by Travis Mills
The IED is a relatively simple weapon, but when it came to making and positioning IEDs, the Taliban were getting smarter all the time. IEDs could be planted anywhere—the limb of a tree, the ground, under or beside a roadway, inside an empty soda can that looked like trash. An IED was triggered by someone stepping on it or driving over it, or sometimes by remote trigger. An IED could explode immediately if it was set to do so. Sometimes it would be delayed. That way, the soldier who triggered it would be twenty feet ahead of the blast, but the poor guy behind him would be blown up instead.
The strength of an IED varied. An IED might be designed to take out one person. It might take out an armored Humvee. IEDs would usually be filled with rocks, nails, shards of glass, ball bearings, nuts and bolts, or hard plastic. The blast itself could wound a man, but usually wounds were caused by flying debris: picture the blades of a thousand small running lawn mowers coming off and flying through the air. Sometimes an IED would be linked to other IEDs and trigger a chain reaction of blasts to take out a larger number of people. I took a lot of mental notes on IEDs, letting the Taliban’s vicious tactics soak in, trying to file it all away in my brain for future reference.
A lot of information came at us right away, but we were used to it. And if we didn’t get it right the first time, we practiced an exercise or procedure over again until we got it down cold. We all knew enough to take this training serious—dead serious. One disadvantage we faced from a strategy perspective was that we were going overseas for only a year at a time. By contrast, the Taliban had home turf advantage in Afghanistan. They were constantly fighting this war, and had more time to perfect their hiding spots, strategies, and specific combat techniques.
After the field exercises were completed at JRTC, we went back to Fort Bragg for more training. These felt like fairly routine days, although an uneasiness hung in the air. I remember hanging out several times with another sergeant named Tyler Juden. He was a sniper with the 82nd, and we watched a number of UFC fight nights together on TV. We had a lot in common. He was about a year older than I was and almost as big, one of the most physically fit guys I’d ever met. He’d played football in high school and run track. He wanted to become a teacher after he got out of the army. We had the basis for a long-term friendship. He struck me as passionate about the things he loved most: his friends, his family, and his country.
I hoped Tyler’s dreams would all get realized one day. He had the patience, dedication, and high level of smarts necessary to make a great teacher, I thought.
Inwardly, I wished him well. I did. I wish I had told him that outwardly, but you don’t think of these things when you’re just sitting around watching the fights on TV. You just don’t.
—
When the time came for deployment, Kelsey and I put all our stuff in storage in Fayetteville. She made plans to go back to Texas while I was overseas so she could live with her parents, attend college, and work. She enrolled in Collin County Community College to get more of her general education and found a job in a ski and outdoor shop. (Even folks in Texas like to get away to the mountains to ski every now and again.)
On our last evening in Fayetteville, I walked outside our apartment and said goodbye to our dog, Buddy. He sniffed around at my ankles, wagged his tail, and licked my face as I bent down to ruffle the fur around his neck. Neighbors and family members were outside at that time too, all saying goodbye. When all the goodbyes were said, I hopped in our car along with Kelsey and drove to the post. Kelsey hung out with me as long as time would allow. Then it was time for the soldiers to load up the buses and go to the airfield. I gave Kelsey a hug and a kiss and promised I’d be home soon for R&R. I hated the thought of leaving her, but we both understood this was the job I’d signed up for.
As a team leader, part of my job was to make sure all my guys were ready to go. Three soldiers were under me. Specialist Brian Schwartz was a rifleman. We simply called him “Schwartz,” and he was a tough fighter out of Chicago who always seemed to get caught doing the wrong thing. PFC Jerred Pender was a year older than I was and had done more time in college first. We called him Pender or JP. He had brown hair and a skinny face with a pointed nose, and if ever in a fight, he’d go down swinging, never giving up. PFC Michael Hubbard manned our machine gun (called the squad automatic weapon, or SAW). He was out of Tennessee and always laughing, always up for anything. I was considered a rifleman in the team as well, but unlike the other guys, I had a 203 grenade launcher on the end of my M4 rifle in case I wanted to unleash that on the enemy.
Josh Buck and I weren’t together on this deployment, but were in the same brigade, which meant we were both deployed at the same time although he’d be stationed elsewhere in the country. If luck held out, we’d see each other from time to time over there. He found me right before we boarded the planes, and we offered each other a few final words of encouragement before leaving, giving each other solid slaps on the back.
It was the end of August 2009 and we flew overseas on a chartered commercial 747. We didn’t carry bullets while flying, but we had our rifles and other weapons on our person in the planes with us. We flew into Germany, where our plane was de-iced and refueled, then continued on to Manas Air Base in Kyrgyzstan, where the U.S. military kept a military transit center. We deplaned in Manas and stayed for a few days while we were processed. Each leg of the flight seemed to give me a deeper sense of purpose and drive home our training. Next we boarded a C-17 military plane for the trip to Kandahar, and from there flew in a Chinook helicopter to the city of Herat in the west, the third-largest city in Afghanistan. This was it.
On my second deployment, as a sergeant and team leader, I was a low man on the totem pole as far as the army’s leadership is concerned, but still in a strategic and vital position to engage the enemy and do the fighting. A sergeant is a noncommissioned officer, usually referred to as an NCO or noncom. When it comes to executing a mission, the NCOs are the guys the lieutenants and other officers look to and rely upon to get the job done. The NCOs have long been considered the backbone of the military. NCOs do it all.
From my position on up, the organization goes like this:
• Two teams make up a squad (about nine guys total), and it’s usually commanded by a sergeant or a staff sergeant. I’d be made a squad leader later on my second deployment, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
• Four squads make up a platoon (about forty guys total), and it’s usually commanded by a lieutenant.
• Four platoons make up a company (about 150 to 300 guys, depending on the specialty of the platoon), and it’s usually commanded by a captain.
• Roughly four companies make a battalion (about 1,000 soldiers), and it’s usually commanded by a lieutenant colonel.
• Roughly four battalions make a brigade (about 3,000 to 5,000 soldiers), and it’s usually commanded by a colonel.
• Roughly four brigades make up a division (about 10,000 to 15,000 soldiers), and it’s usually commanded by a major general.
When we first got to Herat we were stationed at FOB Stone (also called Camp Stone) just south of the city. It was a fairly large FOB, similar to the one I’d stayed at during my first deployment. FOB Stone had a bunch of tents and hard-sided structures. I tried once to describe to Kelsey what it was like at FOB Stone, but words failed me. It’s just sort of a big empty canvas of brown, like an artist had painted his background and not added any color yet. Everything was various shades of tan out in the desert. The dirt was tan-colored. The dust was tan-colored. The low-lying mountains in the distances were tan-colored. We weren’t at this base long enough so that it ever felt like home, and the first two weeks were nothing to write home about. We took over security from the departing unit, learned what we needed to, and guarded the gate. Then it was time to move on.
Before we moved, though, we received some sudden news—and it was bad. They put us in formation and told us what had happened to a part of our battalion that had been stationed at a different FOB ab
out two hours down the road.
Tyler Juden, my friend the sniper who’d watched fights on TV with me back stateside, had volunteered to be part of a convoy that had been ambushed while out on patrol. The first vehicle in the convoy had been hit by a roadside bomb and was disabled. When the convoy ground to a halt, the enemy opened up on it with small arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades. Our men took heavy fire.
Our guys needed to get the disabled vehicle out of the way, and while they worked toward this objective, Tyler sprinted up to a high site on a nearby hill and fired through some five to seven magazines of ammo, protecting his soldiers below.
When the disabled truck was finally cleared, Tyler sprinted back to the truck. But the enemy had specifically targeted him. An RPG flew in, and he was hit. They rushed him back to the hospital at the FOB, but it was too late. Tyler died on the operating table.
Fury rose up inside of me. I wanted to find whatever Taliban savages did this to Tyler and shoot them in the face. Tyler was always cautious. He took his job extremely seriously and never made mistakes. There was no reason for him to die. He described to me once how he believed his job as a sniper ultimately saved innocent lives. He was putting into practice what he knew to be true. He was helping the world, not hindering it, and he’d been trained to be one of the rough men who stands ready in the night, prepared to do his duty, prepared to visit violence on those who would do us harm.
Tyler’s death hit far too close to home—and we’d only just arrived.
—
Roads can be exceedingly vulnerable places in Afghanistan, particularly if a road passes between two mountains. Convoys are particularly susceptible to ambushes from both sides of the road. To win a fight, you need to have the best vantage point, and whoever has the higher ground near the roadway holds the most advantage.
Our platoon and another platoon were sent to a region up north to guard a section of roadway between two mountains a ways past FOB Todd. Another FOB was being built some eight to ten hours up the road from where we were stationed. That meant we were put in the “choke point” between the two FOBs. Our job was to make sure military convoys and civilian traffic weren’t shot up by the Taliban as the traffic went through these mountains. My platoon was on the east side of the road. The other platoon took the west side.
All the civilians who lived in the region seemed to have moved out. Everywhere we looked in areas that had been settled, all we saw were ghost town remains. The region was featureless aside from the tan dirt everywhere and the mountains in the distance. When we first pulled in to the spot where we were assigned to set up, I looked around and saw no buildings, dining facilities, tents, outhouses, or showers. Okay, I thought, this is it. We set up security, then I pulled out my gear and started setting up a makeshift camp, and the other guys did so also. We sprawled in the sand and ate our MREs (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) and swigged from water bottles. Boring hours passed, although the what-ifs always hung in the air. We dug a hole in the ground for our crap. When night fell, we rolled out our sleeping bags and crawled inside.
Night after night it was the same: I lay there looking up at the stars and finally drifted off to sleep. Day after day, we went on patrols and carefully watched as trucks went past on the road below us, twenty to forty a day, although some days only a few. After several days a military convoy stopped and resupplied us, and I realized that meant we’d be here for a while. When it happened again, and then again, I understood we’d be out here for a long, long time.
So we just dug in and did our job. Nobody messed with us. We locked down the area and did our patrols and established a strong presence. The first week passed without incident. We ate our MREs and hiked around the place and took no showers. The second week was the same.
Somewhere about that time I drove down the road in a convoy of two trucks to get some more mortars. The supply sergeant was taking his sweet time, and his getting what we needed took maybe twenty-five minutes longer than expected. It wasn’t a lot of wasted time, but something was still burning inside me, triggered by the death of my friend Tyler, and small inconveniences seemed larger than they actually were. I groused about the wait and punched the side of one of the trucks in frustration.
It was a stupid thing to do. Out of character for me. Nobody cared if I was frustrated, and I never wanted my men to see me lose it like this. In the process of hitting the truck, I ripped a scab off my hand, and it started to bleed. I took my wedding ring off and sat it on the front of the truck. The medic came over and patched me up. It was a good thing I didn’t break my hand. We finally got our mortars dialed in, jumped in the trucks, and headed up the road again. Only then did I realize I’d never picked up my wedding ring. In my mind I saw it slide off and slip into the sand as we drove away. My heart sank. That ring was gone.
I chastised myself for being so stupid. As often as I could for our remaining time on top of that mountain, whenever I had a free moment, I took a metal detector and walked up and down that road, searching for my ring. Time after time I tried. But the ring proved a bright and shiny needle in a haystack, and I never did find it. I kept telling myself it was just an object, it wasn’t Kelsey, and the ring could be replaced. But the loss of it unnerved me. It felt too personal. We had a satellite phone for a few days, and when I was able to call home and tell Kelsey about it, she said “Oh sheesh.” I promised that when I came home in May for R&R, I’d get a new ring the day I got back.
While we had that phone, I called home and found out that both my grandmother and my uncle Brian had died of cancer while I’d been gone. Grandma was older, but Brian was middle-aged and went well before his time. My parents could have contacted the Red Cross, who would have found out a way to get in touch with me. But there was nothing I could do now other than grieve where I was. It made sense to stay put. Still, it was sad not to be able to be with my family for those important times, and another reminder of part of the sacrifice made by people in the military. On other deployments, I missed my sister’s wedding and also my brother’s wedding, where I was set to be best man. When you’re away for up to fifteen months at a time, it’s next to impossible for family members to plan their lives around you. Nor would I ever ask them to. The key was to stay upbeat and focused. Afghanistan can get you down if you start letting it, but I wouldn’t let a deployment beat me like that.
Another week passed on top of the mountain, and another, and another. One afternoon I was hiking around on patrol and calculated that it was day forty-seven on this particular mission. Forty-seven days without taking a shower. Forty-seven days of living in the dirt. I became convinced that the outback of Afghanistan had a mind of its own. It wanted to get us. It might do it by harshness of climate, filth, or sheer boredom. But rest assured, it was playing the game to win.
An average day on the mountain meant waking up with the first light of dawn and crawling out of my sleeping bag, shivering. Each new day felt like the day at the end of a long camping trip, and my teeth would be furry and I’d brush them right away using bottled water. I shaved my face every few days or so. You don’t want to shave every day for risk of nicks, which on dirty skin can become havens for germs and even for MRSA, the antibiotic-resistant staph bacterium that can cause dangerous, deadly infections. After shaving (or not), I’d grab a spool of toilet paper and my miniature shovel (called an entrenching tool), and trudge down the hill about fifty meters where I’d dig a hole and drop trow. I’d always face down the hill in the general direction of our supply sergeant and wave, because I figured he might be out with a pair of binoculars, and the thought of him surveying the hillside and spotting another dude dropping a deuce was hilarious. Then I’d spade over my hole and trudge back up the mountain to eat an MRE for breakfast.
We ate the same meals no matter if it was breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The army offers twenty-four types of MREs, but each larger box of supplies has twelve kinds only, so depending on what boxes came on our pallet, we were almost always limited to twelve choices. It c
ould’ve been a lot worse, but after a few weeks of eating the same twelve MREs, they all tasted the same. There was chicken with noodles, which came with M&M’s; a veggie omelet, which came with Skittles; chicken tortellini; beef stew; chili and macaroni—that was always a popular one. Some MREs came with a built-in heater, sort of like a hand warmer, so you could eat your meal hot. Some guys always ate their MREs cold, but if I had time I morphed into an MRE chef and tried to make the best meal I could.
After breakfast, we’d have a meeting to discuss what we were going to do for the day, what kind of mission we’d be going on. Then we packed up our gear and headed out on our mission. Usually that meant hiking all day in the hot sun. My back grew sore, and my muscles got tight. I felt hot spots on my feet, and sometimes they broke open and blistered. I ordered myself to keep going, and silently consoled myself that it was all going to be over soon.
An NCO won’t grumble out loud, not if he’s a good leader. He’ll make light of the situation. Or he’ll grumble indirectly. Like, I might start a conversation with the guy next to me by saying, “Man, I wish I could grab a cheeseburger right now.” That will be code for saying, “This sucks,” and he and I will both know it. But it might also prove an interesting conversation, so when we’d come back for the night, we’d pick up the same topic and talk about cheeseburgers again.
We had jobs to do at night. We might burn our trash, or clean our weapons, or pull a shift of guard duty, and then we’d talk about nothing again, and then we’d talk about nothing some more. We talked about nothing until we exhausted the very essence of nothingness. Life in the Afghan outback was the military version of Seinfeld, an endless show about nothing. We played ridiculous word games to pass the time. We discussed minuscule details of baseball games we’d played as kids. I might get into a debate with my guys about where the best cheeseburger in America could be found. We would’ve had the debate before, but it would be good to have it again, because it’s a topic everybody had a strong opinion about. One dude would say Five Guys. Another would insist Red Robin. I’d insist it was from my parents’ backyard barbecue, and I’d do this not because I hated Red Robin or Five Guys, but because it was the truth and also just to keep the conversation going longer because we were all so bored.