by Travis Mills
Copyright © 2015 by Travis Mills Group, LLC
Foreword copyright © 2015 by Gary Sinise
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Convergent Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Convergent Books and colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mills, Travis, author. | Brotherton, Marcus, co-author.
Title: Tough as they come / Travis Mills, Marcus Brotherton ; foreword by Gary Sinise.
Description: New York : Convergent Books, 2015.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015022590 | ISBN 9781101904787 (hardback)
Subjects: LCSH: Mills, Travis. | Afghan War, 2001—Personal narratives, American. | United States. Army. Airborne Division, 82nd. | Disabled veterans–United States–Biography. | Amputees–United States–Biography. | Soldiers–United States–Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Military. | RELIGION / Christian Life / Inspirational.
Classification: LCC DS371.413 .M55 2015 | DDC 958.104/7–dc23
ISBN 9781101904787
eBook ISBN 9781101904794
Cover design by Jess Morphew
Cover photograph by Michael Turek
v4.1_r2
ep+a
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Foreword
Chapter 1: A 15-Minute Helicopter Ride from Kandahar
Chapter 2: Born in a Small Town
Chapter 3: Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof
Chapter 4: Gunner in a Humvee
Chapter 5: Crazy Little Thing Called Love
Chapter 6: Firefights with the Taliban
Chapter 7: Rooftop Grenades
Chapter 8: Heavy Firefights in BMG
Chapter 9: Our First Home Together
Photo Insert
Chapter 10: My Last Deployment
Chapter 11: April 10, 2012
Chapter 12: Pain
Chapter 13: The Coma
Chapter 14: The Floor in Front of Me
Chapter 15: To Walk, to Race
Chapter 16: Our New Home
Chapter 17: Never Give Up. Never Quit.
About the Travis Mills Foundation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To all my fallen brothers and sisters of the 82nd Airborne Division
Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.
JOSHUA 1:9
These days I do a lot of public speaking, and there are two things I say to any audience right up front. I wanted to say those things to you as well.
The first is that I don’t hold the value of my service in the military above anyone else’s. I don’t think I served better or harder or greater than any other soldier. I’m just thankful I was able to serve my country. If you were in the service or are serving now, no matter what your job is, I want to tell you I’m hugely thankful, personally. If you aren’t a veteran, but you support our military service members, then thank you for that support as well. Sincerely, it means a lot to me.
Second, even though I’ve been wounded badly, I don’t think the challenges in my life are any greater than anyone else’s. Sometimes after people hear my story they say, “Man, I don’t know if I could ever press forward like that, and overcome challenges like you have.” But I say everybody faces challenges in life, big and small. My problems are no greater than yours. Simply put, yours are yours, mine are mine, and we’re all in this together.
I’ve been fortunate to work through my situation and lead a positive and fulfilling life again. I hope this book will motivate you if you need to get through a challenging situation. The key is that you’ve got to believe it’s going to get better. Keep going. Keep persevering. You’re going to get through tough times. Never give up. Never quit.
In his book The Price of Their Blood: Profiles in Spirit, wounded Vietnam war veteran and former U.S. Secretary of Veterans Affairs Jesse Brown writes, “For every life unraveled by military battle, there are a dozen tales of individuals who have managed to triumph over the harrowing experiences of war and ruin.” After his service at the Veterans Administration, as executive director of the Disabled Veterans LIFE Memorial Foundation, Mr. Brown went on to create the American Veterans Disabled for Life Memorial in our nation’s capital, the first and only memorial honoring disabled veterans. Jesse certainly lived these ideas himself, and this quote is etched on a glass panel as part of this tribute to injured U.S. service members from all wars.
These words perfectly describe my friend, United States Army Staff Sergeant, Travis Mills.
Serving with the 82nd Airborne in Afghanistan during his third tour of duty, while on patrol on April 10, 2012, Travis was critically injured when the blast from an improvised explosive device (IED) took portions of his legs and both arms. He is one of only five quadruple amputees from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to survive his injuries. One would think that losing both arms and both legs would slow a person down. But with Travis, it seems to be just the opposite. He truly is one of those individuals who have managed to triumph over the harrowing experiences of war and ruin.
I met this incredible young man shortly after he arrived at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center and, like everyone who meets Travis, I was immediately struck by his amazingly positive outlook, his humor, his confidence, and his sense of gratitude for having survived the blast. While I am sure he has had his more challenging, discouraging, and darker moments in private, in public he never fails to spread joy and light to everyone he meets, and I know that his love for his wife, Kelsey, and daughter, Chloe, and their love for him, are motivating factors for him to get up each day with a new attitude to look forward, not back, and to take on the world.
Like the amazing Jesse Brown and his lifelong devotion to fellow disabled veterans, Travis is working to use his means to take care of a new generation of service members injured in battle. Whether speaking on behalf of his own foundation and his effort to build a retreat to assist wounded service members and their families, or traveling to raise awareness and funding for other military charities, Travis is constantly serving and honoring the needs of his brothers and sisters in arms. Personally, I am inspired by this resilient warrior, am proud to know him, and honored that he is an ambassador of the Gary Sinise Foundation.
In the pages that follow, I know that you also will be inspired by Travis’s story—a story of hope and resilience. It is a reminder that no matter what life may throw at us, as long as we “never give up, never quit,” as Travis says, we can achieve anything we set our hearts and minds to. He is quite simply a great American and an example for us all.
Gary Sinise
Only one boy played with his kite.
The rest of the kids in the village of Maiwand took the kites we’d given them and ripped them apart. They threw the shredded kites on the ground and spat on them. Then they went over to the boy who played with his kite and hit him and spit on him. The boy’s lip swelled up and his nose turned bloody. They destroyed his kite too. When there were no more kites to destroy, the children glared in our direction, cursed, and shouted anti-American slogans. A few flung dirt clods. Those Afghan kids were the best dirt clod flingers I’d ever seen.
We shrugged off our chilly reception and adjusted our weapons. I checked to see that the security detail was all right near the perimeter of the village and reminded myself that this was only our first patrol in the area. You can’
t blame a kid for hating American soldiers when terrorists have spread lies about us throughout their region.
I knew the Taliban were bastards. They ruled by fear. They hated us, and they also hated schools, elections, women’s rights, and freedom. They slaughtered civilians, scorched acres of fertile farmland, stopped United Nations food shipments from reaching starving people, and destroyed tens of thousands of homes.
The Taliban didn’t even fight fairly. They were too chicken for that. They blended in among civilians and shot at us while they used their own schoolchildren for cover. They placed improvised explosive devices (IEDs) into the ground where anybody passing by could step on them—enemy, farmer, or child.
No, I thought, these kids in Maiwand weren’t Taliban. They had no news, no TV, no iPods, no means of ever hearing anything different about us. No, they weren’t to blame. I always kept in mind who the real enemy was.
Clouds hung low, and wind whipped cold at us from across the desert. After our failed attempt at kite diplomacy, we sat down with village elders and explained our purpose for being in the area. They gave us a warmer welcome. About thirty men gathered in a circle. The elders, shrouded in dark beards and flowing robes, nodded at us from underneath their turbans. No women were present, although once in a while a female figure would pass by in the distance. The figure would be covered in black from head to toe. No face. Only eyes.
We gathered out in the open in the middle of their town square, a primitive dirt crossroads in the middle of a cluster of mud huts. The lower-ranking soldiers set up a security detail and didn’t join our circle. They kept their helmets on, their weapons ever ready. But the higher-ranking soldiers, the officers and most of the noncommissioned officers (NCOs), joined the circle. We took off our helmets, wanting the elders to begin to feel comfortable in our presence, and we sat on the dirt or took a knee while they squatted on their haunches, a style of sitting they’re comfortable with. We were served scalding hot chai tea as a gesture of their hospitality. At that temperature, the tea would be safe to drink, yet we eyed the cups closely anyway, knowing what havoc a microscopic desert bug can wreak inside a gut. The elders listened intently when we spoke through an interpreter, and when we shut up they spoke passionately about their desire for freedom and security in their homeland.
We communicated to the elders that we were in their region to help the Afghan National Army (ANA) gain a presence in the area. Maiwand is only about a fifteen-minute Chinook helicopter ride away from Kandahar, the second-largest city in Afghanistan, and a city that once had been the Taliban’s headquarters.
Ultimately, we wanted to push the Taliban out of the region and keep them from influencing the population. I knew the village elders were no strangers to American soldiers. As soon as our helicopters had touched down earlier the night before, the unit ahead of us had rotated out. We were just another spoke in the military wheel, and the elders nodded along with us and smiled and agreed that the Taliban were the bad guys. The elders didn’t want them there either. They’d do whatever they could to help us, they said.
I hoped the elders weren’t just telling us what we wanted to hear. This was my third deployment to Afghanistan, and I knew by now to be wary of even the most sincere-sounding agreements. A quiet circle of village elders might indeed be our friends, but they also could have a Taliban member secretly embedded in their circle. Or they might simply be playing it safe, declaring their allegiance to whatever military force was present at the time. I drained the last of my tea and stayed alert, always on my guard, always ready for an attack.
I was even wary of the ANA, the Afghan soldiers, who’d come along with us on this mission. They stood near the circle, rifles in arms. They’d signed up to fight for their country and were our allies, our counterparts. During other deployments, Afghan soldiers had hiked along with us on almost every patrol we went on, and we’d helped train and equip them. By decree, we were on the same side.
Still, I feared getting shot in my sleep. Not by the ANA themselves. But, again, by whoever might be embedded within their ranks. Whenever we stayed outside our compound, the ANA slept only about a hundred yards away from us. My fear was that some dude would pop up suddenly in the dark of night and start killing U.S. soldiers. I’d long since learned that danger lurked around every corner in Afghanistan. I never knew for certain if we were safe.
The meeting with the elders seemed to go smoothly, so we headed back to the strongpoint to report to our higher-ups what we knew so far. It had been a good day. Nobody got hurt. Everybody came back alive. When we were about twenty yards away from the barbed-wire gate of our base, I jogged ahead of my guys, did an about-face with a big smile, held up my hands to high-five them all through the gate, and started singing one of my favorite marching cadences as loudly as I could:
When I was younger I always wanted to be,
In the 82nd Airborne, knees to the breeze.
Now that I’m here, I’m going to do it right,
I’m gonna slip on down to a firefight.
All the way Airborne, Airborne all the way.
Drive it on, drive it on.
The guys all grinned, hiked at a faster rate, and high-fived me back as they ripped through the gates into the strongpoint. They knew I was just performing my routine. By nature, I’m not an angry person. Not usually grumpy, moody, or upset. I love life, and the biggest reason I was on this deployment was because of a sense of solidarity with my guys.
My rank was staff sergeant. I was an NCO, part of the backbone of the army. Specifically, I was a weapons squad leader in 1st Platoon, Bravo Troop, 4/73rd Cavalry Squadron, 4th Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division. It’s a long title, I know. Basically I was a paratrooper and a combat infantry soldier. I was a frontline soldier in a war without front lines.
As an NCO, I worked for my men. My job was to take my men to Afghanistan, do the job, and bring them all home safely. My attitude was that my guys always came first. Always. They ate first, and if there was no food left, then I didn’t eat. When we were tired, they slept first. When we were out in the hot sun, they drank water first. They carried lighter loads than me. That was the way I wanted it.
I’d known most of the men in my unit for about a year, but already we felt like brothers. Work in the army can be like that. The army is a moving machine—guys get plugged in and taken out all the time. But the brotherhood you feel in a combat unit such as mine is intense; it has no direct comparison in the civilian world. The closest I’d ever experienced to it before was the feeling I got on a football team in high school. But even that wasn’t the same. The time you spend together in a combat troop is concentrated. It bonds men together because of the constant need to lay your life down for the sake of others. Because of the ever-present threat of bloodshed and death.
I wasn’t even supposed to go on this third deployment. I was supposed to be stationed somewhere else. But I had my orders changed. If my guys were going, then there was no way they were going to go to Afghanistan without me. I’d promised my wife, Kelsey, that this deployment would be my last. My plan was to knock out this time in Afghanistan, come home, and become a recruiter at Fort Bragg. Kelsey and I already owned a house near there. In time, I’d finish up my twenty years in the military, retire from the army, then become a schoolteacher and football coach all by the ripe old age of forty.
Those were my big goals. The plan seemed smooth. But why did I have a different feeling in my gut about this deployment? One I’d never had before?
—
Six weeks passed in Afghanistan. We went on patrols every day and got into a series of firefights. Fortunately, none of our men were wounded in combat during those first six weeks. We gritted our teeth and carried on. This was our job. This was what we signed up to do. A constant uneasiness hung in the air.
The morning of April 10, 2012, dawned bright. It was four days before my twenty-fifth birthday, and the sun hung low and hot in the eastern sky. Glancing about me, I saw the little villages
that sat in the sand all around our strongpoint. Mountains squatted far in the distance. All looked calm. But there was a sly, almost unnoticeable breeze. It dried a man’s sweat and kicked up a handful of dust on his skin. It felt like the type of day where anything could happen. Or hopefully nothing.
I brushed my teeth in bottled water, rinsed my face, and woke up my team leaders by heartily singing the 82nd Airborne song.
Put on your boots, boots, boots and parachutes, chutes, chutes,
We’re going up, up, up and coming down, down, down,
We’re All American and proud to be,
for we’re the soldiers of liberty,
Some fly their gliders to the enemy,
others are sky paratroopers.
We’re All American and fight we will,
'til all the guns of the foe are still.
Airborne from skies of blue, we’re coming through, Let’s Go!
Our strongpoint was triangular-shaped, 150 yards by 150 yards by 150 yards. Inside the triangle was a dining tent, mortar pits, a parking lot for vehicles, an operating office, ten tents for living quarters, and walled-off areas where you could shower by using bottled water. There was no running water. No outside power. We burned our own trash and feces. At the edge of each of the three vertices of the compound stood a huge guard tower. At this particular time, forty-six men lived in this stronghold, along with two women soldiers who had their own tent. Our deployment was a short one, set to last seven to nine months at most, and we’d probably be based out of the strongpoint for the entire deployment, although plans could always change.
We were taking the day off; no patrols were scheduled, so I let my other men doze a bit longer while my team leaders and I headed over to the chow tent for breakfast. A Unitized Group Ration (UGR) was being served. I was thankful. While a UGR wasn’t as good as eating at IHOP, I knew there were days on deployment when a soldier doesn’t eat at all. There were no complaints from me, particularly with my sausages and eggs smothered in hot sauce, salt, and pepper.
