Tara’s death, like Tyler’s, seemed to cast a large shadow over my life. Like a looming storm cloud, thoughts of her seemed to occlude all light, which was only exacerbated by the oncoming winter of 2010.
Focusing on my job helped to block out thoughts of losing Tara and Tyler. For the most part, I was successful in keeping the ghosts away, but when things calmed down or got quiet, I would feel Tara’s ethereal presence, in particular. I wouldn’t say she haunted me, but it was definitely painful. After some time, the pain dulled, and while the clouds didn’t recede, I got used to their presence. I began working very long hours so that I wouldn’t have to go home to face my thoughts. At the same time, I knew how important it was to make sure my team was ready to deploy.
BY THIS POINT IN MY CAREER, I was eligible to be evaluated as an EOD warfare officer, which was a higher qualification than my status at the time. It would entitle me to wear a different badge, and more importantly, validate my standing within the Special Operations community as a Subject Matter Expert (SME) in the field of explosive mitigation. First, however, I would have to pass a difficult EOD board, which was similar in nature to my initial examination at the Naval Academy.
In preparation, I spent nearly a month holed up in my office studying different publications and manuals. I was confident when the day of my board finally came, but as soon as the questioning began, I was grilled by my CO and others.
As I got the first set of questions wrong in a rather embarrassing fashion, beads of sweat began to trickle downward in torrents. Before I could dwell on my failures, though, I was on to the next set of questions. My heart rate elevated, and it quickly felt like I was breathing into a bag. Still, I continued to field their questions, frequently darting over to a whiteboard on the boardroom’s side wall to sketch diagrams, make calculations, or to illustrate my understanding of a specific concept.
After more than two grueling hours, it all came down to a presentation related to classified and sensitive material. By then, my uniform was drenched in sweat. Thankfully, though, my experiences in Iraq helped me feel comfortable while dealing with the topic at hand. By the end of my remarks and two follow-up presentations, I felt self-assured. After being ushered to an outside room, I took a very deep breath while the board made its decision.
With a loud creak, the conference door popped open, and one of the board members summoned me back inside. I stole glances at their faces, which gave away nothing. The board members appeared pensive, yet stoic, and I was left with no idea as to what they had been speaking about. Had they discussed passing me? Had they focused on my shortcomings, and since become convinced that I wasn’t qualified?
I returned to my position at the front of the room, which was behind a podium to the right of the large presentation screen. I stood tall, locked my jaw, and silently affirmed to embrace the outcome like a man: pass or fail.
By the time my CO finished summarizing my presentations and the board’s reaction to them, I was sure he was about to sentence me to another year as a basic EOD technician. As I considered my apparent failure, I wanted to look at the floor instead of what was essentially my judge and jury. I managed to fight this urge, however, and resolved to take my lickings. No matter what my CO said next, I would show no defeat.
“Considering all we have outlined, the board and I have decided that our decision is very clear,” my CO said in a quiet, almost monotone voice. “We have no choice but to pass you.”
Because he spoke so flatly, I almost misinterpreted his statement. Once I realized what he had just said, a huge smile crept across my face. I had passed.
Finally, the board members also dropped their masks and smiled. One by one, they offered their congratulations. I was exhausted, but also ready to celebrate. Soon, I would be officially pinned and recognized as one of America’s newest EOD warfare officers.
TO MARK THE OCCASION, my team met me at a bar near my condo for dinner. Most of my teammates brought their wives, which made the evening feel like a family affair.
I was on top of the world, and felt so proud of what I had just accomplished. I felt like I had proven myself to a community of warriors that I respected and valued so much. I looked around at my teammates and saw friends that I had been working, sweating, and bonding with for the past year and a half. It was an honor to sit among men who were well-trained and ready to head off to war, as well as their wives, who were also making tremendous sacrifices.
Deployment was now just weeks away, and while my team was heading to Afghanistan, some of my friends were heading elsewhere. Barring a terrible tragedy, I knew I would see all of these guys again, but still, it felt like we were enjoying one of our last nights on the town before going our separate ways.
If there was ever a time to let loose, this was it. While dealing with the grief of losing Tara and Tyler, I had somehow managed to hold it together long enough to pass my boards and get my marching orders to help lead brave US troops into battle. After raising my beer mug in celebration, I pounded what remained of my beverage before ordering another round.
After dinner, a few more beers, and a trip to the restroom, I returned to the table to find my dinner plate replaced with a beautiful scotch decanter and two matching glasses. My friends also gave me a ball cap emblazoned with the troop patch of the SEAL platoon I was working with. The patch paid homage to brotherhood forged by combat. The decanter and scotch glasses had our EOD badge etched in the glass, along with our platoon number.
That moment was so powerful that I had to fight back tears, but I couldn’t cry in front of my teammates. I was so moved by their sentiments, though, because in a way, they were acknowledging my success as their success. They were proud of me as their teammate and as their brother. In that moment, I realized that the significance of my new qualification was meaningless without the respect of my brothers in arms. I will always remember that moment.
High on life and consumed by emotion, I charged even further into the night. Dinner wrapped up, and some of my teammates and their wives went home, while a few of us went to another bar to make fools of ourselves singing karaoke. Eventually, the bar’s lights came on as it began to close down. My teammates and I said farewell as they all jammed into a cab.
While waving goodbye, I must have reasoned—through an alcohol-induced haze—that because I needed my car the next morning, I would make the drive home. It was less than a mile, and surely, I could concentrate long enough to successfully navigate my truck to its parking space at my condo. After so much good fortune earlier in the day, what could possibly go wrong on such a glorious evening?
The rest of my memories from that night would later come back to me like random images that emerge from darkness. I remember street and car lights looking strange against the road’s freshly fallen snow. I remember blinking rapidly as I struggled to see the yellow lines. I remember swerving into another vehicle, the crunch of metal and shattered glass from the glancing blow, then losing control of my truck and crashing into the shoulder. I remember getting out of my truck to evaluate the damage. I remember being thankful to see the driver and passenger exit their vehicle safe and unharmed, but then being deeply embarrassed as they shot me confused, angry looks. I remember being shocked as I recognized that my truck was most likely totaled. I remember the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser that showed up shortly afterward.
I remember the cold steel of the handcuffs that were locked in place on my wrists. The arresting officer told me I was being charged with driving under the influence (DUI).
First and foremost, I was thankful that nobody in the other vehicle was hurt. When my thoughts eventually turned to the gravity of my own situation, however, I hung my head in despair. In less than fifteen minutes, I had all but thrown away a life and career that I had spent nearly a decade building.
I had been given every opportunity to make the right choice, but I was blinded by my own stupidity. Whether due to arrogance or ignorance, I must have believed that I was not required to follow the same rules as everyone else. Somehow, I thought I was smarter, more capable, or maybe just luckier. Whatever was the source of my hubris, it became almost immediately clear that I needed to learn a very difficult lesson.
As I lay on a cot in an extremely cold jail cell, I hated myself for endangering all the innocent people who were on the road that night. I shuddered as I considered what I could have done to the other vehicle’s passengers with my reckless and impaired driving. I hated myself for having taken such a foolish risk.
That night, my self-loathing ate away at my self-image until there was nothing left. I was trapped inside a body I no longer loved, in a life that I no longer cared for. My despondency was so complete that there was no room left for any emotion. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t think I deserved to pity myself. Still, I wallowed in this despair until my teeth chattered from lack of warmth, both in my jail cell and body.
When I was released from jail in the morning, I rushed straight into work to inform my chain of command that I had been arrested. I knew that their reaction—and the ensuing process—would be painful, as it should have been. Still, I wanted to deploy to Afghanistan with my team. If there was even a single delicate thread of hope left, I wanted to do everything possible to avoid letting my men down more than I already had.
I clung to that thread of hope with all the vigor of a desperate man. I became convinced that the only way to redeem myself—and repair my damaged reputation—would be in combat. I never thought that I would look to the mountains of Afghanistan for salvation, but after my stupid and dangerous mistake, that’s exactly where my eyes had turned.
I spent the following few weeks feverishly dealing with both my civil DUI charge and my corresponding punishment under the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ).
After many months of training in conjunction with SEAL Team Ten, I knew that I was uniquely qualified to help fulfill our mission in Afghanistan. I had all the necessary qualifications, had thoroughly studied the mission, and knew all the people I would be working with on deployment. We were also severely undermanned, meaning that there wasn’t really anyone who could take my place if I was suddenly removed as the officer in charge of Platoon Twelve-Seven.
Still, my Navy chain of command usually took a very hard stance against offenders like me. Even though it felt like a knife in my chest to even think about, I wondered if my military career was over. While it was a sickening feeling, I knew that there would be no one to blame for that possible outcome but myself.
Then, the awful situation that I created got even worse when I realized that Pete, my EOD school roommate who had just returned from another deployment, would probably be sent in my place. At that point, my resolve to convince my command to let me deploy became stronger than ever. While I could live with being kicked out of the military, I couldn’t live with seeing my friend get injured or killed because of my foolish decision.
I told anyone and everyone who would listen that I didn’t care what happened to me or my career. All I wanted was the opportunity—or privilege, really—to deploy with my team. I owned my failure and was deeply ashamed of it. But as I told my commanders, I had learned a valuable lesson that I would carry with me to Afghanistan and beyond.
Despite the fact that the full ramifications of my DUI and the ensuing letter of reprimand were yet to be resolved, my CO realized that the administrative review would take quite some time. Six weeks later, I learned that my CO and his executive officer (XO) had stuck out their necks and pleaded on my behalf to their superiors.
Given the high demand for EOD techs in Afghanistan and a short supply of qualified officers, my CO decided to allow me to deploy, even though my overall fate as a naval officer would remain firmly in doubt. I was immensely thankful for his vote of confidence in me, and I resolved not to let him or my platoon down. When the next flight to Afghanistan left Virginia Beach, I would be on it. Even though I didn’t deserve such good fortune, it was the best news of my life.