I keep a collection of photographs hung on the walls of my office, the standard trappings of most professional men. Pictures of some of the best days of my life, moments to be remembered and cherished, the kind people want to see and use to gain an idea or concept of the person they are meeting. The majority of these are ones you’d see in any other person’s office save for the variations that make them mine; college graduation with my parents at my side, smiling with my children on vacation, the initial staff and I outside of the practice the day it opened, a few vanity trappings to show I’m not simply hoarding the money I make, a few with colleagues or places that I consider foundational in my life. For a while, there was even the obligatory wedding photograph that has since come down and left a slightly lighter colored spot on the wall, yet to be replaced out of some sense of respect for what it once meant. These are all moments I remember perfectly, and while I can find some joy in them, I leave these up for others rather than myself.
There is one exception, the one picture I leave up not for anyone else, not because of what it says of me or where I’ve been, not even that it is a memory of an overly pleasant time; in fact, the grittier details of it, it could easily be considered one of the most terrifying times I’ve ever lived through. I leave it up because it is a testament to me that in the roughest time life could have chosen for me, I didn’t fold, but thrived. That in the absolute worst situations, I found strength I couldn’t have imagined. And that among the soft life I get to live now with the gilded luxuries, where a slight inconvenience could be the worst thing I have to face on any given day, a remembrance of what I endured to make those the most severe discomforts I’d have to face anymore. That once upon a time, no matter who they became after, or how they might have fallen, I was privileged enough to be a part of a great group of men.
The picture is of 39 men, some standing, some kneeling, the youngest among us only 19, the oldest 37. Absent are 11 men that had come with us initially, nine of whom had been evacuated due to injury, and two that had paid the ultimate cost. Those who remained, myself included, are standing in front of three Humvees, well-worn from the deployment, several bullet holes in the doors and frames, and some of the glass spiderwebbed and cracked. We weren’t in much better shape; dirty, cooked by the sun, more than a few with dried blood stains on their desert colored fatigues. Yet, even with those circumstances and what they speak to, not a single man in the picture refused to smile. Hard to be grim when we were going home after a year spent in the rawest kind of hell.
Joining the Army had never been a part of my plans, and as someone whose entire adult life was based on a plan, that tends to stand out in my mind. My parents were good people, hard working people, and while we didn’t live in poverty, by most measures, we were poor. Both had ambitions once upon a time, but life had seemingly denied them those opportunities, so when I finally came about, they decided their only remaining ambition was providing a decent upbringing for me. Dad worked as a janitor at a chemical processing plant for 24 years, and it would contribute entirely to him passing shortly after I finished medical school. Mom worked as a secretary at the school district, and a car crash would claim her just a few years after my father. At the very least, I can find some happiness in the fact that they were able to see me taking those beginning steps on the road they always wanted for me.
It wasn’t always going to be medicine though, and before the Army, before my first year of college, it was going to be baseball. What started as something to keep me occupied and out of the house as a kid, actually turned out to be something I was quite good at. Tee Ball led to Minor League, and by high school, I made the varsity team in my freshman year. Cracking a solid fastball at the State Championship in my junior year got the right kind of attention, and I was able to spare my parents any college loans when the scholarship offers came in. They weren’t excited that my best offer would take me more than half the country away, but ultimately it was for the best.
My professional athletic aspirations would only last for a year though once I arrived on campus. A solid third baseman, it wasn't an injury that would end it, or a change of heart, it was just that, sometimes, someone is better than you. In my case, what was intended to be a depth recruitment brought me into a position battle my sophomore year, and I have no shame about losing out to a freshman who would go on to have a 13 year MLB career (and yeah, I’ve got that photo on the wall.) Not willing to waste the opportunity my full-ride was giving me, I focused and graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Biology, and along the way, I knew that medical school would be my next destination, with just a single issue remaining; how to pay for it.
Eager to avoid heavily indebting myself, I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed with options. I wouldn’t ask my parents to take on that burden, not that they even could due to a lack of collateral; the home I had grown up in was a rental and the only car they owned was a few years older than I was at the time. The athletic scholarship had run its course, and there would be no subsequent offer. Which meant I was likely looking at a gap year, or a few, in an effort to find that money. At a campus career fair for pending graduates, I’d be met with the opportunity after speaking to a recruiter. A six year commitment, and this problem would effectively be solved. Perhaps a little longer than I had wanted, but as I spent a few nights considering it, it became obvious it was something I wanted to do.
The fact that I’d be able to pay for medical school free of loans was the icing on the cake, but there was something deeper in me that wanted this experience. Maybe it was the perpetual need to challenge myself, to have something to rise to, something that had been kind of dampened by the benching I had endured in my pursuit of sports. Or, as my uncle, the only other member of my family to have served, once put it to me; the crushing awareness that my life was heading somewhere that would eliminate the vast majority of grinding my early life had consisted of, and one last chance to seize and experience it to the fullest of capacity. So, after a brief chat with the recruiter, and completing the initial screenings, I’d go before a selection board, present myself as best as possible, and the offer was made; one I didn’t decline.
Two weeks after graduating from college, my new life began. This wasn’t an overnight process, not in the slightest. I had made the choice upon joining about what my pursuit would be, I wouldn’t spend the next six years doing Human Resources or logistical work, no staff jobs; if this was a pursuit I was undertaking, I wanted the most challenging and rewarding route I could choose, and that brought me under the umbrella of the infantry. And, damn, if I wanted a challenge, I had certainly made the correct choice.
The entirety of the next year, roughly 54 weeks with limited time off between, the full first-year of my commitment, was spent in the training schools. Basic Combat Training, Officer Candidate School, Infantry Officer Basic Leadership Course, Airborne Jump School, Air Assault School, and finally Ranger School. For someone starting their career, this was about as fine of a pedigree as you could have barring having come from West Point or one of the other premier military academies. I even attempted to request an opportunity at the Special Forces Assessment and Selection process, but at the time, I had already spent a year in training and had yet to spend time in an actual unit, not to mention that had I been selected and completed that training, I would have been left with roughly only two years active time; basically I was told that I had solid groundwork for it, but it would only happen with a renewed commitment at the end of my current one, and as such, that wouldn’t happen. Still, it was hard not to feel a swell of pride, an air of invincibility, and perhaps that ego inflation hung with me the rest of my life. Some of those schools had pass rates of 30-40%, and I made it through them all with honors.
After completing my year of training and various schools, I finally learned what unit I’d be assigned to. Fate had once again worked in my favor, finding myself attached to another prestigious organization, having drawn a slot as a platoon leader in the 101st Airborne. A transport plane to Korea, and I’d be introduced to my unit; a collection of young men, most of them younger than me but having already served one deployment in the ongoing wars, and a handful of NCOs who were older. I’d come to be extremely grateful for these more experienced men. Everything had seemed so clear fresh out of training, but these men had already been through the trials and were able to help me learn what they really needed out of a leader in my position, and the sooner I was able to approach it with an open mind, the sooner I found a heavier degree of respect, and the translated success it would bring down the road.
It was 2004, and the unit was on replenishment and training between deployments. I would spend the next year in Korea adjusting to my new duties and responsibilities, learning the practical application of what had been taught in the schools, and what simply needed to be forgotten or buried. Despite what I had intended originally, this actually turned into more paperwork than I had initially suspected, an endless string of promotions, requests, transfers, leaves, and anything else that needed someone to sign off on it, all squared in between constant P.T. and occasional fire and maneuver drills, and with two wars currently active, the question was always when (not if) and where we would be going. In September of 2005, we would finally get that answer.
Our battalion was redesignated as the 1st Battalion of the 506th Infantry Regiment, something that never fails to draw an excited, knowing look from history buffs or anyone who watched Band of Brothers, especially considering how recent it was at the time. I cannot deny a sense of excitement myself, that my, hopefully small and insignificant, contribution would mean my name might be included in that historic pedigree. With the good, comes the bad. We would be separate from the rest of the Division, attached to the Marines who were currently trying to quell the worst of a situation. Our destination was known.
Iraq, the Al-Anbar Province. A city on the banks of the Euphrates River. Ramadi.