Craig M. Mullaney:

On September 29, 2003, on a lonely windswept ridge on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border dotted with ancient ruins and scrub pines, my platoon was ambushed. In the opening salvo, four bullets struck Private First Class Evan O’Neill beneath his body armor. He bled to death quickly. Since I was his platoon leader, he was my responsibility. I had vowed to bring him and all of my men home to their parents, children, spouses, and neighbors. When we returned to our mud fort that evening, the first sergeant read the roll call and repeated Evan’s name three times before another sergeant responded, according to custom, “Evan O’Neill is no longer with us.” I returned to my cot, struggled to unlace my boots, and cried myself to sleep.

Mullaney's book is must-read.

On a moonlit night early in Ranger School, my squad collapsed from exhaustion after more than 40 hours of patrolling without sleep. The Ranger instructor infiltrated our unguarded perimeter and woke us up with gunfire. As punishment for our lapse in vigilance, he ordered our squad to hoist our heavy packs and follow behind as he marched mile after mile along the sandy firebreaks of Fort Benning.

Eventually we slowed to a halt and the Ranger instructor asked each of us in turn why we were at Ranger School. Our answers, predictably, ranged from “For the challenge” to “My platoon sergeant made me.” The instructor stared at us silently, unsatisfied, and responded, “You’re not here for any of those reasons.” We looked at him blankly.

“You are here for the troops you’re going to lead. I don’t care if you’re tired, hurt, or lonely. This is for them. And they deserve better. You owe them your Ranger tab.” He paused. “Fuck self-pity,” he added with a hiss. “This isn’t about you.”