I am hidden between two massive boulders nestled on the side of the mountain, my desert camo and face paint blending me into the dirty khaki terrain.

Through my binoculars, I am watching an old Russian APC (Armored Personnel Carrier) ride along the twisting mountain trail 800 meters below me. I count ten men riding on or inside. They are carrying RPG's and AK-47s, and wearing the type of shemagh headdress indicative of the mujaheedan that live in the area.

We are in hostile territory somewhere close to Jalalabad, Afghanistan. Those men are probably Taliban, though possibly al-Qaeda. We have blanket clearance to engage any targets in the area. I get on the radio.

"Any available Spooky on station, this is Bravo two-zero, over?"

The radio quickly crackles back.

"Bravo two-zero this is Echo six-four, we have a Fast Mover inbound...5 mikes out, over."

Echo six-four is the AWACS [Airborne Warning and Control System--those 767 jets with a huge rotating disk radar on the top] that coordinates CAS [close air support] in the area. They are telling me that a jet, probably an F-16 or F-18, is about five miles away, headed in our direction, ready to engage the target.

"Echo six-four, we have a hot target. APC, moving south, ten Tangos confirmed. Requesting fire-mission at the following coordinates--standby--," even though I confirmed the coordinates twice before I got on the radio, I check again to make sure I am correct. Calling in 1000 pounds of high explosive ordnance that is going to land 800 meters away requires attention to detail, "Zero...Three...Three....Zero...Fife...Niner. Over?"

"Bravo two-zero, fast mover is ready. Calling the laze, over."

The AWACS is telling us to fix our specially designed infra-red laser on the APC, giving the pilot a place to target his smart bomb.

"Echo six-four, target is painted, over."

The pilot is now on the encrypted channel with me and the AWACS , and he comes on.

"Roger, Bravo two-zero, this is Alpha fife-niner. I see the paint...Bravo-two-zero, we are weapons hot, over."

"Weapons hot" means that the pilot has locked on our laser and released the bombs. The mujaheedan don't know it, but at this point they are all but dead. Even if they knew the bomb was coming, they couldn't get away from it.

I keep the laser up for as long as I can because this is a laser-guided "smart bomb" that navigates by locating the reflection of the infra-red point on the side of the APC, and heading straight for that point.

Seconds later I hear a slight low frequency whistle.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM

The percussion of the ordnance exploding reverberates through the valley, and even though I am safe from shrapnel where I am, when the bomb explodes 30 meters above the target my head instinctually goes down.

I look up, and aside from the hole in the ground and smoldering mist, one would be hard pressed to find proof that seconds earlier an armored vehicle full of soldiers just passed by. The small bits of scrap metal wouldn't even be worth taking to a salvage yard. There isn't enough flesh left to attract carrion. After years of training and experience, you still never get totally used to that sight--the instantaneous and total annihilation of a target. Nothing where seconds earlier there was something. Ten men now only exist as memories in the minds of those who knew them.

I get on the radio. Deep existentialist thoughts aside, I need to get back to work.

"We have a direct hit, repeat, we have a direct hit. Fellas, there is nothing left, over."

The pilot responds back.

"Roger, Bravo two-zero...we are RTB [return to base]. Good luck."

My team and I stay in our location for another two hours to make sure no one makes the mistake of investigating the damage or using the same trail, then we silently exfiltrate back to our temporary camp where we'll try to get a few hours sleep before tomorrow's operations.

--

What you just read about was a snapshot from a fairly standard day in my life when I was in Afghanistan. I am sorry to say there will be no more cool battle scenes like the one described above on this site. [Even though I have done things similar to the above, that particular scene is fictionalized and important details are changed, as I would never disclose classified operational details in a public forum. Tucker wrote that intro as a way to hook the reader. The fucker is already starting to get Hollywood on me.]

Let me back up and explain a little bit.

I attended a very prestigious Ivy League college, worked for two years at a large investment bank on Wall Street, got engaged to the "right" type of woman, went to the "right" business school and got the "right" job immediately out of school. I was the poster boy for the upper-class WASP success track.

Everyone--my fiancée, my parents, my friends--they were all happy for me and reveled in my success. I was making in the mid six-figures, being groomed for upper, upper management, went to all the best parties, knew all the best people, had an expensive brownstone in New York City and an idyllic life.

I was 27 years old and had it all--yet I despised everything about my existence and every minute of my life.

I hated the boring, unrewarding, ultimately meaningless office work. I hated the fakeness of the people I worked with. I hated having to subvert myself and my identity to serve a soulless corporate god. I hated all of it.

But I most hated how I looked at myself and my degrees and my job position and my social standing and didn't see anything that I was truly proud of. I couldn't point to one thing I had done that I would be proud to tell my children about; ultimately, nothing I did meant anything. I was a meaningless and easily replaceable cog in a huge impersonal machine.

When I finally got the courage to face the fact that this was no way to live, that I wanted to make a mark on my world that I would be proud of, I walked out of my job without giving notice, broke off the engagement with my fiancée, sold everything I owned, and enlisted in the Army. My childhood dream had been to be in the special forces, and I was going to chase that dream.

I am now a 31 year-old soldier in the Special Forces of the United States Army [known by the media and non-military people as "green berets"]. I choose not to disclose my real name for PERSEC (personal security) reasons, so on this site I will go as "Nick Sadler." The US Government pays me to protect this nation and further it's interests: I oppose those who threaten the security of the state and I train and assist American allies in their furtherance of mutually compatible foreign policy and US national security. I am in the special forces, I love my job, I love my life, and I am proud of who I have become.

This is not a daily blog about my life. As a condition of joining the special forces, I signed a non-disclosure agreement and thus I am legally barred from discussing information about my job. Furthermore, I am not about to give any sort of information that could potentially be used by an enemy of the United States against me or those I serve with.

Instead, this is a memoir recalling my decision to enter the Army, my time spent in Basic Training and Airborne School, and the various other non-classified things I did before I got to the Special Forces.

The idea to put my journal on the internet came when I stumbled across Tucker Max's webpage, TuckerMax.com. One of my teammates showed me his website, and I really liked his writing. I related to his stories, and they stoked a desire in me to write, something I had loved to do before I joined the military. I sent him a few for his old Submitted Stories Page, he loved them, we started a correspondence, he offered to help me put up my own page, and this is the result of our collaboration. I write the stories while he edits them, publishes the website, and deals with all of the emails and other bullshit.

Enjoy.

"Nick Sadler"
April 2004

Entry 1: Joining The Army