Every so often I attempt an exercise: to understand what it must have been like, what fortitude it took to face Nazi forces, on the beaches of Normandy 71 years ago today.
As I've briefly mentioned before, I served two combat tours in Afghanistan, totaling 27 months. I lived a relatively cushy lifestyle, quartered in comfortable lodging and stationed on large mega bases that were, in many ways, bastions of modern western civilization. It was still a far cry from home, but I was comfortable far more often than not.
But a handful of times I was in the thick of combat. We had the upper hand in most circumstances with air, weapon, numbers and position superiority. But there were a few skirmishes within the larger battles that the playing field felt uncomfortable level. We're incredibly fortunate no good guys were hurt or lost.
Needless to say, combat in Afghanistan is nothing to scoff at. It left an unforgettable impression on me that forever altered my worldview and how I approach life, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.
Even in the context of being one of the few Americans (percentage wise) to experience the trials of combat, I logically know that what I experienced and, quite frankly, most others who served experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan doesn't even come close to the magnitude and scale of trials WW2 vets faced in battle. That doesn't diminish or take away from what 21st American service members overcame, but its inarguable WW2, especially those on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, went through more. Even knowing all this full well, I simply can't fathom it.
The initial invasion of D-Day was a fucking meat grinder, pure and simple. Men went in by the thousands and got came out the other side a tangled mesh of what was once a man. Brutal, yes, but it was the all-too harsh reality. How did those men move an inch forward toward the barrels of machine guns honed on them? How did they not freeze up, instead themselves into the very mouth of the monster? All that violence, death and stimuli had to be overwhelming to senses, incomprehensible to the mind.
But, in spite of all those daunting, deadly obstacles, they never thought it as insurmountable. With death reigning down on them, their brothers in arms being felled in droves, they crushed the monster of Nazi fascism. Those brave men denied Hitler his foothold in Western Europe he would never regain, and, after much more sacrifices and thousands of lives lost, domino after domino would fall as US troops marched eastward to the heart of Nazi Germany.
What a toll it surely exacted on those men can never be found or understood. So little was (and still is) known about PTSD. How many went on to fight other history-altering, brutal battles while coping with those trying symptoms? How many came back and hid their condition in the shadows from a generation who saw PTSD symptoms as a sign of weakness and lacking character and not a borderline inevitable, natural consequence of battle? So little is mentioned of that.
While I'll never accomplish the goal of my self-imposed exercise of understanding what they went through, I do comprehend -- and am eternally grateful -- to be part of a world where all seven-billion citizens are the beneficiaries of the heroism and sacrifice of thousands of brave, young men from seven decades ago. The least we can do is keep their memories and stories alive. Father Time is doing what Nazi bullets failed do on Normandy, felling our grizzled veterans in droves.
They've done their duty in both fighting evil and keeping their story and fallen comrades' memory alive. It's our generation's turn now. Let's never let them down. The world owes them that much -- and infinitely more.
I guess another late-night related TV post couldn't hurt.
A recent New York Times article revealed Jon Stewart, host of Comedy Central's Daily Show, has been quietly operating a training program aimed at teaching veterans entertainment industry skills and helping them get employment within the field. Apparently, Stewart's just now making this veterans program widely known because of his pending Daily Showexit and to encourage other Hollywood big shots to start similar ventures.
In a word, awesome. This is just simply, purely awesome. While I personally have no Hollywood aspirations, I know plenty of qualified, talented people who are, and I'm sure the America as a whole stands to benefit by having war veterans as writers, directors, producers and on-air talent.
I spent nearly five years in the active-duty Army as a print journalist in addition to being a soldier. Naturally, I've met many quality writers, from all military branches, who are hilarious, witty and superb communicators. Us print journalists worked hand-in-hand with our military broadcast journalist counterparts. Those broadcasters wrote TV spots, filmed segments from the field, edited them back at base, stood behind the camera to film the newscast or were in front of the lens when the lights came on. Many did radio work also. Both fields of military journalists have already been honing many of the same skills Stewart's program imparts. These service members, unlike many recent college graduates, have utilized this knowledge in high-stress (to say the least), real-world settings.
It's been this way for decades, yet can any of us name a war veteran that has had an impact on pop culture? Outside of Netflix, I don't digest many TV shows, movies or pop culture in general. That being said, I watch enough to know veterans are lacking a voice in our national consciousness. We've been at war or something awfully close to it for almost 14 years now. Can you name one time a veteran in the entertainment industry ushered us into an indelible moment about the trials, triumphs or historic significance of two incomprehensible, convoluted wars through pop culture?
I simply can't. I suspect the same is true for you. That's a shame-- maybe even an unacceptable one.
Stewart's and similar programs will, or already have, stumbled upon a gold mine of talent. That's not to say veteran's wishing to be in the entertainment industry are inherently more talented than their civilian counterparts. Talent can be found everywhere. But most veterans have gone through more rigorous tests and trials than a 22-year-old out of film school, many with the ability to entertain and communicate.
Even if you take veterans' already running some of the toughest gauntlets life can throw at a person out of the equation, we're still left with an important, needed voice left out of entertainment. A wise friend of mine once observed, "Media is the way the world talks to itself." When the world hears its own voice, shouldn't veterans make up an integral part of that voice? The answer is obvious. Thank goodness the Iraq War's biggest critic is doing something to fix it.
Not all US military bases in Afghanistan are created equal. Troops in remote firebases often have to live in tough, primitive conditions, a far cry from the creature comforts and decadence of typical American lifestyle.
For coalition troops at Kandahar Airfield, it's quite a bit different. It's certainly not home sweet home, but it's not half bad either. There was a Burger King trailer, something resembling a super market and the Canadians naturally saw fit to install a street hockey rink. Instead of eating MREs, we ate in high school cafeteria style "chow halls." (The cooks who worked them insisted on us calling them "dining facilities.") In some ways we were living in an oasis of Western Civilization.
On a blistering hot late June day in the lowland desert of southern Afghanistan, I joined a Special Forces team in our camp's chow hall to escape the heat and fill our bellies. I loved these guys. I'd been out with several other Special Forces teams at their bases and/or in the field, but these guys, let's call the Team Viking were the cream of the crop. The team's second in command, Nick, was an Army hero of mine I had met two years prior during a first-of-its-kind training mission in Pakistan. Not only was he a mountain of a man, a bad ass, he embodied why Americans are the good guys.
Nick alone would have been enough for anyone to pick the Vikings as their favorite Green Berets, but every soldier on the team down to the man was stellar, as warriors and citizens. They were what us younger guys aspired to be. Plus, we had the added benefit of having their small team on our battalion's camp. They were our heroes and neighbors.
Having been accepted by such high-caliber men and eating meals with them was always a joy and a feather in the cap for me. This was probably my dozenth lunch with them. I don't remember the specifics of the conversations, but it was basically us taking turns ragging on the other, all in good fun.
One member of the team, their youngest, John, always had a hard time lightening up. He was new to the Special Forces world, on his first combat deployment and probably felt like he had everything to prove to his more grizzled teammates. Because of this, he rarely smiled or laughed. His mind always fixated with a laser like focus on the next task. I had a rather high opinion of myself as a young adult and troop, but he was the only one near my age group that made me feel like I needed to step up my game and grow faster. In other words, I respected the hell out of him.
Naturally, I gave him the best ribbing I could, getting under his skin a little but trying to make him laugh above all else, to make him realize he was still young and could goof around too. It took a bit, but eventually the facade cracked just long enough to make him laugh. "Ahh, he can enjoy life after all," I thought to myself.
When there wasn't a trace crum to be found on any tray, we went about our separate business. The Vikings were meeting up with the Afghan Commandos they'd been tasked to train, mentor and take out on missions that deployment. They had invited me the day before to come out and join them for some Commando marksmanship training, but my Officer in Charge refused to let me sharpen my warriors skills "just in case" he needed me for some menial task.
I sat twiddling my thumbs for hours, waiting for my 12-hour minimum work day to end, cursing my OIC's name all the while for not letting me hang with those guys, when the atmosphere on our battalion's camp changed on a dime.
During a night operation, an IED struck a different Special Forces team's Humvee, claiming the life of one of our battalion's Green Berets.
It's part of the Soldier's Creed to "never leave a fallen comrade." It's nothing short of sacred to us.The honored task of gathering the remains fell to Team Viking. After receiving the Quick Reaction Force designation from command, the Vikings drove off in colossal up-armored vehicles known as MRAPs to retrieve their fallen comrade and augment the team that had already been dealt a brutal blow.
I knew having already been on one deployment that you are constantly finding out how much you take for granted being from a developed country like America. I never thought I would add structural engineer inspectors to the list.
As the convoy of Team Viking's MRAPs rumbled down a narrow dirt road to help their beleaguered comrades, the bottom fell out-- literally, I'm said to say. There are no codes or government standards on Afghan roads. They're often former goat paths vehicles have tried to transform into full fledge roads. This time though, the multiton up-armored MRAP was too heavy and the dirt road collapsed without warning, sending the vehicle and four troops, John, Randy, Simon and Chris, tumbling down a hill.
Fate was not on their side on this night. Their vehicle landed upside down in a frigid canal fed by snow melt still clinging to the surrounding mountain peaks. The water rushed in, shorting the electrical system and rendering the hydraulics necessary to open the bank vault, safe like door utterly useless.
Their multimillion dollar mobile battle shield had now become a watery tomb.
Little if anything is known of what exactly happened to Randy and Simon, both damn fine men. It appears likely they were killed when the transport rolled.
Chris was alive but fighting for his life. His seat belt likely had saved him, but heavy ammo canisters that had been dislodged and tossed around after the road collapsed had him entrapped, unable to reach and unbuckle himself. He was surely going to drown.
But then Chris felt a hand come down, unbuckle the seat belt and release his body armor. John was still alive doing everything he could to save Chris. Eventually, John was able to pull Chris up to an air pocket he discovered. John went back under water to see if he could find another, but that simply wasn't meant to be. John returned to Chris and they both waited in that air pocket for whatever fate awaited them.
Their Viking comrades all the while were outside the MRAP, hurriedly doing everything they could to rip the door open. Scores of us inside battalion's operations center watched the live predator drone feed of the rescue efforts playing out before our eyes, praying all the while.
After what seemed like an eternity, they were able to finagle the placement of a winch that pried the doors open. They quickly got all four men out began resuscitation efforts. One by one it became clear there friends were now corpses. But by some miracle, Chris, who had been shot the prior deployment, had an ounce of life left in him and their efforts slowly brought Chris back from the brink, confused, cold and delusional though he was.
The captain on scene ordered some of his men to scuttle their clothes and body armor as well as Chris's, using their body heat to ward off Chris's obvious hypothermia symptoms. Chris would live to fight another day and tell the tale.
Whether it was head trauma, oxygen deprivation, hypothermia or all the above, Chris went in and out of consciousness in that air pocket. He remembered John's life-saving rescue efforts, his vein search for more air and, lastly, John saying repeatedly, "I can't feel my legs."
John sacrificed his life to save Chris's. His youth and relative inexperience would never be called into question. He was the real deal, a true hero. We can now only hope he felt the validation of being the ultimate Brother in Arms. He was more than good enough.
Chris would continue on fighting that deployment. Months later though, while interrogating a suspected Taliban fighter, he saw prick squeeze his hand and heard a pop. Out of pure instinct, he kicked the insurgent knocking him and the chair he sat in over. The pop was the setting off the fuse of a suicide-bomber vest. Because Chris's boot had the terrorist's torso facing upwards and not outwards, most of the blast's force and shrapnel went into the ceiling. Chris survived being shot, drowned and would survive this too. That's not to say he didn't get banged up though.
On a field hospital's bed, he was awarded yet another purple heart and informed he was now solely to work desk duty. I think that, in that moment, bothered him more than what the blast did to his body. I'm sure his wife and family were more than thrilled though.
Years later, I went to Arlington cemetery to pay my respects to John and another man I knew who didn't make it back home from that deployment. Rodger.
I first visited Roger's grave, and even though we didn't spend nearly as much time around and with each other as I did John, I sobbed. Oh God did I sob.
How was I going to manage visiting the grave of someone I knew way better? How was I going to keep composure at the resting place of the one peer that pushed me to be more?
When I approached the grave, the tears immediately stopped. I rendered the snappiest salute I could muster and just stood in awe of the young man, my superior in every way. With all do respect to all the wonderful things Roger was, you just don't cry in the presence of John's remains. No, there's too much work left to be done. I have too much growing yet to do. Perhaps it's just the memories of all that he was and represented to me, but I like to think I felt his spirit, whatever it is that made him so focused and driven, made him forgo his own chance of survival to give someone else just a prayer of a chance.
Even after all these year I find myself wishing I could have chow and laugh with all those guys just one more time in that oasis.
RIP John, Randy and Simon. You are missed.
(Due to not knowing how the families involved would feel about their fallen's names being made public, I have opted to change Green Berets' names. Recounting this event relied heavily on the memories of testimonies from those involved. Many years have passed, but I provided the most accurate retelling of that fateful day I possibly could without asking others to relive it. Thanks for reading.)
