers is to jump out of airplanes with our rifles in our hands, ready to fight. Not every mission we’d go on would involve airdrops into hostile territory, but we were ready at a moment’s notice to do this, and we could deploy anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. There were about 22,000 troops in the division when I joined—every soldier tough as steel. It takes a lot of courage to jump out of an airplane, assemble as a group, and continue a mission from there. We were trained to fight even if we were surrounded by the enemy, trained to keep our heads, to charge hard and get the job done.
Decades ago, the unit was given the nickname “All American,” and I wore the famed shoulder patch that simply reads “AA.” I felt proud to be part of that kind of tradition. The 82nd is a brotherhood and I love it. It’s in my heart forever.
—
For five months, my unit was built up while we were stationed at Fort Bragg. We knew deployment was on the horizon, but I wasn’t worried. By contrast, I was having the time of my life. For reasons unknown to me—probably luck of the draw—I was put in an artillery battalion and attached to headquarters. Our commander, Lieutenant Colonel Scottie D. Custer, was heading overseas on deployment with us, and he wanted three guys put on his personal security detachment. One of them was me.
That meant that for my first five months in the 82nd, headquarters could use me any time they wanted. But a colonel doesn’t really need a personal security detachment until he goes overseas. So in the meantime I mostly did odd jobs. I cut grass. I went and shook out the parachutes. I did more medical aid training. I was sent to the motor pool to help out the mechanics. Each day was something different, all light duty. A lot of days, the three of us on security detail would get up early and go for a run, then take a shower, eat breakfast, do an odd job or two, then play video games until lunch. After lunch we’d take a nap, do more odd jobs, and hang out until dinner.
Normally I look forward to a challenge, so I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life biding time like this. But after all the rigors of the training I’d just been through, this was the closest to a vacation that the army ever gave to a man on duty. I’d hear horror stories from friends about how they tried to break into their units and got yelled at for days on end. Nothing like that ever happened to me. Nobody messed with the colonel’s security detachment. We just did our jobs and flew under the radar, and altogether had a much better time of it than the privates who went elsewhere. The two guys on detail with me, Levi and K. C., were solid dudes from Columbus, Ohio, and the only hard part of the job was that I had to take smack from them about Ohio beating Michigan each year in college football.
Overall, I felt a growing sense of excitement combined with seriousness toward where we were headed and what we’d be doing. A lowly private isn’t briefed on the bigger picture of any combat mission, but bit by bit I pieced together the strategy, at least as it was specific to the 82nd Airborne Division.
Personnel from the United States and its allied countries (the International Security Assistance Force, or ISAF) would be working in Afghanistan in the region around the city of Khost to help shore up the population’s infrastructure. Part of that meant building new roads, schools, electrical grids, water systems, a modern municipal hospital, and a commercial airport. Having these in place would boost commerce and help the population trust their new, democratically elected government under Afghan president Hamid Karzai. Overall, it would make life better for the Afghan people.
To get all this stuff built, soldiers would be strategically placed throughout the area around Khost to maintain security and keep everything peaceful. That’s where an infantryman like me came in. Ever since the old Taliban-controlled government had been toppled in December of 2001, the Taliban had been fighting to oust the new government and regain control of the country.
If the Taliban regained control, then they would once again keep their thumbs tightly pressed against the population like they did in Afghanistan from 1996 to 2001, when they were officially in power. Out of power, like they were at the time of my first deployment, the Taliban insurgency fought against civilians and troops who supported the democratically elected Afghan government. The Taliban insurgency also continued to grow and sell opium (a key ingredient in heroin) so they could buy weapons like they did before. They continued to intimidate the population around them (and anyone not sharing their views) by attacking offices, businesses, mosques, hospitals, and schools. They continued to recruit and train groups of terrorists who could go on to attack America and other countries and kill innocent people like they did before.
Sometimes the media portrayed the Taliban as mindless fanatics, but that wasn’t the case for the group as a whole, for their movement, particularly as time went on. The Taliban were cunning and vicious fighters who strategically blended in with the general populatio
n and used a variety of guerrilla tactics such as ambushes, suicide bombings, IEDs, and vehicle-borne IEDs (VBIEDs) to accomplish their objectives. Many of the older Taliban soldiers were highly experienced—having fought against the Soviets in their war from 1979 to 1989. We didn’t fear the Taliban, but a good soldier knows the potential force of his enemy, and we respected the lethal clout these savages could wield.
I wasn’t sure if our presence as well-armed paratroopers of the 82nd would actually keep things peaceful around Khost, or if it would work a different way. Maybe the terrorists would see a fresh enemy and turn their attention on us. Maybe while they were busy fighting us, the work of building the infrastructure could get accomplished. It didn’t matter. My job as an infantryman wasn’t to build up the schools or roads. It was to support the soldier next to me so we could get the job done and all come home alive. For me, this meant protecting Lieutenant Colonel Scottie D. Custer.
Okay then, that’s what I’d do. For my first deployment, I was going to be one small part of the greater force of ISAF, helping to fight the war against global terror. It felt a lot more purposeful to me than sitting in community college, worrying I was wasting money.
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard on the other end of the phone call.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ll tell everyone here.” I hung up.
It was less than a week until I would be sent overseas, just after Christmas 2006. Our unit had received a block leave, and I’d gone home to Vassar to my parents’ house. I was standing in our kitchen, and my mom was about five feet away from me doing the supper dishes. She paused when I hung up, gave me a steady stare, and asked, “Who was that?”
“Kerry needs to go home right away,” I said. Kerry was my brother Zach’s girlfriend. My mom seemed to know instinctively what was going on and what to do. Kerry went home. Zach went with her.
The phone call was news that Kerry’s brother, Marine Corporal Chris Esckelson, had just been killed by a sniper in Iraq. One shot went through the plates in his body armor and hit him in the heart.
We all knew the family. Chris’s father had been my Little League coach for years. Chris’s mother delivered our mail. Chris had played football for Vassar High School a few years ahead of me. When I was a freshman, he was a senior. He also played basketball, and was an outfielder and catcher in baseball. Same as I’d done.
After Kerry left, my mother broke down and began to cry. I felt like crying too, although I didn’t know how. We were deeply saddened by the news and concerned for the Esckelson family. But I could tell there was something more to the feelings that came from Mom. She was concerned about me—about us as a family—about me staying alive in the combat zone I was heading to in a few short days.
My dad didn’t talk about me leaving. Over the next few days we hung out and did whatever we normally did. The most he said during that time was “Be sure to keep your head down.”
Then, the day before I left, Dad told me a story about when he went into the army. He’d taken washable paint and written a note to his parents in their shower stall where they were sure to see it. It said one short sentence of reassurance: “All will be fine.”
Early the morning that I left, I took a washable marker and went into my parents’ bathroom. Right above their faucets, where they were sure to see it, I wrote the same short message.
“All will be fine.”
I was miles away from the house when my dad called. He told me he saw the note. I didn’t say much, and he didn’t say much. He told me he loved me. Then his voice became hoarse, and his words of support for me came out broken and choked.
—
My new home in eastern Afghanistan was at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Salerno, named in honor of a WWII operation by the same name. Some guys called the FOB “Rocket City,” due to the large number of incoming rockets and mortar shells it had taken over the last few seasons, but I never used that nickname myself. My deployment began in January 2007, and I know now that as far as deployments go, my first deployment was as good as they ever get.
FOB Salerno was a large base, maybe ten football fields put together. It had a good flight line to bring in aircraft on the diagonal, plus a well-protected helicopter pad for horizontal takeoffs and landings. The ground was thickly graveled, not muddy, and there was a walled dining facility (DFAC), and even an indoor gym. We always had hot meals, the menu rotated, and it was always good. Baked chicken. Spaghetti and meatballs. Cheeseburgers. Meat loaf. Burritos. O’Brien potatoes. Hot brown gravy. Fresh biscuits and bread, lots of bread. Some Fridays we even saw steak and shrimp. They had a pizza place on base as well as a laundry facility and a Post Exchange where you could buy toothpaste or a razor or whatever you needed. It was definitely a good setup by combat standards.
On our first day in-country, we ripped in and took over for the team who’d been there before us. We did inventory and signed a bunch of forms to confirm that all the stuff was there. Over the next few days we went out on patrol with the old team a few times, then they left and we moved in for good. Some of our guys were housed in tents, but I was billeted in a hard structure about as big as a dining room in an average-sized home. Ten guys total lived in there. We each had a cot, and that was about it. That was all we needed.
Lieutenant Colonel Scottie Custer was in his early forties. He wore a high and tight haircut and had slate blue eyes. He’d played hockey at West Point and was powerfully built. Soon after our arrival, my job on his security detail came into full swing. Each day he would travel to some different location, usually around the city of Khost, although sometimes out of town. He met with city officials and businessmen, political leaders, and heads of the area Afghan police and army forces, ever explaining and promoting the plan of a better Afghanistan and helping to implement the actions it took to achieve that goal.
To me, the plan looked like a solid way forward, although a private isn’t paid to think such lofty thoughts. We were helping businesses grow, giving medical aid, mentoring the Afghan police and army, and handing out schoolbooks to children. By contrast, the Taliban just came in and cut off people’s heads. Some days, we’d be out on a four-hour mission. Some days our missions took twelve hours. Some days we went out two or three times. We took a few overnight trips, sometimes for days at a time, but usually we were back each night at the FOB before dark. I always went with the colonel wherever he went. My job was just to jump in and go.
My specific task was to be the gunner in a Humvee, one of those larger four-wheel-drive vehicles that looks like a really big jeep. Fully armored, a Humvee weighs more than 12,000 pounds and costs about $140,000, but the weight and cost were about the last things on my mind. Cut in the top of our Humvee was a hole with a shallow, turret-like gun base mounted on top. My job was to man the machine gun in that turret. Below me rode the colonel in the shotgun seat and a driver. In our convoy, we also rode with a medic in the backseat, a hard-charger of a guy named Josh Buck whom I’d met back at Fort Bragg.
Josh was a good guy, twenty-one years old, who’d already been married for two or three years. His wife, Deanna, was pregnant with their first kid. He’d lived in Maine until he was thirteen, then moved to Texas when his dad got a job there. This was his first deployment too, so he was as confidently wide-eyed as the rest of us, although he’d been in the service a little longer than I had. He never failed to remind me of that particular fact. Josh had a good sense of humor, and back when we were in the States before we were deployed, he and Deanna had double-dated with me and my old girlfriend from high school days. The four of us went bowling and out to dinner at Smokey Bones, and I considered Josh a real friend. I always tried to get him to lift weights with me, and he always tried to get me to go running with him. We slept in the cots next to each other in our billeting area at night.
Three other Humvees accompanied the colonel’s Humvee wherever he went. Whenever the colonel reached his destination for that day’s particular mission, we all stopped and pulled s
ecurity detail. The guys manning the guns stayed on the guns, ever on the lookout for danger. The rest of the guys made sure the colonel got where he needed to go. We were sort of like the Secret Service is to the president. A good day for us meant no action. We were always mindful that a high-ranking American officer in Afghanistan posed a big target for the Taliban. If action happened, we were prepared to defend the colonel to our deaths.
—
The day was seasonally warm. Word was that the Taliban had pledged to severely up the number of suicide bombers in the region. They were pissed at us because they’d lost some conventional-style battles late in 2006, so I guess this was all they could think to do to get back at us: blow themselves up.
That day, the colonel needed to be in the city at the opening ceremony of a hospital. We drove him over in the Humvee, parked, and I stayed on the gun like I always did. The colonel went inside with several of our men around him. Something didn’t seem right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. You’ve always got to be on edge, always ready for something to happen. You hope for the best but expect the worst. A bead of nervous sweat crept out from underneath my helmet and slithered down the side of my face.
The ceremony was held outside the hospital in a walled courtyard. I was on the other side of the wall from the colonel. My back was to the hospital, so I could keep a clear lookout for any potential threats approaching. The army teaches you to sense danger. You’re taught to look for it. If a guy in the crowd appears nervous. If he’s sweating or yelling or acting frantic or moving too quickly compared with the other people around him—these are all warning signs.