A Thousand Small Deaths

I learned that fear comes in different shapes and sizes in combat. Sometimes it's subtle. It sits in your stomach like rot. Other times it's intense. Stabbing your heart like a wild crackhead.

On our first deployment, there was a Marine in our platoon who threw up after shooting someone. When we stood post together on Post 3 in FOB Jackson, we took accurate small arms fire that impacted the post. He pressed himself to the ground, and it wasn't fear that I saw in his eyes. It was pure terror.

This same Marine, by the way, thought good leadership was choke slamming me into an uparmored HUMVEE after being pinned Corporal.

There was also a Marine in a different company who went condition black during a firefight. As the squad's SAW gunner, he had a very important role in providing suppression. His nervous system took over, and he went temporarily blind, which in turn created more panic.

I'll be honest. I was scared of dying. I didn't want to die a slow death. Stepping on an IED and bleeding out. More than that, I was scared of being afraid. Of letting that fear take control. Much like Gunny Haney in HBO's The Pacific, fear in combat is not immune to anyone.

I think that was one of my biggest fears. The fear that you have no control over. Much like getting killed. Except you die a thousand times when you remember it.

The first time we got shot at on our second deployment, I almost got it. It was a small window into how fragile the human mind can be, if you aren't careful.

We were complacently waiting for a CH-53 to land and pick up a potential high-value individual (HVI). We stood in a circle, smoking cigarettes. There was a light sleet that almost looked like snow. One of the Afghan civilians went to go piss, as if it was a signal.

Bullets whined off the ground and cracked the air like a whip. We ran to go behind an MRAP, and I ended up tripping and falling. I heard more ricochets. The close ones. The ones that sound like they're slicing the air with hot lead. My friend in the driver's seat saw the impacts around my body. A Marine helped me up, and we took cover behind an MRAP tire. I remember staring at the HVI, who was hiding with us.

But my mind was fixated on how close those bullets were. How complacency nearly cost me my life or one of the Marines standing with us. It took a joke from my platoon commander to snap me out of my funk.

But that fear stuck with me. It stuck with me more than the fact that I almost got shot. I was embarrassed that I even felt that way.

The next time we went out, we got shot at again. This time, I was in the prone. I picked a bad position. We were posting security so the ANA could clear a compound. They found a bunch of IEDs, and one of the ANA dropped a massive artillery shell behind me. With my current position no longer safe, I moved to an open area that had some micro-terrain. I placed my pack down and sighted in.

Bullets snapped around me. Kicking up dust that clung to the air. I stayed sighted in. For some reason, the memory of my fear from the last time stuck with me. It's hard to explain because it happened fast. But the next burst sounded much too close. The bullets whizzed by instead of snapping, which meant they were really close. Someone had me in their sights.

But I noticed it was a different fear. It was exciting. I stayed snapped in my RCO and took note of a distance compound. Another burst, these ones ricocheting between me and the compound we were searching.

I stood up, picked my pack up, and ran back to my original spot, which had better cover.

Years later, and I still feel weird thinking about those moments. The shame surrounding the fear. The fact that being scared of fear itself is like throwing fuel on a fire.

But fear isn't inherently bad. It lets me know that I cared. That I paid attention. Understood the risk. It's ok to feel fear and to observe that it's there. A glance and nothing more. Just don't linger around too long.