Author: jeremylehman

Gustavo Diaz is a good friend and, to me, embodies the American dream. He’s a great person to start a series of profiles of American Soldiers. Diaz, who prefers to use his last name, was born in rural Cuba to a family with limited means. His family had owned land that was seized by the communist government. “We were peasants”, he jokes. At the age of 13, he moved to Havana where he remembers being impressed with brick buildings that had electricity.

A few years later, the Cuban government began allowing people whom it considered undesirable to leave the country. Diaz’s uncles were imprisoned, and his mother and aunt applied to emigrate. They came to Wyoming, Michigan.

High school was a challenge for a new immigrant who spoke no English. After a while, Diaz realized many of the comments directed his way were not positive. He fought much, though he did well as a wrestler. Eventually Diaz was sent to an alternative school, where his grades improved and he graduated.

After high school, he stayed with the same group of friends who lacked direction. However, “I was never lazy; always had a job”, he mentions. Diaz worked as a chef for few years, then went to a factory where he was promoted rapidly from quality inspection to materials handler (hi lo driver). He made good money but spent it partying.

The party ended with a DUI conviction. While in jail, he met a Soldier who had been a tanker. “In reality he was more an infantryman”, says Diaz. It’s a telling statement: on the surface, Diaz is referring to the more visceral nature of infantry. His meaning is subtler, though, and shares a theme expressed by many Soldiers who have seen what people can do to each other, and parts of the world much harsher than America. Diaz means accepting and appreciating people as they are and, secondarily, taking opportunities for fun in a brutish and short world.

Diaz and the tanker sat in the rural Michigan jail with a lot of time together. They shared life stories. Diaz left jail determined not to go back, and intending to join the military.

First, Diaz went to the Marine recruiter. He took the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) test. He scored well on math, but his English held back his overall score. This is rather comical as anyone who meets Diaz sees he’s quite intelligent. He’s not the kind of person who accepts defeat, so Diaz signed up for Grand Rapids Community College.

College courses helped Diaz’s language skills. He went to the Army recruiter, still wanting to be a tanker. When he walked in, Diaz saw a poster of paratrooper. He changed his mind and signed a contract that day.

Diaz enjoyed Basic Combat Training and AIT (Advanced Individual Training) as an infantryman. He went directly to Airborne School. However, he had no orders to a unit. He asked a Black Hat-an Airborne instructor-for help. Here, he makes a gesture referring to a big person. I think back to my own time at Airborne School: just where did the Army find all these super-squared away, ultra-professional, 6’10”, rock-hard African American non-commissioned officers (sergeants)? They were scary as hell, even if the school was easy. Anyway, the Black Hat told him to stand tight, and somehow came back almost immediately with orders to one of the US Army’s legendary units:  the 173^rd Airborne, also called The Herd.

Arrival in Vincenza, Italy was blunt: he was sub-human until he proved himself. “They treated me like a junkyard dog”, Diaz shares; just about everyone who knows him appreciates Diaz’s mangled Spanglish analogies. He says people from the unit like to call it the “lost Ranger Bat(tallion)”, as its isolated location enables perpetuating a ferocious culture not unlike the 75^th Ranger Regiment, and because almost all leaders are Ranger-qualified (meaning they completed Ranger School, rather than serving in the 75^th Ranger Regiment).

His unit deployed to Kunar province in northeast Afghanistan. Many people know the region for the “Restrepo” documentary. Diaz shifts to an understated approach. I know he’s seen more combat than just about any of my friends. And-incredibly-two Soldiers from one company in the 173^rd were awarded the Medal of Honor. This is a distinguished team of warriors. However, he plays down the intensity of combat. The impression is that extended combat is not a positive; it’s something to execute professionally, but a humanitarian failure in Diaz’s mind.

I try to steer the conversation to an epic battle. He doesn’t view it that way. His unit clearly fought hard. They were the QRF, or Quick Reaction Force for the province. They were sent to an isolated, small Forward Operating Base that required first a week’s convoy from Kandahar to Langman, then another seven days winding through the mountains to the remote Kagaran Valley. They were only in country for a few weeks when their battalion’s Scout Platoon was in a tough fight, and the QRF was sent to help.

Diaz recalls bullets pinging off the bottom of the big Chinook helicopter as they came in. He was in the back of the helicopter looking out as it started to land. A Taliban fighter launched an RPG at the helicopter. Diaz saw the rotor wash from the helicopter deflect the RPG just before the helicopter landed. They threw body bags full of ammunition, then dashed out.

The fight took a day and a half. The Soldiers were exhausted. Diaz doesn’t view it so much as a victory, though it was, but sees the human cost: a few Americans were injured, and 80 Taliban lay dead.

Diaz’s unit fought constantly. They cycled through about seven to ten days patrolling the mountains, and generally then three days in a FOB (Forward Operating Base). Diaz remembers going essentially a year on 3-4 hours of sleep per night. Whether patrolling, or in their meager plywood FOB, his gun team of three people would split about 5-6 hours of sleep per night with rotating on watch. While at the FOB, the Taliban fired mortars and rockets nearly every day. Even now, Diaz has mentioned a few times that he’s more afraid of mortars, which are only detectable in the final seconds before impact, compared to rifle fire, where a Soldier can sense the direction and fight back.

Winters brought calm to Afghanistan. Diaz’s unit sent veterinarians to villages, offered food to villagers, and provided medical care. He’s notably enthusiastic about this side of how America projects strength.

However, Diaz senses his upbeat message and then shares that one of his best friends died: Christopher Palmer, who fought in Iraq with the 101^st Airborne, then fought and died in Afghanistan to a dishonorable enemy: an IED. When the 173^rd returned to Italy, five of Diaz’s colleagues had lost their lives.

Diaz mentions the enemy taking pot shots: they couldn’t close with the Americans, who would destroy them in direct combat, so the Taliban would fight asymmetrically with IEDs or sneaky shots followed by scurrying away. The Americans found this repugnant, and wished the Taliban would stand and fight.

Diaz fought many battles, but does not want to continue this thread. He shifts to his second deployment, with the well-respected C/1-125 IN company of the Michigan Army National Guard. They deployed to Kunduz, Afghanistan. However, his unit deployed heavily over-strength-the National Guard is a strong presence in Michigan-which Diaz believes led to their being split up when they arrived in country.

Diaz spent much of his time in a static guard post. He compares it to solitary confinement. I asked if they got a less attractive mission because they were National Guard rather than active duty. Diaz responds no: other units that were part of this broader group were assigned combat missions. He emphasizes that his company was composed of experienced Iraq combat veterans. They were eventually put in another QRF role, but he fought less than his first deployment.

Diaz says leaving active duty is the biggest regret of his life. The story involves an Italian girl, and maybe others, but it’s not a topic to press. He joined the State of Michigan government as a social worker helping veterans. It’s a continuum shared with many Soldiers: working with and fighting alongside locals-Diaz fought with ANA, or Afghanistan National Army-shares much with social work.

Diaz thrived as a social worker. He enjoyed finding veterans he could help, particularly when they had sealed themselves off from society. He excelled at finding them jobs. He later was named to county and regional NGO boards, and surprised himself at doing well navigating the complex relationships between federal grants, state administration, and county oversight of the non-profits organizations that implemented programs.

A key federal grant involved funding training veterans for jobs that somehow helped the environment. Initially, Diaz and his colleagues were frustrated. However, they made the case that CDL training for truck drivers including learning GPS routing systems that improved gas efficiency. The proposal was approved, and his team enabled jobs for many veterans during the 2008-2009 recession.

Diaz was promoted to move to Lansing, the state capitol. However, he grew frustrated with what he found to be the insular and politicized nature of state government, and the high overhead cost across numerous layers of government compared to directly helping veterans.

Operating a business always appealed to Diaz. He joined Sherwin-Williams. Today, Diaz runs an independent store with well over $1 million in sales. He has differentiated his business by building relationships with contractors including Mexican builders, as he is one of the only bilingual people in his field in West Michigan. Diaz speaks now about achieving his P&L targets and building his business. He recently bought an abandoned house on a lake and started an ambitious remodeling project.

Diaz isn’t nearly done. He just completed the Senior Leader Course to qualify for promotion to Sergeant First Class, or E7. Diaz has served at times as a platoon sergeant, an E7 job, due to his competency, but welcomes the promotion. He is a warm, empathetic person who is gifted at mentoring junior Soldiers and helping others as a social worker. Fighting and winning sets the conditions to help others in Diaz’s way of thinking: he’s a professional Soldier who lives American values.

Phil Alder, center, with Iraqi Army colleagues.

Phil Alder never quits. We met at drivers ed training in East Grand Rapids, Michigan and then went to high school together at Grand Rapids Catholic Central. It quickly became apparent, whether jumping from a railroad bridge into a river, deciding on a whim to climb a mountain in Colorado, and from a few brawls, that Phil fearlessly pushes himself past any limit.

Asked about high school, he hesitates and says “I have some blank spots from getting hit”, referring to RPGs and an IED. This is true, but Phil just did not find high school remarkable. He was a good athlete, though, lettering in cross country and track. I remember the coach asking late in the season if anyone would volunteer for throwing discus. Phil did, and won the All-City meet a few weeks later.

After graduation, “I knew there would be a war, and I wanted to be part of it”. His father was a Soldier, and his great-uncles were Soldiers. He wanted to be Airborne, so “it just seemed right”. He had always been interested in aviation, and scored high on the ASVAB test. He enlisted to join an elite aviation unit.

Phil found himself at Fort Dix, New Jersey “getting yelled at continually from 0400-2000 each day” and wondered “what the hell did I just do?”. However, he learned to enjoy schools as he went from basic to helicopter mechanic training, and later to Airborne and Air Assault schools. Managing time well and pushing through sleep deprivation “made me immune to whatever punishment they could throw at me”.

Phil joined the 160^th SOAR, the Special Operations Aviation Regiment, known informally as the Night Stalkers. This unit provides helicopter aviation for special operations. The Night Stalkers have a rigorous, detail-focused culture. They’re known for their “plus or minus 30 seconds” commitment to arrive at the right location, on time-often with limited visibility (night) and high speed, nap of the earth flight.

Initially, Phil joined the Green Platoon, where new members are assessed and indoctrinated. He remembers the fire ants in the Georgia grass during endless PT, and the “inverted koala”, a mild punishment where a typically junior new guy hugs a pole upside down until falling off. I don’t ask Phil why he was in the inverted koala.

Soon after arriving, Phil’s unit went to King Khalid Military City, in Saudi Arabia, for Desert Storm. His team of mechanics maintained Chinook helicopter engines, transmissions, and hydraulic assemblies.

Chemical warfare was a top concern during Desert Storm. Phil’s unit often performed their tasks in full MOPP 4, meaning a very hot chemical suit, rubber boots, and protective (gas) mask worn in the desert sun. They even performed PT in their MOPP gear. The barracks were 10 kilometers from the flight line, and Phil remembers his squad leader’s insistence on rucking (marching with a backpack), in MOPP gear to the flight line and back. Many Soldiers vomited, but Phil never doubted that he would complete a ruck.

Phil’s team handled the pressure and routine with pranks. A favorite involved juice provided by the Saudis, which used fruit fertilized with human waste. The victims were new lieutenants, who then suffered hours of sprinting to latrines but who were too junior and proud to respond.

SCUD missiles launched by the Iraqis were a constant threat. At Phil’s base, five were shot down by Patriot missiles launched by the US. At one point, a Patriot intercepted a SCUD that then dropped out of the sky to land a little over 100 meters from Phil. “It was loud as hell”. Phil’s handheld chemical detection device immediately went off. However, Phil is meticulous about equipment and noticed that the M8 chemical detection paper he kept on his suit had not changed color to indicate chemical agents.

They went next to Kuwait, which Phil remembers as scattered with stinking corpses. At the airport, they found that buildings cleared by the Marines had been re-occupied by some Iraqis. The aviators did not have infantry training, so they watched videos on close quarters battle before clearing the buildings themselves. What they found disgusted them: “You could smell them from outside”. The Iraqis had been abandoned by their units, and survived eating pigeons. The Saudi army was supposed to help. Phil remembers the Saudis as unmotivated, but quite enthusiastic about certain forms of pornography.

On returning to the US, Phil committed a cardinal sin in the precise, detail-oriented culture of 160^th SOAR: he was late to a formation. “I wish it had been drinking and fighting, but I just slept in.” He “lost a stripe”, meaning he was demoted.

Phil’s determination kicked in. He won Soldier of the Month, then Soldier of the Quarter, and competed across all of SOCOM (Special Operations Command) for Soldier of the Year. Phil did not win Soldier of the Year, but made the point. He was promoted again.

The 160^th deployed continually. Phil doesn’t share details. He’s not trying to be a “secret squirrel”, as Soldiers say, but it’s not good form in the service to volunteer details about some units’ deployments. Facts come out occasionally: “on our second trip to Panama [what was the first?] I realized we weren’t going to do jungle training when the flights were full of DEA agents headed to Colombia”.

Phil left active duty during the Clinton-era drawdown, when an alcohol-related incident made him vulnerable for an offense that earlier would have resulted in less of a response. He completed a degree in marketing at Grand Valley State University. He tried some sales jobs, without much interest.

When 9/11 occurred, Phil immediately joined the National Guard. When he arrived at his new unit, he went directly to the commanding officer and asked “Are we going to war?”. His unit was not slated to deploy, though.

Phil does not stop when he’s set on an objective, so he looked into contracting. He kept close records while pursuing a role with KBR, with over 250 phone calls before they agreed to hire him. He went to Iraq as truck driver. This is pure Phil: most people would dread driving MSR Tampa (Main Supply Route) with its landscape of large craters from IEDs. Phil drove a fuel truck.

Phil, left, and a friend sitting on one of Saddam Hussein’s thrones.

Phil found himself constantly alongside the Army in firefights. On an early run, an RPG bounced off his tank. It failed to explode, but the truck was leaking fuel. Phil pulled over, dollied down (detached the tank), and pulled away as the Army blew up the tank with a grenade. This happened several times. Detonating diesel fuel was less dramatic, but “if you were hauling gasoline, you can really feel the heat from the explosion at 200 meters away”.

Near Balad, Iraq, a massive IED exploded beneath Phil’s truck. The fuel tank shot into the air, then flipped to land on the cab. Phil was crushed. He broke every rib, both clavicles, and “most bones in my hands and fingers”. As he speaks, I see scars on his head and burns on his arms; it’s apparent that Phil is understating his injuries. Phil spent six weeks in a drug-induced coma, moving from Balad to the Green Zone to another facility in Iraq, and then to Landstuhl, Germany. His parents came and accompanied him on a private jet bringing Phil to Blodgett Hospital in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Phil’s body retained fluid and became septic, causing him to swell from 195 to 275 pounds. Surgeons cut open his chest to reduce pressure. His chest cavity was open for two months. When the swelling reduced, his chest would not close. A specialist was brought in and Phil was the first patient in the US for a new technique. Eight bolts were placed in Phil’s chest, connected by Kevlar bands. Phil was laced like a shoe. Each day, the bands were drawn slightly further to close his chest. The process was excruciating. “I didn’t want to be a whimpering bitch”, he says, remembering tears streaming down his face while he remained silent.

Phil lived, of course. He immediately attempted to return to Iraq. KBR, though, had other ideas and asked Phil to learn base security. He started with perimeter security: planning, deploying, and maintaining intrusion detection systems. Phil was promoted several times. By 2015, he ran all aspects of security for 18 primary locations and numerous satellite facilities in Bulgaria, Kosovo, Romania, and Turkey. Phil excelled at investigations, and earned a reputation for solving complex cases involving KBR’s subcontractors.

This May 2016, Phil came to the Cinco de Mayo party that my wife and I put on each year. Phil and I had not seen each other in 27 years. Phil looks good; he’s back to lifting weights. He’s progressing well with PTSD, and sleeping reasonably now after many troubled years.

Phil describes an uneasy relationship with recovery. He’s very happy with the Veterans Administration, but ambivalent about anxiety medication-and what others may think it says about him. He watches me closely, trying to sense any judgmental reaction about PTSD. When he mentions a specific medication, I discuss it with him in some detail to show that people understand and accept medication.

Phil never quits. He recently decided to stop all medication-starting the day of exams to join the Michigan State Police. “I’ll still beat the young guys”, he says. Phil’s determination took him through the worst of the Iraq war and across troubled parts of Eastern Europe. Today, Phil intends to apply his security experience as a police officer, and continue to serve.

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This story is about Phil Alder, but someone else deserves recognition. Kathy Alder, Phil’s mother, was instrumental guiding and inspiring Phil’s recovery. I remember her from high school as a strong person managing a big household full of kids. Kathy is also a nurse who closely watched Phil’s recovery. Phil’s a tough person, so it’s touching to see how close he is to his mother. I admire how she helped my friend.

Jon DeYong adapts to any situation, and defuses adversity with a sense of humor. Change started early for Jon. At the age of six, he moved from Grand Rapids, Michigan to New Zealand when Jon’s mother married a pilot with the Royal New Zealand Air Force. Military influence started early too: when he later moved to Australia, he watched from his backyard as soldiers trained on practice towers to learn parachuting. Jon went to sixteen schools in nine years across three countries.

Schools in New Zealand and Australia held classes throughout the year without summer breaks. He progressed rapidly, which meant that often he was among the youngest-and smallest-at each level. Jon felt he always had to try harder than the others.

Jon came back to Michigan, and adjusted to Northview High School. He had already completed nearly all requirements except for American history and government classes. People were not sure what to make of the new kid with the unusual accent. When Jon shared with friends that he was considering joining the SEALs or Rangers, he was told “there was no way you could do that”. Jon only grew more determined.

Jon went to the Navy recruiter but they were unclear on how to sign someone for BUDS (this is a recurring theme in West Michigan, and happened to me as well).  He went next door, and signed a RIP contract for the Ranger Indoctrination Program       (now called RASP for the Ranger Assessment and Selection Program).

Basic infantry training and Airborne school were easy, but RIP “was when it really got tough”. The Ranger Regiment was at full strength. They made clear they did not need new recruits. Jon’s class was held during a cold winter. He remembers the instructors as exceptionally polite, inviting people coming in from snowy land nav (compass) courses and road marches to a welcoming bonfire where they could literally roast marshmallows and enjoy a steak dinner-if they quit.

Fifteen Soldiers were selected to join the Ranger Regiment out of 234 who tried. “With every fiber of your being you needed to want this”, Jon says, almost incongruously with his relaxed, laconic manner.

Jon went to the 2^nd Ranger Battalion in Ft. Lewis, Washington. “I was scum of the earth”, he found, until he could earn a Ranger Tab by completing Ranger School. The smoking (hard PT) and hazing was constant. Jon treated it all with a sense of humor: when they made new privates buff the floor wearing nothing but their LCE (load carrying equipment, or web gear) and a bright orange VS-17 panel (used to signal aircraft), he filled the privates’ canteens with beer and laughed at the absurdity: “You had to make it fun. Anything can be changed by your mental attitude.”

The battalion held a Private Olympics to set an order of merit list to attend Ranger School. The Olympics stressed fitness with a twelve-mile road march, runs, swims, and more. He came in first. The First Sergeant told him bluntly “earn your (Ranger) tab, or don’t come back”.

Ranger School emphasizes leadership under conditions meeting or exceeding combat. On one level, Ranger School is about endless simulated raids, ambushes, and reconnaissance missions with limited food, little sleep and, for some, constant cold. In reality, Ranger School is about teamwork and leadership under stressful conditions.

Soldiers sometimes hallucinate at Ranger School. At one point, Jon’s platoon set up a patrol base, stopping in the Florida swamp to maintain their weapons and plan a mission while 50% of the Soldiers maintained security. One Soldier went out of the perimeter to relieve himself. Ranger students tie their belongings to themselves in order not to lose items when “droning”. This Soldier was “dummy-corded” to a M249 SAW, a light machine gun. However, the SAW turned into an alligator. The Soldier ran screaming through the patrol base, with his pants partially down, while pulling behind him the attacking alligator. Eventually someone tackled him. Jon started laughing. Even the instructors had to admit it was rather funny, and the episode was forgotten.

Jon kept seeing a pink Energizer bunny moving alongside in the woods: still going, still going… He was stung by a scorpion, and the medic gave him a massive dose of Benadryl. To assess whether he could continue, Jon was given a simple task: walk across a clearing. As the Benadryl flooded his exhausted body, he staggered through “the longest, most difficult walk in my life.” Jon later broke his wrist, and kept it to himself in order not to fail a phase. In my experience, about 2-3% of students complete Ranger School with no recycles, or repeating a phase. Jon was one.

Returning to 2^nd Battalion, Jon immediately deployed to Afghanistan. His deployments included Iraq, and then again to Afghanistan. While in Iraq, he was part of the mission to rescue Jessica Lynch. He led the personal security detail for the Regimental Commander. He remembers the mission “was planned old-school style, just like Ranger School. There wasn’t a laptop in sight.” The Regiment is famous for rigorously detailed planning, which makes Jon proud.

The Iraqis fired on the Rangers’ helicopters as they descended near the hospital holding Lynch. An “import”, meaning a senior sergeant who had transferred from another unit, lost his nerve. Jon pulled him physically out of the helicopter.

The actual rescue of Lynch was uneventful. However, Iraqis at the hospital told the rescuers about American bodies buried nearby. A core part of the Soldier’s Creed is never to leave a fallen comrade. The Rangers rushed to dig up the badly decomposed bodies. Jon remembers bringing back these fallen Soldiers as the hardest thing he has done: “three steps forward, throw up, three steps forward, throw up”. He’s only partially referring to the physical aspect, but at the thought that these men had died badly and then thrown in shallow graves. “But you had to do this. This is your job. It’s gonna happen.”

Jon remembers Pat Tillman joining his platoon. Tillman was older and brought more life experience than other new privates. “He was sensible”. Tillman was also physically huge. At one point on an operation, when an explosive charge failed to breach a door, Tillman put his head down and charged, spearing the door like a quarterback.

After three combat deployments, Jon wanted to marry and have a family life. He returned to Grand Rapids and earned a degree in criminal justice. He worked for a while, and joined the 1-125 IN, an infantry battalion with the Michigan National Guard. This unit “deploys, deploys, deploys”, Jon says, as often as active duty units and performs to the same standard.

Jon continues to serve. Soldiers in the National Guard lack the support available on active duty. Frequent deployments can affect civilian careers. Many turned to Jon, with his broad experience, for advice. Helping younger Soldiers resonated with Jon. He was invited to join the S1, or personnel, team for his unit in a full time role. Jon and his wife just brought home a newborn baby girl, and Jon focuses professionally on recruiting and guiding the next generation of Soldiers.