I checked into my first real duty station on December 7, 2007, in beautiful Charleston, South Carolina. It was then that I quickly reached a painful conclusion: despite all of my EOD School training, I had no earthly clue what I was doing.
As I wandered through the compound of EOD Mobile Unit Six, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my dress blues, while everyone else walked around comfortably in green cargo shorts and blue hoodies. Occasionally, someone would recognize the cluelessness on my face and offer some direction. Even while trying to help, though, they would speak in acronyms, which the military is famous for, and leave me even more confused. Not wanting to reveal my confusion, I would just smile, say thank you, and walk away.
After a few more hours, I stumbled upon a door that was marked “CO” for “commanding officer.” I knocked, and after receiving permission, I marched into the small office. I was delighted to finally see a familiar face. The tall, curly haired commander in desert fatigues was the same man who sat on the far right of the table during my EOD screening interview at the Naval Academy. After a nice conversation, he graciously invited me to the command’s Christmas party, which would also mark the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor.
With my CO’s guidance during the ensuing weeks, I started getting a handle on my new job, which I needed to learn quickly. While the “surge” was starting to improve conditions in Iraq, roadside bombs were still the enemy’s deadliest tactic on the battlefield, which included the mountains of Afghanistan. As a result, EOD platoons were furiously preparing and heading straight out the door. Many of my new peers had been deployed at least once, with some having served multiple, very dangerous combat tours in both war zones.
I was humbled by the brave men and women around me, while at the same time frustrated that I was still just an ignorant young US Navy ensign. I yearned to be one of the tough guys loading their gear into black bags, throwing on desert fatigues, and heading to the airport to catch the next C-17 bound for Baghdad or Kabul. I was tired of always being in classrooms, listening to stories, looking at pictures, or conducting training scenarios. To be honest, I was ready to start blowing things up.
One morning, I got the news I had been waiting for when a seasoned warrant officer—a living legend in the EOD community—announced that I would be replacing him as the new platoon commander. Needless to say, he left tremendously big shoes to fill, and I didn’t feel worthy. But at least I brought both left and right shoes this time.
Only about half the men in that small office would remain with the platoon. Some were reassigned; some opted to end their Navy careers; some ended up serving with the now-famous SEAL Team Six. While our remaining group waited for orders, we meticulously evaluated our gear, identified equipment shortfalls, and developed a training plan for the cycle leading up to our deployment.
One piece of equipment that I liked was a large, fixed-blade knife. It not only looked cool, but I also imagined that it would be handy to have a big knife readily accessible for prepping demolition materials, slicing fruit, or killing bad guys (not necessarily in that order). After fastening a few rifle magazine pouches to my kit, I set about attaching the large knife.
As I pulled the knife out of its sheath, I ran the entire blade across, then through, the tip of my left index finger. I yelped in pain and stupidly shook my hand to ease the pain, causing blood to spray all over the floor, as well as on my new equipment. Then, I felt the tip of my finger wag around loosely as I immediately stopped moving my left hand. Feeling angry and humiliated, I wrapped a paper towel around my finger, sealed it in place with gorilla tape, and began cleaning up my ridiculous mess. I drove myself to the emergency room, and after a few painful hours, my finger was sewn back together.
For the most part, I was able to hide this embarrassing incident, except for from one teammate, Danny, who subsequently noticed my stitches.
“You’re a real cut above the rest, aren’t you, Snyder?” Danny said in jest.
He laughed heartily as I recalled the whole outrageous story, but to his credit, he kept everything between us.
Danny, who was assigned as my team leader, worked with me on all aspects of our complex job. Each EOD platoon can be broken down into smaller teams, and while on deployment, these teams can individually respond to a myriad of explosive hazard scenarios.
One example is the discovery of a roadside bomb. The EOD community values knowledge over rank in combat situations, and despite my status as an officer, Danny—an enlisted EOD technician—would supervise me. It’s rare for such a role reversal to exist inside the Navy, but it’s also a point of pride in the EOD community. Experience means more than your uniform’s insignia.
As we trained to confront explosive hazard scenarios in Iraq or Afghanistan, Danny would get the team into a security posture, while it was my job to ready the robot that would inspect an enemy IED. I was also the designated robot driver, which at first was a whole new conduit for frustration. The learning curve needed to effectively utilize the robots was very steep. I struggled greatly at first, but Danny’s guidance—and patience—remained steadfast.
During our first drill, I ran two robots over a ravine, completely disabling one. After manually recovering the other, I proceeded to get its tracks tangled in a huge mess of rope and firing wire. When we pulled back to the hangar with the robot hanging off the back of the truck, our whole team erupted in laughter.
Despite my failings and friendly ribbing from my teammates, however, I began to improve and earn some level of respect. By the time we were ready to deploy, Danny had shaped me into an adequate team member, for which I was extremely grateful. Still, I was anxious to prove myself on the battlefield.
As America prepared to elect a new commander-in-chief in the fall of 2008, our EOD platoon had assembled. The nine of us then traveled up to Virginia Beach to be evaluated on whether we were suitable for deployment. The week was grueling, and despite a few miscues here and there, our platoon received a favorable grade. Content, we drove back to Charleston amid extreme excitement. Finally, it was our turn to answer the call of duty in Iraq.
WE HAD LITTLE TIME to spare in the following weeks, but I was able to make one last trip home to St. Petersburg to visit my family before I left. My brother, Mitch, was away at school, on his way to earning Hall of Fame honors as one of the best NCAA Division II swimmers in history at Drury University in Springfield, Missouri. My other brother, Russ, was wrapping up his senior year of high school, where it looked like he would most likely graduate as his class’s valedictorian. My sister, Elyse, was just beginning middle school, and was emerging as a talented athlete in her own right.
While most of my family maintained a blissful lack of awareness about what I was doing and where I was headed, the reality of my position was not lost on my dad. One night, we stayed up late together while sipping drinks and reminiscing on our backyard patio.
After a while, my dad revealed a sentiment that I will never forget. He told me that he was scared, and he didn’t know how to handle being so worried about my safety.
My father told me that he had never imagined such a life for me. He professed that he had been proud of my appointment to the Naval Academy, but he was shocked and dismayed when I picked such a risky job upon commissioning. Instead, he confided that he had always envisioned me as the captain of a ship. In his mind, I would retire after twenty years, and then follow his father into the shipbuilding industry.
My dad didn’t know what to make of my role as a bomb technician deploying to Iraq, except that he was extremely frightened about the consequences. With a tear in his eye, he offered one last bit of advice.
“Don’t be a hero,” he said. “You just come back . . . you hear me?”
I held back my own tears and nodded.
I suppose I didn’t really know what to make of me being an EOD technician, either. Of course, I knew my mission, tactics, tools, and procedures, but what about the risks? What if something bad happened? What if a rocket landed on me while I slept? What if my vehicle was struck by an IED? What if a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) hit a helicopter’s tail as I rode inside?
As I drifted to sleep that night in Florida, I thought of each member of my family living their lives, going to school, working hard, and trying to be good people. I remembered the Twin Towers smoldering during that awful day in 2001, and reminded myself that there are bad people out there who aimed to harm good Americans like those who made up my family.
With that in mind, I couldn’t sit idly by. I could see no other path but to dedicate myself to protecting my family and their way of life. In my mind, any risk that I might take in doing so was well worth it. In the words of US Marine First Lieutenant Travis Manion, a Naval Academy graduate who had been killed in Iraq the previous year, “If not me, then who …”
IN LATE SEPTEMBER 2008, we donned our tan desert fatigues and made last-minute adjustments to our kits, which we then loaded into those black gear bags. My team said goodbye to their families, piled into large, green trucks, and drove to the airfield, where we would soon depart for war. Waiting for us was a large, gray C-17 with its tail ramp open like the jaws of an enormous shark.
We grabbed our bags and wheeled them into a small terminal next to the aircraft. A security guard asked for identification before we could board the flight. I patted my empty front pocket, and my face turned a pale shade of white. I realized that I had forgotten my ID, which prompted my friend Danny to laugh, just like he did when he had found out the story behind my stitches.
I stole the keys to a nearby green truck and tore back to my base like Dale Earnhardt. After finding my ID, I made it back to the departing aircraft with only minutes to spare. I panted heavily, and wiped sweat from my brow as I strapped into a small seat in the cargo bay. The jet’s large jaws snapped shut before the aircraft taxied for a moment, accelerated to full speed, and lifted off for the unknown.
All of us settled in and did our best to sleep through the long flight to Germany, and then, to our final destination. I already knew what I would dream about during the flight: being a warrior, which I had been training for since boyhood.
The next time I woke up, however, the dream would be reality. Finally, after six years of Navy training, I was on a flight bound for Baghdad.