Apodaca: Veterans deserve more than our gratitude

Casey Rydjeski’s boyhood must have appeared ordinary by Orange County standards. Born at Hoag Hospital in 1991, he was raised in Costa Mesa by loving, attentive parents, both teachers, and attended Newport-Mesa schools.

Yet he always felt different. Rydjeski was shy, restless, never quite fit in. Inside his backpack, though, was a clue to the passion that would steer the course of his life: books about World War II.

As far back as he can remember, Rydjeski longed for a military career and the promise of a life guided by discipline, a sense of purpose, and the feeling of being part of something important.

So shortly after graduating from high school, he enlisted in the U.S. Army, and was off to Fort Benning, Georgia to begin training in the infantry, the nation’s “boots on the ground” main fighting force.

It was the start of a journey that would take him across the globe and fulfill his desire to serve in a combat zone, where he faced constant danger as a handler of a bomb-sniffing dog, an assignment that came with the crushing pressure of knowing that one wrong move could cost lives.

Today, several years after his eight-year service ended honorably, Rydjeski lives quietly in Utah. He is one of the veterans that we honor on Nov. 11.

But as he reflects on his military career, it’s clear that he harbors complicated memories about a time that took him to emotional and physical extremes — a time that was both fulfilling and frustrating, sometimes extraordinary, and which ultimately left him feeling broken and unmoored.

After his initial training, Rydjeski received orders to report to Camp Casey in South Korea. He was dejected.

The Global War on Terror was on, and Rydjeski desperately wanted to deploy to an active combat zone — to go to Afghanistan and fight the insurgency there. As soon as he arrived in South Korea, and during the year-plus that he was stationed there, he pursued that goal.

“You want to do your duty, you want to do your job,” he said.

His persistence paid off, and he transferred to Fort Riley, Kansas, home of the 1st Infantry Division, which deployed extensively to combat operations. But he encountered another problem. He had been assigned to a battalion that was returning from Iraq. His hopes of deploying were dashed again.

Rydjeski approached a senior officer. “My private butt walked in” and requested a transfer. He worried that his boldness would backfire, but his transfer was approved to a unit bound for Afghanistan.

When asked if he wanted to be a dog handler, he immediately said yes — dogs had been another childhood passion — though he was confused. The only dog handlers he knew about were with the military police.

That’s when he learned about the Tactical Explosives Detection Dog program, a temporary contract program that teamed service members with dogs trained to identify the scents of materials used in improvised explosive devices. Rydjeski’s partner was a German shepherd named Fantom, and over the next several months they went through a rigorous training regimen.

Once in Afghanistan, their bond was continually tested.

“It truly is a team sport,” he said. “The dog can’t do it without you and you can’t do it without the dog. They get hungry, thirsty, tired, they get PTSD.” He had to be attuned to any small changes in behavior.

Picture Rydjeski and Fantom in hostile territory, in front of a convoy of armored vehicles full of soldiers counting on them to avoid getting blown up. Rydjeski uses baby powder — “more valuable than my rifle” — to read the wind, while also listening and watching for signs of imminent attack.

Fantom, off leash and responding to Dutch language and hand-signal commands, hunts for suspicious odors. Rydjeski must be acutely aware of the dog’s every move, while also scrupulously avoiding any eye contact that might be misinterpreted. He must work quickly, decisively, and precisely, all while knowing that the mortality rate among dog handlers is high.

“I was willing to die so they didn’t have to.”

Rydjeski left active duty in 2013, then served in the active reserves for a few more years before medically retiring. Haunted by his experiences, he became depressed, at one point suicidal, as he struggled to adapt to civilian life.

“I got to be the apex for a small amount of time,” he explained. “They all depended on me. Once you experience that, being the most important person in the world, even for just a few moments, you go home and face an extreme lack of purpose. You come home and it’s just like, ‘What now?’”

Rydjeski still struggles daily, but he hopes he is finally on a path to finding a renewed sense of purpose. He credits his supportive wife, and a realization that a traditional job will never suit him. His plan is to be self-employed, perhaps teaching firearm safety, survival skills, or even working with dogs again.

This Veterans Day, we’d do well to remember that a “Thank you for your service” isn’t enough. Rydjeski’s story is unique, but his trauma is not. Veterans deserve not only gratitude, but support from us individually and as a nation to help them find their way when they feel lost.

Note: The “Courageous Companions: Animals in American Wars” exhibit will be showcased at the OC Fair & Event Center’s Heroes Hall Nov. 14-Sept. 1.