Kandahar Part 3 of 3

Press Play to read out Loud

Part Three- The Purpose

This would be our final mission. Our team had developed an incredible workflow, built on trust and repetition. We had been through it all—firefights, IED blasts, detaining high-value targets, and losing people we cared about.

Now, it was coming to an end. We were ready to go home. But deep down, none of us really wanted to leave—not like this.

The infil was smooth. We arrived on the objective and rounded up the military-age males. But something was off. This area didn’t look like a village. The terrain was strange, almost artificial. It felt like the place was built for one purpose—fighting. Defensive positions were everywhere, and nothing looked lived-in. That’s when we knew: this was a Taliban stronghold.

As I entered one of the compounds where detainees were being held, a team member ran up, breathless—they’d found a recoilless rifle. I’d never seen one in person. It looked like a massive steel pipe bolted to a baseplate, capable of taking out tanks. Why would someone keep that in their backyard?

We knew right then: we were sitting on top of a hornet’s nest.

And then it started—gunfire from every direction. I looked up and saw tracer rounds from our own guys flying just over our heads. Red streaks slicing the air. Everyone was in contact. Every team. Chaos broke out.

The radio crackled. One of our soldiers had been hit. Then another. The second was bad. Spirits dropped instantly. People started scrambling—trying to get accountability, trying to figure out who was still alive.

Me, my buddy, our interpreter, and three infantrymen were guarding about 80 detainees. We realized the rest of the unit had pushed deeper into the village. We were alone. Far from support.

We stood the men up and told them, “Follow us if you want to live. This place is about to blow.”

We moved. Still taking fire. Then we got a location on the compound where one of our guys had fallen. No one could reach him. We didn’t know if he was alive, still fighting, or already gone.

The firefight to get to him was hell. Taliban fighters were yelling, taunting, laughing—saying they were going to blow us up. We were close. A wall separated us. One guy said, “I think I can get a grenade through that window.” The space was tiny. If he missed, it would bounce back on us. We paused.

It felt like hours. In reality, maybe two minutes passed. Then—boom.

They blew themselves up.

We breached. Inside were mangled bodies, blood everywhere. One uniform stood out. We dragged him out. He was gone.

Inside the room, half-bodies lay scattered. The smell hit us like a wall. Vomit, blood, death. Our site exploitation team took photos, gathered what evidence we could. Bomb-making materials, documents, IDs. Everyone in that room had died.

Then we found someone still alive. We kept him away from the Special Forces guys—they were furious, and he wouldn’t have made it if they got their hands on him.

My friend and I sat him down. The interpreter started asking questions. Then I heard him say, “A-R-I…”

I stopped him. “You speak English?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course.”

I was stunned. I asked him directly, “Are you Taliban?”

“Yes,” he said calmly.

I felt frozen. My friend took over the questioning. We zip-tied him and took him back. He admitted he had fought that day. He didn’t resist. He knew what was coming.

The lawyers said he’d likely face execution.

That was our last mission. One of ours was gone. I didn’t know him well, but I’d talked with him. Saw how his team reacted. The pain hit everyone.

I’ll end the story here—because I don’t have a good ending.

After that short deployment, I went on to three more combat tours. None of them were like this one. This was my first. I wasn’t the same kid anymore. At 18, my mind had been violated by war. I learned to suppress everything. I became what some would call a machine. A soldier.

We have a generation of veterans battling invisible wounds. While I don’t consider myself a victim of PTSD, I can admit that violence became normal to me. I carried it home. I was angry. Hotheaded. Easily triggered. It took time—and help—to manage that.

Seeking help is not weakness. Most people will never understand the demons we face. And while I’m proud of my service, I still wonder: for what?

Today, the Taliban controls Afghanistan. After 20 years of war, after everything we lost—what did it amount to?

One thing I know for sure: I would never wish combat on anyone. Especially not my children.

In Honor of the Fallen

This story is dedicated to the memory of:

Staff Sergeant Jeremy S. Borders

ODA 1111, U.S. Army Special Forces

KIA – September 1, 2012

Batur Village, Afghanistan

Operation Enduring Freedom

Staff Sergeant Jonathan P. Schmidt

76th Ordnance Detachment, EOD

KIA – September 1, 2012

Batur Village, Afghanistan

Operation Enduring Freedom

Your courage, sacrifice, and brotherhood will never be forgotten. You stood in the gap so others didn’t have to. Rest easy, warriors