Soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines share their great American war stories. “Walk in My Combat Boots” is a powerful collection of never-before-told war stories crafted from hundreds of original interviews by James Patterson, America’s most trusted storyteller, and First Sergeant US Army (Ret.) Matt Eversmann, part of the Ranger unit involved in the infamous Battle of Mogadishu portrayed in the movie “Black Hawk Down.” These are the brutally honest stories usually only shared amongst comrades in arms. Here, in the voices of the men and women who’ve fought overseas from Vietnam to Iraq and Afghanistan, is a rare eye-opening look into what wearing the uniform, fighting in combat, losing friends and coming home is really like. Readers who next thank a military member for their service will finally have a true understanding of what that thanks is for.

Lisa Marie Bodenburg

Lisa Marie Bodenburg grew up in upstate New York, right near Buffalo. In high school, she was an honor roll student and played varsity sports; was a member of the Model United Nations and the National Honor Society; and won multiple academic awards. She is currently a staff sergeant and a 6174, also known as a Huey crew chief or a door gunner.

You’re throwing your life away, ”my high school history teacher tells me privately, after class. “You’re throwing away your talent.”

He’s not the first teacher who has said this to me. My coaches are shocked by my decision. Nearly everyone in my life is. My mother, especially. I’ve tried to explain to her—to everyone—my decision to join the Marine Corps.

It’s a privilege to be in this country, not a right. I learned this lesson in an AP American history class, and it soon became my passion, driven by my overwhelming need to earn that privilege every day. It starts with my honor to live in this country and extends to my pledge to fight for those who can’t earn the privilege themselves.

I felt this way before 9/11, but that strengthened my decision. That morning I was in the hall at school, between periods, when a teacher stepped into the doorway of his classroom and said, “Do you know what’s happening?” I didn’t. When I stepped into his classroom, he had the news on. I instantly started crying.

All my mother can think about is college. Neither she nor my father (who died when I was young) went, but my two brothers did, and both got full rides. Which is why I’ve worked so hard in school. My mother doesn’t make a lot of money, so I’ve got to get a scholarship, too, or I have to pay for it myself.

But I’ve made my decision. I’m joining the Marine Corps. I need something to push me, to drive me, and to bring out something in me that gives me joy. Something that isn’t easy. Problem is, I’m seventeen, and my mother won’t sign the paperwork. I’ll have to wait until I’m eighteen.

Until then, I’ll go to college.

In 2005, I walk into the recruiter’s office and say, “Sign me up. I want to be a Marine.”

“Okay, great,” the male recruiter says. All the Marines here, I notice, are men. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to be Force Recon.”

The recruiter and the other guys kind of laugh at me. “Okay,” the recruiter says. “What do you really want to do?”

I don’t understand what’s going on. “I told you. I want to be Force Recon.”

“You can’t do that.”

I get defensive. “Why not?”

They stare at me like I’m oblivious.

“Women aren’t allowed in infantry billets,” the recruiter says.

Women aren’t allowed. I’m so angry I get up and leave.

I go back to college and, after I calm down, I do some research. Then I go back to the recruiter’s office.

“What’s the most combative position I can have?” I ask.

They tell me about this illustrious military occupational specialty (MOS) called a crew chief, or a door gunner. The more they talk, the more I realize it’s as close to combat as I can get. It will literally take an act of Congress to change the fact that women can’t serve in infantry positions. (They can now. That act of Congress finally happened.)

“Can females hold the crew chief position?” I ask.

“Well,” the recruiter says, “we don’t know of any women who do have it, but there’s nothing saying you can’t. If you go in with what we call an open contract, and if you make honor graduate, you’ll get to pick your job.”

“What’s ‘honor graduate’ mean?”

“It means you have to be the best. You have to graduate number one.”

Now I have a goal in front of me. “Done,” I say. “Sign me up.”

Boot camp is fun. I love it. I have a great time. I’m good at it because I know I’m a leader. The Marines sharpen my skills. Their no-bullshit attitude creates a sense of self-confidence in me. They solidify what I’ll stand for and what I won’t.

I am the honor graduate. Number one. I did it. I accomplished my goal.

I tell the battalion commander I want to be a crew chief. “There aren’t any slots for you,” she says, “so we’re going to sign you up to be crash fire rescue, which is in the aviation field.”

After boot camp, Marines either go to the School of Infantry or, if they’re not going to be in the infantry, they go to Marine Combat Training (MCT), which teaches the basics of being an infantryman. I’m shipped off to Camp Geiger, in North Carolina.

In boot camp, men and women are segregated. You’re not even allowed to look at each other from three hundred yards away. Now I’m going through MCT with the male Marines. We’re integrated, and women are going up against men every single day.

And this course has an honor graduate as well. A slot.

The master gunnery sergeant asks to speak to me. I go to his office.

“I hear you’re still looking to change your MOS to be a crew chief,” he says.

“Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”

He stares at me. I know what he’s thinking: there’s never been a female crew chief who has deployed.

“I don’t care that you were an honor graduate at Parris Island,” he says. “You’re at my school now. If you want that job, you have to graduate honor graduate out of my school.”

In the platoon, we do land navigation. We do long humps carrying weapons and hundred-pound packs, learning how to survive off the land. I learn to shoot a .50 caliber and a 240. We eat MREs. We don’t shower for weeks.

I love it. I absolutely love it—no matter what they throw at me, no matter how many times they say I’m a brand-new nugget who doesn’t know her head from her ass. You’re here to learn, they keep telling us. You’re here to fight for this country. You signed up in a time of war. You did this willingly, so you better get your head on straight and learn to do it right because the Marine next to you is counting on you to save his life.

As graduation approaches, I’m neck and neck with another guy for the honor graduate spot. It comes down to the final test—a gun test on the 240 heavy machine gun.

I score number one.

Graduate as honor graduate. They finally change my MOS to crew chief.

But I still have four more schools to go through before I can actually hit the fleet.

Next stop: the Naval Aircrew Candidate School in Pensacola, Florida, where I’ll learn to become a crew chief. Half of the course is extremely strenuous PT qualifications.

I’m the only female.

I learn about the fixed wing and rotary aircrafts. There are a lot of attack helicopters, but the Huey is the one I want. Its primary mission is combat.

I finish the course and graduate as the honor graduate—again. Now I get to choose.

The gunnery sergeant walks down the line and asks each graduate his choice.

“Hueys,” I tell him. That will put me in the fight.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m going to put you on 46s.”

I’m a nobody lance corporal, and he’s a gunnery sergeant who’s also a Huey crew chief. The reason he doesn’t want me on the Hueys is probably because it’s a good ole boys club.

I speak up. “Respectfully, Gunnery Sergeant, I was told that if I graduate honor graduate, I get to pick. And I pick Hueys.”

“Why do you want Hueys?”

I tell him. He stares at me for what seems like hours. My heart is racing, blood pounding in my ears.

“You can dig your own grave,” he says.

Next stop: SERE school. Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. They blindfold us and put us on a bus where the windows are blacked out. They drop us off at some undisclosed location in California, where we learn resistance methods if we’re ever captured.

I get beat up a little bit as I learn how to survive. But still, I’m loving it. Same with the next school, CNATT—the Center for Naval Aviation Technical Training. I love the challenges. I love proving people wrong. And I love proving myself wrong, too—there are plenty of days when I hang my head and think, Man, I can’t do this. But then I wake up the next day and push myself more and more.

I’m honor graduate at both schools.

My last school is all about flying. It’s studying how to be crew chief and then passing not only written examinations but practical examinations, like going down into the flight line shop, checking out the right tools, setting up your aircraft properly, and being able to say the correct things on the flight.

This is where you’ll find out whether or not they’ll let you fly.

At every school, the men have made it clear that they don’t want a female graduate in the door gunner position. At each school, they make it harder and harder for me to succeed. The pressure is constant. I turn it into fuel for my fire. Oh, you don’t want me here? You don’t think I can do it? Well, guess what? I’m going to do it and I’m going to do it better than everyone else. CMT school is even more intense. All day, every day, I’m being told by my male instructors and by other men who are there to supposedly help me and lead me that I don’t belong here. They tell me I can’t be a door gunner. That I’m not going to make it.

It’s the first time I don’t like being in the Marine Corps.

I spend a lot of nights scared. There are a lot of tears and plenty of days when I have zero motivation. On those days, the only thing I know how to do is take the next step. When the alarm goes off, I get out of bed. Next step, I put my boots on. Next step, I walk to class. It’s all about that next step—these small, everyday victories. It’s all a mental game.

And I am not going to quit.

One instructor makes me believe I’ve flunked out. Then the scores are posted.

I’m the honor graduate. I’ve made it.

Now it’s time to go to the fleet. There, no one cares if you were the honor graduate or the bottom of the barrel. None of that matters. You start again from zero. It’s time to put all your training into action.

And you better deliver.

I show up to my first squadron, HMLA-367 Scarface, in California. I’m the only female. As I check in, the guys on the squadron glare at me like, “Wait a minute, you can’t be here. This is a good ole boys club. Absolutely not. She ain’t ever gonna fly on my aircraft. She ain’t ever gonna work on my aircraft. She’s just a walking mattress. She’s not good for anything.”

We deploy together in nine months.

“Walk in My Combat Boots” can be purchased through all major retailers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or your favorite local bookstore.

James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author. The creator of Alex Cross, he has produced more enduring fictional heroes than any other novelist alive. He lives in Florida with his family.

Matt Eversmann retired from the Army after twenty years of service. His last assignment was as an Infantry Company First Sergeant in the 10th Mountain Division during the surge in Iraq. He spent almost half of his career in the 75th Ranger Regiment and was a member of Task Force Ranger, the unit immortalized in the film “Black Hawk Down.” Matt and his family live in West Palm Beach where he runs his own consulting company, Eversmann Advisory.

Editor’s note: This is an op-ed and as such, the opinions expressed are those of the author. If you would like to respond, or have an editorial of your own you would like to submit, please contact Military Times managing editor Howard Altman, haltman@militarytimes.com.

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