Homecoming

The terminal at Bangor, Maine airport changed little in the 360 days between my deployment and homecoming transit stops. We stepped off our charter jet after 16 hours of overseas travel from Kyrgyzstan via Bucharest, finally setting foot on U.S. soil. A line of Vietnam and Cold War era veterans stood waiting for us as we walked through the gate. They greeted us with a warm applause and extended their hands. “Welcome home, Lieutenant,” each said to me with bright, shining, grandfatherly smiles. My eyes were still half asleep from my failed attempt at a transatlantic slumber. I have yet to feel a deep sleep since I deployed, but my nervous system remained heightened, overloaded with the stimuli of a long awaited reunion with America.

My forearms tensed at the caress of the frigid and moist air conditioning. The calming hum of a distant vacuum cleaner and the terminal’s background jazz instrumental confused my aggressive sense of hearing. The bright mid-day light overwhelmed my eyes as it pounded from the building’s glass exterior. I’ve grown so used to my body reacting impulsively to stresses for an entire year that I found the absence thereof to provoke almost a greater feeling of insecurity.

I took a seat on a rigid leather bench facing the terminal glass, watching small Sesna aircraft and Air Force refueling jets take off one at a time. The majesty of Maine’s lush green forest under a clear blue sky seemed foreign to me. The runway was painted in bright white and yellow and paved smooth as silk, unlike the pot-holed Soviet runways of Kandahar. And perhaps most soothing of all…not a grain of sand to be seen, only fertile red soil and beautiful pine and oak as far as the eye can see. Wow, I thought to myself, This is actually happening…I’m home.

I looked at my watch to check how much day-dream time I could budget before my next boarding call, but took greater note of the date: it was July 15, 2010. My tour had lasted exactly 360 days. I considered how appropriate it was to reach 360; the tour no doubt challenged the full circumference of my personal and professional identity. I have changed so much in the past year, but my home did not change with me. How do I explain the dynamics of a full year of life spent at war? After the happy hour embraces of old friends, how do we pick up where we left off?  As I sat in the terminal, I found myself struggling to relate to my old home, my old people. Though the greetings and affections would be warm, grandiose lengths of distance and time make common ground a limiting factor.

I didn’t allow myself to feel lonely, or feel sorry for myself. Being in America felt infinitely better than my scalding Stryker hatch under the Zhari sun. I didn’t need external sympathy; I needed internal closure. If I was to overcome the challenge of reconnecting with America, I needed to articulate the bedrock principles I fortified in my heart over the past year. I needed absolute statements; what were my lessons learned? What substance did I bring back from a year at war?

Well, for starters, I left for Afghanistan an ambitious workaholic. I thought nothing of working 17-hour days for the rest of my career in the interests of achieving professional success. I longed for golden handcuffs of the lucrative pay day and the power of social status. But now, I return home realizing the value of work-life balance. Whereas the question of happiness once seemed only a goal for the weak at heart, finding happiness has now become the most important guiding principle in my logic. Life is a beautiful and fragile blessing. Quantifiable superficialities like money, rank, or reputation pale in comparison to the qualitative majesty of love and fulfillment. I never want to spend a day serving a bottom line. My entire life’s efforts are guided with the sole purpose to love and to be loved.

Secondly, I left for Afghanistan with a vague conscience regarding the age old military conundrum: mission or men? Our military’s warrior ethos asserts “I will always place the mission first” but also “I will never leave a fallen comrade.” From the security of a West Point classroom, I could rationalize the loss of a soldier at the expense of strategic gain. Moreover, I naively assumed I’d never have to make the call between men and mission. But now, I know first-hand there are many occasions in combat when one’s mission and men are in conflict with each other. My previously vague conscience has now morphed to a solid conclusion: without a doubt in my mind, men always take priority over mission. No matter what strategic gains are on the line, there is nothing that can replace a human life. But more importantly, there is nothing that can replace a soldier’s trust in his leaders to do everything they can to protect him. That trust is what allows soldiers to perform brilliantly in the face of danger; they know they’re in good hands. The moment that trust is compromised in the interests of a military gain, the soldier will protect himself where he feels his leaders will not, and will not perform the mission to the best of his ability. A military ideologue may call him a poor excuse for an American soldier, but he’s not…he’s just human. The enemy may escape, he may hold his ground, he may even advance on key terrain. But the soldier who lives to fight another day fights stronger than the day before.

And at last…over the course of our tour, my platoon accumulated a few catchphrase responses to the typical drudgery of conventional military life. First, there was “It Is What It Is”, sighed in reluctant acceptance of an unrelenting workload. Then, there was “Sounds About Right,” uttered by soldiers in contempt of the military bureaucracy’s disconnect from the tactical execution of its policies. But towards the end of the deployment, we adopted a phrase that was far less cynical, and more reflective of a wisdom gained from an intense fight: “It could always be worse.” And it’s true. It could always be worse. I can’t count on one hand how many times I’ve sat in the desert feeling sorry for myself, right before things took a turn for the worse; as if my indulgence in self-pity provoked the enemy’s aggression, or even rain. Being thankful in moments of distress is much the acquired taste and something I still have yet to master. But next time I miss a flight, lose my cell phone, or get a thousand dollar fender bender…I’m going to remember just how bad it could be, and hopefully find some sensation of peace in being safe, sound, and having plenty of things to be thankful for.

“All 5^th Brigade Personnel bound for Joint-Base Lewis-McChord, we’ll be boarding you at Gate 4 in five minutes,” announced an airline representative over the intercom. A smile broke across my face. I was heading home. I was almost done. This war was over for me, and I could wash my hands of it for at least a year or two. I jumped up from my seat, gave one last grin at the run way, knowing I’d be on it in just a few moments.

“Hey Raj,” called out my friend James, a West Point classmate in the brigade.

“What’s going on brother?! Ready to kick this pig?!” I slapped him enthusiastically on the back.

“Rajiv…something’s happened.” James voice became quiet, as did I. “It’s Chris…”

James informed me that my dear friend, Air Assault School battle-buddy, and West Point classmate Christopher Geoke was killed in Zabol province that morning. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Chris was the third member of USMA ’08 to die in combat in under a year. And just like that, the closure I had worked so hard to find dissipated into the coastal air. The truth is, this war is not over for me. I am coming home, but hundreds of my friends and brothers are still in harm’s way on the same battlefields I left behind. As much as I want to relax, and enjoy the conclusion of a hard year’s work, I’m embarrassed to feel happiness and relief at the expense of others; knowing I’ve only passed on the burden of warfare to other soldiers, even if only temporarily. This war is not over, not for me. I cannot wash my hands of it, not now…not ever. As long as there’s a breath in my body, my heart will always be with those who fight in my stead.

I want to thank my readers for all the love and support you’ve given over the past twelve months. I could not have done it without you…and I mean that. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Freedom

In the raucous of the FOB Ramrod Dining tent on a Wednesday afternoon, a vacuum of gauche silence overcame our plastic table. I sat with two of my West Point classmates from the incoming Stryker unit. The two Lieutenants stared blankly at their paper plates, trying to make sense of the oddly hostile display that had just occurred. Was he joking? Is he seriously mad?

An anger induced trance blinded the memory of what I had said; the social inhibitions I had let fall in an amicable discussion. My face winced, maliciously staring down my friend across the table. I came to, only to find myself in this stunningly awkward moment where I had clearly verbally aggressed my friend, my brother, a fellow officer…someone’s son, someone’s husband, and now someone’s father.

“Hey,” I broke the silence, “listen…sorry about that. I just lost it—“

“Don’t worry about it, Raj,” interrupted the peer who I assailed. “You guys have had a rough year. It’s just your nerves. Seriously, it’s alright.”

We continued eating, pretending that nothing had happened. We laughed and joked, sharing hysterical stories of our classmates’ inebriated urban adventures. It all went back to normal, like the good old days. But the irritated fire that had quickly consumed my heart before now withered to a smoky haze; very little seemed clear anymore. I had grown so livid so quickly. Thank god I have friends who are capable of such forgiveness. Thank god I was in good company.

But man…is such compassionate company so hard to find back home?

As I begin the long journey out of Kandahar, the intensity with which my platoon and I conducted our daily missions here still lingers in my thoughts. It’s an intensity far different than that of athletics or academics. It’s a realization of constant vulnerability; a perpetual mental dilemma of fight or flight. It’s the magnification and scrutiny given to every minute detail of one’s surroundings; a bag, a dark spot in the ground, a linear reflection of command wire off the highway. This intensity permeates through a soldier’s daily lifestyle, and when it’s time to return home…well, the transition back to normalcy is harder for some than for others.

I haven’t been sleeping well recently; three to four hours is all my body seems to want. My heart rate increases ten-fold with each camera flash in my peripheral vision, reminiscent of the blast from recoilless rifle rounds and IEDs at dusk. I speak to people like I speak on the radio: concise, fast, and hugely intolerant of those who aren’t. My temper is short. My patience low. And the pace of my thoughts doesn’t seem to reflect the pace of life around me.

As the cliché goes, freedom truly is not free. On July 4th, we celebrate the men and women who must give of their own freedoms to protect those of the nation. Soldiers cannot say, go, nor do what they want, whenever they want. We sacrifice our freedoms to serve a greater purpose, and I’m proud to do so. But now I realize there is one freedom I am missing that isn’t explicitly forgone in my Army contract, and I never thought I’d lose it. Right now, I’m yearning for an emotional freedom; a freedom to be my genuine self once again. I want to be free from the shackles of my combat mentality as I return to garrison life. I just wish I could free my mind of its stresses so I can focus on being the son, brother, friend, and mentor to those who have invested so much in me already.

But I don’t think this is uncommon. I think this is normal for most soldiers, at least for the first few weeks after the combat missions have ended. But I’m still worried. I fear that my reintegration pains will hurt the family and friends who have shown me so much love. How can I ask them to be so forgiving of my aggressive slips when they’ve already shown exhausting amounts of love? How do I explain that a random hostility is only a residual instinct, not a show of disrespect or ingratitude? These questions are yet to be answered. I’m sure I’ll figure out most of it as I go. After all, the boundless kindness and understanding of my closest friends and family never ceases to amaze me. I’m sure one day, I’ll be able to drive down my street without overreacting to the stimuli that would otherwise cause a panic on a Zhari road.

I don’t think I’ll ever be quite the same person again; I imagine anyone who deploys to a war zone ever is. But I am confident I’ll find happiness and closure soon. I will find peace again. And when that day comes, I’ll pull out the grill and toast the flag. There will be no anthems and certainly no fireworks; only a serene smile on my face. This tour has brought to my soul new meaning to the word Freedom. And thus, when I do find that peace, enjoying the comforts of my home, I’ll celebrate my very own Independence Day.

The Last Patrol

26 June 2010 never seemed like a benchmark date I’d remember during this emotional year in Kandahar. I can tell you the exact date I arrived in theater. I remember the date I moved to my ANA COP as the senior American on the ground. I remember the date I was promoted to First Lieutenant. I remember the exact dates, and occasionally even the times, of each company casualty, as well as those of friends and classmates in other units. I deliberately seared these events in my memory as threads of the military experience I sought to weave into my mental landscape. 26 June 2010 was never supposed to make the cut…

26 June was my final combat patrol as a platoon leader forward deployed to Afghanistan. The following day, my platoon would regress back to FOB Ramrod. From then on, it’s just inventories, paperwork, and sitting around just waiting for a bird to take me home.

After the eventful tour our company has had in Zhari, our replacement brigade decided to relieve our company with a full battalion at our ANA COP. Four infantry companies will now cover the same sector we owned with four maneuver platoons. For the battle-handover process (informing and guiding new units as battle spaces change in ownership), my platoon worked primarily with Delta Company.

To my vivid delight, I found that two of Delta Company’s platoon leaders were my former West Point classmates. Huge smiles came across our faces upon finding each other. Whereas most universities hold their alumni reunions in bars and restaurants underneath metropolitan skylines, Academy reunions are held on hostile objectives and outposts under scorching desert suns. I was thrilled to see my brothers. The task of preparing them to take our sector suddenly became far more personal. I wanted these men to have every tool at their disposal to have fewer bad days in Zhari than we did.

On the morning of the 26^th, I stood on my platoon’s motor pool line watching the COP’s profile against the Afghan sunrise. I shook my head in disbelief, “How did this baseball diamond sized outpost turn into this massive battalion FOB practically overnight?!” The Delta Company Commander interrupted my meditation.

“Hey Raj, you ready for this thing?!” The Captain said in his charming southern draw.

“Roger, Sir. Just taking a moment to enjoy the scenery.”

“Well you better enjoy it while you can, you’re bouncing out tomorrow!” The Captain slapped my back, painful even through my body armor vest, and ran towards his vehicle.

I called up my REDCON1 status before I led the convoy out the gate and onto the Highway. Like a tour guide, I pointed out areas of attraction over the net, “If you look on your left, there are compounds with red doors about a click south of our position, they’re often a staging point for enemy ambushes on the ANA or civilian convoys.” I stood out my hatch and saw nearly every vehicle optic system turn in sync with my narration. I was actually surprised! The Delta Company commander and  1SG bombarded me with questions. I was actually taken aback. It never occurred to me that I was the only officer on this patrol who had spent a full year here and already understood this area like the back of my hand. I was a subject matter expert. Wow. This really is happening.

We drove to a village north of the highway. I wanted to show them a well I had built for them as a development project. This war isn’t all “shoot, move, and communicate.” I wasn’t about to leave our discussion to just the kinetic stuff. As we approached the well, a dire voice came on the net, “Hey D6, we got six FAMs with RPKs and man dresses down south!” With nervous tension, the soldiers of the new infantry unit all turned their weapons in one direction hoping for a taste of the action. They wanted blood.

“Break Break, this is Attack46, hold your fire. Those are civilian contracted security directing the traffic of their convoy off road. Do not engage.”

It took a second for the aggression to peel back. “Hey Attack 46, Dog 6, so these guys just run around in civilian clothing with heavy weapons and no one gets hurt? I gotta ask…how do you keep from lightin’ these guys up everyday?”

I had to pause for a minute. How did I know? I had no clue! These civilian contractors look exactly like the enemy, yet we always knew who was who. In twelve months, we’ve developed deliberate muscle memory to certain combinations of demeanor, poses, scenery, and instincts. We knew when we were in danger, and when we were not.

“Sir,” I began my reply on the radio, “I guess it’s all about tactical patience and developing the scenario. The enemy typically doesn’t play in open ground with Americans present. These guys are not threatening us, so we restrain ourselves.”

A few of my soldiers on the vehicle internal radio started laughing at the new unit’s overreaction to stimuli that had become the daily grind for them. I didn’t stop them; after the year they’ve had, they deserve the right to beat their chests a little. But if we’re being completely honest, we were all trigger happy gung-hos when we first arrived in country too. All units are the same. Once the entry-level nerves wear off, we can think a little clearer and more critically about situations unique to our area of responsibility.

When we dismounted to inspect the well, the local tribal elder immediately recognized me. I went out in front of the patrol as the elder approached me. I could sense they were ready to halt his movement 20 meters away, tell him to put his hands up, and frisk him. After all, this is what we’re taught in the school house. But in the real world, that’s hugely disrespectful to such a respected leader. I took the lead in engaging the elder, “Asalaamu-alaykum” I said as I extended my right hand with a hearty smile, placing my left over my heart. The elder reciprocated the friendly gesture. I asked about his children, his village, and his crops, taking almost three to four minutes of small talk. It seems like a lifetime on the battlefield, but for a key leader like him, it would mean a lot. I introduced the incoming company commander and platoon leaders and asked if I could show them the well. He personally led us as our guide.

The watering hole had become a haven for children and family members to congregate in the mid-day heat. Nearly the entire village knew who I was. They call me “Najeeb” because “Rajiv” doesn’t quite roll off their tongues too well.

We took pictures and exchanged the usual pleasantries. I could see the soldiers in the unit finally starting to take their fingers out of their trigger wells and appraise the threats for what they are, not what they could be. Is it still dangerous, yes, but it’s the only way to live in this area and actually make a difference.

As we pulled back into the wire, the Delta Commander and his platoon leaders each came up to me. They thanked me wholeheartedly for the circulation missions on which I had led them over the past few days. This was it. I no longer owned this COP or anything in Zhari. This was no longer my kingdom; in the blink of an eye, it turned to a rest stop on the way home.

I want to come home so badly. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. My body is aging two months for one; my eyes are heavy with sleep deprivation. My head aches in the 120 degree heat and from dehydration. My knees are brittle and hurt with long stands. Yet despite all of this, handing over this battle space to someone else seems so painful. I invested a full year of my life here; seven days a week, 16-20 hour days. Zhari is where my strongest bonds of loyalty were forged with my men. After all the heartache we’ve had here, I guess I actually do care about this place. And from here on out, there’s not much I can do about it. I’ll always remember 26 June as the last time I had an impact on the ground in my home away from home. It will be the last day I lead troops into harm’s way. It’s a strikingly uncelebrated benchmark that has hit me fairly hard.

If I ever do return to Zhari again as a soldier, it will probably be as a staff officer, so engaging the locals and making a significant difference on the ground won’t be among my duties. As far as fulfillment goes, being a platoon leader for twelve months at war really is the best that it can get for a junior officer. You know, I do hope I can come back though. But not as a soldier. I want to come back as a veteran. I love seeing veterans of foreign wars visit the monuments of their sacrifice. I’ve seen American soldiers revisit the beaches of Normandy. I’ve seen Vietnam veterans bow at the granite wall in Washington D.C. I think my biggest hope is that I can one day bring my children to Zhari, Kandahar. I want to show them the fruits of arduous labor and where hard work can lead in the long run. Who knows. I’m sure In 1947, no one thought France would be a tourist destination for quite some time. Perhaps in 2047, I’ll be able to revisit this corner of the world and find a happy and healthy and safe community. That is my biggest wish for this place: that my children can visit Zhari one day as my guests, not as soldiers themselves.

This post drags on. I almost want to apologize for being so long winded. I guess I’m trying to savor the moment even in my writing. For everything my readers, my family, my friends have done for me. Thank you. Your support carried me through. The hard part is over…I’ll be home soon .

Lost Boys: Father’s Day Post

Explosions are a daily occurrence in the Zhari District. Most blasts are IEDs, some are RPGs or recoilless rifles. Generally, all are followed by machine gun fire or a secondary boom, if not both. The detonations reverberate throughout our combat outpost as we continue our daily grind. Whether I’m out on patrol or within the security of the wire, my eyes roll in exasperation, my pulse hastens, and I thrust my radio hand-mic to my ears, anticipating the call to respond to the emergency.

But every now and then, a ray of good fortune shines upon us, and the explosion we hear is not a planned enemy attack but a failed attempt at one. IED emplacement is a dangerous business. Thankfully for us, sometimes the enemy blows himself up, taking both another Talib and another IED off the streets.

Last week, three Pakistani men were planting an IED when such an explosion occurred, incidentally on a road I travel frequently. One died instantly, but the ANA rushed the remaining two to our front gates. I looked over the medics’ shoulders as they worked. Gaping holes in the enemies’ gum lines marked where the explosion knocked out teeth. Their skin was hacked into a chunky cocktail of shrapnel and blood. A putrid stench emanated from their loins, signaling involuntary defecation. I could not elicit any fulfillment from observing these Taliban so humiliated and mangled. I’ve seen a lot here in Zhari, but I manage to keep my humanity about me. Then again, if these Taliban had their way, I’d be the one on that stretcher, and I’m sure they’d feel pretty happy with themselves.

“Hey Sir,” my First Sergeant called, “One of these guys needs to get to the FOB for his treatment. I need your platoon to spin up and take him there.”

“We’re on it.” I assigned one of my team leaders authority over the injured detainee. I gave him my interpreter and my medic to help him. I made my way to the Company CP to sign as custodian of the detainee, and account for both his personal effects and all incriminating evidence. Wires, blasting caps, instruction manuals: these guys were the real deal.

I returned to the aid station just as my soldiers were preparing to pull the detainee away to our Stryker. At this point, both of the injured Pakistanis were yelling at each other in Pashtu. I asked my interpreter what they were saying. He replied, “they are each cursing their dead partner for getting them into this mess.”

I mounted my Stryker, donned my headset, and fell into my Platoon Leader “zone”: monitoring radios, grids, maps, directions, and maneuvering my vehicles through a packed Afghan Bazaar. As we picked up speed, the stagnant air in the vehicle churned and and the detainee’s awful stench finally rose to my nostrils. I looked down into the vehicle hull. The Talib was lying on a stretcher, his head next to my boots.

I squatted down from my commander’s hatch pretending to check our digital map and grid. Really, I just wanted a closer look at my new passenger. I reached for the detainee’s bio sheet. He was 5’10, about 190lbs; he was 24 years old. My eyes met his. We were the same age. Our skin was the same color; our heritage from the same branch of Aryan descent. Our births were so close together in the vast expanse of the human race. I couldn’t help but wonder how our paths diverged so far apart? How did he become him, and I become me? Tears streamed down the Talib’s cheeks as I looked him in the eye. They weren’t tears of pain. They were from emptiness of the soul, from regret, from hopelessness. They were the same tears I would have cried had I been caught with the wrong crowd, knowing there’d be no loving family to come save me.

As much as I hate my enemy and I hate what he’s done to my friends, when I saw that Talib cry, my heart sank. I realized my being an honorable American Platoon Leader, and him being a poor Talib, had so little to do with who we each were inside. We were both children of the same part of the world from the same generation. But we grew up as products of different environments. I stretched my hand to read the Talib’s name…Mohammed. I scoffed, “How original.”

Mohammed didn’t come to where he is completely of his own fault. He probably grew up in a big family, getting lost in a sea of brothers and sisters dividing his parents’ affection. He undoubtedly struggled with his identity, having no one but an extremist mullah to help him understand his faith. Mohammed may have had a father, but he clearly lacked a role model. Who was there to set the example for how an honest and honorable man contributes to his family and community?

Perhaps his real father died in war; perhaps he didn’t care. With the void of an honorable male figure in a child’s life, it becomes clear why so many young Afghan and Pakistani men find comfort–find family–in the ranks of the Taliban. It’s not just about the money, and it’s not just about Islam: it’s about the male camaraderie they never had.

They are all just lost boys. Mohammed never learned how to be a man. He is still nothing more than a child, trapped in a man’s body, fighting some stranger’s battles.

But from my side of the Hindu Kush, I never knew a day when my father wasn’t immediately accessible to me when I needed him, or wanted him. Dad and I aren’t all that much alike. He’s a math and science genius; I pained through academia. Dad is a modest and quiet man who leads from the middle; I am a gregarious people-person who leads from the front. Dad grew up knowing nothing but devotion to his family; I grew up in a life of privilege, free from the burdens of supporting my parents or siblings. But for all that distinguishes me from Dad, the most important traits which define me as a man I learned from watching him over the past 24 years.

My Dad’s sense of Duty is nothing short of heroic. His duty as a husband committed him to supporting my mother through numerous advanced degrees and ambitious career moves. His duty as a father brought him to the furthest reaches of Virginia’s backwoods at midnight after my car accident in high school. It brought him to tears when I left for Afghanistan and when I came home on leave. Quite frankly, the only thing my Dad hasn’t offered me are whatever genes that maintain his full head of hair in his middle age, while I’ve started balding at 24.

Dad fulfills his duty to God donating precious amounts of time and wealth to our temple. He fulfills his duty to his community forgiving debts for friendship paid in kind. He even fulfills a duty to music using his programming skills to spread the joy of Indian Carnatic concerts across the world. And though I beg him relentlessly to generate revenue from his music ventures, he refuses to profit from the art form he respects and worships so deeply.

Looking forward to my post-Army career, I’m continually drawn to industries that enslave their associates to corporate greed in return for fat paychecks. But dad reminds me that one’s life must be about far more than money. It’s about fulfillment and happiness. He advises, “You need to be able to rest your head at night and sleep peacefully, knowing you have not profited by hurting another man.”

Fatherhood is something I think most men take for granted. Society tells us to be headstrong, unemotional leaders. But the best fathers, like my own, have security in their paternal instincts and indulge in the emotional pull of their children. Dad may not always say it, but he shows it: he loves me more than anything in the world, and it really does keep me in line. It makes me want to be a better man: for him, for our family, for our community. There was no way for any such juvenile gang to lure me into a world of violence and dishonor. I could never be a Talib.

In Arabic, the word “Taliban” literally translates as “students”. But it is further derived from the Arabic root “Ta-La-Ba” meaning “to search”. This interpretation is far more descriptive of what these adolescent warriors are. They truly are Lost Boys in search of a purpose for their static lives. They are lost on their life paths, and not necessarily of their own fault. Even as the recipient of the lethal fire induced by such disillusion, I can accept that, had I not a strong father to show me the way…I could have been a lot like Mohammed. Any of us could.

We are all products of our environment, and on this Father’s Day, I ask you to thank your Dad, not only for being strong and caring, but for the contribution he makes to our country by giving direction to those of us who would otherwise be “Lost Boys”. Dad, thank you for making me a man. It’s a gift only you could have given me, and I’ll carry it forever. My soldiers who depend on me today, and the family I’ll raise tomorrow, both owe you so much. I love you, Dad!

Memorial

My Platoon Sergeant and I saunter behind the massive formation of Attack Company soldiers heading towards the Chapel on FOB Ramrod. Heads hang low under a somber overtone. There are no drums to synchronize our steps; we march only to the beats of our heavy hearts. The chapel is a hideous building with tawdry colors and chipped paint. A large gravel patch forms a courtyard outside the chapel’s entrance. Around its edges are twelve Strykers, stylistically postured to add a military touch to the scene and create a closed setting in the Kandahar desert.

Attack Company forms to the front of the memorial display in front of the chapel. We walk to the cold wrap of a classical guitar adagio. The ceremonial display itself is nothing spectacular. Crossed staffs bearing an American Flag and the 2-1 Infantry Regimental colors form the backdrop for the small shrine. An M4 rifle stands upright, its bayonet lodged into a felt covered wooden desk in front of the flags; the pistol grip facing the audience. The fallen soldier’s Kevlar helmet rests delicately on the weapon’s butt stock, shielding it as it once did his silhouette. Two dog tags dangle from the rifle’s pistol grip, their clamor silent in the sharp desert wind. Below, centered on the rifle’s barrel and arrayed at the position of attention, are the soldier’s desert tan boots; tied, laces tucked inside, ready to move out.

Leaning against the laces is a framed portrait of the fallen: SSG (Last). His girth takes up most of the frame, but can filch no attention from his gregarious smile. A Purple Heart medallion shines prominently in front of the picture, presented in its original black silk-laden box.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the ceremony will begin in two minutes,” marks the Chaplain in his hospitable southern twang. The imposing Battalion and Brigade leadership files out of the chapel, programs and bios of the fallen in hand.

“Company! Atten-SHUN!” calls out the Attack Company First Sergeant, bringing the gaggle to order. With seven deployments and two decades in the Army, I cringe contemplating how many memorials our First Sergeant has stood for in his lifetime. Such is the calling to serve, I suppose. “Parade REST!” The soldiers slide their hands to the smalls of their backs underneath their slung weapons.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for the invocation,” the Chaplain begins, “Father, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of one of your finest servants: Staff Sergeant (First) (MI) (Last)…” My mind drifts off into the clear blue sky. Under the cover of dark shade eye protection, my eyes look for answers; for solace. I still hear the radio traffic in my head…it replays in my conscience like a broken record, “Contact! Contact! IED!…The lower half of his body! It’s blown off!” It never stops. It just won’t stop. My quaking cheek muscles wring a tear from my eyes.

The speeches at a memorial ceremony become more intimate as they progress. The Battalion Commander takes the podium first. He speaks of SSG (Last)’s career and dedication to the mission. He encourages his men to honor his sacrifice by continuing on in pride. His words are kind and sincere.

The Company Commander follows with SSG (Last)’s bio: where he was born, where he went to school, what position he played on the local recreational football team. His voice cracks as he begins the last sentence. “SSG (Last) is survived by his wife of seven years, and his three sons.” The commander reads the names of each of (Last)’s boys. I don’t know them, but in some distant form, I see their faces.

Their father, not even 30 years old, died on Christmas Day. I see those boys, first smiling and laughing in anticipation of their gifts; and then I see them in horror and frantic tears upon hearing the words… “We regret to inform you…” I wonder how these children will ever open another Christmas gift again. How many nights will they bargain with God, praying at the foot of their beds: “I’ll give back every single Gift I’ll ever get for the rest of my life… for just one more day with my Dad…”

As the commander stands down, SSG (Last)’s Platoon Sergeant and dear friend rises for his remarks. We know his heartfelt eulogy is sure to be filled with humor, a refreshing change of pace from the sadness that overwhelms the audience. “SSG (Last) and I had some great times. There was never anything but a smile on his face. I loved watching the CO put a piece of cake to his mouth, just to have SSG (Last) slap the food right out of his hand, and in a dead straight glare, scold him with ‘A Co, Sir!’” The vibrations of crying turn to laughter for a brief ephemeral moment.

SSG (Last)’s Platoon Leader approaches the lectern next. He is my friend and colleague. We both took charge of our platoons on the same day in February, well over a year ago. I laugh as I think how polar opposites we are. I am a chubby Indian immigrant, a West Pointer, and a fair weather Red Sox fan from Boston…he is a brawny true-blooded American fighter, a Citadel graduate, and die-hard Yankees fan from Connecticut. I suppose there was naturally some friction between us when we first began to work together. But over the course of the past year, the dire experiences we endure as teammates seem to wash away the petty differences that usually segregate people back home. I watch him turn his first page with a heavy sigh; I’m glad he is a stronger man than I am.

The PL reads from Psalm 23: “As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil…” Even as a Hindu, I close my eyes, deep in prayer. I gain an awareness of my body, the biology of loss. I swallow the prayer into my heart, trying to placate the sadness lodged in my throat; the fear driving my pulse.

As the PL takes his seat, a bagpipe quintet begins its rendition of Amazing Grace. Verse One is soothing and gentle with a soloist floating the melody, Amazing Grace how sweet the sound. The nasal reverberance of the pipes stuns my eardrums. It brings my conscience back to the ceremony; back to the realization…he’s gone.

Verse two brings with it an accompanying orchestra of woodwind and string. The chorus carries three octaves of steady harmony, no vibrato. The music clinches our eyes shut, like a masseuse kneading the painful knots in our hearts.

Verse three intensifies with the brutal percussion of a snare and bass drum. Each pound of the bass is a strike on our alpha-male exteriors. The snare scratches through its cracks, leaking our child-like innocence, our humanity, through the gilded casings of our warrior ethos. We’re so young, so god damn young…just twenty year-olds, exchanging the violence of the world. Goosebumps flood my skin, and I grow cold. Frigid.

First Sergeant conducts an about face to address the Company. “Company! Atten-SHUN!” The 160 soldiers and officers of Attack Company snap their heels together. He begins the roll call:

“SGT Anderson!”

“Here, First Sergeant!”

“SGT Smith!”

“Here, First Sergeant!”

“SGT Wilson!”

“Here First Sergeant!”

“Staff Sergeant (Last)!” Silence. It weighs on our chests as the name of the fallen soldier leaves the First Sergeant’s tongue. Only a fearful acceptance of mortality fills the void left by his presence.

“…Staff Sergeant (First) (Last)!” First Sergeant’s voice grows louder with each call. How many friends, how many mentors, how many men under his charge he must have lost? He yells with a release, not of fury, but of agony.

“Staff Sergeant (FIRST) (MIDDLE) (LAST)!!” The final syllable echoes through the formation. His voice follows (Last)’s soul into the heavens, carrying with it the First Sergeant’s composure. Running noses, pulsating chests. An infectious sadness permeates through even the most distant onlooker’s body.

The colorguard breaks the silence with gentle, but firm commands. “Ready, Aim, FIRE!” The commander leads his element in three volley fires. Each blank round pierces our spiritual identities. It cuts open the eyes, bleeding only salty tears. Soldiers’ wrists streak their eyes with the cuffs of their uniforms. Why? Why does it have to be this way? How could something so bad happen to someone so good?

In the distance, a bugler puts brass to lip. The rhythm-less tune of taps emanates from the horn, surging the ambiance with rushed closure. The music soothes our ears, purging shivers and quivering diaphragms. Our hands continue to switch between wiping sweat from our foreheads to wiping the snot from our noses and the tears from our eyes.

The Chaplain retakes the podium for the Benediction. We bow our heads in prayer. I tune out the recitation. It doesn’t help me understand anything. It doesn’t make me feel a part of anything. We’re all just people, a bunch of kids in the Kandahar desert. I suddenly feel terribly alone. “This concludes today’s memorial. Please feel free to approach the display to pay you final respects. Thank you for attending.”

The classical guitar music eases back into the scene. Four by four, soldiers march to the display and submit their tender salutes. Upon ordering arms, soldiers take knees in front of the photo. Some pray. Some talk to their friend, their brother. Some just stare, wondering if he’s really gone. (Last) was a company icon. In his tribute, (Last)’s closest friends and colleagues rip off the Velcro name tapes from their soft caps and place them by his picture. About forty name tapes already surrounded the platform as I take my knee. I focus on his photo; he was smiling. My spirituality beckons me. I don’t want to believe in God right then, but I need to. I pray for his soul. I pray he is at peace.

We walk away from the display, giving handshakes and bro-hugs to (Last)’s leadership and teammates, recognizing their loss…trying to smile because, well, we have no choice. We linger to the side of the chapel, slowly waiting to rip off the bandage. For Attack Company, we reflect on that day; the images, the sounds, the quiet, the fear. Why did it have to be this way? And in the varying combinations of anger and guilt, one can’t help but to consider…It could have been me; it would have been me; perhaps…it should have been me…

God works in mysterious ways, and as the sun sets over FOB Ramrod, we turn to our vehicles, call up REDCON1, and continue our tour. Things go back to normal after that. It’s done. We look the same, act the same, work the same. But in the back of everyone’s mind, deep in our hearts, we never forget (Last)’s essence. We never forget our friend.

The hardest part about writing this entry was not recalling the sights and emotions of a friend’s passing. It was deciding what name to use; what to call him. I contemplated using a fake name, maybe even his real name. But perhaps this piece will mean more to my reader if you re-read the roll-call inserting the (First) (Middle) and (Last) name of a loved one you know serving overseas. Whatever genuine surges of emotion you experience, I ask you to offer your empathy to the soldiers, wives, children, and parents who pay the bill for our freedom each day. Memorial Day comes but once a year, but for the sake of those who will go anywhere and do anything for our livelihood, I pray that sentiment stays with us forever.

My view from the inside of a C-17 Aircraft at Kandahar Airfield. I was the Company representative escorting a dear friend and soldier onto the aircraft bound for Dover AFB.

My Platoon Sergeant and I saunter behind the massive formation of Attack Company soldiers heading towards the Chapel on FOB Ramrod. Heads hang low under a somber overtone. There are no drums to synchronize our steps; we march only to the beats of our heavy hearts. The chapel is a hideous building with tawdry colors and chipped paint. A large gravel patch forms a courtyard outside the chapel’s entrance. Around its edges are twelve Strykers, stylistically postured to add a military touch to the scene and create a closed setting in the Kandahar desert.

Attack Company forms to the front of the memorial display in front of the chapel. We walk to the cold wrap of a classical guitar adagio. The ceremonial display itself is nothing spectacular. Crossed staffs bearing an American Flag and the 2-1 Infantry Regimental colors form the backdrop for the small shrine. An M4 rifle stands upright, its bayonet lodged into a felt covered wooden desk in front of the flags; the pistol grip facing the audience. The fallen soldier’s Kevlar helmet rests delicately on the weapon’s butt stock, shielding it as it once did the his silhouette. Two dog tags dangle from the rifle’s pistol grip, their clamor silent in the sharp desert wind. Below, centered on the rifle’s barrel and arrayed at the position of attention, are the soldier’s desert tan boots; tied, laces tucked inside, ready to move out.

Leaning against the laces is a framed portrait of the fallen: SSG (Last). His girth takes up most of the frame, but can filch no attention from his gregarious smile. A Purple Heart medallion shines prominently in front of the picture, presented in its original black silk-laden box.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the ceremony will begin in two minutes,” marks the Chaplain in his hospitable southern twang. The imposing Battalion and Brigade leadership files out of the chapel, programs and bios of the fallen in hand.

“Company! Atten-SHUN!” calls out the Attack Company First Sergeant, bringing the gaggle to order. With seven deployments and two decades in the Army, I cringe contemplating how many memorials our First Sergeant has stood for in his lifetime. Such is the calling to serve, I suppose. “Parade REST!” The soldiers slide their hands to the smalls of their backs underneath their slung weapons.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand for the invocation,” the Chaplain begins, “Father, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of one of your finest servants: Staff Sergeant (First) (MI) (Last)…” My mind drifts off into the clear blue sky. Under the cover of dark shade eye protection, my eyes look for answers; for solace. I still hear the radio traffic in my head…it replays in my conscience like a broken record, “Contact! Contact! IED!…The lower half of his body! It’s blown off!” It never stops. It just won’t stop. My quaking cheek muscles wring a tear from my eyes.

The speeches at a memorial ceremony become more intimate as they progress. The Battalion Commander takes the podium first. He speaks of SSG (Last)’s career and dedication to the mission. He encourages his men to honor his sacrifice by continuing on in pride. His words are kind and sincere.

The Company Commander follows with SSG (Last)’s bio: where he was born, where he went to school, what position he played on the local recreational football team. His voice cracks as he begins the last sentence. “SSG (Last) is survived by his wife of seven years, and his three sons.” The commander reads the names of each of (Last)’s boys. I don’t know them, but in some distant form, I see their faces.

Their father, not even 30 years old, died on Christmas Day. I see those boys, first smiling and laughing in anticipation of their gifts; and then I see them in horror and frantic tears upon hearing the words… “We regret to inform you…” I wonder how these children will ever open another Christmas gift again. How many nights will they bargain with God, praying at the foot of their beds: “I’ll give back every single Gift I’ll ever get for the rest of my life… for just one more day with my Dad…”

As the commander stands down, SSG (Last)’s Platoon Sergeant and dear friend rises for his remarks. We know his heartfelt eulogy is sure to be filled with humor, a refreshing change of pace from the sadness that overwhelms the audience. “SSG (Last) and I had some great times. There was never anything but a smile on his face. I loved watching the CO put a piece of cake to his mouth, just to have SSG (Last) slap the food right out of his hand, and in a dead straight glare, scold him with ‘A Co, Sir!’” The vibrations of crying turn to laughter for a brief ephemeral moment.

SSG (Last)’s Platoon Leader approaches the lectern next. He is my friend and colleague. We both took charge of our platoons on the same day in February, well over a year ago. I laugh as I think how polar opposites we are. I am a chubby Indian immigrant, a West Pointer, and a fair weather Red Sox fan from Boston…he is a brawny true-blooded American fighter, a Citadel graduate, and die-hard Yankees fan from Connecticut. I suppose there was naturally some friction between us when we first began to work together. But over the course of the past year, the dire experiences we endure as teammates seem to wash away the petty differences that usually segregate people back home. I watch him turn his first page with a heavy sigh; I’m glad he is a stronger man than I am.

The PL reads from Psalm 32: “As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil…” Even as a Hindu, I close my eyes, deep in prayer. I gain an awareness of my body, the biology of loss. I swallow the prayer into my heart, trying to placate the sadness lodged in my throat; the fear driving my pulse.

As the PL takes his seat, a bagpipe quintet begins its rendition of Amazing Grace. Verse One is soothing and gentle with a soloist floating the melody, Amazing Grace how sweet the sound. The nasal reverberance of the pipes stuns my eardrums. It brings my conscience back to the ceremony; back to the realization…he’s gone.

Verse two brings with it an accompanying orchestra of woodwind and string. The chorus carries three octaves of steady harmony, no vibrato. The music clinches our eyes shut, like a masseuse kneading the painful knots in our hearts.

Verse three intensifies with the brutal percussion of a snare and bass drum. Each pound of the bass is a strike on our alpha-male exteriors. The snare scratches through its cracks, leaking our child-like innocence, our humanity, through the gilded casings of our warrior ethos. We’re so young, so god damn young…just twenty year-olds, exchanging the violence of the world. Goosebumps flood my skin, and I grow cold. Frigid.

First Sergeant conducts an about face to address the Company. “Company! Atten-SHUN!” The 160 soldiers and officers of Attack Company snap their heels together. He begins the roll call:

“SGT Anderson!”

“Here, First Sergeant!”

“SGT Smith!”

“Here, First Sergeant!”

“SGT Wilson!”

“Here First Sergeant!”

“Staff Sergeant (Last)!” Silence. It weighs on our chests as the name of the fallen soldier leaves the First Sergeant’s tongue. Only a fearful acceptance of mortality fills the void left by his presence.

“…Staff Sergeant (First) (Last)!” First Sergeant’s voice grows louder with each call. How many friends, how many mentors, how many men under his charge he must have seen? He yells, with a release, not of fury, but of agony.

“Staff Sergeant (FIRST) (MIDDLE) (LAST)!!” The final syllable echoes through the formation. His voice follows (Last)’s soul into the heavens, carrying with it the First Sergeant’s composure. Running noses, pulsating chests. An infectious sadness permeates through even the most distant onlooker’s body.

The colorguard breaks the silence with gentle, but firm commands. “Ready, Aim, FIRE!” The commander leads his element in three volley fires. Each blank round pierces our spiritual identities. It cuts open the eyes, bleeding only salty tears. Soldiers’ wrists streak their eyes with the cuffs of their uniform. Why? Why does it have to be this way? How could something so bad happen to someone so good?

In the distance, a bugler put brass to lip. The rhythm-less tune of taps emanates from the horn, surging the ambiance with rushed closure. The music soothes our ears, purging shivers and quivering diaphragms. Our hands continue to switch between wiping sweat from our foreheads to wiping the snot from our noses and the tears from our eyes.

The Chaplain retakes the podium for the Benediction. We bow our heads in prayer. I tune out the recitation. It doesn’t help me understand anything. It doesn’t make me feel a part of anything. We’re all just people, a bunch of kids in the Kandahar desert. I suddenly feel terribly alone. “This concludes today’s memorial. Please feel free to approach the display to pay you final respects. Thank you for attending.”

The classical guitar music eases back into the scene. Four by four, soldiers march to the display and submit their tender salutes. Upon ordering arms, soldiers take knees in front of the photo. Some pray. Some talk to their friend, their brother. Some just stare, wondering if he’s really gone. (Last) was a company icon. In his tribute, (Last)’s closest friends and colleagues rip off the Velcro name tapes from their soft caps and place them by his picture. About forty name tapes already surrounded the platform as I take my knee. I focus on his photo; he was smiling. My spirituality beckons me. I don’t want to believe in God right then, but I needed to. I pray for his soul. I pray he is at peace.

We walk away from the display, giving handshakes and bro-hugs to (Last)’s leadership and teammates, recognizing their loss…trying to smile because, well, we have no choice. We linger to the side of the chapel, slowly waiting to rip off the bandage. For Attack Company, we reflect on that day; the images, the sounds, the quiet, the fear. Why did it have to be this way? And in the varying combinations of anger and guilt, one can’t help but to consider…It could have been me; it would have been me; perhaps…it should have been me…

God works in mysterious ways, and as the sun sets over FOB Ramrod, we turn to our vehicles, call up REDCON1, and continue our tour. Things go back to normal after that. It’s done. We look the same, act the same, work the same. But in the back of everyone’s mind, deep in our hearts, we never forget the (Last)’s essence. We never forget our friend.

The hardest part about writing this entry was not recalling the sights and emotions of a friend’s passing. It was deciding what name to use; what to call him. I contemplated using a fake name, maybe even his real name. But perhaps this piece will mean more to my reader if you re-read the roll-call inserting the (First) (Middle) and (Last) name of a loved one you know serving overseas. Whatever genuine surges of emotion you experience, I ask you to offer your empathy to the soldiers, wives, children, and parents who pay the bill for our freedom each day. Memorial Day comes but once a year, but for the sake of those who will go anywhere and do anything for our livelihood, I pray that sentiment stays with us forever.

The Qualitative Point Average: Rebuttal to Bruce Fleming

Bruce Fleming recently published an OpEd piece in the New York Times which provoked a rather emotional response from me as he referred to the Service Academies as “mediocre”. He cited a football star receiving preferential treatment for drug use at Navy. He complains that we only produce 20% of our respective officer corps, and are obsolete compared to ROTC and OCS programs. He insists that Academy officers are burnt-out leaders, incapable of maximizing tax-payer investment. Now, I’ll be the first to affirm that the Academies do waste  extravagant amounts of time and money for senseless efforts; they need work. But to pin the word mediocre upon these institutions, and thus its graduates who’ve done so much for our country, is absolutely ludicrous.

First, allow me to be the first in Fleming’s supposed vast Academy exposure to argue that YES, an Academy graduate is indeed different than an ROTC or OCS counterpart: not better, but different, and importantly so. I can only speak as a West Pointer, but I believe my perceptions are akin to those from other academies. Every waking moment of my life at West Point was dedicated to serving something greater than myself. Sometimes we serve orders from a higher rank; other times we endure sacrifices to serve the comrades on our left and right. But at all times, we are training and learning to better serve our nation. ROTC programs at civilian universities are simply unable to produce the same intensity in the cadets’ day to day lives.

Most undergraduate students strive for good grades in order to boost their GPAs. Cadets study so they have the answers when lives and equipment are on the line. Most university professors are genius PhDs. West Point Instructors are role models who have already inspired courage in the hearts of 18 year old privates facing battle; they have a vested interest in developing the cadets who will one day serve as their Lieutenants when the instructors take battalion and brigade command. Most college students avoid cheating out of fear of getting caught. Cadets do not cheat out of loyalty to a Code and the realization that honor is a virtue that can save American lives and dollars.

Two of the other Lieutenants in my Company are ROTC graduates, the remaining two are OCS. Do they understand and live up to these principles? Sure they do. I put my lives in their hands each day. But I feel my Academy experiences afforded me greater insight into the strategic reasoning behind the missions we execute. We’re groomed by the higher echelons of the institution to carry out its orders of critical importance. I’m not saying that there aren’t ROTC and OCS Lieutenants who do not embrace such a broad vantage point, but I’d argue it’s a mixed bag. Frankly, in order to truly internalize ethical values, a global perspective, and focus them for a lifetime of service, you need more than 3 ROTC credit hours a semester.

True, Academy graduates only comprise 20% of each service’s newly commissioned officer class. That being said, Academy graduates also make up over 50% of our military’s Flag Officer corps, meaning the Generals and Admirals charged with our nation’s defense; certainly not titles assigned to the mediocre. Is this high Academy concentration at the Flag level due to favoritism and networking? Sure, perhaps in some part. No institution in the world is a complete meritocracy. But I’d argue that it’s largely because of the culture in which Academy graduates are raised as committed leaders with a global exposure, dedicated to a lifetime of service to the country.

Secondly, Mr. Fleming believes that the Academy admissions process unfairly values athletics, rather than an “accomplished cellist or people from religious minorities.” For starters, I was both an accomplished violinist in High School and a Hindu-Vegetarian upon applying to West Point. I feel these factors contributed to my application, not hindered it, and I know plenty of graduates who fit either mold as well. Furthermore, athletics is highly regarded in our profession as a conduit to solid leadership under physical duress; something I believe most officers would argue should outweigh academic prowess in a military academy’s admissions process.

Mr. Fleming further grumbles of lowered academic admissions standards in the interests of affirmative action. As one who has served as a minority at war, I will assert that race and religion are huge issues in today’s military. I will speak from first-hand experience as the only minority platoon leader in my deployed Company: race and religion matter, and the army needs leaders who understand ethnic social tension. I am not ashamed of my Academy for attempting to produce an officer corps that is ethnically representative of the soldiers and NCOs it leads. The Academies do not admit cadets because of ethnicity, but a candidate’s ability to understand ethnicity and the unique role it plays in grueling military social dynamics.

Finally, Fleming does bring up the valid point that Academy graduates aren’t maximizing return in military service of the nation’s half-million dollar investment. Around 50% of West Point graduates leave the Army after their minimum five year commitment, I’m sure the other Academies’ statistics are comparable. I understand why this appears as a drastic waste of tax-payer money, but remember that Academy graduates still make phenomenal contributions to the country out of uniform. At every Academy event I attend, I meet hundreds of lawyers, financiers, entrepreneurs, marketing gurus, academics, writers, engineers, and policy makers. Now, Fleming may be angered by Academy graduates’ civilian pursuits; I am reassured by them.

I am thrilled that there are members of the Long Gray Line, former combat platoon leaders like myself, among the financial elites of our American society. It shows me that, among the cohort of Americans profiting most from my soldiers’ sacrifices, there are several who have been in our shoes. There are those who can speak on our behalf when our nation’s power brokers forget the daily blessings they enjoy as citizens of the United States. I am relieved that there are graduates who reassign the military values of service, honor, and loyalty to the mediocre ethical stylings of both Wall Street and Main Street. Perhaps if the CEOs of Lehman Brothers, AIG, and Bear Sterns had a little “service immersion” in their youth, I’d imagine our country would be a lot stronger than it is today. Whether in a Command Post or a Board Room, good leadership transcends its landscape. I’m proud of the Academy graduates who bring weathered leadership where it is most needed.

It seems Mr. Fleming’s criteria for mediocrity rests heavily on academic metrics. But I assure my audience that there is very little that is academic about combat leadership. It is about heart. It is about fortitude, honor, and courage. Now, you may call a West Point or Naval Academy graduate mediocre…but try visiting any other college in America and collecting a thousand 23 year old kids ready to lead just as many lives into hostile fire. I doubt you’ll be successful. To produce a thousand officers with the grit and spirit of warriors and the intellectual curiosity of scholars, we need a venue of tremendous investment and concentration: this is why you need the service academies.

I wonder if Mr. Fleming would have been ready for such a calling at age 23. Even if not, I surely wouldn’t have the arrogance to call him mediocre.

I find it ironic that Mr. Fleming is about to publish a book entitled “Bridging the Military-Civilian Divide” considering his most recent opinion piece does nothing more than widen it. But I can somehow understand why he would write an article antithetical to the best interests of reconciling civil-military differences so vital to our national security. After all, the bigger wave he makes with such an OpEd piece, the more attention his new book will receive and hopefully the more books he’ll sell. Well, I know I’ll probably buy one now. Congrats, Mr. Fleming…Mission Accomplished.

To the USMA Class of 2010, I’m proud to have served with you. You’re more than ready for the challenges to come. Thank you for your service. We’ll see you on the objective . Live, Serve, and Die We Pray…

Taking a Breather

Friends, Family, and Supporters,

Please forgive me as my posts become more infrequent over the next few weeks. We’re coming down to the line, and my focus is oriented solely on the safe return of my men during a most formidable final stretch. Will keep posting soon .

But as I take a step back and look at where this simple website is today from where it started almost a year ago, I shake my head in disbelief. What started as a means of sharing stories from the front lines has turned into my haven away from the battlefield. Managing this site has been a therapeutic release for me during a stressful tour. I read messages of phenomenal inspiration and support from well-wishers all over the world. Your love and empathy have been one of the strongest forces pushing me forward through a difficult tour. I am humbled at the loyalty so many of you have offered from so far away. It means more than you could ever know. A sincere thanks from Kandahar to all of you for always being there for me and my men. Keep the summer barbecue  grill hot and save a cold one for me…

-rajiv

Momma’s Boy

The village of Dasht is an oasis of peace in the heavily mined deserts of the Zhari District. My platoon dismounted and walked no more than fifteen meters before our formation succumbed to the swarm of hundreds of children running through our ranks. I suppose, on one hand, it’s good that the children feel so safe around American soldiers; in a strategic sense, it would be far worse if they were running away in fear. But in my tactical role as the platoon leader, I grew nervous. We weren’t necessarily in danger, but you must understand that these are a different breed of Afghan kids.

The children of Dasht village are bold and unmerciful. They reach into the pockets of soldiers and will rob them blind. Where other kids are thrilled to receive the pens, paper, and candy we hand them, the children from this particular village give us the token South Asian “head wobble and cringe” which I saw so frequently growing up. It’s the trademark signature of whining. The kids wave away our humble gifts and demand flashlights, cameras, and an array of other expensive electronics.

While some of my older soldiers, particularly the ones with children of their own, are very good at asserting themselves in the face of a child’s iron will, my younger privates don’t always know how to react. After all, they’re just kids. You can’t hurt them, you can’t touch them. How do you get them to behave?

I tried to bring order the scene unsuccessfully. Where the hell are their mothers!? I thuoght to myself. Of course, in this country’s Islamic tradition, women must be kept away from public view at all times; thus making anything outside the household a discipline-free zone. The Fathers stood off to the side, apathetically watching their kids’ rude behavior. I could see from the faces on the older men that they were conniving illustrious stories of American negligence for which they’d demand an unruly compensation. As a group, the fathers looked relaxed, free from the burdens of their children for just a few moments. I guess to them, we’re more of a baby-sitting service than a security force.

As the kids continued to disrupt my patrol, I couldn’t help but smile with an ironic realization. I saw the situation, not as an unplanned chaos, but a deliberate retaliation of divine nature. In each one of those naughty brats, I saw my younger self. I saw the kid I used to be. This was simply God’s humor at work. As frustrating as these kids are, I know it’s just a taste of my own medicine.

To say my terrible twos and threes were my personal growing pains would be like calling the smell of burnt hair an acquired taste. I was a monstrous kid; a walking tornado of demolition. My mouth was usually my weapon of choice. If I wasn’t biting holes through our furniture at home, I was biting holes through the cloth lining on the rear doors of our 1988 Honda Civic. When I got bored with inanimate objects, I went to work on houseguests. I’d sneak up on them, mid-conversation with my parents, crawl under their chairs, and I’d dig a deep one into their calves. The shrieks were hysterical.

When my jaw muscles eventually grew tired, I’d wander through my parents’ bathroom to find some kind of hazardous chemical to wash down a solid day’s work. Sometimes, I’d drink a bottle of my mom’s perfume. On other occasions, I’d just brush my teeth with a tube of Ben Gay. Needless to say, poison control was a speed dial number on our home phone.

But in the end, at age 24, I didn’t turn out so bad; or I don’t think so at least. As I recall moments of decision growing up, moments when instincts say one thing but conscience another, I’d remember the vivid sensation of fear when my mom reared back her hand to beat me for being such an idiot. A little corporal punishment was all I needed to shape up and get on track. I learned to use my mouth as a tool for dialogue, not destruction. A few solid beatings did the trick for me. And you know what, I am sure it could work for Kandahar.

It occurs to me just how weak of a maternal presence there is in Zhari Disrict; in fact, all throughout Afghanistan. In the United States, most people have stories of their mothers catching them misbehaving, scolding or even beating them to drive home the lesson. But at the end, mothers are always there to pick us up, dust us off, give a warm hug, and make us feel loved again. But mothers can’t do that when their domain of authority is limited to the household. My mom beat me in public plenty of times. I got whipped in Kmart linen aisles and library checkout counters. But mom’s involvement in my daily life is what made her so influential. I probably would never have understood the immediate lessons to be learned of my misconducts had she not been there with me.

The future of Afghanistan lies in these children. And if fathers are always in the field working, and mothers are locked away inside, these kids grow up with little to no mentorship, guidance, or discipline. At first, the children grow up simply rude and obnoxious. But through adolescence, a lack of parental influence in their community life weakens their sense of where they come from, their personal family affiliations, and identities. This clearly would make any young generation more vulnerable to insurgent propaganda. And it’s a vicious cycle that’s been going on for decades.

I’m not trying to say that Muslim values yield bad parenting. What I am saying is that the best parents in any culture are the ones who get involved. They’re the ones who intrude into the spaces of a child’s life even when their words say “no” because their hearts are usually begging for help. The best parents are the ones who are able to balance a religious and ethnic identity with the responsibility of contributing a responsible and prudent child to the citizenry.

If your mother did for you what mine did for me, when Mother’s Day approaches this weekend, take the significance of her devotion a step further. Don’t just thank your mom for the soccer game runs, the cooking, the cleaning, and the emotional support. Let’s thank our mothers on behalf of our country; for raising good Americans who emulate the behavioral traits of a mature and peaceful democratic citizenry. No matter how many problems we think we have in our nation, it could always be ten times worse. And better yet, we at least have the human capital as Americans to get ourselves out of any mess we find ourselves in. Anything. That sort of wealth isn’t earned; it’s raised.

Mother’s Day for my mom this year will be anticlimactic. No matter what gifts she receives or how many times I call, I know the only thing she wants is something I have no control over, and that’s the safe return of her son from Afghanistan. But in the mean time, hopefully a showing of humble and sincere appreciation for the love she gave me from my terrible twos and threes through my terrible twenties will suffice for now.

Mom, when you read this, know that I love you and the man I am today is entirely your doing. And sorry for being such a rotten kid  Love you always.

The Bus Stop

I got called into our company operations meeting early one night last week. A terrible incident had occurred. The company commander detailed the serious engagement of an engineer Route Clearance Package (RCP) upon a bus of civilian local nationals. The engineer unit was traveling along highway one during the early morning in reduced visibility. The passenger bus came from the rear at a high rate of speed and the soldiers engaged the vehicle with heavy caliber machine gun fire, killing anywhere from 4-5 civilians and wounding dozens more.

From what I understand, most of my family and friends also heard about the incident, but from a nightly news broadcast or an article such as this one from the NYT. I was actually a little surprised to see that the event created such big headlines. My unit and our area of operations has appeared in the papers several times, but there was something about this that was different. It forced me to consider, not only my reaction in present day, but the manner in which I would have reacted had I read this article years ago as a West Point Plebe…or what about 10 years ago as a high school freshman?

If I were a civilian student reading this article, I would be appalled and embarrassed. I think, ten years ago, I probably would have joined the rest of the media and academic circles in scoffing at the carelessness of soldiers and their disregard for civilian life. The event would have bolstered my perception of the U.S. military as barbaric and unable to conduct a civilized war.

If I were a cadet at West Point, I would have scolded that unit’s senior leaders. I would have accused them of not enforcing an institutional culture of professionalism and restraint in their unit. I would swear that, “when I get over there, I’d be better than them…I’d be different.”

Sitting in my combat outpost in Afghanistan, I read and re-read the media accounts of the event that occurred no more than a few kilometers outside my front door. I closed my eyes and tried to recreate the platoon leader’s sensory inputs during those unyielding seconds of decision. I didn’t have to try too hard to understand what that platoon leader was going through; I’ve been there countless times. And at the end of my meditation…I opened my eyes to a striking realization: I would have done the exact same thing.

I’ve dealt with several reporters out here in Afghanistan. It’s not surprising that the journalists who make their way out to our remote and dangerous outposts are usually a little cockier and more arrogant. After all, their job is to find action and to sell the story of the amazing things they’ve seen. At first, I found that cockiness endearing. I saw it as a means of trying to relate to the atmosphere of the Army’s combat arms units. Ten months into my tour in Kandahar, that arrogance has lost its charm. I view journalistic arrogance on the front lines more as a defense mechanism used to cope with the fact that they are only writing about history, not making it.

To me, the global media outlets who reported negatively on this issue all did so with a mixed combination of arrogance and ignorance. They discuss the issue, not in the context of an officer’s decision making process, but in the most controversial manner possible because, well, at the end of the day…it sells.

Here’s my take on what happened.

First, if there’s one thing that I have found common in all bus and truck drivers in Afghanistan…they’re all high. They’re doped up on hasheesh, marijuana, and other drugs of choice. They speed relentlessly and dangerously. Afghan drivers are not right in the head, and this is coming from an officer who has not only conducted hundreds of vehicle searches in Afghanistan, but has also driven on roads in Chennai, Nairobi, Cairo, Amman, Moshi, and dozens of other third world cities. Afghan commercial drivers are almost always intoxicated.

Secondly, it used to be that a sight of a Stryker could scare a vehicle into driving slowly and carefully out of fear of incurring our military wrath. Unfortunately, after a year of our population-centric Rules of Engagement, the locals seem to have figured out that we can’t shoot back at them just for being unsafe. They’ve figured out that they can drive recklessly around us, and we won’t respond with force to control the situation unless we’re taking lethal contact. We will only wave flags and shine lasers, and maybe honk our horns. But just as children will degrade their already poor behavior when their actions go without consequence, Afghan drivers have been pushing the line of acceptable unsafe driving for quite some time.

Most importantly, the vehicle borne IED threat in Zhari district is incredibly high. We hear about it everyday: they’re out there, and they’re waiting for the most opportune time to attack.

“But it was a bus full of civilians?!” some may argue. But for those of us who actually are the victims of the threat, we can’t be deceived by such assumptions. Why does its matter that it was a bus full of civilians? Are we supposed to assume that the Taliban are incapable of hijacking a bus, loading it with explosives, and running it into an American military convoy? I’m pretty sure if terrorists can hijack commercial planes and fly them into the Twin Towers, an Afghan bus wouldn’t be too much of a challenge for them.

So I ask you, my reader, to replay the scenario again in your head. It’s dark. You’re moving at a relatively slow pace, and a bus is charging at you. Odds are, it’s a civilian vehicle. You signal it to slow down: lights, lasers, and horns. What’s going through your head right now? Are you scared for the lives of the Afghan civilians? Are you scared for your own life? Well, you’re like me and the dozens of other honorable platoon leaders out here, your first thought is of the safety of your men. If I felt even the slightest suspicion that this vehicle was a VBIED, an intoxicated driver, or even a bus with no brakes, I would have firmly ordered my men, “You fire if you feel unsafe.”

Now, in the above scenario, I make a very serious assumption: that the soldiers used lights, lasers, and horns. But even if they hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter at all. The most elementary students of the Laws of Land Warfare all know that a soldier always has the right to defend him or herself. Lights, lasers, or nothing, if those soldiers felt threatened, they had every right to engage.

Those soldiers didn’t know that the bus was actually not a bomb, but would you be willing to take that chance with their lives? How bout with your parents’, children’s, your own life?

Those soldiers didn’t know if that driver was intoxicated or just playing a game of chicken. But would you be willing to risk one of your soldiers getting hit by a bus because a careless Afghan chose to smoke a joint before getting behind the wheel?

Those soldiers didn’t know if that bus was going to stop. But quite frankly, no matter what anyone else says, I’m not here for the Afghan people. I’m here for the American people. I’m an American platoon leader here to protect Americans. It sounds callous, but the risk to just one American life on that morning would have given me enough of a reason to open fire.

Maybe that’s the wrong answer. Maybe us platoon leaders need to assume some more risk with our own soldiers’ lives in order to win this war on terror. After all, If that’s the only way to secure Afghanistan, and securing this country is critical to American national security, I will execute this mission as ordered.

But the minute a soldier feels his life is at risk, his inclination is to turn to the leaders he trusts. If those leaders turn to him and explain that his “life is being risked for Afghan civilians”…well…what would you do?

Personally, I would stop trusting my leaders. I would follow their orders just to the point where I knew I’d be protected. I would lose faith in the mission. I would distrust the Army, and I would only work just hard enough to stay out of trouble. Is that the force you want defending America?

Whether that platoon leader on the ground made the right decision or not is not my call, and it’s a call the Army has yet to make, and I’m confident the outcome will be fair. But what I lack confidence in is the media’s ability to portray the vigorous intellectual debate that goes through a platoon leader’s mind during such life and death matters. I have little confidence in a reporter’s ability to understand what it’s like to own the lives of a platoon of 20 year-old kids. I have very little confidence in a news outlet’s willingness to tell the whole truth if it means selling fewer papers or receiving lower ratings. The purpose of this post is not to change your mind about what happened on the ground that day. The purpose is to reassure my audience that, in spite of what you may hear on the news, the American soldiers on the ground in Kandahar are good people. They may make some mistakes sometimes, but we all want what’s best for the country we love and our brothers in arms. We recognize that we are strategic-level actors; it’s time for the nation to start trusting us to make our own strategic-level decisions.

Bachibas

Despite our differing national interests, there are several things that remain consistent among all young soldiers around the world. Whether in the American, Afghan, Iraqi, British, Iranian, Japanese, or French Army, at the end of the day, we’re all just a bunch of hormonal twenty year-olds running around the world tasked with doing our respective nation’s dirty work. Beyond our calling as soldiers, we are all human; we cope with our dangerous lifestyles in similar manners. Soldiers around the world will always overindulge in beer and liquor. They will each have terabytes of pornography tucked away for lonely nights in warzones. And whenever a soldier enters a new country, after learning the traditional greetings, the first foreign phases they memorize are usually curse words and insults. Ah, it’s great to surround myself with perpetual youth.

I suppose it’s no surprise then that the first Pashtu words that my men all learned were “kuni” and “bachibas”, both derogatory Pashtu words for “gay”. At first, it sounds incredibly unprofessional and almost heartbreaking to know that the men charged with winning these hearts and minds are playing around foolishly with such inappropriate words in a Muslim country. But Afghan boys are no different than American boys. Comical references to homosexuality have almost become a source of bonding for my men and their ANA counterparts. In the dull moments in between taskings, soldiers will just randomly point to each other and yell “Bachibas! Kuni!” and continue with a series of inappropriate hip thrusts as the ANA all laugh hysterically.

But recently, homosexuality in the ANA ranks has become quite a topic of discussion for the soldiers of Attack Company. It started when an Afghan SGT started gawking repeatedly at one of the “prettier” soldiers in first platoon. His advances soon turned physical and creepy, provoking a near confrontation. A few weeks later, two male ANA soldiers were caught making out at the platoon house several kilometers southwest of our COP. Weird right? And yes, even I was recently solicited by a clearly gay ANA soldier when I visited the ANA eastern outpost last week. It was actually one of the most bizarre things I had ever experienced. The soldier knew I spoke Urdu. Word has apparently gotten around the ANA battalion of my Indian decent, so he automatically started flirting with me in a foreign tongue. He desperately tried to appear feminine and attractive in his BDU blouse and flip-flops, though failing miserably. Unfortunately for him, sporadic facial hair and body odor aren’t really my thing…nor are men for that matter.

I’m secure in my heterosexuality, so I wasn’t as offended by the ANA soldier’s proposition as I am sure other soldiers would have been. But it forced me to consider a lot of factors regarding homosexuality in the Armed Forces and how much of a hindrance such lifestyles can have in armies around the world.

First, I thought of the nature of homosexuality in both the United States and Afghanistan. In the U.S., most people hold the opinion that homosexuality is one of two things: a genetic trait or a deliberate lifestyle choice a person makes. But in Afghanistan, there seems to be a third option; that homosexuality is a temporary fix for coping with strict Islamic social standards. Most Muslim cultures are extremely sexually repressive; but that does not stop its teenage males’ hormones from flaring. In fact, I believe it incites them. I knew dozens of women in Cairo who were repeatedly groped and grabbed on the streets of Midan Tahrir, even when wearing a Hijab. I saw the same in Tunisia and the three Gulf countries I’ve visited. But in a place like Zhari where an ANA soldier can’t really go anywhere, not even a street corner, to consistently interact with women…sometimes a temporary fix is the best thing.

Secondly, I considered the ramifications that homosexuality could have on the ANA. They must deal with rampant sexual harassment and sexual assault. I’d even wonder if most ANA soldiers knew the difference between the two. ANA Soldiers must surely become distrustful of each other if it appears that a peer is getting special treatment because he performs certain “favors” for his superiors. These are all issues that the U.S. Army had to consider before allowing women into the force. But the difference is that the American military not only had the ability to investigate and prosecute those engaging in improper conduct, but we have a professional ethos and standard of integrity which keeps such issues from arising in the first place. I by no means am implying our system is perfect. Sexual harassment and assault cases continue to occur in our ranks…but the trend could be far worse than it is.

Lastly, I wondered where we’d start if we ever needed to solve a problem regarding homosexual abuse in the Afghan Army. Could the ANA call homosexual conduct unbecoming of an officer or soldier, and thus grounds for legal action? How would they enforce such rules in a corrupt system? How would they ensure due process in crimes where a crime scene is so easily tainted by war? There are just so many scenarios that could fall through the cracks of legal filters, it begs the question whether such an effort to produce a platonic and healthy professional environment for the ANA is even worth it.

Whether in the United States, Germany, Korea, or at the Airfield in Kandahar, soldiers constantly get bombarded with public-service announcements of Generals and Sergeants-Major talking about sexual harassment in the work place, “Take care of your fellow soldiers, sailors, and airmen…this behavior is unacceptable… Sexual harassment is a crime and you can be prosecuted….Hooah…”

I find it ironic that the same military leaders who keep appearing in these commercials are often those who are charged with building the ANA into a professional organization, and yet they do not seem aware of the widespread sexual harassment problems the institution faces. Of course, it’s natural for us to concern ourselves more with training the Afghan soldiers and fighting corruption in the officer ranks. These seem like more important issues that need to be tackled first. But we must remember… soldiers around the world are all alike, and the unhealthy exploitation of vulnerable bodies in remote and confined spaces is bound to occur. No matter how much training we give the ANA, no matter how much corruption we root out, if the ANA soldiers feel vulnerable or insecure around their leadership, all of our investment in this military will go to waste.

I definitely see sexual abuse becoming a problem for the ANA down the road, far after we’ve left this country. We can train and inspire individual soldiers for the rest of our time in Afghanistan, but unless we commit to developing a professional culture in this organization, I fear that our blood and treasure will yield little benefit for our national security. I’m fascinated to see if and when this issue arises in any form of public discourse on our ability to build an Army ready to secure Afghanistan.