Where Shadows Build Leaders

During the GWOT era, combat MOS soldiers typically had about two years to attend Ranger School after completing RIP or RASP. This applied not only to infantry, but also to combat medics, forward observers, mortarmen, commo specialists, and others. Failing to attend often meant being Released For Standards (RFS). Completing Ranger School meant earning your tab, making E4 (SPC), and becoming a leader.

I often reflect upon my life. I see how luck, opportunity, and preparation have collided at nearly every step. I frequently wonder how I’ve managed to succeed despite my countless failures and shortcomings. Somehow, I’ve achieved more than most. I’m not special, nor has my success been entirely my own. I’ve simply been fortunate—granted countless opportunities that I could only hope I’d prepared enough for.

I was lucky enough to be born without disabilities. I survived a chaotic and abusive environment. I grew up watching movies like Navy SEALS, Delta Force, and Black Hawk Down. I stumbled across the book Shadow Warriors, and I quickly aspired to become an Army Ranger. My childhood, in a way, prepared me for it. I joined the military post-9/11, at the height of the GWOT. I trained, deployed, and fought in Afghanistan multiple times. I was never left wondering how I would react in the fury of war.

I’ve long said you can understand almost anyone’s actions if you identify their core motivation or personality. If someone seeks fame and fortune, their actions will likely reflect the pursuit of praise and money. This can manifest in countless ways, but once you find the core, you find the person. If someone wants to help others, that will consistently show in their actions.

So what is my primary motivation or personality? I’ve pondered this question for years. I’ve offered different answers at different points in life, but along the way, others have seen what I either couldn’t—or didn’t want to—admit. I grew up protecting my siblings. I lived with a constant sense that death was just around the corner. I often felt marginalized, forgotten, and unloved.

I’m someone who seeks to protect others. I want others to thrive—even, and especially, at my own expense. I want people to feel seen and loved. And I want to do it all in the shadows, so that I might be quickly forgotten.

During my first deployment, my platoon only ran a handful of missions. On our first mission, Kopp was killed. My team became separated, treading through a flooded wadi. My radios were soaked and inoperable; we were combat ineffective. We spent most of our time trying to reconnect with either element of Alamo, navigating without communications or a map. It felt like I had accomplished next to nothing. The whole deployment felt like a failure.

So I was astonished when I was told I’d be going back for Ranger School. My buddy from the same RIP class had been attached to a different platoon and had seen a ton of action. He had proven himself in ways I thought I hadn’t. I was confused. I protested. How could I be the next newly minted E4 and a leader when I felt like I had done nothing?

My section NCO and officer pulled me aside. They told me they’d handpicked me. They said I had proven my ability to operate with limited resources. They saw me stay motivated, showing leadership qualities others didn’t—implying even more than they said. I didn’t believe them. I was convinced they picked me because I wasn’t needed; after all, we hadn’t done much. My buddy echoed that, repeatedly.

Still, I was sent back. And through a series of mistakes—entirely my fault—I didn’t go to Ranger School. I expected an RFS as my reward for screwing up. Instead, I was given grace I didn’t deserve.

On our second deployment, I was paired with my buddy. We were told we were equals, but he quickly took a leadership role, and I let it happen. He had already proven himself in ways I felt I never had. But he cut me down and cut me out. He withheld key information after meetings, which led to me missing duties and scrambling before missions. Eventually, leadership began to circumvent him and come directly to me. They told us both to attend the meetings—despite his protests.

Though we agreed to alternate the high-risk roles, I ended up doing them more often. Secretly, I liked it. I wanted to prove myself, and I loved the thrill. Everyone around me saw what it took me years to see.

I was sent back for Ranger School again. I had a hiccup in Pre-Ranger—another screw-up—but I took my punishment and finished. I earned the tab. Meanwhile, my buddy milked an injury and even deliberately slammed his foot in a door to re-break it. That’s when I saw what others already had: he was scared, self-centered, unwilling to sacrifice for the team.

Our friendship deteriorated. I had become a leader. He still demanded I obey him, but I didn’t.

I tried to be a good leader. I remembered all the chances I’d been given, all the mentorship I’d received alongside the discipline. I tried to be for others what others had been for me. Despite my rank, I continued to take the high-risk assignments. On my last deployment, things got hairy. I had already decided to ETS. As we neared the end, I felt a twinge of fear every time I took the dangerous spot. I was so close to freedom, yet I refused to shirk my duty. A month from separation, I was still doing live-fire training with my men.

I’ve struggled to write these final words. I’ve typed and deleted them many times. The truth is, I see myself as nothing more than a product of luck and opportunity. But those alone don’t define a person. Preparation does. Choices do. I have failed many times, yet time and again, people forgave me and extended another opportunity.

Over the years, I’ve heard from people who said they tried to be the kind of leader I was—and everything my buddy was not. Other leaders told me what they saw in me, not in him.

These words are hard. Hard to write, and harder to admit. In my personal and professional life, people are drawn to me. They seek my advice. My wife can attest to the constant texts and calls. Why I answer those calls can be found in many of my other writings. But simply put—I owe so many debts I can never repay. The best I can do is pay them forward.

I’m not sure what the point of this writing is. Maybe I just needed the story about Ranger School to be known. I needed to acknowledge those who built me up. As I’ve grown older, I’ve been fortunate enough to thank many of them—but not all. Whatever good is in me, it’s because of those people. I tip my hat to them.

I am nothing more than the intersection of luck and a whole lot of opportunities—coupled with some preparation.

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Jake Smith is a law enforcement officer and former Army Ranger with four deployments to Afghanistan.

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.