Excerpt from Perseverance > Endurance: A Ranger’s Fight in Shegal Valley

Brandon Young started his public writing career at the Havok Journal and shares an excerpt below from his new book, Perseverance > Endurance: Lead with Resilience. Grow Through Adversity. Win Together, coauthored by Blayne Smith.

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Winter Strike 2003 – Part II: The Shegal Valley

The helicopter insertion was going to be a mess. I had seen this story before: 60-foot
treetops would prohibit our aircraft from touching the ramp down on the ridgeline for a smooth infill. We were headed into the Shegal Valley, Kunar Province. As the aircraft leader for 20 Special Operators, I did my final checks, ready for a fight and weighted down to sustain another month in the mountains. Tucked between the mountaintops, the Shegal Valley cut a line in the sand between the Taliban and the coalition objectives intended to stabilize Afghanistan. Within that valley, a high-ranking Taliban leader was coordinating strikes across the Pakistan border (an imaginary line on the map that meant nothing to the locals). We got the call and got to work. We would insert into blocking positions on the ridgeline and gain overwatch to enable a SEAL platoon to move from compound to compound in search of our target.

Perched on a knee at the back of the ramp with my chalk co-leader, Jon, I watch the ridgeline come closer through my NODs.* The blackness is stolen through the pixelated green screen highlighted by dots of stars across the night sky. As the bird ambles toward the world, I am calm. I have to be. The boys behind me depend upon it. The ground comes closer and into focus while the air mission brief just eight hours before replays in my mind.

“We’re going to try our best to touch the ramp down so you guys can run off,” the pilot had said as we crowded over an aerial imagery map in the tactical operations center. “Briefs well!” I’d replied with a smirk. Everyone can see that big chip on my shoulder. It’s my edge and my downfall. And I’m in no mood to soften it based on the previous month. I shouldn’t even be here.

“The treetops are too high for that. You’ll never be able to get the ramp that close with the rotors turning,” I’d continued. Jon had looked over the map with me quietly. A new squad leader to our platoon on this deployment, he has already proven his mettle in spades. He is smart, strong, and steady—a true rock for the guys and me. Jon and I had bonded quickly over scant plates of beans and our care for the boys the previous month in the mountains. I wasn’t so alone with guys like Jon on the leadership team.

“We’re going to do our best,” the pilot had repeated. He was sincere, and we all knew why. The worst-case scenario is trying to fastrope onto the top of the jagged rock face. “We’ll make sure the ropes are ready in case we need them,” the crew chief said. “Roger,” I replied. No one was interested in arguing, and I was too tired to bother. “We know you’re the best in the world,” I said. “If anyone can touch a bird down on the Shegal, it’s you. We’ll be ready to rope if we need to.”

Back on the ramp, the rocks outside are so close that I can see the underbrush gripping the ridgeline from the force of the rotor wash. My breathing slows, and I make my final preparations, reciting Psalm 23, and a prayer. The heat of the rotor wash bounces off the rocks into the ramp with the smell of burning jet fuel. I count the rocks and recheck my weapon as the bird stabilizes. Almost there.

My hand grips the snap link to detach my safety line. Strength and honor. Almost there. The aircraft suddenly pitches forward, and I am weightless. The floor underneath me disappears. I am suspended in the air. Held inside the bird by my safety line and snap link. My teeth pulverize my jaw. I flail near the open ramp. The bright green stars blur across my narrowing field of vision. Swimming for the side of the fuselage, I grasp it with my hand. Through the open ramp, the world spins between the mountain and the sky. We are hurtling toward the Shegal Valley in a spinning MH-47. Game over. Breathing in the centrifugal force and out my last thoughts, I consider Jaden, and I think of Kelly. I’m never going to see my son again. “God, please save us!” I pray. This isn’t the first time I’ve been close to death, but I am confident it will
be my last.

As I pray, caught between the ground and the sky, the force crushes my chest and skull. The engines scream—their power fighting to rip the aircraft from the pull of the mountains. My vision narrows to a point. Almost there.

The engines roar to a crescendo. They feel like they are between my ears. But the spinning sky slows as my vision begins to widen again. I feel my feet on the metal surface of the fuselage. I feel my breath return. I feel the air beneath the helicopter. And I know we’ve got to get the hell out of this bird!

We move fast. Within a minute, the bird hovers above the treetops, the fast ropes are kicked out, and Jon and I peer into the blackness over the ramp to confirm the ropes are on the ground. With one hand on the rope, Jon and I look back at each other for a thumbs-up.

We lock gazes an arm’s length apart. Two young leaders with 20 lives counting on us and a mission waiting for us. The enemy doesn’t care how scary the insertion has been thus far, nor can we. In unison, we shrug our shoulders as if to say, “Fuck it,” give the thumbs-up, and rotate out into the night. “Follow me!”

We are heavy, and the rope is long. Too long. We rocket toward the mountain loaded with a month’s worth of supplies. Before I hit the ground, I am struck in the face. Hard. The machine gun barrel of the man behind me crushes my NODs mount and the bridge of my nose. I hold tight to the rope, my lifeline to the earth, and continue to slide, dazed and angry. I hit the dirt and slide. Down the mountain I go. The man behind me, Paul, breaks his ankle upon impact. Another Ranger misses the rope and burns in, breaking his back.

The insertion is a disaster. We are scattered across the mountainside with a mission to conduct and a casualty that needs immediate extraction. We gather ourselves into two elements and move one into our blocking position and another into a security posture to call a MEDEVAC.

Paul moves with me to the blocking position—the pain must have been unbearable. All he says is, “I’m sorry about your nose, Sergeant.”

When the sun rose, we had an extracted casualty, a banged-up platoon, and a bird’s- eye view over the valley. Strong-pointed on all sides, the SEALs flew from compound to compound in search of our target. When their mission was completed, they flew away, leaving us to continue ours. The following weeks were highlighted by more of the same. We got a break in the midst of the operation when the Command flew out Thanksgiving chow. We huddled around little fires and shared what we were thankful for over turkey and mashed potatoes. A subtle middle finger to these mountains and their people. You can throw what you like at us; we will not break.

I sat between my friend Josh (our mortars section leader for all these rotations) and my Ranger buddy, Justin—we had been side by side since the day I became a Ranger. I always felt a little lighter with Justin. Thankful for his smile and his smarts. Thankful for his friendship. Thankful that six years prior I was assigned to him as his Ranger Buddy. Since that day we had sweat together, fought together, cried together, and led together. To this day, we do life together still.

The following week, a lone rocketeer fired a one-in-a-million shot across the valley and nearly killed Jon W., the indomitable team leader with the devious smile. A young Ranger had joined the platoon just weeks before we deployed and froze on the machine gun, failing to return fire. Justin and I took the M240B and returned fire on cyclic, kicking off a barrage of machine gunfire that was done (for the most part) in frustration. All we had was a perceived location from the rocket’s contrail. All we needed was an excuse to release our anger.

That night, we kicked in doors and shook the foundations of the village across the river. Terror is the only thing I recall from the faces of the villagers. I wanted to kill every one of them.

But I never once pulled the trigger inside the village. None of us did. Though we pained about the loss of Jay and burned with fury for our country, our families, and our situation, we remained “morally straight.” Our Ranger creed demanded it be so. And our circumstances continually gave us opportunities to become the creed, one mission at a time.

Excerpted from Perseverance > Endurance, copyright © 2025 by Blayne Smith and Brandon Young. Reprinted with permission from Matt Holt Books, an imprint of BenBella Books, Inc. All rights reserved.

Perseverance > Endurance is available wherever books are sold, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, and Books-A-Million.

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Brandon Young is a former US Army Ranger with four rotations to Afghanistan, principal at Applied Leadership Partners, and co-author of Perseverance > Endurance. For over 25 years, he has built and led teams in the military, corporate healthcare, and nonprofit sectors. Brandon placed 3rd in the 2006 Best Ranger Competition, assessed, mentored, and trained over 1,000 Ranger leaders at the 75th Ranger Regiment, is a Quest Diagnostics Regional Excellence Awardee for Commercial Leadership, holds a master of divinity in leadership from Denver Seminary, and serves on the board of directors for GallantFew.