My deployment to Afghanistan quickly settled into a regular, almost comforting rhythm. My team would go out on a mission just about every four or five days before returning to our small station near Kandahar Airfield. The day after each mission, we would rest and discuss what went right, what went wrong, and how we could do better next time.
For the next couple of days after a mission, I would wake up early for a big breakfast before working out in the gym for about two hours. Then, I would spend a few hours in the tactical operations center (TOC) reviewing e-mails and reports from war-torn Afghanistan. After lunch, I would return to the TOC to work on research for our next mission before heading back to the gym for another workout. I’d grab a large dinner, clean up, watch a movie or two, and then head off to bed. I actually loved having such a regular routine, even though I was technically in a war zone.
My life in Afghanistan was simple: we had a purpose, and most of each day was dedicated to fulfilling it. While the gravity and risk associated with our tasks were often immense, we were increasingly able to turn our figurative combat switch on and off, and our rhythm helped very much to facilitate that balance.
We didn’t have smart phones with us and the Internet was frustratingly slow, so when not out on a mission, we occupied ourselves otherwise. It’s amazing how much free time you discover when you don’t spend most of your life on Facebook and Twitter.
One morning in Afghanistan, I logged into my e-mail after a good workout and found an update from my EOD command back home about my DUI. I had previously received a letter of reprimand from the Navy, which prescribed no further punitive measures. Still, it would serve as a record of the incident and be considered by any future promotional boards. This would certainly harm my chances at advancement, but again, nothing in the letter of reprimand had seemed to threaten my immediate future in the Navy.
This particular e-mail update, however, was about an aspect of the process that I had failed to recognize. According to Navy regulations, all letters of reprimand filed for officers had to be reviewed by a flag officer, which went from the rank of rear admiral all the way up to four-star admiral. As I served in Afghanistan, it turned out that my letter of reprimand had indeed worked its way up the chain of command all the way to an admiral’s desk.
Upon review of my letter, the admiral ruled that alcohol-related incidents—especially those involving DUIs or other criminal charges—would not be tolerated. Apparently, he was particularly determined to institute a zero tolerance-type policy for officers, since we were supposed to set an example for other sailors at all times. Therefore, the admiral recommended that I be separated from naval service.
In an instant, I realized that while I went about my daily duties half a world away, the process to kick me out of the military was already well underway on the home front.
An attached letter from the Navy’s personnel bureau presented me with two choices. I could either accept a general—not honorable—discharge from the Navy, or I could appeal the admiral’s decision.
Even though my horrendous mistake was never far from my thoughts, being in a combat zone hadn’t exactly given me much of an opportunity to sit down and think about my future. But as I stared at an e-mail outlining my mandatory separation from the Navy, my future began to look extremely bleak.
My EOD command, which had advocated on my behalf to let me deploy, initiated my formal appeal to the admiral’s tough decision. Since I was in a war zone, my command also assured me that they would handle the process on my behalf. They implored me to focus on my mission and my platoon.
Even though I wasn’t really sure what to think, I had no choice but to do exactly what I was told. The stakes in Afghanistan were too high to spend one more second thinking about myself instead of the men I was responsible for leading in combat.
A FEW DAYS LATER, everyone woke up just a little earlier than usual. Our platoon went to breakfast together, but didn’t say much to one another while polishing off an extravagant amount of food. As usual, we then put away our empty trays and walked back to our barracks compound. After each of us showered, shaved, and put on a clean uniform, we piled into our platoon’s three Toyota 4Runners to make the short drive to Kandahar Airfield.
We parked at the edge of a long runway, where a C-17 waited nearby with its ramp down. An Army corporal then ushered us over to join a few dozen Army Special Forces soldiers before directing us to a path that led to the ramp of the massive aircraft. The morning was still, and aside from the sound of a gentle breeze flowing across the vast airstrip, there was not much to be heard.
After a few moments, we were called to attention as a solemn procession began to move between our ranks. Before we could blink, a group of sharply dressed US Army personnel was quietly surrounding and lifting a large casket with an American flag draped over the top.
Inside the casket was a senior team leader who had been killed not far from a location where we had found the cache of IEDs and explosives a few days earlier. The man had dedicated nearly twenty years of his life to the Army, with most of that time spent as a Special Forces operator. He had made numerous deployments to both Iraq and Afghanistan, and now, he would return to American soil for the last time.
The procession moved in front of me, and from somewhere in the ranks, I could hear an American soldier choking back a sob. Slowly, the procession reached the ramp of the aircraft, where the casket was gently loaded and tied down. The Army detail then left the aircraft and marched back to the edge of the airstrip. The ramp was raised, which prompted the aircraft to spin around, taxi for a short distance, fire up its engines, and then lift off.
When that same ramp eventually lowered at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware, the fallen warrior’s wife and two children would be waiting in tears. While thinking about the sacrifices of that grieving widow, along with two kids who would now be forced to grow up without a father, tears of my own began to fall from my suddenly trembling eyes.
In that profound moment, I resolved that I would do everything in my power to ensure that none of the men in my platoon would return to their loved ones inside flag-draped caskets. To all of us who witnessed the Army’s solemn farewell to a true American hero, the stakes of our mission in Afghanistan had never been clearer. In silence, we piled back into the 4Runners and returned to our base.
THE GIANT ENGINES OF a Chinook helicopter roared above me as the rotors made deep “thump, thump, thump” sounds. While engulfed by the night’s shadows, I had temporarily allowed my thoughts to drift to one of my favorite childhood beaches before feeling a nudge that jerked me back to reality. The nudge was from the muzzled snout of our multi-purpose canine (MPC), which was a large German Shepherd dog named Max.
I would have liked to think that Max was trying to tell me that we were landing, but in reality, he was probably making a desperate plea for me to remove his muzzle, which absolutely needed to be on since Max was a trained attack dog. Still, I reached down and gave Max a scratch behind the ears. Even though my words were lost in the rotor wash, I apologized to the dog for having to endure such a difficult ride.
As my eyes peered out over the edge of the ramp, I saw that our assault team’s two helicopters were rushing through another valley surrounded by large, harsh-looking mountains. The landscape at the base of the valley was vastly different from the lush grape fields from our previous mission. This time, all I could see was barren, dry desert. With no apparent decrease in forward velocity, the helicopter dropped suddenly, and quickly lost altitude.
After a moment of terror, I realized that this was a deliberate maneuver by our expert pilots to avoid potential enemy fire, and that instead of crashing, we were about to set down and dismount. The ground’s dust was kicked up by the rotor wash as our choppers approached, and almost immediately, we were engulfed in a huge dust cloud.
For a moment, I closed my dusty eyes and focused on the feel of the chopper lowering. I sensed the rear of the aircraft sink lower than the front, which was consistent with the way a helicopter should land.
After an abrupt bump, which I assumed came from the Chinook’s wheels hitting the ground, I unclipped and stood up, ready to run off the helicopter as soon as the ramp began to lower. The only problem was that the ramp did not go down. Instead, the entire helicopter abruptly leapt back into the air, which almost sent me over the lip of the ramp and out of the aircraft.
In a split second, I threw my weight back down and flattened myself against the ramp. I caught my balance just in time to feel the aircraft sharply drop again. This time, I waited until I was sure that I felt the ramp moving, and when I did, I jumped up as quickly as I could and took off running.
The barren desert floor was much easier to adjust to than the farm fields from the previous mission. After sprinting fifty yards out of the ramp and settling down on one knee to check my gear, I began getting my bearings and scanning for threats.
When I glanced back for a moment, I was shocked to find that I couldn’t see more than a few feet back toward the helicopter. In fact, I couldn’t see the Chinook at all, nor could I see anyone else from our assault team. I could faintly make out an eerie halo of green static electricity, which was caused by dust particles striking and rubbing the large rotors of the aircraft, and was only visible because of my NODs. I grinned slightly as I became amused by this small miracle of science.
It also occurred to me that the big bump that had almost thrown me out of the helicopter must have been the pilot second-guessing his landing, which was perfectly understandable since the ground had become quickly and completely occluded by the giant dust cloud. It was amazing—and very scary—to consider how quickly things can get chaotic and potentially go awry once I lost my ability to see.
Thankful to be alive, I turned my attention forward and scanned the faint horizon with my compass to try to get a handle on our exact location. Just as swiftly as they had come down, minus the terrifying moment that almost sent me flying into the southern Afghanistan desert, the helicopters jumped back up into the air, leaned forward, and flew away.
As the dust settled and the thumping Chinook rotors faded into the night, our platoon was suddenly surrounded by sand, mountains, and silence. After getting as oriented as I could to the uncommon setting, I charted a course to the south. Upon receiving a nod from my team leader, a different SEAL named Ray, I pulled out my trusty metal detector and began sweeping.
We had to hike through the desert for about four miles before we would reach a target village, where we believed the Taliban was operating. My platoon’s mission, once again, was to work with Afghan commandos to penetrate and secure the village. While I had read intelligence reports about the area, I didn’t know if we would be greeted by Taliban gunfire or sleeping Afghan villagers. As always, I had no choice but to prepare for the worst.
Thankfully, there was little terrain to negotiate, as it was uncommon for the enemy to randomly place IEDs in the middle of a large desert. Considering this tendency, I believed we were in for a pleasant early morning hike. That is, as pleasant as a hike can be in the middle of a desert in Afghanistan while carrying sixty pounds of gear and armor, all while Taliban fighters hide in the mountains wanting to kill everyone in your group.
I sought out large rocks and dried-out riverbeds for as much cover as I could find, and soon, the cool night desert began to feel much warmer due to our increasing exertion. Every fifteen minutes or so, I stopped to glance back at our patrol to make sure everyone was still able to follow the path that I had cleared.
No matter how often I would adjust, and regardless of how much effort I had put into slimming down my load, it never took long for my armor and gear to feel uncomfortable and cumbersome. My helmet would start to feel heavy, my armor would pull down on my neck and shoulders, and my pack and rifle sling would seem to rub long cuts into my neck. After a while, though, I just had to learn to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
After about an hour or so of hiking, I saw a shape on the horizon that didn’t match the desert or mountains. It had unnatural square angles forming a rectangle, and was clearly manmade. I stopped for a moment to check my map as Ray crept up behind me. I felt him approach, and without looking up, I whispered what I had seen into his ear. Then, using a small, red LED light, I pointed out where I thought we were on my map. Ray referred to his compass and map for a moment, and then agreed with my assessment.
I took a quick sip of water before resuming my sweep, which took our patrol as close as possible to the mountains on the west side of the valley. My goal was to get us as much cover and concealment as possible during our approach to the village.
It had been a while since the Chinooks left, and our patrol had remained relatively silent ever since. Hopefully, no one in the village would suspect our approach. Inevitably, though, a dog would probably catch our scent in the breeze and start barking. The closer we got, the faster we would need to move.
Slowly, the rectangle on the horizon grew and grew until I could see that it was a small building with an adjoining yard, which was surrounded by a low wall. As we got closer, I was able to see the outlines of more buildings just beyond. At about half a mile away, I found a small area where our assault team could gather for a minute. At this point, it was our plan for half the assault to break away, follow a dried-up riverbed just to the east, and make entry into the village at a different point. Then, both assault teams would clear through the village in parallel and we would work our way south, with the GFC coordinating our efforts using satellite technology.
While studying the village and wolfing down a breakfast bar, I was pleased to discover that nobody appeared to be moving. Thankfully, there was still no sign that anyone suspected our oncoming raid. In fact, I could faintly make out the figures of what appeared to be villagers sleeping atop the roofs of their mud-walled homes.
As anticipated, though, a dog began to bark. The villagers still probably didn’t suspect an attack, but we sure as heck weren’t going to wait around for them to think about it much longer. Moments later, the GFC’s voice crackled over the radio, giving us the go-ahead for the assault to begin.
The last half-mile was relatively wide open, so I led us toward the village in as close to a sprint as I could manage while sweeping for explosives and trying to keep quiet. I quickly reached a wall near the northernmost compound, and waited a moment as the rest of the assault team fell in line behind me. The wall was about eight feet high, so I would need to use one of our foldable ladders to climb up onto the roof before clearing a way into the compound.
Somehow, I had to climb up the ladder and use my metal detector to sweep the roof for Taliban booby traps without waking the sleeping villagers. Of course, I would also need to have my weapon ready in case one of the villagers woke up and grabbed his AK-47.
I slung my rifle to my side before pulling out my pistol and a smaller, wand-like metal detector that I kept in my armor vest. At the same time, Ray and one of the Afghan commandos worked to unfold the ladder.
When the commando positioned the ladder on the side of the building, however, he abruptly set it down, resulting in a large thud. I waited a moment to see if the crashing sound had alerted the sleeping villagers, but thankfully, I heard no movement. Ray and I glared at the Afghan soldier, who responded with an apologetic look.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I started going up the ladder without much cover. I peered over the top, and saw one man sleeping only a few feet away. Luckily, he had somehow slept through the sound of the crashing ladder and there was no one else around him. The man wasn’t sleeping with a sheet or blanket that might conceal a rifle, and I didn’t see any weapons in the vicinity. In all likelihood, this man was a villager rather than a Taliban insurgent. I also doubted that he would knowingly sleep next to an IED planted on the roof. While responsible for other men’s lives, though, I couldn’t afford to take any risks.
Without taking my eyes off the sleeping man, I quietly and carefully pulled myself up onto the roof. As soon as I was clear of the ladder, I swiftly moved over to the sleeping man, put my hand over his mouth, and shook him awake. He was obviously startled, and I could see his eyes open wide through my night vision goggles. I must have looked like some sort of demon from the future to him, especially since the only thing visible to him would be small, green night vision halos around my eyes.
For a moment, my adrenaline spiked even higher than it had been as I crept up the ladder. I stood up, ushered the man to do the same, and pointed towards a stairway that led down from the roof into the compound’s courtyard. Without a moment of hesitation, the man acquiesced and began to move towards the stairway. Over my radio, I whispered to Ray that the roof was clear, which prompted him to immediately rush up the ladder. A few Afghan commandos followed as I urged the man down the stairway and into the courtyard.
At the base of the stairs, I peered into the courtyard, and was pleased to find that the man’s wife and children were apparently sleeping outside on mats in the middle of the courtyard. Even if this man was a Taliban fighter, which I doubted by this point, it would make no sense for him to booby trap the home that his family was sleeping in. Confident that no one would step on an IED, I glanced back up the staircase and motioned to Ray that we could let the other Afghan commandos loose in the compound. Ray nodded and whispered back to an interpreter, who was standing on the stairway just behind him.
From the base of the stairs, I watched as the commandos rushed in and began clearing the compound. They went over to the man’s sleeping family, woke them up, and put them in one corner of the courtyard. They brought the man who had been sleeping on the roof over to another corner to begin asking him questions. Other commandos ran through every room in the small home, and came out shaking their heads after a few minutes, which indicated that they didn’t find anything of interest.
When Ray checked with the interpreter and the group interrogating the man, his story matched my hunch. As it turned out, he was just a simple Afghan farmer managing a few fields in the surrounding area. Our approach had been across barren desert, but this village did have a few bright green poppy fields surrounding a few of its mud buildings. I had little doubt that the man was telling the truth about his occupation.
When it came to our next question, however, I wasn’t so sure about his candor. We asked the man if he had seen any Taliban during the last few days, and he emphatically shook his head to indicate that he hadn’t. In all likelihood, he was lying, probably because he was required to sell his poppy to the Taliban. If he didn’t, he would almost certainly have been beaten, tortured, or even killed. He would have faced a similarly brutal fate if the Taliban even suspected that he had cooperated with foreign troops.
Intelligence reports led us to strongly believe that the Taliban was indeed operating in the area, and specifically this particular village. After wrapping up our interview with the man, we moved from compound to compound, finding more apparent villagers and their families. Most of the military-age males we questioned said the same thing: they were farmers who knew nothing about the Taliban or where they might be operating.
After peering into room after room without seeing any indication of Taliban activity, I began to believe these men. Just as that thought popped into my head, though, a loud voice crackled over the radio requesting that I come to “Building Thirty-Eight.” Had they found a group of Taliban fighters? Or maybe even an IED? My heart and mind began to race.
I looked at Ray, who had heard the same thing over his radio. As he checked over his map, Ray pointed out that there were still a few buildings to clear between us and Building Thirty-Eight. He said that if there were Taliban fighters hiding in any of those buildings, they would most likely pose a greater threat than whatever we would find inside Building Thirty-Eight.
I agreed, and asked Alaska, the SEAL on the other end of the radio, if there were any suspected Taliban fighters in the building. Alaska said he didn’t think so, but at the same time, he hadn’t been able to clear the building because he had found a suspected IED hidden in the doorframe. My heart and mind began racing even faster.
After five years as an EOD officer, I still hadn’t stared down a “ready to explode” enemy bomb, even though I had gotten very close with that IED factory and explosives cache we had found on a previous mission. In reality, though, I believed that nothing I blew up in the alley that day had been an active roadside bomb, but only pieces and parts.
If Alaska had in fact found a real IED, this would be my day of reckoning. It would be my first opportunity to validate my place on the assault team and put my training to the test, as well as, for lack of a better term, my nuts. Did I have what it took to disable a Taliban bomb with my bare hands?
As my heart leapt into my throat, Ray instructed Alaska to grab a secure position and keep eyes on Building Thirty-Eight while we cleared everything in between. We found nothing, and after about fifteen minutes, Ray led us to a large, two-story compound only a few hundred yards away from Building Thirty-Eight before directing the Afghan commandos to set up a security perimeter. Ray then said he would come with me to meet Alaska, who was hunkered down in a small group of trees along an irrigation ditch near Building Thirty-Eight, along with another SEAL named Red.
Building Thirty-Eight was a mud-walled hut that couldn’t have been more than thirty feet long and twelve feet wide. It was tall, however, standing about sixteen feet high on a crest at the southernmost point of the village. The building also offered a great vantage point for the valley to our south. It made sense that this building might be booby-trapped, as the Taliban might have predicted that if American troops were to assault the village, we might do so from the south. Under that scenario, Building Thirty-Eight would have been the first we would encounter. When the IED blew up, it would not only have killed several of us, but alerted the Taliban to our presence.
Ray offered to help Red provide overwatch while Alaska guided me to the doorway where he explained that he had seen the tail of a mortar sticking out of the ground. Mortar tails were actually not uncommon to see in war-torn Afghan villages, as the remnants of exploded or unexploded ordnance were all over. For a moment, I thought that Alaska might have simply seen a mortar tail that someone was using for a doorstop (yes, that was actually possible!), and that my chance to disable a real IED would have to wait.
When I asked Alaska to describe how the mortar tail had been sticking out of the ground, he clarified that it wasn’t only the tail, but a full mortar round buried just in front of the doorway. Now I was sure it was, in fact, an IED.
“It’s gigantic,” Alaska said of the mortar.
Mortars are identified by their diameter, with 80mm—a little larger than a baseball on one end, with a tail on the other—being the most common. Alaska estimated that this mortar round, however, was 105mm, which was about the size of an NFL football. I figured that gave it a net explosive weight of about twenty pounds, which would likely kill a person who stepped on it, while maiming the person(s) standing behind.
Upon this realization, my heart seemed to beat just as loudly as Alaska’s voice. My moment had finally arrived, and I couldn’t have been any more nervous.
As I followed Alaska along a narrow path leading up the embankment and around to the front of the building, my mind’s eye ran through all I had seen in recent IED reports. This device was most likely a pressure plate, which was most common. But what if it was something else? Could it have been a remote-fired device, which a Taliban fighter was waiting to trigger from a vantage point we had missed inside the village, or perhaps even a nearby mountain? These types of dreadful scenarios filled my head as we approached Building Thirty-Eight.
Before my imagination could run too wild, we reached the back of the building. I told Alaska to stand back, but also to keep an eye on me, as well as the valley to our south. The sun was coming up now, and my movements would be obvious to anyone watching from the mountains on either side or from the valley to the south. I doubted anyone was there, but at the same time, I wanted someone who I could trust watching my back.
I pulled out my large metal detector and began clearing a path around to the front of the building, while being careful to stay away from its walls, which was exactly where I would have placed secondary explosives if I had been a bad guy.
As soon as my eyes reached the front of the building, I saw the mortar tail that Alaska had identified. Keeping my distance, I kept sweeping in an arc with my metal detector around to the front of the building so I could get a better look at the device.
Alaska was spot on. The mortar was mostly buried, but I could see a portion of the wide explosive end. Alaska’s assessment that it was a 105mm mortar was almost certainly correct.
Upon first glance, I didn’t see any apparent initiation system. As my sweat began to drip, I slowly crept forward towards the IED while perpetually scanning the immediate area around Building Thirty-Eight. Then, I glanced toward the mountains and the valley, which were now behind me.
When I got within about six feet of the device, I saw something that froze me in my tracks. A small, thin wire was protruding from the sand where the nose of the mortar should have been. The wire ran up a foot or two to the door frame on the right side of the door before disappearing into the shadows beyond the doorway.
A couple thoughts went through my already racing mind. Either the wire ran to a handheld detonator that someone was holding inside, or to a detonator that could be triggered by a cell phone. Facing possible death, I had to make a snap decision.
I quickly opted for a BIP, which wasn’t exactly “hands on,” but still counted in my book. I would remove one of the small charges that I kept in my chest rig, place it on the exposed part of the mortar, and then try to blow it up after I took cover.
Sometimes, EOD technicians would avoid this tactic if we needed to preserve the immediate area. But during this tense moment, the last thing I cared about was the future of a small, mud building. Most importantly, a BIP was the safest method to ensure the safety of both myself and my assault team.
I pulled out my charge and showed it to Alaska, who knew exactly what my intentions were. Over the radio, he told the GFC that I intended to blow up the device. As he spoke, I quickly calculated that the ensuing blast would only go about ten feet into the air. Since the IED was facing south and the rest of my team was to the north, they would be protected from blast fragments originating from Building Thirty-Eight.
With my plan set, I quickly moved over top of the mortar. This was the moment of greatest risk, but strangely, I had stopped feeling nervous. My heartbeat was now steady, my breathing was smooth, and my profuse sweating had subsided. I was calm and completely in the moment. I was doing what I had been trained to do.
Not wasting any time, I placed a small amount of plastic explosive on the exposed mortar and carefully laid out a minute’s worth of fuse. I took one last look at the mortar and the thin wire before pulling the small key ring initiator at the end of the time fuse. Upon confirming that the fuse had lit, I called “Smoke!” to Alaska, who passed this along on the radio. Swiftly but carefully, I stood up, backed away, and then retraced my steps around the building. After reaching Alaska, we bounded down the embankment together.
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” I shouted over the radio at the fifty-five second mark.
Barely one second later, a crack and a loud “BOOM” echoed through the previously quiet southern Afghanistan valley. I must have started my watch late, but I was close enough. The mortar had exploded.
Alaska and I grinned at each other before darting up the embankment. When we reached our previous position, Alaska held up his rifle and scanned for threats while I swept back up to the front of the building. To my elation, the mortar had indeed blown up, and taken a good chunk of the building’s front side with it. If there had been anyone inside, they would either be dead or incapacitated by the blast.
After determining that no one had been inside Building Thirty-Eight, I asked Alaska to join me in checking out the damage. Alaska smiled as he turned the corner and saw what I had done. He then pulled out his camera and told me to pose. As he snapped the picture, I threw up a cheesy “thumbs up” sign, which was the first thing that came to mind. Alaska then slapped my back and congratulated me on disabling my first active enemy IED. It was a truly remarkable feeling.
BY THE TIME THE sun went down that evening, we had patrolled up a mountain to the west of the village. Once up on the plateau, our assault team dug in and hid. At around midnight, two Chinook helicopters swooped in, but instead of boarding them, we just took off supplies of water and food. Our intention was to trick possible enemy fighters into thinking that we had left the area after clearing the village. In many cases, the Taliban would re-enter these villages after thinking the Americans were gone.
For the rest of the night, a few of the SEALs and I took turns watching over the village, while the rest of the team attempted to get a few hours of rest. From about 2 a.m. to 4 a.m., I would team up with a SEAL we nicknamed “Sarge” since he had been a Marine sergeant before transitioning to the Navy and eventually BUD/S training.
At first, Sarge and I watched in silence as I used my night vision and a small thermal imager to scan for fighters who might have been hiding in nearby mountains or the valley below.
That’s when Sarge and I both noticed a strange blinking light in the distance. Then, from a different direction, another light blinked, seemingly in response. After watching this exchange for a few moments, we concluded that two fighters were communicating through some type of Taliban Morse code. Unable to figure out what they were saying, Sarge and I just watched, hoping that the fighters would move back into the village so that we could capture them the next morning.
After about an hour of watching the blinking lights, the initial excitement of our discovery had worn off. To combat the ensuing wave of exhaustion, Sarge and I began to talk. After swapping a few funny training stories, we somehow wandered into a deep discussion about how we had both ended up in the desolate, treacherous mountains of Afghanistan.
As the Navy SEAL and I reflected on our shared commitment to serve, I recalled sitting in my backyard in Colorado Springs when I was eight years old. I thought about playing with those G.I. Joes and hoping that someday, I would become a warrior.
I then recalled the events of that very morning, and smiled at the thought of blowing up that enemy IED. At the same time, my peripheral vision caught the American flag patch on my armor, along with my slung rifle.
In that special moment under the starry sky, I wished that the eight-year-old Brad Snyder could have met twenty-seven-year-old Brad. I firmly believed that eight-year-old Brad would have been a pretty big fan of his twenty-seven-year-old counterpart. This humorous comparison made me smile, and a feeling of strong connection to my purpose washed over me.
Finally, I had become what I had always wanted to become. I was a real-life G.I. Joe, trained to defend my country at any cost. I had become a warrior.
This picture of me was taken while my family lived in Reno, Nevada.
My father, Michael, was the first person to introduce me to the water.
My brother Mitchell, right, helped me dream of becoming a real-life G.I. Joe.
Mitchell, left, and my brother Russell, right, loved our backyard pool in Bradenton, Florida. For the Snyders, swimming was always a family affair.
This is a family portrait of Russell, me, Mitchell, and our baby sister, Elyse.
Inspired by the stories of our grandparents, my siblings and I decided to dress up in makeshift military uniforms.
This photo shows Elyse and me in our favorite place: the water.
My family was excited to visit Annapolis after I completed “plebe summer” at the US Naval Academy. My mother, Valarie, is on the right.
Visiting my family home in St. Petersburg, Florida, was a welcome respite during my Naval Academy days.
I know this Naval Academy portrait was taken after plebe year since my hair had grown back.
This photo was taken during another visit home to St. Petersburg.
This is my cheesy “thumbs up” after disabling my first active enemy IED in Afghanistan.
During my deployment to Afghanistan, I spent a lot of time with our multi-purpose canine, Max.
The service dogs at the Walter Reed National Military Center gave me comfort during the first few weeks after my injury.
My coach, Brian Loeffler, helped navigate me back into the pool. Courtesy: US Air Force/Master Sergeant Sean M. Worrell.
This photo was taken while I was training for the 2012 Paralympic Games.
I will never forget walking out to the pool with Brian on my first Alive Day—September 7, 2012—for the biggest race of my life: the 400m freestyle at the 2012 Paralympic Games in London.
A fist pump felt appropriate after Brian told me I won.
Receiving the gold medal is a moment I will never forget.
While singing along with “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the podium in London, I thought of the many people who helped me arrive at this improbable moment.
After the ceremony, I made sure to thank the wonderful crowd in London.
I met Defense Secretary Leon Panetta at the Pentagon on September 13, 2012, with fellow Paralympians Kari Miller, Jeremy Campbell, and Cortney Jordan. Courtesy: US Navy/Petty Officer First Class Chad McNeeley.
It was an incredible honor to present the American flag to President Barack Obama, first lady Michelle Obama, and Vice President Joe Biden with US Olympic fencer Mariel Zagunis at the White House on September 14, 2012. Courtesy: US Air Force/Desiree N. Palacios.
After the ceremony, I thanked the first lady for sharing my story in a recent speech. Courtesy: The White House.
It was thrilling to return to Annapolis for the Navy-San Jose State football game on September 29, 2012, for an on-field ceremony with US Navy Admiral Jonathan Greenert, Secretary of the Navy Ray Mabus, Vice Admiral Michael H. Miller, Navy Athletic Director Chet Gladchuk, Navy men’s swimming coach Bill Roberts, and Lieutenant Jake Keefe. Courtesy: US Navy/Mass Communication Specialist First Class Peter D. Lawlor.
Delivering the keynote address at the Navy-Marine Corps Ball in Washington on March 23, 2013, inspired me to continue sharing my story through public speaking. Courtesy: US Navy/Mass Communication Specialist First Class Peter D. Lawlor.
At the 2012 Warrior Games in Colorado Springs, I thanked US Army Captain Ivan Castro for helping put my new life into perspective. Courtesy: US Special Operations Command/Technical Sergeant Heather Kelly.
I returned to Colorado Springs on May 11, 2013, to light the Warrior Games torch with US Olympic swimmer and gold medalist Missy Franklin and Prince Harry. Courtesy: US Marine Corps/Lance Corporal Scott Reel.
I enjoyed visiting Alaska in 2014 with my family, my guide dog, Gizzy, and family friends Nancy and Ross Sarratt.
My family visited Springfield, Missouri, in November 2015 to celebrate the induction of my brother, Mitchell, left, to Drury University’s Athletic of Hall of Fame for his accomplishments as a collegiate swimmer.
Gizzy and I now call Baltimore home. Courtesy: Under Armour.
The opening ceremony for the 2016 Paralympic Games will be held in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, on September 7: my fifth Alive Day. Courtesy: US Olympic Committee.