Tom served in the Army for twenty years. He started out in communications and worked his way into special operations. He retired with the rank of master sergeant.
Dad, what’s this?”
I turn around and see my sixteen-year-old daughter standing next to a group of dusty boxes in our tiny attic. We came up here to look for some old Christmas decorations.
She’s holding my old field jacket, which she has taken out of a box.
“That,” I say, “is my chocolate chip uniform.”
“Chocolate chip?”
“They called it that because that camouflage pattern, those pale-brown shades there and the black spots, it looks like chocolate chip cookie dough.”
“Yeah, it kinda does. Where’s it from?”
“Desert Storm.”
“When was that?”
“A long time ago. Before you were born.”
Memories, most of them good, wash over me. I was a young soldier, all of twenty, when I showed up in Iraq in August of 1990. I was tasked with carrying the radio for the operations guy, Major Rod, who controlled all the battalion assets. The radio, all the other stuff I had to carry—I wore probably the heaviest rucksack on planet Earth on my back. People would sometimes have to help me get up and they’d walk behind me to make sure I didn’t tip over.
“What was it like over there?” my daughter asks.
“Hot. Really, really hot.”
“Were you, you know, nervous?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
My daughter places the uniform on the attic floor and then turns her attention back to the box. “Was it scary?”
It occurs to me how we’ve never really talked about this. Desert Storm. My time as a Ranger, my Bronze Stars, with combat V device, which is awarded for valor in combat. Truth be told, I’ve never been good at talking with anyone, really, about any aspect of my twenty years of service in the Army. It’s hard, talking about the stuff I saw, what I did. It seems braggadocious or something. I’ve boxed away my stories like my old uniforms and moved on with my life.
But there is something about the way my daughter is looking at me that makes me decide to tell her. She’s certainly old enough. And after everything I’ve put her through, she deserves some answers. Maybe it will help her. Help us.
“When I was on the plane, flying over there,” I say, “the only thing they told us was that Iraq’s army, the Republican Guard, was going to try to shoot down our plane. They didn’t tell us anything else, like, you know, what to expect when we landed. So yeah, I was nervous. Then, when we landed, they told us to lock and load, and that’s when…Yeah, I’d say then I was scared because in my mind I was thinking we were all going to have to start fighting our way off the airplane.”
My daughter looks at me, wide-eyed. “Did you?”
“No,” I chuckle. “We got off and set up a chow hall.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was a signal guy. Communications. I followed this major around, carrying this big radio for him, so I got to sit down with all the commanders and listen to them plan the assault. That’s when it got real—when we did the actual assault.”
“And that’s when it got scary.”
I think about it for a moment. “I would say I was more nervous than scared. I had a lot of confidence in our leaders. I also had a lot of confidence in our guys. Our soldiers. I knew we could take on anybody and anything. After it was over, when I came back home…having followed these leaders around, I saw how they spoke and how they acted, what they did, and I knew I wanted to become a leader. So I reenlisted and went to Ranger school.”
She reaches into the box, pulls out a black beret. “This is your Ranger hat, right?”
I nod, thinking about the day I went back to Fort Bragg wearing that old black beret. There I was a newly promoted staff sergeant with Airborne wings, a Ranger tab, and an 82nd combat patch. I’m on my way to the 1st Ranger Battalion. I remember feeling really cool.
I also remember meeting a lot of guys there who had leadership in their blood. I remember telling myself, Dude, just be quiet. Just soak it up and watch these leaders lead. Man, what a talented bunch of individuals.
“Did you go to war again?” she asks. “As a Ranger?”
“I came close. I got placed on what’s called an RRF—a Ranger ready force—that was going to fly to Somalia, jump into an airfield, and take it over.” I leave out the part where I was standing on the ramp wearing my parachute and signing my will. “The mission was given to another battalion, so I didn’t have to go.”
“Mom told me you went to war again.”
“I did. In 2002. Afghanistan.”
“Right after I was born.”
I nod. She was born shortly before 9/11. I deployed a few months later.
“What was Afghanistan like?”
“Hot. Dusty,” I reply. “We stayed at this place where I had to clean my clothes in a bucket for four months.”
“Gross.”
I laugh softly. “Showers came when the sun came out. You’d put water in a bucket and put it up on the roof, and after it heated up you could pour it on you.” I remember feeling like we were out there living like some old Vietnam guys back in the day.
My daughter takes out my Ranger uniform. “Were you afraid that time?”
“Honestly, no, I wasn’t. The people, the guys in my unit—they were the best of the best. Unstoppable. I didn’t fear for a lack of ability. The only thing I cared about was making sure my ability matched everyone else’s, because I didn’t want to be a liability.”
“What did you do there?”
“The first time? Reconnaissance. They’d drop us off somewhere, usually on a hill, and we’d have to walk miles to get to this field site. When we got there, we’d have to build what’s called a hide site, which is a place where you can hide and watch the enemy. And that’s what I did—sometimes for days. Watched the enemy and built these intel packets based on what we saw and heard and then handed everything over to the people in charge so they could make strategic decisions.”
“How many days did you spend in one of these hide sites?”
“The longest was three. And man, it was so hot. So incredibly hot—at least 125 degrees, because there weren’t a lot of trees in the place where we were. We’d hunker down there during the day, roasting, and later, when the sun went down, we could get out and move a bit.”
I don’t share with her the rougher aspects of the missions that followed—like seeing the guy right next to me get hit and go down. He ended up being fine—we patched him up and he returned to combat—but when I saw him go down it took me aback. I realized, right then, that none of us were invincible.
We lost guys. And it rocked me pretty hard. Our organization, even if you lost a guy that night, the next morning, you’re right back at it. The tempo was unbelievable. Screaming fast. There were so many times when I wondered if we could physically keep up the pace.
I pull out another old uniform and smile softly, thinking about how odd it is that a piece of clothing started this conversation with my daughter.
“Mom said you went to Iraq.”
I nod. “I went there next. After Afghanistan.”
“And kept going back.”
I feel a wave of sadness and regret.
Those five deployments, as rough as they were on me, were even rougher on my wife. When you deploy as a Ranger, you don’t really know when you’re coming back. You don’t know where you’re going most times, either. There’s also a really strong chance that you may not be able to call home for weeks, sometimes months, depending on the mission. It’s really hard on a marriage. Many don’t survive. Mine didn’t.
My daughter took the hardest hit, no question. She’s the reason I decided to hang up my spurs and retire, at thirty-eight. I didn’t want to put her through that anymore. We’re very close now, but it took a lot of work.
I put my arm around my daughter and hug her close.
“Those deployments,” I say. “They helped me become a better man in the sense that…I was this ordinary dude surrounded by all these extraordinary human beings. They showed me how to get to the next level, whether it was fitness, being a good dad, a good Christian—a good whatever. These men, the experiences I had—they showed me what success looks like, the type of people I want to surround myself with. It taught me the true value of friendship.”
“You should do something with these uniforms,” my daughter says.
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Something. They deserve it.”
Looking at my old uniforms, I wonder how many other veterans are out there like me, how many others just boxed up their stories, their unique experiences and sacrifices, and tucked them away in some dusty attic or cellar. It makes me think about those veterans who return home and take their own lives. I haven’t been afflicted with that, but from what I’ve heard, the more they talk, the less they feel isolated.
What if I could help veterans share their stories by using their old uniforms? Could their uniforms help start conversations between family members, friends, and other veterans? Between officers and civilians?
“We should start a business,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Doing something good with these uniforms.”
The business we created together, Eagles and Angels Limited, salvages the old uniforms of our brave men and women and transforms them into a unique line of high-end clothing and accessories crafted here in the US. Each piece carries the story of the soldier who wore the uniform, and each purchase helps support the families of our fallen heroes.
There are too many stories of courage tucked away in attics and old boxes across the country—secret even to the families of the ones who served. They deserve to be heard. And to be preserved.