A Farewell to Arms
Personal reflections on a career of service
Last week, after nearly 24 years wearing it, I doffed my uniform for the final time.
I have tried to spend some time over that week reflecting on my service.
My career and service have been wholly unexceptional compared to the incredible heroism and leadership of such men and women as Sergeant First Class Alwyn Cashe, Corporal Kyle Carpenter, Staff Sergeant Jared Monti, Master Sergeant John Chapman, Sergeant Sal Giunta, and many others—both those recognized for heroism and valor and those that are not. As such, I have no right to ask that you spend time listening to or reading my words. Yet, writing some memories of my service may be good to me, and if you’re so inclined as to indulge me by reading them, perhaps you’ll find something interesting or humorous—even if it’s at my expense. So, with that, I’m going to deviate from the normal Military Monday post to capture a handful of my reflections.
Getting an Early Start
Growing up, it seemed I was destined for a career in the military. I was drawn by the flash of brass on the parade fields, as I watched my father’s units march. My brother, our friends, and I tromped through the woods of Pennsylvania, preparing to defend against a Russian invasion that we felt certain could come, at any time. Fortunately, such an onslaught never materialized, and my efforts to organize our own version of the Wolverines proved unnecessary.
By the time I matriculated, I had grown impassioned by the values of the classical liberal order and democracy. As such, I had no hesitation or reservation in taking my first oath of office. My time at the United States Military Academy built on my commitment and passion for those values. I was lucky to have incredible roommates and friends at the academy; men like Mike Patzkowski, Cole Pinheiro, Brian Silva, and Brian Mitchell—all of whom are still serving and all of whom demonstrate the characteristics, attributes, abilities, and attitudes necessary of our most senior leaders. With these men, and the other men and women with whom I was privileged to attend the academy, we experienced the terrible terrorist attacks of September 11th.
It was Paul Schmidt—one of the most moral and ethical leaders I’ve ever encountered—that broke the news to me and my classmates in Russian class that morning. He was direct and succinct in relating that planes had flown into the towers, and then moved directly into the lesson.
While I’ll never forget that day, September 12th stands even starker in my mind. I walked out of my barracks to a beautiful, warm morning with nearly clear blue skies. To the south, over the Hudson River, a column of smoke rose from the World Trade Center. The world changed with that event. America had changed. For a moment there was unparalleled clarity and unity. Sadly, that clarity and unity has faded further into obscurity than it was even on September 10th. But, for a fleeting and ephemeral time, our country joined together in a beautiful and powerful reminder of all that makes America great.
Following the graduation, our commissioning, and the obligatory training that all newly minted officers undergo, I arrived to the 27th Engineer Battalion—a combat, airborne unit with a history of supporting special operations. I had never been thrilled to throw myself from a perfectly good airplane and hurtle towards the earth at a speed of 116 feet per second, before a parachute would hopefully open only several hundred feet above the ground. Of course, as Rick Rossovich’s character, James Leary, says in the overly cheesy 1990 movie Navy SEALs, “you don’t gotta love it, you just gotta do it.” I eventually grew more comfortable with airborne operations, even more so after becoming a jumpmaster.
Shortly after my arrival, I received an introduction to war, with a deployment to Baghdad. In a sense, I was lucky as this deployment eased me into war, allowed me to work out any jitters and kinks in my combat leadership, and provided me some instant credibility with my future soldiers–all while still being quite a bit safer than later deployments.
Afghanistan, Firefights, and Monkeys
Back in the United States, I switched from B company to A company, took over the Light Equipment platoon, and began training for deployment to Afghanistan, while still managing soldiers in Afghanistan providing a Light Airfield Repair Package for a special operations task force. Notably, during this period, I went through Prop Blast. To my knowledge, I remain the only officer to ever go through Prop Blast with a farm animal, having taken my year-old goat, Millie, with me. Prop blast is a ritualistic initiation ceremony for officers in airborne units and involves testing of physical conditioning, tactical competence, and expertise of airborne knowledge. Should you ever care to verify, my Prop Blast number was 04 and Millie’s is 04A for that class in 2005/6. Someone can always look it up in the 27th’s book of jumpers admitted to the sacred and time-honored circle of prop-blasted jumpers. Yes. There was dancing with a goat involved and yes, I learned to give jump commands in ‘goat.’
It was this next deployment that would prove the most formative and forge me. I arrived in Afghanistan for my first tour of what would total nearly 40 months in the country. Shortly after I arrived at Asadabad, then First Sergeant Jon Stanley returned from a patrol in the Pech River Valley and described it as being akin to Vietnam. I figured he was overstating the situation. Nevertheless, for me Asadabad represented (and represents to this day) a gateway into war, a gateway into the most beautiful and rugged and mystical place I’ve ever walked. Helicopters flew and howitzers fired throughout the night, carrying soldiers of 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain division into the mountains of the Korengal and Shuryak Valley for Operation Mountain Lion.
As the largest snowfall in recent history began to melt, the level of the Pech River rose rapidly. A hasty decision was made for my platoon of engineers to push into the Korengal valley to establish an outpost (the KOP) for 1st Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment and later for 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment. We forded the river and drove up the switchbacks to gain more than 4,000 feet in elevation to a lumber yard. Our platoon had increased in strength by one—a monkey that then Corporal Michael Meck had bought for $20, tied to the outside of a SEE truck. The monkey, eponymously now as Monkey, was a source of considerable entertainment, subsisting on a diet of Gatorade, peanuts, chocolate brownies, and marijuana buds that he’d forage for along the banks of the Pech. Monkey would jump on a tarp strung over some logs like a trampoline and jump from one soldier’s head to another’s. He seemed particularly fond of then Specialist Corey Holder. Eventually, then Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Cavoli would direct the disposition of the monkey. Monkey wound up rehomed with an Afghan truck driver.
It was also in this valley, that Sebastian Junger would later immortalize in his Vanity Fair piece, book, and movie, that I also first met the larger than life Captain (later Major) Doug Sloan. Doug had led his company on a 15 mile foot movement from one side of the valley to the other. Later my soldiers were making MRE bombs, and the toxic fumes were wafting towards Doug’s company. He charged over and accused us of burning batteries. Doug was the sort of fellow that was excused from attending a large shura involving General John Abizaid the CENTCOM commander, and his retinue.
That summer we survived dozens of firefights, built one of the largest Bailey Bridges since the Korean War, blasted kilometers of road out of the side of the Hindu Kush mountains, spent hours wading and swimming in the Waygal and Pech Rivers, and even flooded massive D-7 dozers in the Pech.
My platoon, filled with incredible soldiers like Tim Thompson, Tom Keane, Shawn Mills, Dan Jacques, Dan Lawrence, Mike Meck, Vincent Buckley, John Baer, Robert Plumlee, John Smith, Scott Kuzima, Corey Holder, and others was the best damn group of army engineers assembled in many years.
I have often considered myself lucky during that deployment. Somehow, in the midst of some of the worst fighting in Afghanistan and while engaging in more than 60 direct fire engagements with enemy forces, my platoon escaped relatively unscathed. The most severe casualty was me, when I ripped my finger off, jumping from a Deployable Universal Combat Earthmover (DEUCE). We had been building a 230-foot long Bailey bridge across the Pech river, and A Company, 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment was having a rough week in the Korengal Valley. One of their platoons had lost one-third of their soldiers in a single week. On this August afternoon, that platoon was caught in a complex ambush, initiated by a roadside bomb. During the fight that ensued, that platoon exhausted all their ammunition, water, and energy. They were broken and needing help, and so my platoon was going to provide a quick reaction force and help them. Unfortunately, when I jumped off the DEUCE, I snagged my ring on a small bolt that I had observed earlier in the week with concern. As a result, the Medical Evacuation helicopters had to divert and pick me up before continuing into the Korengal to get far more serious casualties. I was lucky that the Field Surgical Team surgeon was a renowned hand surgeon, although I didn’t know it at the time.
I spent a month convalescing in Asadabad, reading whatever I could get my hands on—mostly mountain climbing stories, and training physically. I was able to do a pull-up within 72 hours of losing my finger, and felt smug for many days. One day, I was even allowed out of Asadabad to visit my platoon, still building a bridge across the Pech. When I arrived, Christopher Cavoli waved at me with his ring finger tucked down into his hand. Rather flippantly, I returned his greeting but showing only one finger saying “this one still works.” If he were a Russian, I would quote Maverick and say that I was “communicating. Keeping up foreign relations. I was, uh, you know giving him ‘the bird.’” Now, I have to disclaim that I have incredible respect for Gen Cavoli. He has had a massive impact on my career and development as an officer. What I thought would demonstrate my wit and humor fell flat with a senior officer heavily burdened with war fighting, the loss of friends and numerous soldiers, and incredibly difficult tasks throughout the rugged mountains of northeast Afghanistan. I’ll paraphrase his response, “don’t ever do that again.”
The next month, my mid-tour R&R was canceled so that I could lead the construction of two more bridges, this time in the now infamous village of Wanat. I was furious. One of my good friends at the Academy, John Ryan Dennison, had been killed in Iraq. I had mangled my hand. My vacation was canceled so I could go back up deep into the mountains. And then my SIPR computer was moving too slowly. In a moment of weakness, I lost my temper and punched the computer, breaking the screen.
In Wanat, I was lucky to host the soldiers of B Company, 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Regiment, including Doug Sloan–now promoted to Major–following a long 30km foot movement through the Nuristani mountains. We cooked steaks and hot dogs and Doug spent the night farting, burping, and telling bawdy stories. The next morning, on Halloween, Doug set off north up the valley to finally finish blasting open the road that I should have had finished by this point. Unfortunately, Doug’s truck hit an improvised explosive device and the Army lost several great soldiers that day.
Years later, I was asked to return to Wanat to provide some basic information about the bridges. Unbeknownst to the requester, I had built the bridges and was able to answer the questions without traveling up a known IED hotbed.
Shortly after that Halloween, I was rotated to a different platoon down in Paktyka province, where I took over route clearance operations. I was angry to go, but was fortunate to work with another fantastic platoon filled with great soldiers.
Back to Afghanistan, Inflation, and Rivers
My second deployment to Afghanistan was as a battalion logistics officer and company commander. During this deployment, a company of equipment operators trained for a mission of rapidly repairing airfield runways was reorganized to search for roadside bombs. And damn we were good. We achieved the highest ever measures of success and effectiveness for route clearance in Afghanistan, clearing roads across eastern and northern Afghanistan.
Following several extended missions that saw us relocate around the country, we finally found our way back to the Nuristan, Nangalam, Kunar, and Laghman (N2KL) province region. This is the same area that I spent my first tour in Afghanistan. Interestingly, I observed the effects of runaway inflation. If you’ll recall, Mike Meck had purchased a monkey in 2006. That monkey cost $20 and came with a large bag of peanuts. Four years later, a comparable monkey cost nearly $400 and came with no additional incentives. That’s an annual inflation rate of 111%! I probably should have invested in a monkey farm in 2006.
One day in September 2010, I was riding along with one of my platoons clearing the road along the Pech River. There was one particular stretch of the road where the river came right up to the retaining wall that kept the road in place. The river was maybe 20 feet below the road. The militants in this area had adopted the practice of running a command wire across the river, and digging into the wall to plant bombs under the road. So, I decided that we would clear the far side of the river to prevent the enemy from doing this. I took a known strong swimmer, Nicholson, and he and I were going to swim across the river while a squad provided overwatch. Then once we were across we would clear the far side.
I started swimming across the river first and got about half way across when gunfire erupted on the far side of the river. My time in patrolling schools, and especially in the Special Forces Detachment Commander Qualification Course, had beaten into me that in a near ambush, the best thing to do is turn into the ambush and with all of the violence of action one can summon, charge through it. I started to try and charge through the water, but as anyone that’s ever run in a swimming pool can attest, it takes a lot of effort to make very little progress. Add to that the current of a river, body armor, helmet, other kit, and a weapon, and it’s a recipe for very little violence in action. Shortly after I started my gallant charge, I glanced behind me and realized that I was alone in the river. Nicholson, who had been much closer to the near shore, retreated quickly to the relative safety there and with the rest of the dismount squad had scrambled up to the road and the armored gun trucks. Realizing my one-man counterattack was completely untenable, I reluctantly decided to also beat a hasty retreat back to the road.
Throughout that deployment, our company lost four great soldiers: Gunnar Hotchkin, Joe Johnson, Dale Kridlo, and Aaron Cruttenden. While most people run away from danger, these men ran towards it in an effort to make Afghanistan a little more safe for both the local population and for coalition forces. They performed one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in the military–seeking out roadside bombs–and they did it remarkably well.
We returned to the United States, many of us war-weary, and began the process of reconstituting the company and refocusing on our core mission of parachuting onto an enemy-held airfield, clearing it of obstacles, and repairing damage so we could land airplanes to bring in additional forces. Little did I know that in fewer than 18 months, I would once again find myself in Afghanistan.
Afghanistan again? Yes, and Baseball Bats and Flying Muffins
My third, and final, trip to Afghanistan saw me working with a Joint Task Force with a counterterrorism mission. I had responsibility for about 200 joint engineers (mostly Navy SeaBees, but also Air Force, and Army engineers) and around 50 civilian engineers. I oversaw a large construction portfolio that spanned 18 sites across all of Afghanistan, where I had to correct millions of dollars in cost overruns and about 5 years in time overruns, all while also contributing to planning efforts for contingency missions including hostage rescues and potential war in a neighboring country.
In this role, I had a recurring, weekly one-on-one with whichever general or flag officer was leading the task force from the forward location. On one notable occasion, I had to break some significantly bad news to the unit’s deputy commanding general, a 2-star Air Force general. Someone in my role before had planned a multi-million dollar project in a way that grossly violated the Anti-Deficiency Act, which prohibits commitments of funds beyond appropriations. Essentially, this project should have been programmed and approved by Congress for appropriations, but flew under the idiomatic radar. Understandably, this general officer was quite upset. He stalked around his plywood office (adorned with several large screen TVs) with a baseball bat in hand. As the conversation progressed, this officer grew increasingly and visibly frustrated and angry. It’s not a stretch to say that for a moment I grew concerned that he might mistake my face for a ball and my neck for a tee-ball tee. I did not relish the idea of taking a beating from one of the nation’s most senior special operators. Of course, while that thought certainly flashed through my mind, this officer was a consummate professional and kept his anger well in control. In retrospect, I suspect that his display of emotion was likely intentional and done for a certain theatrical flourish.
I spent my limited free time on this deployment training for an assessment and selection course for a special missions unit. Each Saturday, I would shoulder my rucksack and hike for hours training my legs, back, and lungs to endure the upcoming challenges I would face in the selection course. These sessions would typically last 3-5 hours and cover anywhere from 14-20 miles. The best part of Saturdays though, was after the ruck march, I would turn on the bread machine that I had bought. The entire Joint Operations Center (JOC)--affectionately known as the ‘Plywood Palace’ would smell of delicious bread and I made many friends that would follow their nose to my office. I would load up on cold cuts at the dining facility and make myself an amazing, large sandwich with my fresh and warm bread. It was quite the treat and way to recover and warm up after a long, cold hike.
That deployment really was training in the gym or rucking around the airfield, working, flying around the country to check on project statuses, and occasionally getting smacked in the head with a chocolate muffin winged at me by our finance manager and my friend Lisa Kempker. Somehow, it became a running joke that I would randomly hide muffins around her desk (likely influenced by the day at the academy where my roommates hid chocolate chip cookies in my printer, book bag, and even in my bed). In return, she’d grow annoyed and throw them at me.
Even on this trip, I was able to stay connected to the N2KL region, as the task force executed a series of kinetic strike missions on high payoff targets there. There was a certain sense of justice in seeing the erasure of names from the list of baddies that we had chased in the mountains or that were responsible for killing and injuring friends and colleagues.
This would be my final trip to that wild and mystical land. Perhaps somewhat ironically, I am saddened by that. My friend Wes Morgan, a phenomenal reporter and writer, has penned the most comprehensive history of the Pech river valley. In a fairly early conversation that we had, he discussed an interesting trend among veterans of the war in that area. While most veterans of Afghanistan expressed to him little-to-no desire to return, those of us that served in the N2KL region have been captivated by it. Part of us yearns for it. I don’t know if it’s the camaraderie we felt there, or the clean air, or a certain sense of loss having spent so many frustrating days and nights fighting there, but many of us would return.
Shut Up, Already
I think I’ve droned on long enough here. There are many other memories both during the time periods I’ve covered here (which doesn’t even cover the first half of my career) and others.
I don’t know exactly what my future holds, although I’m confident that I’ll find ways to continue to serve. My immediate future holds a small vacation and some exciting announcements, hopefully coming in the next couple of weeks.
Before I close, I’m going to throw in a poll. I’ve enjoyed writing this, even though I haven’t gotten into much detail on any one story or period of my career. I’m curious if you enjoyed reading it?
Alright, so now I’m going to finally shut up. In closing I’ll leave you with the words of George Peele from his poem, A Farwell to Arms
His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,
But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
Keep building!
Andrew
Your personal reflections was an excellent read. Congratulations on your retirement! It was a privilege to work with you for those two years at FCC. Fair winds and following seas.
Congratulations on your retirement!