by Travis Mills
Days off when you’re on deployment are nothing to write home about. Everybody on deployment has a computer with a hard drive stocked full of movies and TV shows. My favorite movies were The Last of the Mohicans, Gladiator, 300, Troy, and The Patriot. I’d seen them all more times than I could count. I loved the crime drama Sons of Anarchy, about an outlaw motorcycle club, and I think I’d seen every episode of the sitcom How I Met Your Mother at least twice. If a guy had something—anything—then we watched it. I don’t know what it was about That ’70s Show, but it always made me laugh. My lieutenant was even sent a DVD of the show Glee once, and everybody mocked him for it, but we all watched it anyway. We were also lucky in our strongpoint to have three telephones and five computers with Internet access, so we were able to check email regularly and Skype home, which is what I did right after breakfast.
Because of the time difference, my morning was Kelsey’s nighttime, and her familiar face popped up on the computer screen looking like she was just about ready for bed. My wife is beautiful. She has blondish-brown hair that falls a little past her shoulders, and I looked straight into her eyes. We usually didn’t have long conversations over Skype like this. But we’d check in each day with each other just to say, “I love you, all’s well.” She held up our baby, Chloe, for me to see, and I kissed the tips of two fingers and touched them to the screen to say good night. Chloe cooed, grinned, and waved.
After that, I hit the gym. It’s nothing to write home about either. We called it a prison gym. It’s in the middle of the strongpoint and has bars, bells, and benches. Nothing fancy. At six foot three and 250 pounds, I liked to stay in shape. I never did cardio while on deployment, because when you’re out all day on patrol, packing 150 pounds around in the hot sun, that’s all the cardio you need. But every day I went through a basic weight routine of rolls, shrugs, backs, and presses. The sun was already hot, and I wished I was back at home heading down to the local air-conditioned Planet Fitness.
When you’re hanging out with guys lifting weights, you tend to shoot the bull in between reps. A favorite topic at the prison gym was what you’d eat for your first meal when you got home again. My favorite meal is steak, preferably wood-fired, with cheesecake for dessert. So we lifted, then talked about steak, then lifted some more. Then we talked about homemade mac and cheese. Then we discussed fried chicken and buttery corn on the cob in great detail. We concluded with a conversation about a frosty glass of beer along with a salty bag of potato chips. Somewhere in there we talked about a fresh slice of warm apple pie.
The rest of the day passed slowly. We threw around a football for a while, ate more military rations for lunch, and watched some crap on TV. We were always ready to go, even while on a day off. Our weapons were always cleaned and loaded. Our backpacks were always full. Our ammo was stocked and set. If an order came in, we could fully assemble as a platoon and head out the gate in under ten minutes.
Late in the afternoon, about 4:30 p.m., we received a tip from a local civilian informant. There were IEDs in the area, the informant suspected, and he asked us to come check it out. That meant our day off was officially over. The tip wasn’t anything unusual, but we weren’t nonchalant about it either. Each time we went out the gate, we were on high alert.
Specifically, I was responsible for two weapons teams of four men each. Whenever my teams got into a firefight, the responsibility ultimately fell to me. I told my men where to go and what to do. I told them to shoot or not to shoot. I made sure they stayed safe and came back alive.
Each of my teams carried what’s called a 240 Bravo—the biggest dismount-and-carry machine gun the military has. It’s a long, sinister gun that weighs about twenty-seven pounds. It can shoot at a rapid rate and hit a target a long distance away. You can mount a 240 Bravo on a vehicle if needed, or carry it around with you while patrolling. In addition to the guns, between both of my teams, we carried two thousand rounds of ammunition.
My senior team was composed of four soldiers: Specialist Cobia Farr, the assistant gunner; Private First Class Armando Plascencia, a designated squad marksman who carried a long-range rifle like a sniper would; Private First Class Eric Hunter, the gunner; and Private First Class Jon Harmon, the ammo bearer, who carried the rounds and also took rear security. This team could operate without me and had just come off a patrol, so that day I told them to stay back on base.
My junior team was composed of myself and three others: Private First Class Ryan Theriot (we called him “The Riot”), the assistant gunner; Private First Class Brandon Fessey, the ammo bearer; and Private First Class James Neff, our gunner. They were the younger guys, so I stuck with them.
When the call came, I suited up along with my junior team and buckled my Kevlar plate carrier vest around me. It clicked into place and I instantly felt tough and protected, like a gladiator with his sword unsheathed and his shield up. Along with the bulletproof plates, my vest also carried a small first-aid kit, a grenade pouch with ten of those inside, twelve ammo magazines, a camera, a bottle, a sunglass holder, pens and maps, and a radio hookup. I slapped on my kneepads, threw on eye protection, and rolled my gloves at the wrists and flexed my hands into fists. It’s an internal signal that lets me know I’m ready for battle. It reminds me that I’m not looking for a fight, but if someone wants to fight me, then he’s going down, not me.
I clipped my helmet into place and slung my weapon around me. In my backpack were more rounds of ammo, water, food, an extra T-shirt, baby powder to prevent chafing, and a little photo album I always carry of my family. Altogether, depending on what it had in it for any particular mission, my backpack added another 80 to 110 pounds onto my frame.
As I walked out of the gate past the guard tower, I pulled back the charging handle of my weapon and let it go. Every man did the same. That way, you’re “cocked, locked, and ready to rock,” and when you hear the round lock into place, you claim the dominant mind-set that nobody had better mess with you today.
Absolutely nobody.
—
We hiked only about four hundred yards to the village. In addition to my weapons team, there were other squads along on the patrol, a total of twenty-eight soldiers. My lieutenant, Zachary Lewis, went to the left with the first and second squads, heading to meet with the village elders, while the rest of our men went with me around the village on the outside to offer support in case of an attack. Along with my gun team, I had my platoon sergeant and a medic, Sergeant Daniel Bateson, with my group. All looked calm. It seemed like just another day in Afghanistan. Another normal patrol.
We approached an abandoned ANA security post (two portable buildings), and stopped near the buildings to establish a security perimeter. I called for Fessey to bring the minesweeper. It’s a wand that goes up and around his arm, and it looks like a metal detector a guy would use at the beach. If the minesweeper makes a noise, that means something’s in the soil. If we hear a beep, then we mark the spot, go around it, and have the Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) guys dig out and dispose of whatever’s under there. Whenever we found an IED, we’d never mess with it ourselves. Mines can be unpredictable, and you want the experts to handle them. Some IEDs aren’t even made of metal, just plastic and glass, which can sometimes fool a minesweeper. But even then, the minesweeper is designed to have ground-penetrating capability. It can usually detect if something’s in the ground and it’s not soil.
“Check this area” was the only order I gave.
Fessey walked up a path used by villagers and scanned all around the area. He went up and back, and all was clear. No beeps. There was no reason to question anything. Fessey finished his minesweeping duties and went to set up on the far flank.
I called Riot up to me and asked him where he thought we should put up the gun. I knew where it should go, but I wanted to let him decide, making sure he knew his stuff. He motioned to exactly where I thought we should put it, a good spot, and I said, “All right. Go get Neff and bring him up here.” That was it. Riot left
to go get Neff, and as he did, I set my backpack down. The backpack touching the dirt was all it took.
Such a simple act of war.
My world erupted.
I saw a flash of flame and heard a huge ka-boom. Hot jagged pieces of explosives ripped through me. I cartwheeled backward end over end, hit the ground, and slammed my face hard against the compacted earth. Instantly I felt my left eye starting to swell shut. I smelled burning flesh—my own. I tasted dirt, and I was wet with sweat and moisture like I’d just walked out of a hot shower.
Dirt fell everywhere through the air. It rained down and clung to my eyes, nose, and mouth. I don’t remember rolling over, but I must have, because I glanced to the side and saw that my right arm was completely gone. I caught a glimpse of my left arm, covered in blood and tattered. The arm trembled as if it had a will of its own. I looked down and saw that my right leg was also gone. The stump looked like a piece of raw meat. The bottom of my left leg was still attached but held on by only a few strands of skin. I saw all this in a flash, an instant.
I felt confusion but no panic. My first thought was of my guys. I flopped my remaining arm toward the microphone clipped to my plate carrier and somehow managed to push the button. “I hit a bomb,” I said. “I need help.”
Bateson, my medic, rushed up to me along with Staff Sergeant Keith Hambright, our platoon sergeant. Only about thirty seconds had passed since the blast. Immediately they applied tourniquets to hold in whatever blood was still inside me.
“I’m not going to make it,” I said. “Leave me and go save my guys.”
“Shut up, Sergeant Mills,” Bateson said. “Let me do my job.”
I ignored Bateson and yelled my men’s names like a roll call: “Fessey! Riot! Neff!” to see if they were okay. Two were hit, Fessey and Riot, and other medics were already caring for them. They were bleeding, but nothing was missing. They yelled back that they were going to be okay.
I calmed down.
More soldiers ran toward me. Sergeant Alex Voyce, another medic, wondered aloud where to best get IV access. There were no pulses to check except for my carotid artery. He quickly ripped open my vest, shaved a spot on my chest, and put an IV straight into my sternum. It hurt going in, and I must have howled, because he yelled at me that I was going to be fine. I yelled back, “Doc, shut up. I know.” He and I both calmed down.
Someone stuck a Fentanyl pop in my mouth. It’s a potent painkiller that releases as the pop dissolves. I downed the first one, spit out the stick, and asked for another.
“You won’t need it,” someone said.
I was still thinking that I was going to die. I didn’t want to show fear. I didn’t want to freak out. You never want to show fear around your men. “Let my family know I dealt with it without crying,” I said.
“Tell them yourself,” someone grunted. He was being encouraging, letting me know I wasn’t dead yet.
I tried to see around me. I raised my head, wanting to get a visual of Fessey and Riot.
Someone shoved my head back down. “Lie still,” commanded a voice.
My one eye was completely swollen shut. The other eye was blurry from dirt. I tried to raise my head again. Again I was pushed flat. My eyes were watering now, the dirt turning to mud. Time passed and I didn’t know what was happening. I mumbled something, but there was no reply. Only the steady whup whup whup of a Blackhawk helicopter touching down nearby. Six men surrounded me, hefted me up, and carried me over. All told, it might have been ten minutes since the blast until the helicopter arrived.
Fessey and Riot were already inside the helicopter. Everything was foggy and noisy, and I couldn’t make out my surroundings clearly. My two guys were on seats and I saw blood and bandages jumbled in their direction. Fessey had shrapnel in his face. Riot had shrapnel in his face, legs, and hand. Their images faded away. I focused on the whup whup whup of the rotors.
We were in the air, and the flight medics were taking care of me. Riot yelled in pain. I tried to look around. Someone needed to attend to Riot. Where were the medics? One of the medics was talking to the pilots up front. Riot was yelling again. I looked in Fessey’s direction and told him to calm down. Fessey nodded. Riot stopped yelling, and I winked at him to let him know he was going to be okay. It was all I could think to do.
The flight medic was back in view. I could barely see him through the goop in my eyes. He wore a green flight suit and a big Darth Vader helmet. I tried to speak. He gave me a quizzical look. I yelled as loudly as I could, “Take off your helmet!”
He took his helmet off.
“Give my guys water and tell them they’re going to be okay!” I barked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them for you,” he said. He was busy with some task on me that I couldn’t see.
A moment went by, and I added, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” the medic asked.
“For making you take your helmet off.”
He gave me a wry grin.
I realized he’d been doing his job all along. Doing it well. Both of the medics had. I just couldn’t see all that was happening around me. My mind went in and out. I was coherent but fuzzy in spots.
In fifteen minutes, the helicopter landed in Kandahar.
Hospital staff rushed me straight to the operating table. “We’re going to put you under now,” came a voice from above me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Leave me alone.”
The mask came over my face and I tried to push it away. I remember asking one question: “Am I ever going to see my baby girl again?”
The night they found out I was hit, the people in my hometown of Vassar, Michigan, held a vigil for me. Community members formed a gigantic circle in the middle of the football field, the same field I’d run touchdowns on only a few years earlier. They lit candles in the dark and prayed that I would live.
Of course, I didn’t know then about the candlelight vigil. I was in and out of sedation in an intensive-care unit half a world away. But it does me good today to know that a bunch of people from my hometown were rooting for my survival.
Even when I was stationed at Fort Bragg and lived in Fayetteville, North Carolina, I’d always pictured myself coming back someday to Michigan and living a full and rich life there, where my roots are. If you live in Vassar, you work your job, raise your family, and do whatever you need to do for your community and country. That kind of straightforward living appealed to me, to my core.
It also reflects the way of life for a lot of today’s American military personnel. To understand a soldier’s grounding in his hometown is to understand him, his values, and what he holds important. Ultimately, it helps one understand a country that values liberty so deeply it’s willing to lay down the lives of its sons and daughters in the name of freedom.
Here’s how this American soldier’s journey began.
I was born on April 14, 1987, in Saginaw, Michigan. The town is not quite twenty miles away from Vassar, and I was born there only because Saginaw has a hospital and Vassar doesn’t. It’s in the part of the state they call the Lower Peninsula, which is shaped like a mitten. Where I lived is at the base of the thumb.
Vassar is not like Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, or New York City, places of far-reaching ambition. It’s a town of about 2,800 people, a settlement of quiet permanence where you can feel the soil underneath your bare feet on a summer afternoon while talking to your neighbors over the backyard fence. I was the fun kid who lived at the end of your block. I was always big for my age, and for a lot of my boyhood years I had a big gap between my two front teeth. I liked to wear my hair shaved in a buzz cut, particularly in summers when it got hot. With that Opie Taylor kind of look, I fit in fine in small-town America.
It was against this backdrop that I learned early to lead with love and determination and courage and humor. I’m the middle child of three. My sister, Sarah, is two years older than I am, and my brother, Zachary, is two years younger. Sarah was tough and could hold her o
wn against two brothers, but I always felt like the leader of my siblings in a protective sense. If anyone ever messed with my big sister or my little brother, then that person would have to answer to me. A kid tried to move my sister out of her bus seat once, and I didn’t like that, so I moved the kid out of the way and gave the seat back to my sister. That was the last time the kid ever tried a stunt like that.
I could also be the leader when it came to mischief. Once I got in trouble because we had mashed potatoes for dinner, and when Dad went into the other room for something, I dumped a bunch of pepper into Sarah’s mashed potatoes and laughed my fool head off. When Dad found out he got mad and gave me a spanking. I deserved it. That’s the kind of guy I am—always wanting to have fun, even when pushing boundaries. You show me an unguarded plate of mashed potatoes, and I was gonna mess with it.
One fine summer day, Dad bought us squirt guns to use outside because it was so hot. Zach and I got into a squirt gun fight, and I won, but even after I’d won I kept squirting my brother in the face. He yelled at me to stop messing with him, but I wouldn’t, so he picked up a lawn chair to throw at me. That’s when Dad intervened. He broke our squirt guns in two and threw them in the trash. I think we’d had them a total of half an hour. I never gave up the fight, even in a squirt gun war.
Dad worked as a truck driver and maintenance engineer. Mom worked for a grocery store. Together they made okay money, and we always had what we needed. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. In addition to my parents’ regular jobs, we owned and operated a twenty-acre hobby farm, so as a child, I learned how to clean out a barn, cut and stack firewood, tend a field, and grow food. On a farm, even a small farm, there are never enough hours in a day, and we were always outside working the fields doing something: plowing, fertilizing, planting, hoeing, weeding, or gathering in produce when the time came for it to be picked. We grew our own vegetables in a garden about half the size of a football field—corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, onions, potatoes, and even a few watermelons. That was the best food I ever tasted, the kind that comes straight from your own backyard. I’ve always known it’s not a bad feeling to be on the end of a hoe, sun beating down hot on your back, muscles aching.
