My Job Was Army Cook. But Ranger School Didn’t Care, and I Wasn’t Going Home Without a Tab

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Photo courtesy of Matt Stone
Photo courtesy of Matt Stone

This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.

I joined the Army as a cook, thinking it would keep me out of trouble. I wasn’t looking to be a hero; I just needed a reset. And the $35,000 bonus didn’t hurt. I figured I’d do my time, stay in the background, and come home with a decent story or two. By then, I’d have college paid for.

But the Army had other plans.

In basic training, I ran fast, didn’t mouth off (much), and kept moving. That turned out to be enough. I finished as an honor grad, which came with Airborne and Ranger contracts. I signed on the dotted line before I really understood what I was getting into. Part of me liked the idea of danger. Maybe I thought chasing the hardest thing possible would prove to my family—a long line of military officers and lawmen—that I was worthy, brave. Maybe I just craved love and belonging.

Growing up in the shadow of authority without empathy meant control passed for love and discipline passed for justice. I didn’t grow up with guidance; I grew up with orders. When I finally made it through the jumps, the rucks, the push-ups, the yelling, the hunger, and the stress, I graduated to the 1st Ranger Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment in 2009, and finally earned the coveted tan beret. Normally, that’s where you’d celebrate. But for me, the easy days were over, and they were on back order until further notice.

Arriving at Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, Georgia, didn’t mean you were done. It meant the Army had softened you like clay, beaten you into submission, prepped you for becoming your final, deadly, barbaric form. A form that knew one thing: Finish the objective or die. That’s when the real test began—the moment that tan beret touched your head.

On my first PT test with the battalion, I ran a 33-minute five-mile. That got me fast-tracked to Ranger School before I ever deployed. And the infantry guys made sure I knew how they felt about it: I didn’t belong. I was a cook. A support guy. The dude who made eggs, not war. To them, I got lucky and took a Ranger School slot from someone more deserving.

And to be fair, I understood. To them, I had skipped the line and snuck into the cool-guy club through the service entrance.

Not only did I skip the line, I was also wildly unprepared. They’d been trained in small-unit tactics, room clearing, patrol base operations, and fast-roping in less-than-ideal conditions. I’d been stirring spaghetti and perfecting my omelet flip. While they practiced battle drills, I was running food service pots and pans formations.

I’ve heard of only a half-dozen cooks in Army history who had made it through Ranger School. I was honored. And terrified. I wasn’t just going to Ranger School, I was doing it while Discovery Channel filmed the whole damn thing for a series titled Surviving the Cut. The revolution may not be televised, but my painful crucible was about to be.

I was behind from the start. But I learned to shut up, move fast, and bleed in silence. Ranger School didn’t care what your military occupational specialty was. The terrain didn’t care. The weather didn’t care. The wildlife didn’t care. You either kept up or you went home.

Bitten by a rattlesnake? Tough it out or go home. Mauled by a bear? Tough it out or go home. Frostbite on your toes? I felt I would need to amputate the dead ones or go home. And I wasn’t going back without that 50-cent strip of cloth on my shoulder telegraphing that I was a Ranger.

The author’s Ranger Indoctrination Program graduation photo.  (Photo courtesy of Matt Stone)

Darby Phase? Straight through. I had this in the bag. Then came Mountain Phase.

I failed it once. Fine. I dusted myself off. Then I failed again.

At that point, I had a choice: walk away or keep climbing. Going home meant the struggle was over. But a new one would begin the moment I showed up at battalion without that tab. In Ranger Battalion, no tab meant no respect, no identity. Just a pulse with dog tags.

And that’s when it hit me: The Myth of Sisyphus.

The story of the king condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a mountain forever, only to watch it roll back down each time. Albert Camus said we must imagine Sisyphus happy, not because the task changes, but because he chooses to find meaning in the struggle itself.

It’s about defiance. Purpose. Owning your suffering.

In a world where vulnerability is punished, the ultimate act of defiance is choosing your own meaning through suffering.

Mountain Phase wouldn’t have the honor of breaking me. I would have the honor of breaking it.

And I did.

Third time around, I passed.

Then I got recycled in Swamp Phase. If you did not receive a passing grade on patrol, you were recycled—no questions asked. Again, I kept going through hunger, sleep deprivation, poisonous plants, spiders, humiliation, and passing out after overheating. I watched guys quit. Lose their minds. Tap out.

Me? I kept showing up. One foot in front of the other. I was always the outsider, the cook with no business trying to be a Ranger. But I endured. I rat-f*cked MREs, chewed coffee grinds like dip, and ran on spite. That was my fuel.

At the time, I didn’t know why I kept going. But looking back, I think I was afraid of what it would mean to stop. There’s a kind of power in pain, especially when it’s the only thing that makes you feel like you’re worth something. The only thing that feels bigger than yourself.

Camus did not see Sisyphus as a tragic figure, but as a man who, by accepting his fate, transcended it. Because maybe the struggle itself is enough. I kept rolling that boulder. I have yet to meet a soldier who went through Mountain Phase four times like I did, but they are out there. Suffering just the same.

I didn’t come out of Ranger School elite. I came out fluent in suffering, starvation, silence, and sleep deprivation. The kind of invisible pain you wear like a badge. I didn’t get comfortable; I just learned to live where comfort doesn’t and thrive there.

I cherish that tab, not for what it says I am but for what it taught me: that I can suffer with the best of them and still keep going. That I don’t need applause or permission to climb. The only one who determines my fate is me.

And that’s what I want to say to the young soldiers out there, the ones who feel like they don’t belong. Impostor syndrome runs deep in special operations, especially among those who make it to places like Ranger School.

No one really feels like they belong.

Because what we do isn’t natural. We’re trained to suffer, to push beyond limits most people never approach.

Just because you’re struggling doesn’t mean you’re broken.

It means you’re human and you showed up anyway. That is what sets you apart.


This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Rosemarie Ho, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.

Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.

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