Kandahar Part 1 of 3

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Part One – Welcome to Kandahar

In 2012, I landed in Afghanistan for the first time, an 18-year-old kid fresh out of training, attached to a battalion-sized element of the Afghan National Army (ANA) and a U.S. Special Forces team. We were based out of Kandahar for the duration of our six-month deployment. Our mission was clear: conduct raids targeting high-value Taliban operatives. But before the real missions began, we were tasked with “left seat-right seat” operations—a transition period where the outgoing unit would show us the ropes.

For our first mission, we left Kandahar and traveled to a smaller COP—Combat Outpost—that was being handed over. As soon as we arrived, we were told the area we were supposed to sleep in had been destroyed by mortar fire the night before. No bunks, no tents, just a patch of dirt next to a helipad with a sliver of overhang. That was home for the night.

I was the only one in my job specialty and completely new to the environment. I linked up with the element I was supposed to shadow. Their NCO in charge didn’t mince words—he said none of his guys were going out with me. So much for a proper handoff. No mentorship. Just a shrug and “figure it out.”

With no choice, I rolled out with a company-sized infantry element. We moved to a remote Joint Security Station (JSS), which was really just a bomb crater surrounded by Constantino wire. It was isolated and rough. We ran out of water quickly and had to rely on a LMTV resupply to get through the night. I didn’t even bring cold-weather gear because of how hot the day had been. Rookie mistake. The temperature dropped fast. Everyone else had their teams—they knew each other, shared stories, shared warmth. I sat off to the side alone, freezing. Until the RTO, a guy I barely knew, looked over and said, “Hey man, you can crash next to me.” We huddled up and did our best not to turn into ice.

Right before nightfall, we took sporadic contact. Gunfire echoed in the distance. And to my surprise, everyone’s face lit up. This was it—real combat. The excitement in the air was wild. We returned fire, and one of the ANA soldiers launched an RPG that put a quick end to the exchange. Nobody was hit. But the adrenaline rush? Unreal. We were practically hoping it would kick off again.

The next morning, patrols began. The plan was to split into platoons, walk the terrain, and meet up with the sister brigade who’d been there for six months. First platoon went out and got into a firefight. They came back pumped, no injuries. Then the second went out—same deal. Gunfire, radio chatter, bursts of chaos, and then the calm. My group was last.

Our patrol started quiet. Almost too quiet. We moved in textbook V formations, cleared intersections, practiced standard infantry tactics. It felt more like a training exercise than anything real. We were making our way back to the JSS, trying to beat nightfall, when we crossed a road—and everything changed.

Gunfire cracked through the air. A round slammed into a tree just above me. I froze.

Time slowed. My mind raced, trying to find the source of the fire. I wasn’t thinking about cover. I wasn’t thinking about dying. I was just… trying to process it. Then the team sergeant next to me snapped me back to reality. “GET DOWN!” he yelled.

I dropped. Heart pounding, I pressed myself against the dirt. I started scanning the horizon, eyes wide. Then I saw them—figures moving through the terrain. Instinct kicked in. I raised my weapon and began firing alongside the team sergeant. That’s when it happened.

I felt this intense, burning sensation on the right side of my abdomen—white-hot and sudden. I thought I’d been shot. Panic took over. But I didn’t stop firing. I kept going until things calmed and the shooting stopped.

Still on the ground, I turned to the team sergeant and shouted, “Am I good? Am I hit?”

He looked at me, confused.

I began checking myself, patting my gear. That’s when I found it—a spent shell casing from my own rifle had bounced off and landed perfectly between my plate carrier and my skin, trapped right at the edge of my side plate. It had burned through my shirt and left a nasty welt. I wasn’t shot. I was just branded by the chaos. I sat there for a second, half-laughing, half-shaking. Relief doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But it wasn’t over. The gunfire had done damage. Our squad leader had taken a shot to the helmet and dropped unconscious. The platoon sergeant rushed to drag him to safety, and both of them tumbled into a dried up well. Another soldier from our sister brigade was shot in the hip—his screams still echo in my memory. The sun was going down, and we were still taking sporadic fire. We couldn’t get the wounded out until the shooting stopped.

Eventually, the MEDEVAC arrived. As the chaos faded, I was told to pull security by myself across the road—just me, in goat piss and filth, scanning a field for threats I couldn’t see, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I wasn’t even infantry. I didn’t know anyone in this unit. I was angry, bitter, and questioning everything.

But I did it. And we got everyone back.

The casualties changed everything. Both the squad leader and the platoon sergeant were out, forcing junior soldiers to step up. It reminded me of basic training drills when the instructor would “kill” the squad leader and ask someone else to take charge. Back then, it felt like a joke. Now it was real—and I saw firsthand how that training mattered.

We returned to Kandahar, beat up, bruised, and quiet. That wasn’t even our first real mission. Just an introduction. But for me, it was the day I truly arrived in Afghanistan—and the moment I realized I wasn’t the same kid who stepped off that plane.