Building Resilience Through the Horrors of War | Strong Back. Tough Feet. Soft Heart. Never Quit.

Signature Blend: Coffee & Reflections with Josh | #03 Resilience

Today’s stories are difficult to revisit and come directly from a chapter of a book I wrote as a Marine Staff Sergeant to my nephew, just three months after my father’s suicide in 2010. You can read more here to gain more context on the book’s origin and intent.

I’m honored to welcome you into this private corner of The Vault to share just some of my most personal stories of resilience—stories that, until now, I have never shared. I do so openly because I want to encourage you by assuring you that, as your coach—whether you're pursuing personal or organizational growth—there is nothing you can tell me, and no challenge you can present to me, that will shock me or deter me from being a champion of your success. In every clime, time, and place, I’m with you on your left.

At Foundational Coaching, whoever you are and wherever you are, you are always welcomed and you are always worth it. This message comes from my lifetime of service across the globe, shaped by countless challenges, deep reflections, and tough lessons on resilience. Despite these trials, I have found Victory Through HIRT! (Humility. Identity. Resilience. Teamwork.)

Before we dive in, I want to offer a word of caution: today’s content is heavy. I’ll be recounting some of my experiences from Iraq in 2003 during and following combat operations (Operation Iraqi Freedom I) and my time with the Marine Forces Europe Hospital Liaison Team (MFE HLT) in Germany in 2005, where I cared for over 1,500 wounded service members at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center (our HLT was the precursor to today’s Wounded Warrior units).

It’s okay to feel a range of emotions as you read these stories—I still do. If at any point you need someone to talk to, whether about what you’re reading or a personal challenge you’re facing, please reach out. Whether you’re a professional colleague or a friend, give yourself the space to process life’s challenges. And if you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, remember, I’m here to walk alongside you—whether as your coach or a friend—to help you navigate toward your vision.

Coaching is not therapy. If you need that service, I strongly encourage you to seek a licensed clinical professional. But if you are healthy, well, and looking for someone to help bring clarity, transform your culture, and improve decision-making, communication, and performance, I’m here for you. After reading today’s stories, I trust you’ll understand my confidence when I say that no one will work harder or sacrifice more for your success than I will.

Those clients who have experienced the tireless care and attention to detail I have for their success may just get a glimpse into some of the stories that forged this spirit inside of me. Sip your coffee and take my hand as we navigate stories that are two decades old but still feel like yesterday.

Strong back. Tough feet. Soft heart. Never quit.

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12. The Horrors of War

This chapter isn’t one that is filled with an abundance of spiritual correlations or examples. It is simply my first-hand story to you on the horrors that war bring - the wages of sin coming to fruition. Brace yourself. This is a morbid chapter.

In January 2003, I found myself in Camp Pendleton, California preparing to deploy to Iraq with I Marine Expeditionary Force. My good buddies and I flew halfway across the world and landed in Kuwait City, Kuwait. We stayed in Kuwait for a brief period and then joined the initial push north across the “line of departure” into Iraq.

General Charles C. Krulak, the 31st Commandant of the Marine Corps, coined the term “Three Block War.” The idea behind this term is that Marines at the lowest levels must learn to engage in combat, peacekeeping operations, and humanitarian aid all within three consecutive blocks in a hostile environment. My time in Iraq was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my entire life. The cycle of encountering enemy, conducting vehicle and foot patrols, and giving food and water to local children was endless.

Before I get any further into my story, I want to remind you of something. I told you in the last chapter that I couldn’t wait to prove you wrong if you thought the battlefield could not also become a mission field. Christ says that a cup of cold water that’s given in His name will not go unrewarded (Mark 9:41). Marines are often called murderers and other ludicrous names for acts in combat. Anytime I hear someone talk in a negative tone about the Marines deployed in combat operations, I ask them when the last time was that they personally gave a cup of water and some food to a starving child in a war-torn, third-world country. I tell them of the humble servants I have fought with who do this daily and take the time to play with the little children who will probably be blown up by a land mine or die of natural causes in the near future. This hit me one day while I was on a foot patrol. We came across some small Iraqi children and they began saying, “mister, mister,” as they held their hands out and then put them to their mouths. They were signaling that they wanted food and water from us. This broke my heart and I remember fighting off the tears.

These kids weren’t chunky like you are with plenty of food and baby meals to spare in the refrigerator. These kids didn’t even have a refrigerator, or electricity, or the amenities of life that we are spoiled with. They were in the middle of the desert in a country where nobody may ever know their names and may never know their existence. God knew them all, and I felt like He used me to portray His presence shining down on them with a smile and a heart filled with love. My Marine buddies and I would give them some water bottles and pieces of our combat rations. The children couldn’t understand English, so each time I would give a child water and food I would pray to God and say, “Lord, I am doing this in your name. Please bless this food and water for these kids and allow it to fill up their hungry stomachs and quench their thirst in this heat.” Anywhere you are and whatever you are doing, you can always give others the love of Christ.

That’s Not a Sandstorm Outside

While in Iraq, my unit and I convoyed to our next location in the back of high-back HMMWVs (High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle — pronounced “hum-vee”), and we couldn’t wait to get out of the blistering heat. The up-armored vehicles that are required in combat operations in Afghanistan today were non-existent during my first deployment. The enemy had as clear of a shot at us as we did at them.

Sandstorms and mortar attacks accompanied by occasional small arms fire were normal during our convoys and continued once we arrived at our location. If we had down time, we would practice getting in and out of our MOPP (Mission Oriented Protective Posture) suits and gas masks that were issued to protect us in case the enemy attacked with nuclear, biological, and chemical (NBC) weapons. Between drills, alerts, and attacks, I spent quite a bit of time in full MOPP gear and a gas mask during my early days in Iraq.

Upon arriving, we were told that, as buddy pairs, we could either set up our gear outside or stay in the back of a decrepit building. A few of us junior Marines decided that we would stay in the building to avoid the sandstorms that never ceased to annoy us. As we walked into the building, I saw something that I had never witnessed in the first 18 years of life — I realized why many stayed outside. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and brain matter was still splattered in some of the crevices of the concrete. Trails of blood stained the concrete where enemy had been shot and then slid down the wall. It was a definite change of scenery from back home in Charlotte.

The thud of poorly aimed Iraqi mortars created a mind-numbing rhythm that seemed to have the same effect as a lullaby. This was probably only because we rarely slept and crashed hard at any opportunity. My buddies and I often fell asleep to the typical sounds of mortars, Marines yelling at each other, and loud noises from sandstorms knocking everything over. These sounds grew softer as I drifted in and out of sleep.

All of a sudden, I heard something that I will never forget. Yells of excitement came as we heard our Gunny (short for Gunnery Sergeant, a Staff Non-Commissioned Officer) shout, “That’s not a sandstorm outside this time, boys! GET TO YOUR F%@#ING POSITIONS!!!” We had received some sporadic small arms fire during convoys, but no direct attacks on our position until now. A small contingency of Iraqis was firing mortars, AK-47s, and other weapons as they moved towards our camp. We had several infantry Marines with us and we provided some supporting fire as Marines just north of our position engaged the enemy from the flank. It all seemed to end rather quickly, but my senses were heightened to a level I had never felt before. I couldn’t sleep after that. Hearing rounds impact a target was nothing new to me, but hearing them hit all around me with the intent of ending my life was a different animal.

An Awkward Return Home

Thankfully, I never had to witness any of my brothers die right in front of me during my deployment to Iraq — my tour wasn’t as brutal as others’. I was one of the lucky ones. The realities of the darkest parts of humanity, and the needs of the Iraqi people that I witnessed during my first deployment, were enough to give me a new perspective on life and make me even more grateful for the things God had blessed me with back home. I was proud to serve my country and return home unscathed.

When I came home, I used up some combat leave and went back home to Charlotte to spend time with my parents and sisters. Anytime a military member returns from a deployment, the adjustment time to normal life outside of combat is always an interesting process. Everyone else had been moving along with their lives without me there. Of course they all loved me and were so excited to have me back, but it was weird. I didn’t really know how to act without my helmet, flak, gas mask, rifle, and other Marines. I was uncomfortable with other vehicles getting too close on the interstate. Anyone who stared at me in passing sent me into high-alert mode. Loud noises caused me to have a knee-jerk reaction. I woke up numerous nights scared because I couldn’t feel my rifle in my grasp. I had no idea how to make it all stop. I began a trend of jerking in my sleep that I still do to this day (your Aunt Laura can vouch for this).

I remember one night in particular. I was sleeping in my old room at your grandparent’s house in Charlotte. This is the same room where you sleep when you go to Charlotte to visit your grandma. Your grandpa and grandma told me goodnight and I fell asleep with my German Shepherd puppy, Roxy, next to me in a cardboard box. A good ol’ Carolina thunderstorm started brewing just before I fell asleep. In the middle of the night, a loud crash of lightning hit just outside of my room and split the top portion of a tree. I immediately dove to the floor and yelled, “Everybody down! Where’s my rifle?” Your grandpa came into the room and said my name several times until I woke up. He asked if I was ok and told me he didn’t want to grab me while I was in the middle of whatever I was experiencing. That was probably a wise move. The weird dreams lessened, but I was realizing that I had changed forever.

Orders to Germany? Why Not?

In 2005, I received orders to work in Germany with the MFE HLT. I was stationed there from July 2005 to July 2006. I knew what our mission was at the HLT (a unit responsible for supporting wounded Marines and, at times, their families), but I was not prepared for the way it would test my emotional and mental stamina.

As a part of the HLT, I helped receive and care for the wounded Marines as well as the wounded sailors and soldiers who were attached to Marine units in Iraq and Afghanistan. My Marines and I worked countless hours, and the number of wounded Marines at the hospital was never low. This wasn’t the job where you wanted to be gainfully employed, but our work had no end. My buddies, Travis, Mike, and Peter, would receive the Marines as soon as the C-17s or C-130s would land at Ramstein Air Base with the wounded. They made sure that all conscious Marines saw a Marine before they saw anyone else. Members of the flight crew understood this bond between Marines and were always willing to accommodate this polite requirement of ours.

There’s nothing like seeing another Marine. Other service members try to relate to the brotherhood that Marines possess, but they never can and never will. We are an elite group of brothers. We have a confidence that often says, “If you aren’t a Marine, then I don’t want to talk to you.” It’s our unbreakable bond that pulls us through the worst conditions with the least amount of assets. Because of this elite mentality, wounded Marines never wanted to see anyone but a Marine when they landed. All of the flight surgeons knew this and would tell wounded Marines that they were en route to first-class care from their brothers.

During my year in Germany, I personally cared for over 1,500 wounded Marines, sailors, and soldiers. I only recall one day during my year of work when we did not receive a flight with a Marine on it. The HLT was my family. Marcus, Linda, and Al are some of the finest people I know. The care we gave to our wounded Marines was nothing shy of what someone would do for another family member if they were blown up or shot. In all honesty, we probably exceeded the level of care a normal family would give. While Travis, Mike, and Pete would receive the Marines at the flight line, our hospital team was already aware of the name, rank, sex, and status of every Marine before they arrived. We would prepare a sign with the Marine’s rank, name, parent command name, and room number. We would put together a backpack with hygiene gear, phone cards, Marine Corps sweat suits, and other necessary clothing items. We would go to the hospital’s identification (ID) card center and have a new ID card created for any Marine who did not arrive with one. Before the Marines even arrived at the hospital, we would place the backpack in their room, the sign above their bed, and a small Marine Corps flag on the room sign in the hall so that the hospital staff knew we had moved in and claimed our territory.

We told the hospital staff that no Marine would be unloaded and moved to their ward without one of the members of our HLT walking with them. We went everywhere they did. This may seem like a petty detail, but you have no idea the impact this had on those who were struggling to hold on and live. That pride that I told you all Marines have is tightly woven into a warrior’s spirit. I have witnessed Marines struggling to maintain consciousness with the Air Force medics on the bus, only to perk right up as soon as they saw a Marine was there to hold their hands.

Our reputation of taking care of our own was so renowned that the doctors, nurses, and medics would ask us to come to the wards to visit and care for the other wounded service members who weren’t Marines. Regardless of the number of Marines we had under our care, we would make three “rounds” every day (morning, afternoon, and evening) to speak with each of them and get their medical updates from the medical staff. We would update our systems and notify the parent commands of these updates daily. During our rounds, we adopted several soldiers who said that their Army liaisons did not ever come see them. The list of rooms and patients we visited grew because of our newly adopted family of soldiers. We never complained about our long hours at work, and we knew each of them by name. At any given time, you could have asked us what room a Marine was in, any of their identifying information, what their injury was, and their current medical status – we would have given it to you before you even finished asking. We loved what we did and took pride in showing our Marines that they were our number one priority.

Marcus and I spent entire evenings at the hospital just listening to Marines talk about their combat experiences and talking to them about life in the Corps. Even the Marines who wouldn’t last until the morning would say that they just wanted to be back in combat with the brothers in their unit. We did anything we could to bring a positive attitude of hope to our brothers. We left each Marine our government cell phone number and told them to call us at any hour of the day or night if they needed to talk. There were many nights when they would take us up on that offer. We would get dressed and drive to the hospital to sit and talk with them. Most of the time they would fall asleep as soon as we got there, but they just wanted someone there to calm their nerves and let them know everything was going to be ok. Much like a parent with a sick child, we would sit by their gurney until they fell asleep. We weren’t just going through the motions with these guys. We connected on a personal level with each of them and truly cared for them with every ounce of energy that we possessed.

In my time working on the HLT, I was pleased to see world-class medical care return several Marines back to duty or on to a full recovery in the States. Even though it wasn’t easy to see the pain and suffering, I was encouraged to see the healing. I wish positive help and healing were the end of my story. The story has just begun. The things I am about to share with you still keep me up some nights and will surely always haunt me.