Crafted by Valor

As a young Army aviator, I scared myself plenty. Self-inflicted scrapes that nearly ended badly. I’d gnawed seat cushions down with nervous energy. But I always wanted to try again; better, faster, lower.

I was always selected to lead. I briefed crowds for the “biggest air assault in 101st history” until the next one. During Instructor Pilot Course, I was critiqued for having too large of a comfort zone. I nodded, graduated, then went right back to flying too low, too fast, and with too many G’s because it was fun, and I was damn good at it.

I whooped and hollered in the cockpit, treating the Black Hawk like a wild mustang under perfect control. It was my high. I could make adrenaline on demand, faster than any Midwest meth lab.

Then I met my match. The one demon that made me feel not just scared, but doomed. The moment that started a twelve-year cycle of night terrors. Waking up just before that tail rotor slammed into the desert floor.

My sense of safety changed after Iraq. Fifteen months in Baghdad. Rockets and mortars every day. The worst part? That helplessness when a rocket might hit while you’re sleeping, or worse, on the shitter.

So I played it off. Made jokes. Called the rockets “Five O’Clock Charlie” like the old MAS*H episodes. But the fear was real. They missed, until they didn’t. And every time they hit something, it reminded me that next time, it could be me.

There’s no control. It hits you or it doesn’t.

Then we got a new chow hall, huge, air-conditioned. A tent-style clamshell called the Bob Hope Memorial DFAC. Hundreds of soldiers crammed in during meals.

One evening, the roar of a rocket engine cut through the noise. Then; BOOM. Silence.

Another; closer. Another; closer still.

People jumped up. Panic. Running. Yelling. I was running too. No plan. Just fear.

Then I stopped cold. I had no idea where I was running to. What if I was running toward the next rocket? What if I was safe where I stood?

I stopped. Blocked the door. Turned back. The tent was empty now. Quiet.

And there sat Dave W. Calmly eating his salad, no dressing.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled.

“If it’s my day, it’s my day,” he replied.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. Didn’t let fear ruin his meal. He figured fate would do what fate does.

I sat back down, embarrassed. Shaking like a leaf. But I adopted his mindset. If it’s my day, it’s my day.

Flying, though? That gave me control. I could maneuver, I could change fate. If they were ducking for cover, they weren’t shooting at me.

I flew like a madman through Baghdad, just feet above cars, looking people in the eyes. I laughed as they dove for cover. They couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t track.

At night, we stayed higher. 500 feet. Infrared lights. NVGs. They couldn’t see us. Everyone was the enemy. That was safer, somehow.

But when I got home, it got hard. Real hard.

Sleeping in my soft bed next to my wife? Too soft. I had to sleep on the floor.

Walking in public? I scanned for threats. Always. Everyone was a potential danger. I was in Germany, unfamiliar culture, language, people. I puffed up, walked aggressively, silently daring anyone to try anything.

We went on vacation. Bavarian Alps. Disney Paris. Big trip. Big plans. Big crowds.

I held Mia on my shoulders to stay in control. Practiced “neck steering” to move my girls through crowds. My fists were clenched. Jaw tight. Teeth grinding into migraine-inducing shards.

Then the Rainforest Cafe. A loud crash, a whoosh of the kitchen door. It sounded and felt just like a mortar. I was under the table before I knew it. My wife stared at me, scared. Not of the noise. Of me.

She saw through me. I tried to brush it off. Be goofy. Divert attention.

Later, we exited the park. A Muslim man, yelling “Allahu Akbar,” carrying heavy bags, was being escorted out by security. My instincts kicked in. I grabbed my wife’s hand and pulled. She resisted. I didn’t care. I was protecting my family.

There was no bomb. No blood. No explosion. Just me, looking like a lunatic dragging two blonde girls through a crowd.

I was the monster now.

I told myself: if there had been an explosion, we’d have survived. I reacted right. Others don’t know the signs. I’m trained. I’m vigilant. I protect.

I still scan every crowd. Still plan every exit. My daughter notices now. She jokes with me, asks who the threats are, how we’ll escape.

It’s getting better. Less frequent. I can enjoy crowded places sometimes. But I never stop scanning. Probably never will.

I just want to be normal. One of the sheep. Living unaware, like the good people of Wyoming. Where there are more antelope than people. My happy place.