October 9, 2009
I was exactly one month into my third overseas deployment, this time as a Marine Corps Staff Sergeant and Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Team Leader in Afghanistan. My assignment was to Forward Operating Base Dwyer, an expeditionary airfield carved into the desert west of Garmsir in the Helmand River Valley.
Camp Dwyer was a dust-choked Marine airfield in the middle of one of the most volatile provinces in Afghanistan. When I arrived in 2009, it was still growing—from a dirt runway into a patchwork of tents, plywood huts, and shipping containers surrounded by Hesco barriers and coils of razor wire. The background noise was constantly filled with the sound of generators and helicopter rotors; however, there were moments just before dusk when things seemed almost still—when the desert held its breath.
October days in southern Afghanistan are still scorching, but by late afternoon, the desert cools quickly. Without wind, the ever-present Afghan “moon dust”—a fine, powdery sand—hangs in the air, casting a ghostly tan mist across the base. This dust definitely makes itself home in every piece of gear, uniform item, and lung tissue.
Compared to more forward patrol bases, Dwyer was a relative luxury. We had a Dining Facility—or DFAC—and weren’t limited to Meals Ready to Eat. While some units operated “outside the wire,” most of the personnel were what we called Fobbits—those who spent their entire deployment inside the perimeter, pushing paper and supplies to the warfighters beyond the wire.
At the beginning of the deployment, I was frustrated. As the newest team leader in the rotation, I had been assigned what many considered an “easy” position—stationed at Dwyer rather than with one of the more active patrol bases. I openly desired to be in the thickest action, in the heaviest fighting, eager to prove myself in combat. I didn’t want a break—I wanted to be tested.
That day hadn’t been particularly eventful. I was hungry and heading out of my tent toward the chow hall on the far end of the base. While standing in line, a lieutenant approached me and said I had a call waiting from our section Staff Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge, Gunnery Sergeant Michael Schuchardt.
I made my way to the nearest operations tent and called him back. His voice was calm, but urgent. He told me that my good friend, Staff Sergeant Aaron Taylor, had been injured while attempting to disarm an improvised explosive device. He was being medevaced from Khan Neshin Castle and would be arriving at Dwyer for treatment. Gunnery Schuchardt said Aaron’s injuries were minor—but I was to head to the surgical bay, assess the situation, and report back.
I jumped in my HMMWV and drove straight to the surgical tent.
Inside, the air was sterile and tense. Aaron lay on a litter, barely recognizable. His face was swollen to twice its normal size. His body was split open from chest to stomach. Doctors were elbow-deep in his torso, searching desperately for the source of an internal bleed. Blood flowed into a metal pan beneath him—unit after unit being rushed in and pumped back out. Marines lined up outside, sleeves rolled, each desperately trying to save their brother.
The makeshift lighting, the plywood floors, and the ever-present dust gave the room a raw, improvised feel that reminded me of a battlefield aid station in a war movie. But unlike the sterile, polished hospitals back home, this was real—chaotic, grim, and unforgiving. The familiarity of trauma was there, but stripped of any Hollywood gloss.
In the corner, I noticed a set of body armor resting against the wall. The name patch read TAYLOR, and the EOD symbol was still visible—dusty, speckled with blood. It was a haunting detail that somehow made the entire scene feel even more personal, more final.
A doctor pointed to the monitor and explained the blood pressure reading was only present because he was manually massaging Aaron’s heart. The only thing keeping him alive was someone squeezing his heart by hand.
I stared at him, trying to find the friend I knew beneath the trauma. The tattoos on his legs were still there—“In order to protect the sheep, you must become the wolf.”
One of the physicians suggested I step out. I refused. I stood and watched for another 45 minutes as they fought to save him. Eventually, one of the doctors quietly told me: “If you have anything to say to him, now is the time.”
I don’t remember exactly what I said—only that I thanked him. For his friendship. For being in my life. For being Aaron.
At around 1931 local time, Aaron was declared deceased.
Within the hour, I was helping move his body from the surgical bay to the flightline. A HMMWV backed up to the tent, and we carefully loaded him, sealed in a body bag, into the back. I climbed in with him.
The interior lights turned red.
There were no windows. I couldn’t see outside. All I could do was stare at the black bag as it rocked with each bump, the engine humming and rising and falling like a dirge. I remember thinking: I’m Charon. The ferryman on the River Styx. Escorting my friend to the other side.
When we arrived at the flightline, the back doors opened. I stepped out and helped carry Aaron into the waiting C-17. The plane’s interior was brightly lit, and an American flag hung above the cargo bay. Two rows of Marines and Sailors stood at attention, saluting in silence.
We secured him to the deck of the aircraft.
Then I walked down the ramp and turned for one last salute.
The ramp slowly lifted, the light narrowing until it disappeared. The engines roared, the plane took off, blacked out.
And then everything was quiet.
No one said anything. We just returned to our tents. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing. I tried lying down, but after a few restless minutes, I gave up and turned to my computer. I pulled up the official journal of events for that day. It read:
(EXPLOSIVE HAZARD) IED EXPLOSION RPT (VOIED) 2ND LAR USMC : 1 CF KIA 1 CF WIA
2009-10-09 10:50:00WHEN: 09 1720D OCT 09
WHO: 2D LAR (RED FOX 3)
WHERE: 41R NP 51377 81236, 13.4KM W of Qal’a Ye Now West
WHAT: IED StrikeEVENT: While conducting Operation Desert Wind, dismounts from a 2D LAR patrol struck an IED resulting in (2) casualties and a destroyed bridge. A cordon was set. An urgent MEDEVAC was requested. The casualties were transported to Dwyer STP for treatment, where one Marine died of his wounds.
Engineers estimated the device was a PPIED, victim-operated, consisting of roughly 40–50 lbs of HME.
The Marine who suffered a concussion was transferred to KAF and was reported stable.
BDA: 1 US KIA/DOW, 1 US WIA, 1 destroyed bridge.
ISAF #10-0813 (Closed)
MEDEVAC #10-09G (Complete)
The next day, I was asked to write a short eulogy for a memorial service that would be held on Camp Leatherneck—the main Marine Corps base in Afghanistan. I sat alone in my tent and tried to put my thoughts about Aaron into words. When I finished, I handed it to our Officer in Charge, Chief Warrant Officer Rudis, who wanted to “review” it before I spoke. I didn’t think much of it at the time.
When the day came, I was flown from Dwyer to Leatherneck for the ceremony. But because this was the Marine Corps, there was a chain of structure to everything. Rudis spoke before I did. And to my shock, he read—almost word for word—what I had written. My words. My memories. My grief, coming from someone else’s mouth.
When it was finally my turn to speak, I stood before an entire battalion of Marines and stared out at them. I didn’t cry. I wanted to—I thought I should—but I couldn’t. I felt empty, hollowed out. Numb. People came up to me afterward, offering kind words and pats on the shoulder. I appreciated the gesture, but their words felt distant, padded with clichés that didn’t reach me. It wasn’t their fault. They meant well. But no one really understood what I was feeling, and I didn’t know how to explain it.
After the ceremony, my team started cracking jokes again, trying to return to some version of normal. But that didn’t feel right either. I didn’t want to laugh. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted silence.
But we were only one month into a nine-month deployment. And in the Marine Corps, the mission always continues—for the enlisted. Chief Warrant Officer Rudis bailed out of the deployment and went home early due to a so-called “home emergency,” abandoning his unit at the exact moment they experienced their greatest loss. The mission ended for Aaron because of death. It ended for Rudis because he was a weak leader. But for the rest of us, it continued. We kept fighting.
When I got back to Dwyer, I called my wife. She was also deployed at the time—stationed in Kuwait with the Army. I told her what had happened to Aaron. I’m not sure if the Iridium satellite phone garbled the message or if she didn’t fully grasp what I was saying, but her response was brief. “That’s sad,” she said. Then she told me she had to go.
I stood there holding the phone, crushed. I had hoped—needed—her to be the ear that could take some of this weight. But the combination of bad signal, emotional distance, and the fact that we’d lived apart for over a year made any kind of intimate communication feel impossible.
I hung up and didn’t know what else to do, so I went for a run.
As I jogged past the surgical tent, I saw a redheaded doctor sitting outside in a folding chair, reading. The sun was dipping low, and the air was full of that golden haze. I slowed to a walk and asked her what she was reading.
The Poisonwood Bible, she said. Barbara Kingsolver.
We talked for a bit. Her name was Heather. Eventually, the conversation turned to Aaron. She hadn’t been present in the OR that night, but she had heard what happened. We talked quietly about the incident, the chaos, the blood, the loss. For the first time since it happened, I felt like someone was really listening.
At one point, I asked her what The Poisonwood Bible was about. She paused, then said, “It’s about a family who goes to the Congo thinking they know what the world needs—thinking they can control everything—but the jungle doesn’t care about their plans. People die, others fall apart, and nothing turns out like they imagined.” She looked at me and added, “It’s also about what happens to faith when you’re surrounded by death. About learning that the world doesn’t revolve around you, and how sometimes the only way to survive is to let go of control.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, not knowing how closely her words mirrored what I was living through. She couldn’t have known the weight I was carrying, or how much of myself I was already losing to the dust, the grief, and the silence. And yet, in that moment, her summary felt like someone holding up a mirror.
Her words stayed with me long after our conversation ended.
What shocked me the most after Aaron’s death was that time didn’t stop. It just kept moving.
Before Afghanistan, I had deployed twice to Iraq. I had experienced casualties there too, but none were as personal or intimate as Aaron’s. In training, when someone “dies” in a scenario, everything halts. The instructors gather everyone together, we debrief, talk through the mistakes, and reset the scenario to try again. There’s a sense of control. Closure.
But this wasn’t training. There was no pause. No reset. No time to breathe.
Only a few weeks later, on October 26, 2009, I received an early morning call on the SIPR (Secret Internet Protocol Router) phone. An AH-1 Cobra had collided with a UH-1 Huey. There was ordnance on board. They needed EOD on-site immediately. We were also told enemy forces were closing in and to prepare for combat conditions.
My team deployed.
We spent that night combing through the crash site in the open desert—searching for unexploded ordnance, classified equipment, and human remains.
We found pieces of ordnance. We found pieces of them.
Then came another round of memorials. Another round of uniforms, salutes, and folded flags. I attended again, this time sitting next to Heather. We talked afterward—about death, about meaning, about the strange weight of being alive in a place where so many others had just ceased to be.
Later that night, back in my tent, I again sat at my computer and opened the day’s official operational log. This was how events were immortalized in the system: blood and fire transmuted into clean font and acronyms. I scrolled through until I found the entry:
(NON-COMBAT EVENT) DOWNED AIRCRAFT REPORT – HMLA-169 : 4 CF KIA, 2 CF WIA
2009-10-25 20:06:00WHEN: 26 0136D OCT 09
WHO: RP 68/69 (HMLA-169)
WHERE:
- Northern Crash Site: 41R PQ 05253 44212 (AH-1W Cobra)
- Southern Crash Site: 41R PQ 05132 44064 (UH-1N Huey), 4.1 kilometers northeast of FOB Dwyer
WHAT: Midair Collision
EVENT SUMMARY:
Task Force 373 reported a midair collision involving RP 68 and RP 69—one AH-1W Cobra and one UH-1N Huey from HMLA-169.An assault force launched from Dwyer to secure the dual crash sites and locate any survivors. Initial reports indicated one urgent casualty, one priority casualty, three confirmed KIA, and one Marine listed as MIA.
- 0146D: Personnel recovery (PR) event initiated for the MIA.
- 0228D: Two casualties (1 urgent, 1 priority) and one KIA were CASEVAC’d to Dwyer Shock Trauma Platoon (STP).
- 0242D: Quick Reaction Force (QRF), along with crash fire/rescue, arrived on-site.
- 0325D: The MIA was confirmed KIA by the battlefield commander.
- 0415D: Explosive Ordnance Disposal team from MWSS-372 dispatched to check for and mitigate any unexploded ordnance (UXO).
- 0544D: MRAP convoy linked with TF-373 and assumed site security.
- 0612D: Engineering Firefighting Liaison (MWSS-373) departed the crash site.
- 0713D: Recovery aircraft “Pitchblack 40” departed with remains of the final three fallen service members.
Enemy activity was reported near the crash site. Task Force 373 conducted containment fire missions in proximity to enemy positions to prevent interference.
CASUALTIES:
- (1) Urgent Marine: transported to Bastion Role 3, critical condition
- (1) Priority Marine: stable at Dwyer STP, pending transfer to Bastion
- (4) Confirmed KIA
BATTLE DAMAGE ASSESSMENT (BDA):
- (2) Wounded in Action
- (4) Killed in Action
- (1) Destroyed AH-1W Cobra
- (1) Destroyed UH-1N Huey
ISAF Reference Number: 10-2301
MEDEVAC Number: 10-26A (Dwyer to Bastion)
Personnel Recovery Event: 09-032
I stared at it for a long time. The names weren’t listed there, but I knew them: Capt. Kyle Rolf Van De Giesen. Capt. David Seth Mitchell. Corporal Philip G. Fleury. Capt. Eric Alton Jones. We had carried them. We had recovered what we could. We had guarded their final field of fire.
Somehow, in the middle of that surreal landscape of loss and routine, I had fallen for her.
Heather was smart, sharp, and funny in a way that didn’t seem possible out there. She was beautiful—red hair, thoughtful eyes—and I felt something for her that I hadn’t felt in years, if ever. A deep, calm admiration. Not a crush. Something bigger.
One night, I asked her if she wanted to see me blow up some ordnance. I thought I was being smooth—me, the confident EOD guy. She was the brilliant, beautiful doctor, and I wanted to impress her.
She agreed. I arranged a convoy, and we rolled out beyond the wire.
It didn’t go well.
We got stuck in the moon dust. That silty, fine Afghan powder swallowed our tires and refused to let go. It took hours to get unstuck. Her supervisors were calling me on the radio, increasingly pissed, asking when she’d be back for medical responsibilities. I was sweating—physically and metaphorically.
At some point, needing to salvage the moment, I walked the ordnance out into the open desert and set off a controlled detonation—an impromptu fireworks show. Just for her.
She laughed. I laughed too, mostly in relief. My cool-guy plan had fallen apart, but somehow, she seemed to like me even more for it.
A few days later, I received orders.
Our teams were being reshuffled to fill the hole Aaron had left. One of the other EOD team leaders took Aaron’s position in Khan Neshin, and I was reassigned to Garmsir. I was excited—closer to the action—but heartbroken that I’d be leaving Heather behind.
The night before I left, I didn’t hug her. I didn’t kiss her. Every part of me wanted to, but something held me back.
Before I walked away, she handed me a small jade cross—an Anglican symbol on a leather cord. “Keep this with you,” she said. “For the rest of the deployment.”
At the time, I wasn’t religious. Not really. Maybe agnostic. But I believed in something—something greater than all this. I wore the cross, not because of faith, but because it was her.
Because in a place where so much had already been lost, I needed to hold on to something that still felt alive.
This reassignment would ultimately place my team on the path to supporting Operation Moshtarak, a large-scale coalition offensive launched in early 2010 to clear Taliban forces from the Helmand River Valley—specifically targeting the insurgent stronghold of Marjah just north of our area of operations. That path would bring more loss, more near encounters with death, and, unknowingly at the time, would begin to steer me toward something deeper—toward the slow, often challenging journey of finding God.
***
I’ll return later to the events of our 2009 deployment to Afghanistan, but I feel it’s important to first finish telling the story of Aaron as it relates to this deployment and point in time. In April 2010, I returned to the United States and once again stepped onto the grounds of Camp Pendleton.
After nine months away, we expected a homecoming—families waiting with signs, hugs, and tears of relief. But before we could embrace any of that, we were ushered quickly into a small room. Someone had lit a Scentsy candle, laid out chips and a few hors d’oeuvres. The lights were low. It felt less like a welcome and more like a wake.
We waited inside for about thirty minutes. Then Cliff Taylor, Aaron’s father, entered. I was stunned—he looked exactly like Aaron. The resemblance was so striking it knocked the air out of me. But the situation was excruciatingly awkward: Marines fresh from deployment, still in their camouflage, waiting to see loved ones—but instead seated in quiet grief with the father of a fallen friend.
No one knew what to say. What could we say?
After fifteen minutes of silence, Cliff finally broke it: “This is awkward.” We all laughed—an uncomfortable, nervous kind of laugh, more reflex than relief.
Some words were exchanged, but none of them went deep. It was all surface-level: polite, shallow, unmemorable. At some point, Cliff mentioned he needed to return to Aaron’s house to start going through his things. I didn’t ask to join them for dinner. I didn’t ask to go with them. I just nodded.
Cliff left with Aaron’s girlfriend, Stephanie. I slung my sea bag over my shoulder and walked to my truck—alone, in silence.
The desert was gone. But the myst had followed me home.