But there is something about the way my daughter is looking at me that makes me decide to tell her. She’s certainly old enough. And after everything I’ve put her through, she deserves some answers. Maybe it will help her. Help us.
“When I was on the plane, flying over there,” I say, “the only thing they told us was that Iraq’s army, the Republican Guard, was going to try to shoot down our plane. They didn’t tell us anything else, like, you know, what to expect when we landed. So yeah, I was nervous. Then, when we landed, they told us to lock and load, and that’s when…Yeah, I’d say then I was scared because in my mind I was thinking we were all going to have to start fighting our way off the airplane.”
My daughter looks at me, wide-eyed. “Did you?”
“No,” I chuckle. “We got off and set up a chow hall.”
“What did you do there?”
“I was a signal guy. Communications. I followed this major around, carrying this big radio for him, so I got to sit down with all the commanders and listen to them plan the assault. That’s when it got real—when we did the actual assault.”
“And that’s when it got scary.”
I think about it for a moment. “I would say I was more nervous than scared. I had a lot of confidence in our leaders. I also had a lot of confidence in our guys. Our soldiers. I knew we could take on anybody and anything. After it was over, when I came back home…having followed these leaders around, I saw how they spoke and how they acted, what they did, and I knew I wanted to become a leader. So I reenlisted and went to Ranger school.”
She reaches into the box, pulls out a black beret. “This is your Ranger hat, right?”
I nod, thinking about the day I went back to Fort Bragg wearing that old black beret. There I was a newly promoted staff sergeant with Airborne wings, a Ranger tab, and an 82nd combat patch. I’m on my way to the 1st Ranger Battalion. I remember feeling really cool.
I also remember meeting a lot of guys there who had leadership in their blood. I remember telling myself, Dude, just be quiet. Just soak it up and watch these leaders lead. Man, what a talented bunch of individuals.
“Did you go to war again?” she asks. “As a Ranger?”
“I came close. I got placed on what’s called an RRF—a Ranger ready force—that was going to fly to Somalia, jump into an airfield, and take it over.” I leave out the part where I was standing on the ramp wearing my parachute and signing my will. “The mission was given to another battalion, so I didn’t have to go.”
“Mom told me you went to war again.”
“I did. In 2002. Afghanistan.”
“Right after I was born.”
I nod. She was born shortly before 9/11. I deployed a few months later.
“What was Afghanistan like?”
“Hot. Dusty,” I reply. “We stayed at this place where I had to clean my clothes in a bucket for four months.”
“Gross.”
I laugh softly. “Showers came when the sun came out. You’d put water in a bucket and put it up on the roof, and after it heated up you could pour it on you.” I remember feeling like we were out there living like some old Vietnam guys back in the day.
My daughter takes out my Ranger uniform. “Were you afraid that time?”
“Honestly, no, I wasn’t. The people, the guys in my unit—they were the best of the best. Unstoppable. I didn’t fear for a lack of ability. The only thing I cared about was making sure my ability matched everyone else’s, because I didn’t want to be a liability.”
“What did you do there?”
“The first time? Reconnaissance. They’d drop us off somewhere, usually on a hill, and we’d have to walk miles to get to this field site. When we got there, we’d have to build what’s called a hide site, which is a place where you can hide and watch the enemy. And that’s what I did—sometimes for days. Watched the enemy and built these intel packets based on what we saw and heard and then handed everything over to the people in charge so they could make strategic decisions.”
“How many days did you spend in one of these hide sites?”
“The longest was three. And man, it was so hot. So incredibly hot—at least 125 degrees, because there weren’t a lot of trees in the place where we were. We’d hunker down there during the day, roasting, and later, when the sun went down, we could get out and move a bit.”
I don’t share with her the rougher aspects of the missions that followed—like seeing the guy right next to me get hit and go down. He ended up being fine—we patched him up and he returned to combat—but when I saw him go down it took me aback. I realized, right then, that none of us were invincible.
We lost guys. And it rocked me pretty hard. Our organization, even if you lost a guy that night, the next morning, you’re right back at it. The tempo was unbelievable. Screaming fast. There were so many times when I wondered if we could physically keep up the pace.
I pull out another old uniform and smile softly, thinking about how odd it is that a piece of clothing started this conversation with my daughter.
“Mom said you went to Iraq.”
I nod. “I went there next. After Afghanistan.”
“And kept going back.”
I feel a wave of sadness and regret.
Those five deployments, as rough as they were on me, were even rougher on my wife. When you deploy as a Ranger, you don’t really know when you’re coming back. You don’t know where you’re going most times, either. There’s also a really strong chance that you may not be able to call home for weeks, sometimes months, depending on the mission. It’s really hard on a marriage. Many don’t survive. Mine didn’t.
My daughter took the hardest hit, no question. She’s the reason I decided to hang up my spurs and retire, at thirty-eight. I didn’t want to put her through that anymore. We’re very close now, but it took a lot of work.
I put my arm around my daughter and hug her close.
“Those deployments,” I say. “They helped me become a better man in the sense that…I was this ordinary dude surrounded by all these extraordinary human beings. They showed me how to get to the next level, whether it was fitness, being a good dad, a good Christian—a good whatever. These men, the experiences I had—they showed me what success looks like, the type of people I want to surround myself with. It taught me the true value of friendship.”
“You should do something with these uniforms,” my daughter says.
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Something. They deserve it.”
Looking at my old uniforms, I wonder how many other veterans are out there like me, how many others just boxed up their stories, their unique experiences and sacrifices, and tucked them away in some dusty attic or cellar. It makes me think about those veterans who return home and take their own lives. I haven’t been afflicted with that, but from what I’ve heard, the more they talk, the less they feel isolated.
What if I could help veterans share their stories by using their old uniforms? Could their uniforms help start conversations between family members, friends, and other veterans? Between officers and civilians?
“We should start a business,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Doing something good with these uniforms.”
The business we created together, Eagles and Angels Limited, salvages the old uniforms of our brave men and women and transforms them into a unique line of high-end clothing and accessories crafted here in the US. Each piece carries the story of the soldier who wore the uniform, and each purchase helps support the families of our fallen heroes.
There are too many stories of courage tucked away in attics and old boxes across the country—secret even to the families of the ones who served. They deserve to be heard. And to be preserved.
KEVIN DRODDY
Kevin Droddy and his twin brother, Jason, entered the Army on March 18, 2009. They served six years with 3rd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment; deployed six times; and executed more than 150 missions each. When Kevin moved back h
ome to West Palm Beach, Florida, he went into real estate with his brother. Their company, the Droddy Group, helps veterans buy and sell their homes.
If you act like a man,” my team leader tells me, “I’ll treat you like a man.”
He’s twenty-four. My age. Only he’s got all this life experience behind him because he joined the Army right out of high school and became a Ranger. My life was all about hockey—a year in Michigan; six years in Toronto, Canada; and then three years outside Philadelphia, playing in the NCAA. Last year, when I returned home to Florida, I worked, along with my twin brother, Jason, at our dad’s tool and die company. The country was in the grip of a global financial crisis—the worst one since the Great Depression—and while it affected my dad’s company big-time, he refused to lay us off.
I loved the machine shop and working with my father, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Same with Jason. We always loved the military and knew this was our chance to do our part to protect our country while also helping our dad downsize and keep his company afloat.
My team leader, covered head to toe in sweat and dirt, picks up a bottle of water. He’s just come back from combat.
As he drinks, he eyes me over the bottle, trying to size me up. He knows this is my first deployment.
“I’m your guy,” I tell him. “Whatever you need.” And I mean it. I’m going to put my age and everything else aside because he’s seen combat and I haven’t. Jason and I became Rangers because they see the most action. I’m going to be a sponge, soak everything up from this guy and the others.
“How long did you sign up for?” he asks.
“The max.”
He looks at me a bit wide-eyed. You’re given options when you sign up: three, four, or six years. Hardly anyone does six, the recruiter told us.
My team leader wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. I can tell we’ve reached an understanding. I think he can see that I will, in fact, do anything for him.
“Training gets you ready to mentally handle anything except combat,” he says. “Live combat trains you for actual combat. First time it happens, it’s gonna be real scary, but you can and will get through it. Remember that.”
It’s 2009, and we’re in Afghanistan. Our small base is in Sharana, an extremely mountainous region in Afghanistan. As I unpack, I think about Jason, wondering how he’s acclimating to his new company.
It’s odd not having him here. We went through basic training together, then Airborne School and the Ranger Indoctrination Program, which is basic on steroids. Brutal. RIP is designed to break you. Over one hundred people signed up, and by the time graduation day rolled around, Jason and I were among the thirty or so left standing.
I realize this is the first time I’ve been apart from my brother for more than two days.
I find out I’m going out on the wire tonight.
My first mission.
The brief says we’re supporting the third platoon. They’ll be coming down a mountainside and pushing through a village. We’re going to get dropped off on a particular mountaintop.
We find out the helicopter used for special operations isn’t available. Another unit offers to take us out and fly us in. As they’re briefed, I examine the helicopter. It’s a Chinook, but it doesn’t have the guns we typically fly with—or any armor.
There are three other people in my squad: the squad leader, the team leader, and a tabbed SPC 4, or tabbed specialist, which is what you are in battalion when you graduate from Ranger school. Our team leader speaks to us over the radio as we lift off.
“The mountaintop we’re supposed to land on? These guys can’t get us on top of it, so they’re going to put us a mountaintop back. They can’t land the whole aircraft, so they’re going to hover the tail over the top of the mountain. You heard that right. The whole bird is not—I repeat, not—going to be on the ground, so watch your step.”
It’s around ten when we fly around to the mountaintop. As we prepare for our shaky landing, I see tracer rounds and then a rocket fly by the helicopter.
Is this really happening right now?
We’re hovering over the mountaintop—and taking fire. I can hear gunshots. Getting out of my seat and coming down the ramp, I recall what I was told right before I deployed: When you hear gunfire, you know you’re getting shot at. When you hear a zip, it’s close. When you hear a snap, it’s even closer.
The gunshots sound like little pops. Machine-gun fire—and it’s a ways off. As I come off the bird, I see little sparks lighting up my night vision. They’re coming from the rocks that I’m running to, and it dawns on me that the sparks are from rounds hitting the rocks.
I’m literally running into gunfire.
I run over and get beside my team leader and start returning fire at the mountaintop across from us. The enemy is camped out there, with machine-gun nests and RPGs. They’re far away, so it’s extremely hard to know if we’re hitting people or if they’re actually dead.
Our joint terminal attack controller (JTAC) gets ahold of the Apache to tell them about the enemy location, but it doesn’t matter: the pilot and the others on board have already spotted the gunfire. With its thermal lenses, the Apache takes out the enemy. It’s over in less than twenty minutes.
We’ve got to get moving—and we’re at eight thousand feet. Oxygen is extremely low. My body hasn’t adjusted to it yet, and we have to climb higher.
I’m not the only one who’s sucking air. With us are a couple of guys who aren’t with our unit as well as some onesies-twosies—guys working in pairs—from other units who are there for different purposes, and they’re all falling behind. I’m sucking but I’m not falling out because my team leader is right in front of me, pushing me to keep moving.
“We’re close,” my team leader says, over and over again. “We’re almost at the top.”
Finally, we reach the top. We’re the only two there. He gets on the radio to the tabbed specialist. “Where are you?”
The tabbed specialist is sucking big-time. He says he’s still down a ways.
My team leader gets off the radio and looks at me. I’m on my knees, sucking wind.
“Run down there and get his aid bag and bring it up here,” he says.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I just barely made it to the top and now I got to go back down and grab the first aid bag and carry it back up? He can’t be serious.
The morning of graduation day at RIP, the cadre informed us he was going to get two of us to quit before we graduated. He smoked us all day. At that point, I was determined. He could do anything to me he wanted, but there was no way I was going to quit. I didn’t then, and I’m sure as hell not about to now. I get to my feet and head back down the mountain.
But that’s not the hardest part. That comes later, when I return home.
For six years, my life is a fast-paced routine: four to five months in Afghanistan, then it’s back to Georgia, to Fort Benning, where I wait seven months to deploy again. Deploy, home, deploy, home, deploy, home. That’s my life.
Only now there’s talk of slowing down deployments. Some companies, I hear, may not even deploy at all.
My best days were deployments. I wasn’t married and I didn’t have any kids, so I couldn’t wait to get back to Afghanistan. It’s where I feel alive. It’s the most freeing feeling in the world, being over there. You’re not worrying about bills or shopping and cooking food or any other regular life stuff because there are things in place to manage all that for you. In Afghanistan, the mission at hand was your schedule for the day. It was a nonstop adrenaline rush for four to five months.
I’m addicted to it.
But with the slowdown of deployments, I don’t know if I can mentally handle going back to the garrison life and just practice, hoping to be deployed again. I can’t imagine being in a uniform and not deploying. That’s like putting on my hockey uniform and just practicing, never playing. It’s scary to imagine.
I decide not to reenlist.
My brother doesn’t, either. Jason has a wife and a baby. I’m married, too, and my wife knows I’m thinking of doing some overseas contracting, to get back over there.
“Whatever you want to do,” she tells me, “I’ll support you.”
I can’t put her through that. As hard as it is for us overseas, I know it’s even harder on the families back home.
I decide to stay home.
Jason starts selling solar panels. I go back to working for my dad, helping him with some machine work.
Going back to civilian life is tough. Deploying was one of the greatest times in my life, and now I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve given away the thing I know and love the most. I don’t carry a gun anymore, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. Little stupid things I handled just fine before I went into the Army I don’t handle so well now. Back here in the real world, people will walk all over you if you let them.
I have a lot of friends who do real estate. One of the guys I knew from my team got out a year before I did and went back to Pennsylvania, where he’s selling real estate. I call him up and ask how he likes it.
“I love it,” he tells me.
Jason thinks it’s a good idea to try our hands at selling homes, so we do it together. We get our licenses and make the jump. I’m convinced we’ll start making money right away, but we don’t. Real estate takes a while. And I’m my own boss. I’m not in the Army anymore, so there’s no formation, no line, no one there to tell me what to do and when, reprimand me when I screw up. This is all me.
My brother is struggling with the same feelings. He and his wife come across a Tony Robbins book. They read it and connect with Tony’s message. They start looking into the seminars, see how it really changes people’s lives. A seminar is happening soon in West Palm Beach. Jason thinks it can really help us.
I decide to go.
It changes my life.
Which is odd, since Tony Robbins doesn’t say anything groundbreaking. He doesn’t share some crazy equation or sprinkle me with magic fairy dust that turns me into a different person. What he does give me is a much deeper understanding of how the mind works. I become more aware of myself. It’s not my circumstances. It’s not that I came out of the Army and nobody cares about me, and now I can’t get a job, or everyone should use me as their Realtor because I’m a veteran. It’s not any of those things. It’s me. I’m the one who has to change, and if I can change myself, my mindset, my life will change.
Walk in My Combat Boots Page 22
