by Joshua Welle
My pre-deployment checklist was in order: buy the right books, pack the sea-bag to the brim, and email friends an address for care package deliveries. I purchased and began reading Ahmed Rashid’s Taliban and Descent into Chaos. I also bought and read the Army and Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual by David Petraeus, John Nagl, and James Amos. The Military Exchange had ample supplies needed to complete my rucksack: 1,000-mile-per-hour cord, lighter, knife, cold weather gear, canteens, harness, and survival gear. I had one other item on my to-do list: marry the love of my life.
Theresa and I secretly married on July 7, 2009, in a civil ceremony in Richmond Hill days before my departure. No one from our families was allowed to attend because we didn’t want to detract from our “real” ceremony, scheduled for May 2010, upon my return. During my pre-deployment R&R (rest and relaxation), my USNA roommates Omar Garcia and Liam Hughes came to spend a few days with my family. We argued about politics, knocked back a few beers at the bar, and went shooting at the local range, having fun but also sharpening my rifle skills for operations downrange.
Arriving in Afghanistan was exhilarating: hundreds of helicopters, cargo planes, and combat aircraft were dancing around the airfield. Getting past Bagram Airfield, the dustiest place on earth, was the first hurdle, before arriving at my forward operating base in Kapisa province. I was working with the Georgia Army National Guard’s 108th BCT, 48th Brigade. It was so ironic. A Georgia boy, stationed in Japan, sent to assist a random unit in Afghanistan. Of course, it had to be from Georgia.
We talked about the Georgia Bulldogs being the best team in the Southeast Conference and about the superior hunting and fishing in Georgia. We channeled that competitive spirit into plans for how the unit was going to better train and mentor the Afghan volunteers. We knew we needed the Afghans to take control of their own country and to be able to work as an organized army to do that. Otherwise, we would never go home.
I forged a bond quickly with the guys of the 108th. They respected my Marine Corps insignia, but I also did everything possible to put the soldiers first. I remember Gen. Charles Krulak telling us as midshipmen, “Officers eat last.” We relearned that philosophy at Quantico, and I embraced that attitude every day.
During my early missions, I fell in love with the scenery and the people of Afghanistan. We would patrol villages, and once it felt secure, the locals would swarm our humvees with smiling faces, little children asking for candy and school supplies. In an email after my third patrol, I wrote my mother, a middle school teacher: “Mom, the kids would rather have pens and paper more than anything, even food or water. Would you please start a collection at your school and send them to me? I want to take the pens and paper to the kids so they can improve their education.”
On August 7, 2009, our team planned to execute Operation Brest. We were supposed to approach a key area within our combat zone and perform “presence operations.” Essentially, our task was to let the Taliban insurgents know that we had the confidence and ability to patrol in this particular area. As an officer adviser to the infantry company, I did not have to go on every mission. I had quickly become close with my team, however, and felt like I was responsible for the younger soldiers. Spc. Christopher “Kit” Lowe, from Easily, Georgia, was a particular favorite. He was young and earnest. He loved weapons and had a wonderful humor about him.
We went out of base camp and up toward an area where we knew there would be danger. Recent intel had reported that some eighty Taliban could be in the vicinity. Not more than ten minutes into our patrol, shots rang out. My team dismounted and cleared an enemy position in a mud house. I climbed atop the roof with Kit behind me and killed a man with an RPG during my ascent. I was visually acquiring layout of the area to call in air support when I was hit. Everything went black.
EXCERPT FROM MATT FREEMAN’S POSTHUMOUSLY AWARDED BRONZE STAR CITATION
Acting to conduct a reconnaissance of force in the valley, Captain Freeman’s element received enemy fire almost immediately upon leaving the combat outpost. Pinned down as a result of this fire, Captain Freeman decided to clear a kulat in order to gain access to the top deck and achieve better observation of the enemy’s firing position. Receiving a heavy volume of enemy fire, Captain Freeman led the way in clearing the house and was the first to reach the rooftop. Once on the rooftop, he spotted an enemy Rocket-Propelled Grenade gunman and immediately killed him. He and one of his team members spotted several other insurgents and began to engage while under fire. It was at this time that Captain Freeman fell mortally wounded. He fought with bravery and determination while demonstrating unwavering courage in the face of the enemy.
Matt Freeman, a brave Marine, loving husband, brother, and son, and a classmate never forgotten. (Courtesy Freeman family)
When his parents heard accounts of Matt’s final minutes, they appreciated knowing the facts of that day. The soldier who retrieved his body after the battle said, “He was found with his finger on the trigger, his magazine almost empty, and he was facing the enemy. A proud death for a Marine.” Everyone else made it home that day.
Matt had a warrior’s homecoming. His brother-in-law, Mike Macias, a veteran of five ground tours in the Middle East, made a pact that if either of them needed an escort home, the other would do it. Matt’s body arrived at the airport in Savannah, and for the entire seventeen miles home to Richmond Hill, people lined the roads in tribute. The police and the Patriot Guard provided an outstanding escort home. There was a five-hour wait for mourners to pay their respects at the funeral. It was as if the entire community of Richmond Hill had lost a son.
Two weeks later, at the chapel in Annapolis, there was another ceremony led by Lt. Gen. John Allen, USMC, who had been a classmate of Matt’s father. Hundreds were in attendance, including family and friends and members of the Classes of 1976 and 2002 and the Naval Academy community. Specialist Lowe, still suffering from wounds and in a wheelchair, was also in the audience. After the ceremony in the chapel, we walked to the columbarium on Hospital Point, led by the 8th and I Marine Corps band. Matt was laid to rest on August 26, 2009.
Matt’s last conversation with his mother had been about the school supplies for the Afghan children. Six months later, his family founded the Freeman Project (www.freemanproject.org), a non-profit whose mission is to procure, ship, and distribute school supplies to children in Afghanistan. Matt was hoping the pens and pencils would replace guns and grenades in these impoverished regions. To date, U.S. soldiers and Marines have distributed more than three tons of school supplies.
*Written in Matthew’s voice by Lisa Freeman, in honor of her son.
PART VI
THE NEXT GREAT GENERATION
After a decade of war, the nation we now need to build is our own … and just as our greatest generation left a country recovering from depression and returned home to build the largest middle class in history, so now will the 9/11 generation play a pivotal role in rebuilding America's opportunity and prosperity in the 21st century.
PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA, Veteran’s Day 2011
Most Naval Academy graduates make a pivotal decision at the seven-to-ten-year mark of service: Do I stay in the military or move on to civilian life? Each decision is unique. A desire to start a family, the temptation of a higher salary, an eagerness to pick out one’s own wardrobe, new interests and abilities, and so on, may deter some from staying in the military. Some go to graduate school, are hired by Fortune 500 companies, or start entrepreneurial endeavors. Whether in Silicon Valley, New York City, or Washington, D.C., the 9/11 generation is transitioning to positions of leadership out of uniform. We’re using the lessons from the battlefield in the boardroom and break room to help America be great again.
One Wild and Precious Life
Joshua Awad
On the twenty-second floor of the Deutsche Bank building in Sydney, Australia, I sat back in my desk chair and stared out over the iconic harbor; it was January 2012. I was employed at one of the world’s top
-tier management consulting firms, Bain & Company. My charcoal suit and silver cufflinks certainly made me look the part of a successful businessman. However, as I watched the sailboats gliding below, I thought back to the time I had worn my Navy summer whites and ribbons. One of my best friends had just been selected for early command at sea and had called to tell me. This was my third close friend from Annapolis to earn that distinction within a few months. Each would soon be in charge of a warship, lead their own crew, and deploy independently, conducting operations in the Persian Gulf. I was thrilled for each of them. They were all brilliant naval officers and highly deserving of the job, but I was conflicted over the career decisions I had made. Commanding a ship had always been one of my greatest aspirations. Now my friends were living my old dream, and I was rethinking decisions that had brought me to Australia. Why had I left the Navy? Where was I headed?
I have always been an adventurer at heart. I was drawn to a career in the Navy because it offered a chance to leave my hometown of Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and have an impact beyond America’s borders. I wanted to join the Navy to see the world and to be a part of a “global force for good” as the slogan goes. By my senior year in Annapolis, I had been to six countries and was assured the opportunity to explore even more. For the first four years following graduation, I sailed throughout the Middle East, Asia-Pacific, and Europe.
At the end of my sea tours, I was selected to be the Navy Region Europe antiterrorism officer, stationed in Naples, Italy. Bombings in England and Spain in the post-9/11 world demanded rigorous protection of U.S. bases abroad, and it was my job to ensure that they were equipped to combat the evolving threat from extremists. In my new role, I was exposed to the inner workings of a large Navy staff and observed how the Navy operates on a global level. The breadth of the operational duties meant a number of admirals were involved; this was the first time in my career that I had access to this level of seniority. The strategic perspectives the flag officers brought to the most pressing challenges was impressive to observe. They issued important orders with ease, moving ships and aircraft carriers around the coast of Africa and throughout the Mediterranean Sea.
Life in Naples had many rewards as well. The food was exceptional, and the people welcoming. My neighbor, Salvatore, and his two daughters regularly invited me over for Napolitano pizza or fresh pasta and his special homemade vino. The views of the bay of Naples from our shared villa were breathtaking. Some of the world’s most beautiful islands—Capri, Ischia, and Procida—were on the doorstep and served as frequent destinations for weekend sailing or hiking. Furthermore, most of Europe’s popular vacation destinations were just a short flight away. In fact, one of the biggest perks of my antiterrorism duties was the opportunity to travel for both work and pleasure. I skied in the Alps, celebrated Oktoberfest in Munich, and visited the Greek isles in summertime. It was during one of these trips, to Heidelberg, Germany, that I met my future wife, Nele.
Nele and I quickly fell for each other and took every possible moment to be together. During one holiday rendezvous in Athens, we began to talk about a looming decision: My tour in Naples was nearing its completion, and I needed to decide whether to continue my career as a naval officer. I had been selected for one of the Navy’s graduate school scholarships. The program gave the best surface warfare officers time to complete a master’s in business administration while on active duty. Things appeared to be on track. The scholarship was a wonderful enticement to stay in uniform, and I had been accepted at Stanford and Harvard. The Navy, however, then demanded that I pursue a shorter MBA program at a second-tier business school to avoid delaying other career milestones. Turning down the top graduate schools in the world because of career timing was a hard pill to swallow, but leaving the Navy I had come to know and love would be equally difficult. I sat with Nele on the rooftop deck of our hotel in Athens with a bottle of wine to discuss all the options.
She listened as I reminisced about my amazing journey to date. Steeped in tradition and history, Annapolis had been an incredible education in leadership and academics and the source of enduring friendships I would be hard pressed to replicate. I reported apprehensively to my first ship in San Diego, but after seven months deployed at sea, I became a confident mariner and qualified surface warfare officer. The mission was critical, disembarking the Marines who had invaded Iraq in 2003 and eventually escorting them home to California. I later became an engineering officer on the Navy’s finest cruiser, USS Hue City, and led a division of sixteen damage-control personnel, protecting the ship against flooding, fire, and chemical, biological, radiological attack.
Staying in the military would provide me with a life and career of adventure, but a journey of service to which I was already quite accustomed; the private sector was completely unknown to me and exciting. Two admirals in Naples discovered that I was considering separation, and each tried to convince me of the rewards of a long naval career. They said the lifetime of stories, the robust retirement pay, and the intrinsic reward of service were immeasurable. I knew the Navy had a lot to offer, but I also believed I wanted more. I had an unquenchable desire to do more for a broader range of people in the civilian world. I followed my heart and my entrepreneurial spirit and accepted the offer from Harvard Business School for its upcoming semester. I have never again worn my summer whites.
When I left the Navy for civilian life, I felt as though I were reporting to that first ship in San Diego. It was a new unknown. I had no idea how I would be able to afford business school. I had no idea what industry I would enter. I was clueless about my career options in the short and long term. I had been in uniform since my eighteenth birthday; the preceding ten years had been filled with navigation, seamanship, naval history, and lots of regulations. I felt like the world was once more wide open to me. I just wasn’t quite sure of my place in it.
Harvard provided an entirely new set of resources for navigating life. Roughly nine hundred brilliant and diverse students are admitted every year, a third of them from outside the United States, all with different backgrounds and aspirations. Beyond learning the mechanics of finance, operations, and marketing from the finest instructors, Harvard provided two years of conversation with hundreds of other students, all reflecting on their own career choices and future ambitions. There were military officers pondering their next steps, investment bankers who wanted to become entrepreneurs, teachers who wanted to reform the education sector, and consultants who wanted to train their problem-solving skills on fixing such complex issues as poverty, hunger, and the environment. I was surrounded by like-minded adventurers trying to navigate toward a career where they would have a positive impact on the world.
Attending Harvard Business School during the peak of the financial crisis meant that the school became an epicenter of debate about the roles and responsibilities of business and government in creating the crisis and responding to it. The debate hit close to home since many graduates were heavily involved in various aspects of the crisis. Some worked at the troubled investment banks whose demise had marked the start of the “great recession,” while others, like President George W. Bush and Secretary of the Treasury Henry Paulson, played critical roles in determining how the government would respond to the Wall Street meltdown. At times, the classroom debate turned to the cost-benefit of funding two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that appeared to be having limited success. My classmates would often ask for my perspective on the appropriate level of spending on national defense in the midst of soaring unemployment and national debt. I felt obligated to point out how critical defense is for America’s security and economic growth but also acknowledged that defense could not come at the expense of good public schools, infrastructure investment, and needed technology at home.
I learned countless lessons in those Cambridge classrooms, from the faculty and my fellow students. Discrete events—like trekking through Patagonia with classmates, the one-on-one conversation I had with Jack Welch, and participating in the bu
siness plan competition—are not only unforgettable experiences but also provided me with confidence and a network of meaningful friendships that I hope to always carry with me. In the end, going to business school provided me with the foundation for a successful transition, bridging the divide between the military and civilian worlds.
After Harvard, Nele and I married and decided to move to Sydney, Australia. We were attracted by the breathtaking scenery, the abundance of outdoor activities available, the friendly people, and the booming economy. I joined Bain & Company as a consultant and have since worked with razor-sharp people in a number of industries on vastly different types of projects. While I think it is unlikely I will make a lifelong career of consulting, the boardroom access has helped refine my analytical and communication skills, continues to build my international IQ, and allows me to work hand-in-hand with Australian chief executive officers on some of the biggest challenges their businesses are facing. Like the Navy admirals I worked with in Naples, good CEOs have an uncanny ability to pinpoint the crux of critical issues with laser-like focus.
Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day” ends with the line
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
One year removed from Harvard Square, looking out over Sydney Harbor, my answer to that question was less defined than it had been when I was in the Navy. I knew I want to live a life of purpose that makes a difference to others while finding the time to relish the small joys of life. I’m still not sure what shape that life will take, much less what it will be ten years from now. Will I start a nongovernmental organization? Will I become an entrepreneur? Will I invest in ventures that have a social mission?
