What Does It Mean to Serve?

by Derick Bosely

What does it mean to serve? What makes a soldier’s sacrifice enough? Is it enough to serve quietly, or do you have to fight to earn honor? Is it sufficient to just do your job and go home, or do you have to fight? In most cases involving war, there’s an element of luck. Does that make the peacetime service of the ’80s and ’90s any less honorable than the GWOT generation?

I’ve wrestled with these questions for years.

---

I’m baking in the Nangarhar Valley in the dead of July. My eyes follow groups of women and children making their way out of the village through a wadi just 200 meters below me. This should have been a clue that this rodeo was fixing to kick off. Alarm bells should’ve been clanging. But after marching all night and through most of the blistering day, my mind was too baked to recognize the gravity of what we were walking into.

This whole operation started as a way to root out ISIS in Afghanistan. Since its inception in Iraq, ISIS had spread like a cancer through the Middle East, Africa, and parts of Asia. Afghanistan was a perfect petri dish for it to grow. We were going to be some of the first soldiers to take the fight to ISIS in Afghanistan. The valley hadn’t seen Americans in a while, so most of the Private News Network was touting it as the Wild West.

This was finally it. After years of training and wondering if I’d get my trial by combat, I was about to get all I wanted. Throughout most of my life, I’ve always felt that I could do more—no matter the circumstance. My military career was no exception. Up until now, I had crushed whatever my command put in front of me. But I hadn’t seen real combat. I had been on a few missions as standby QRF and rode as a flight medic one night, but I’d never been on an actual patrol. It felt like something I had to do or my military career would lack meaning—as if signing on the dotted line wasn’t enough.

---

It was going to be a multiday, multi-company clearance. The crux of the operation hinged on each company moving during their POD (period of darkness). HLZs were hard to come by, so if one company didn’t clear to the next HLZ, the incoming company would have to backtrack the previous clearance and still push forward to their exfil HLZ.

A Co went in the first night and got bogged down with fighting and casualties. Since they couldn’t clear their objective, my company—B Co—was up next, already off to a shit start. We got off the helo in the middle of the night into the stifling Afghan summer air. The heat smacked you in the face like finding an old protein shaker under your car seat.

We marched through the night to link up with A Co. Along the way, we started taking heat casualties. We exfilled those guys with A Co and continued our movement. We had a long-ass walk ahead of us and not enough darkness to do it in.

---

A comedy of errors led us to the brink of dehydration and heat stroke. Most people don’t think about the weight of water and food when hiking. We couldn’t carry an entire day’s worth of water per person, so we had planned for resupply speedballs. Unfortunately, they didn’t always land where they were supposed to. Most of them were unrecoverable. Since A Co didn’t make it to their intended HLZ, the JOC was pushing us hard to make up the lost ground.

Our original plan was to clear during the night and fortify a compound during the day. They audibled—scrapped that plan—and now we were walking through the sweltering heat, black on water. It makes sense if you don’t think about it.

---

Which brings me back to being semi-conscious on this hillside, watching civilians exit through the wadi. Not long after—maybe it was an hour; time was moving weird since I was almost in the spirit world—the first bullets cracked overhead. Everyone snapped back to reality. The boys went into business mode.

About 45 minutes into the firefight, my Platoon Sergeant (PSG) hit me on the radio. I already knew it wasn’t a wellness check. He let me know we had two wounded near him, about 200 meters away up an insanely steep hill. I asked if he needed me there. He said it would help him out.

At that point, the men in my platoon were my family. We’d been together nearly three years. I looked at the dudes next to me and said, “Don’t let these godless sons of bitches shoot me.” They laid down cover fire, and I sprinted my happy ass up the hill.

---

The first casualty was one of our interpreters. He had a gunshot wound (GSW) to the small of his back. The bullet was actually sticking out of his skin. I popped it out like a pimple, slapped on an occlusive dressing, and moved up the hill.

The second casualty was my buddy, Kyle. GSW to the left arm, just above the elbow. Must’ve been a small caliber because the damage was minimal. His bleeding was controlled with a North American Rescue CAT tourniquet. Not much else to do but reassure him and reassess the tourniquet. I settled in next to my PSG for the rest of the fight. We shared a tiny tree—barely enough cover for one of us, let alone both. I kept shooting and waiting for the stray bullet with my name on it.

After hours, we broke contact. We fell back between two compounds, and I started triaging the heat casualties and the wounded. I got IVs going, fluids started, and converted Kyle’s tourniquet to a pressure dressing.

---

An hour or two later, I finally exfilled Kyle, the interpreter, and one of our EOD guys who had passed out from heat stroke. I handed them off to the flight medic, giving him a quick rundown of each patient. He asked, “You need anything else?” I replied, “Yeah, to get the fuck out of this valley.”

After the exfil, we linked up with our other element across the valley. They had it worse than we did—most of their force was pulled earlier. We strong-pointed in a compound, fighting off dehydration and exhaustion. When night fell, we moved to our exfil HLZ.

At this point, my fun meter was pegged. Every step was agony. One of our snipers’ legs cramped so bad he couldn’t bend his knees—he Frankenstein-walked to the helos. When those birds finally hit the ground, I felt a fatigue I didn’t know was possible. It seeped into my bones, and my aid bag felt like it weighed two tons.

My PSG and I counted heads on the helo, then climbed aboard. I collapsed in a heap on the ramp and was asleep before I hit the floor.

---

Once we got back to BAF, I finally had time to reflect. I’d been in combat, fired my weapon in anger, moved under fire to help my friends, treated casualties, and exfilled the wounded. But there was no sense of arrival. No catharsis. No accomplishment.

In one day, I had done every damn thing I’d been training for since enlisting. But I didn’t feel like any more of a man or a Ranger than when I left BAF for this shitshow of a mission. We build up combat, medals, accolades—as if they’ll fill some deep void. But when you cross that emotional finish line, there’s no confetti. The moment can’t live up to the hype. It feels hollow.

---

So What’s the Takeaway?

What are the answers to the questions I posed at the start?

I think everyone who enlists has to answer them for themselves. My definition of service won’t be the same as someone else’s. What I will say is this: be proud of what you’ve done. I’m not saying you have to be some self-fellating douchebag, but don’t downplay your wins either.

You don’t need a cocky grin or a chest full of ribbons to validate your worth. Just be quietly satisfied that you’re living a life worth living.

Here’s to cutting ourselves some slack.

“There is one rule, above all others, for being a man. Whatever comes, face it on your feet.”
—Robert Jordan

______________________________

Derick grew up in West Virginia. He was a member of 3rd Ranger Battalion as platoon medic. Now he spends his days being a husband, father, flight medic, hunter, leatherworker, and knife maker.

IG derickbosley
IG standtobladecompany
IG standtotradingcompany

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.