Sileo Tom - Fire in my eyes: an Americans journey from being blinded on the battlefield to gold medal victory

Copyright 2016 by Brad Snyder and Tom Sileo

Published in the United States by Da Capo Press, an imprint of Perseus Books, a division of PBG Publishing, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

The names of certain US service members have been changed to protect operational security.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address Da Capo Press, 44 Farnsworth Street, Third Floor, Boston, MA 02210.

LCCN: 2016014788

ISBN: 978-0-306-82515-6 (e-book)

Published by Da Capo Press

www.dacapopress.com

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This book is dedicated to liberty

and to those who serve to protect it.

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

B lue hues replaced the black of night as the morning of September 7, 2011, dawned in war-torn southern Afghanistan. No longer needing night vision equipment to reveal what was once obscured in darkness, I removed my helmet and night optical devices (NODs).

Amid the spray-painted camouflage on my helmet was a pronounced X, reflecting my call sign: X-ray. This symbol designated me as the expert in explosive hazards for our assault team. Most often, my job as a US Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) officer was to locate or disable improvised explosive devices (IEDs) that have been so prevalently planted by insurgents and terrorists in Afghanistan and Iraq.

In preparation for our impending daylight patrol, I carefully tucked my helmet into a small backpack that I used to carry explosive charges, thermobaric grenades, and other tools of the trade. I found my ball cap and pulled it down over my mess of long, reddishblonde hair. I zipped up my pack and slung each of my arms through its shoulder straps, tugging them until the pack fit snugly across my body armor.

From a crouched position atop the roof of a two-story, mud-walled building, I gazed across the fertile grape fields in the southernmost valley of Kandahar. Other members of my commando unit, made up of US Navy SEALs and Afghan Special Forces, were in a small courtyard below my watch position.

Through the shadows of dawn, I carefully studied everything between me and the horizon, looking for anything that might pose a hazard to me or my unit. As I scanned westward from the sun peering over the horizon in the east sky, I could trace the outline of a mountain range against the still-starry sky. The most prominent peak was directly north of me, with its sharp rock outcroppings turning a reddish orange as rays of sunlight penetrated my field of view. The shadows then began to extend from the base of the rock outcroppings into a barren red sand desert to my west and south. The picturesque circles of sand dunes etched into the terrain by the wind were in stark contrast to the jagged rocks to my north.

My gaze drifted back east, following the luscious vineyards in the mountain valley surrounding me. I tilted my head back and looked at the sky, which now presented a gorgeous array of purple, blue, red, and orange. The brushstrokes of vibrant color were glittered with the fading stars of the night sky. For a very brief moment, I released the pistol grip of the M4 automatic rifle slung across my chest and soaked in my rooftop view. In that rare moment, it occurred to me that I was looking at one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

At the same time, it saddened me to think that the magnificence of this faraway land was juxtaposed with the evil of its Taliban oppressors, who had a grip on the very village I was observing. My heart ached for the families that had suffered the loss of loved ones or had been forced to leave their homes. It saddened me even more to know that these charming grape fields were filled with hundreds of large, devastating IEDs, all capable of snatching the lives of those unlucky enough to step on them.

For a fleeting moment, the warmth of the rising sun was enough to wash away these thoughts. Once again, I swept my gaze from the east across the mountain range, desert dunes, grape fields, and the morning sky above the sleepy Afghan village. I was in complete awe of the majesty of the sights before me.

It was the last sunrise I would ever see.

F rom the edge of a small platform, suspended in the middle of a clear, dark lake, my five-year-old eyes gazed into the chilly water. My parents and grandparents had brought me to beautiful Weeki Wachee, near my grandparents house in my home state of Florida. As legend would have it, mermaids swim among the caves formed by the Weeki Wachee Springs.

As a five-year-old child, I had a strong belief in this myth. To further this vision, my father, Michael Snyder, pointed out a large, white conch shell at the bottom, and what appeared to be strands of mermaid hairwhich was actually seaweedentangling it. Fascinated, I told my dad that I wanted to investigate the shell. He nodded in encouragement, and watched me don a small mask as I entered the water.

Once immersed, I looked toward the shell, which was seemingly hundreds of feet below. In reality, the shell was only twenty feet down.

I took a deep breath and kicked my legs over my head to descend. I kicked, stroked, and then kicked again. The burning in my lungs grew, and the waters pressure pushed on my ears and mask in a way I had never felt before.

A few feet down, I began to imagine monsters that might be lurking in the dark waters around me. Jules Verne-style giant squid swam alongside freakishly large great white sharks in the depths of my imagination, and I began to panic. I aborted my mission and shot up to the surface.

I panted heavily as I searched around for my dad, who, I finally noticed, was watching intently from a nearby swimming platform. I began giving him an elaborate description of the scary seascape that I imagined. Without being able to fully understand my garbled words, my dad recognized my fear and jumped into the water next to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders while treading water and explained that while I might be afraid, the only way to conquer my fears was to acknowledge and embrace them. He asked if I was willing to give up on the wonders of the deep, the shell, and the mermaids hair because I was afraid.