Nicole Kruse grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She was a junior in high school on September 11, 2001. Seeing what happened made her want to be a part of something that was bigger than herself. The following year, when she turned seventeen, Nicole joined the Minnesota National Guard. She is now a captain in the Army and a Black Hawk pilot.
My husband and I get married on my twentieth birthday.
He’s active-duty, with the 82nd. When he gets out, in 2006, he moves to Minnesota, and I get pregnant. I’m in my junior year of college.
One day after class, my professor of military science takes me aside and says, “Nicole, do you want to get out? Because you can.”
“No, sir,” I say, and mean it. I’ve always wanted to fly Army helicopters, and I’m committed to seeing it through. “This is what I want to do—this is my calling—and if you guys can work with me, my husband and I will figure out arrangements for our child so I can stick with this.”
It’s true. I really do want to stick with this. But I’m also trying to be realistic about my options. So I start thinking about corporate law. Tuition won’t be a problem. The G.I. Bill will pay 80 percent, and because I’m half Native American, the money that comes in from the reservation I’m a part of will cover the rest.
I take the LSAT while I’m pregnant. I’m thinking about putting in an educational delay and going to law school when the professor of military science, a man who is an aviator and getting ready to retire, says to me, “You can be a lawyer at any point in your life, Nicole, but when will you ever again have a chance to fly Army helicopters?”
That hits a nerve. It makes me think of my mother. She always encouraged me to reach for the stars. Everything that I ever wanted to do in my life—none of it ever seemed impossible for me, no matter the circumstances. I truly believe anyone can make anything happen in their lives if they truly desire it—if they’re willing to go the distance, do whatever it takes to get the job done. You have to be 100 percent committed.
“I think you’re right, sir. Let me try for Aviation branch.”
After I give birth to my son, Chastan, in the summer of 2007, I begin to pursue my dream.
It’s not easy. Thank God for my family. We’re super close, and they’ve always been my support system.
My mom works nights, so I bring Chastan to her house early in the morning before I have PT. I’m part of a Ranger Challenge group, and I have to get back into shape. I go back to school when Chastan is only a few weeks old.
It’s ambitious wanting to accomplish all these goals as a new mother, but I know it will bring my son a better life than the one I had growing up. My mom raised me, and while she provided me with everything she could, I saw how much she struggled. Knowing that makes me even more determined to give my son the best life possible—even if that means also working up to thirty-six hours every week so I can get full health care.
But still, it’s a lot. I’m getting very little sleep, so I’m exhausted pretty much all the time. But I know I’m also building up the sort of resiliency I’ll need to get through some of the rougher times that I know are coming—like advanced camp. I missed it because of the pregnancy.
I end up doing advanced camp on the back end after college graduation, in May of 2008. That September, I find out I got Aviation.
I’m ecstatic.
In April of 2009, I go to flight school with my husband and son. It’s rough. This is the first time I’m moving away from my family and not coming back. On top of that, my husband and I are having a lot of marital problems. We decide to use my time at SERE—the Army’s survival, evasion, resistance, and escape school, which trains soldiers in how to survive in isolation or captivity—to give ourselves some space.
When I return from SERE, it’s clear that my husband and I are not on the same path. We decide to get a divorce. He decides to move to Samoa to gather himself while he lives with his mother.
I stay at Fort Rucker, in Alabama, with my young son. I have to figure out how to watch and care for him while going to flight school.
Fortunately, there’s day care, and the community of people and spouses at Fort Rucker help watch Chastan when I can’t. Then, when it’s time for me to be a platoon leader and move to my first duty station in Hawaii, I’m fortunate to have one of my aunts move in with me. She’s someone I can rely on and trust, and when I become a company commander at Fort Hood, she moves with me and helps out with Chastan. My son is very comfortable with her, which is a good thing because I’ve just been told I’m going to deploy, in January of 2012, as part of Operation Enduring Freedom.
I’ll be gone for most of the year.
I’m twenty-five years old and I have no idea what it means to go to war.
I’m scared.
And on top of that, I’m leaving my son. The thought of being away from him for so long is crushing enough. Thinking about all these issues is overwhelming. Suffocating.
The soldiers I’m going with had all just deployed together to Iraq. They act confident, and their confidence gives me confidence of my own. Our mindset is: we’re a family. We’re going into this as a family. We’re going to get through this together.
Our command aviation company is in Kandahar. Our assault battalion has three companies of Black Hawks: air assault, maintenance, and forward support. I’m with air assault, which means I’m responsible for bringing the ground force to the objective and then picking them up.
My first missions involve working with the Australian Special Forces. Our aircraft gets shot at. When we come back after an infiltration and inspect our aircraft, some of them have bullet holes. That’s when the reality of what’s going on here sinks in.
But I don’t feel afraid when I’m in the air—on the ground, yes, but not in the air. One night I’m in the top bunk and I wake up to a siren going off. The base, I’m told, is receiving indirect fire. As I jump out of bed, I hit my head on the ceiling, and the fear sets in. When I’m in the air, it’s like I’m in this other world where I feel like I’m in control. Not invulnerable or unstoppable, but in control of my area.
In April, we lose John, one of our crew chiefs—and it’s due to pilot error involving weather, not enemy fire. That’s when it sinks in that death is real. Someone I knew well and cared about is dead, and I’m not prepared for it.
How am I going to show my emotions? I’m a leader. I need to be brave for my soldiers, make sure they’re all taken care of, and it’s really hard to take care of them while also taking care of myself.
“We’re going to do every mission for John,” I tell them. “We’re going to go forward, and we’re going to make John’s life count. His sacrifice.”
John’s death brings us closer, but I struggle with it for a long time because it’s my fault he died. I recommended him for that particular mission. If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been there that day, and he’d still be alive.
When I Skype back home with my family and my son, I try to act like everything is okay because I don’t want them to worry. Even to this day, they don’t know what happened during my yearlong deployment. I don’t tell them about my valor award or my combat action badge or my Air Medal. I think they realize the nature of my profession, but the things I’ve seen and experienced, I want to keep that separate from my family. I don’t want to ever make them worry.