I’m not the stereotypical veteran, but I am a veteran. In fact, I purposefully avoid the stereotypical disgruntled, entitled asshole vibe that so many of us think we earned as we come back from combat deployments. But there is some truth to that entitlement. We’ve often experienced things that put life in perspective and make civilian culture feel…whiny.
I came across this essay entitled My Stupid, Dangerous Run in 110-Degree Heat. In defense of the author, it was a fine essay and a good reminder that we should be cognizant of our environment when exercising. Leaving the house in a desert and running without water is a bad idea, and for some of us it can send us to the hospital. But I was annoyed.
The entitled veteran voice in my head was irritated at the idea that running in a suburb was “dangerous.” Yeah, I know, it was a dick thing to think. But I thought it.
So instead of suppressing that thought I decided I would express it so people could understand the veteran mindset. Now I would never in polite company try to play oneupmanship and I don’t at all intend for that to be the tactic here. All I’m hoping to do is give people a glimpse into the veteran mindset and why we often have trouble relating to civilian life.
Critique it, complain, or get offended. Go for it. But this is our reality whether you like it or not.
So enough context. Here is my Stupid, Dangerous Run in 110-Degree Heat.
Leaning up against the slope of a mostly dry canal, Nate anguished at the situation back home. However many thousands of miles away, his now ex-wife was wasting their money on drugs and likely cheating on him. I think.
At least that is what I remember from the conversation. But memory fades and shifts, then reconstitutes itself every time I try to pull it back. Sometimes I envision him sitting besides me, sometimes he’s on the opposite bank of the canal (waddy) and we’re facing each other. The details I often attempt to piece together aren’t as important as the moment, and the moment has always served me as a prelude to the hottest, most difficult and revealing run of my life.
Wait a minute…weren’t there two helicopters?
After a full day outside the wire looking for and catching a few Taliban fighters, we were finally relaxing a bit. Even Nate seemed a bit chill and relaxed, even though life back home was not going so well. That’s how the end of operations usually felt. We did our job and were looking forward to going home. Our temporary home which was an outpost built of sand bags. But it was home.
It was time to go.
Nate was part of a different, more specialized unit and he went his way with his guys and I formed up with my unit. Being a Navy Corpsman with a Marine Corps infantry unit, I was in the middle with the radio guy and our platoon sergeant. Walking around a war zone surrounded by Marines was surprisingly comfortable. Especially when a couple of Marine Corps officers were flying attack helicopters above us. Those things look and sound intimidating, and can very quickly change the outcome of a battle. But they also make attractive targets.
What I remember happening next stuck with me and echoes in my mind. For some reason I just happened to look up and notice that there was one helicopter circling an area several clicks (kilometers) to our ten o’clock. I then asked my platoon sergeant, “Wait a minute…weren’t there two helicopters?” He looks up and we both notice a huge plum of black smoke rising up into the sky just below the area where the one helicopter was circling. I said, “Well that’s not good.” And it wasn’t.
That plum of smoke was the starting pistol for my stupid, dangerous run in 110-degree heat.
After three or four days of operating in the Afghan desert of the southern Helmand province, we were short on water. There was no shade from the sun. It was the middle of summer. I was carrying some stuff. Someone was running around with a rocket propelled grenade, and we were in unfriendly territory.
If you’ve ever seen what a Marine or any U.S. troop looks like when on patrol or any type of mission, “carrying some stuff” is an understatement. The gear we carry can weigh anywhere from thirty-five to fifty pounds and it is not ever well balanced or comfortable. It varies depending on the mission and your role. I had my helmet, four bulletproof shields surrounding me in my plate carrier, somewhere around six magazine of ammunition, my kinda trusty M4, a water source, some food, and a bunch of medical equipment for trauma cases. And that is nothing compared to some of the guys who were carrying what civilians would call machine guns that require belt-fed ammunition, or my machine gunner crew guys who were carrying shoulder fired rocket launchers and mortars.
Either way, it’s a lot more than nylon running shorts and a tank top. All of that equipment is strapped outside of long sleeve uniforms and cargo pants with the most ok boots you could imagine. But you get used to it. The difference between my first two kilometer patrol and my middle to end of deployment patrols was like night and day. It’s amazing what a human can handle when they have little choice and plenty of practice.
This was the setting for which we had to run towards a downed helicopter in enemy territory. But good thing it was just over the next ridge. Or so we thought.
There is a bit of a roll to the land in Helmand. It’s called a green zone not because it’s safe, but because it’s literally green. There are thousands of canals built that jut out from the Helmand River and provide water to thousands of farms that line the river. There is a dramatic difference between what lies right up against the river as compared to just a kilometer beyond it. You can go from lush fields of corn, cotton or marijuana and poppy, to a line in the sand beyond which it’s a desolate and arid desert.
The area we were running through was on the edge of green. It looked like the towns people draw in Bible stories for kids. It was also populated by people who look like the drawings of Moses in the Midianite desert leading flocks of sheep to who knows where. The slow rolling topography limited our ability to judge distance and see too far ahead of us. That plum of smoke was absolutely not just over the next ridge. Every ridge revealed a new ridge to get over. That’s when I noticed things starting to break down.
Remember that formation I mentioned earlier with me, the radio guy and our platoon sergeant in the middle? Well that quickly evaporated. I think about a quote from Mike Tyson — “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.”
Well this was like a punch to the face. Our desperation to get to the downed helicopter for fear of what would happen to any survivors or their remains overcame our directive to stay in any kind of formation. Before I knew it, I was in a line of Marines led by my platoon sergeant with me in second place and each other guy behind me in a fitness line. It was as if we lined up in order of ability and slowly started to spread out as the race went on.
I never thought anything of it during that run. But as I look back on it, we were incredibly vulnerable. If I would have come upon any resistance, it would have been me with one guy in front of me by about fifty meters and another behind me, with several catching up. And oh yeah, we had zero cover. If we came under fire, we would have had to scramble and find a hopefully unoccupied and safe structure to hide behind.
The illusion of the crash site being just over the next ridge turned into a nightmare on repeat. It was like a sick joke where you keep getting over one ridge and the crash site was moved again to just over the next ridge, and the next, and the next. We ended up running in those conditions for about four or five kilometers.
But we eventually made it to the crash site. Fortunately, we weren’t the first guys to get there. Our operation was pretty large so we had units in trucks and on foot that were closer. Unfortunately the pilots in the downed helicopter, Lt. Col. Mario D. Carazo of Springfield, Ohio and Maj. James M. Weis of Toms River, N.J., were killed by the RPG and/or the subsequent crash. All that was left of the Cobra was a smoking frame of twisted metal. But that isn’t the end.
There is too much technology and weaponry on these helicopters to leave the burned out hulls to smoke away. Instead of going home, we had to guard the wreckage until an explosives unit was able to come by and dispose of the wreckage and it’s weaponry. And they are not in any hurry to make sure we get home.
What was a three day operation was cut short and quickly adjusted. And guess what. You’re still walking home.
This stupid, dangerous run in 110-degree heat was a significant day in my deployment because of the lives lost in that helicopter, but it wasn’t physically much different than any other day of patrolling. And no of course it wasn’t stupid. I’m proud of all the guys that risked themselves for what they thought may be a rescue operation. But we ran and walked with fifty pounds of gear in long sleeves and pants under threat of combat for hours on end, almost every day, for seven months through the Afghan summer.
So when a veteran rolls his/her eyes at stories about running in suburban neighborhoods without sufficient water — neighborhoods where every house has water, 911 services, a puppy and no AK-47s, this is why. It’s not always meant to be mean, but it’s just a completely different perspective.
And for you veterans reading this, also remember that people without your perspective only have their experiences to relate to. Give them a break. Share your story but don’t be a dick about it. Our service should be remembered as something we were grateful to participate in and not a bludgeon with which to punish anyone else who did not or even could not step up.