The Worst Fear Was Failing Them

By Jake Walsh

This first appeared in the author’s personal blog, Veteran Mettle, and is republished here with permission.

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I was a medic in the 5/20th Infantry Battalion, serving with Bravo Company in a Stryker brigade. I spent my entire time on the line, most of it inside the Stryker—either driving or sometimes acting as the vehicle commander.

Recently, I recorded a podcast with my buddy, Craig Hysell, owner of Conviction Training Facility and co-host of the Conviction Strong Radio podcast. In that episode, we discussed vulnerability—how it can be a tool, and how it allows us to grow beyond our current situation.

For me, vulnerability is like an onion; it’s multi-layered. To have an honest conversation about it, you have to speak from personal experience—you have to be vulnerable. On the podcast, when I related vulnerability to my service as a medic in an infantry battalion, I felt uncomfortable sharing details. I didn’t like exposing that part of my life. I rarely talk about my experiences in Iraq because I view them critically. I always feel like I should have done more, or done better. Recalling events from nearly ten years ago is hard enough, but probing the emotions tied to those memories can uncover things that remain unresolved.

On the podcast, Craig asked me about vulnerability in war. My answer surprised even me. I didn’t recall feeling vulnerable in Iraq. Instead, I thought of durability, lethality, ruggedness, and the impervious force that we were. I thought about how comfortable we became in discomfort, and how controlled we remained inside chaos.

We deployed from June 2006 to September 2007. Our tour was extended from 12 months to 15, making us an integral part of “The Surge.” We began in Mosul, moved south to Baghdad, then Anbar province, and finally Diyala province. Most of our time was spent in Baqubah (Diyala province), where we also finished our deployment.

When asked about personal vulnerability, I described the opposite. I talked about how invulnerable I believed we were as a unit. I think many soldiers feel that way in combat: that they’re the best. To function in chaos or uncertainty, you need to believe you’re the “top dog.” You convince yourself you’re untouchable—that you control the battlespace, that you’re the superior soldier, the better marksman, the exceptional medic. Nothing can penetrate your armor, slow you down, or take you out.

Of course, I can’t speak for everyone who has been “down range.” I didn’t always feel invulnerable. Sometimes I had to give myself a pep talk just to keep going, reminding myself how fortunate I was to serve in my unit with those guys. We were taught to have confidence in ourselves, and absolute confidence in our team. Training reinforced that over and over.

If there’s a point to all of this, it’s that we were vulnerable—and I was vulnerable. I feel that vulnerability again when I talk about it. At the beginning of deployment, you carry fear and worry that anything can happen, and that fear keeps you sharp. Over time, experience dulls the fear, and you begin to operate more fluidly and focused. By the end of deployment, though, hope creeps back in. You’ve made it so far, and others haven’t. Maybe you’ll make it all the way home. That thought grows intoxicating, and with it comes vulnerability again—less boldness, more apprehension.

I was scared, often. But not the kind of fear that paralyzes or prevents you from contributing. It wasn’t fear of death or combat scenarios—it was fear of letting someone down, of becoming a burden to the unit if something happened to me. The worst thought was not what the enemy might do, but that I might fail my brothers.

The transition from the Army to civilian life has been difficult. I know that’s not unique, and I won’t go deep into it here. But I will say this: when I get lost, overwhelmed, or uncertain, I reach out. I contact my senior line medic, one of the guys from the line, another medic, or someone else I served with. I check in to see how they’re doing, to step outside myself for a moment, to stay accountable, and to ask for advice. I seek refuge in that safe space among the guys—where once, I felt invulnerable and at my best.

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This first appeared in The Havok Journal on September 2, 2025.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.