by Curt Winzenreid
I was born in Wheeling, West Virginia in the early 1980s. The Ohio Valley — steel mills, coal dust, and the slow decline of both — shaped the world I knew until college. My dad was a Vietnam-era veteran, stationed in Thailand rather than Vietnam. In the Army he worked as a printer, and that became his trade as a civilian until his passing in 2010. My mom was a nurse who worked labor and delivery at OVMC.
I grew up with a younger brother and sister. Like a lot of families, ours had its share of struggles. I often felt like I had to find my own way — to figure out who I was without much guidance or affirmation. Looking back, it wasn’t so much a lack of care as a lack of understanding. We were all doing the best we could with what we knew at the time.
I found an outlet in technology. By 1994 I had my own PC and a Prodigy account, and I was hooked. Computers and the early internet became a place where I could explore and build confidence. Those experiences — learning to solve problems on my own, finding community in unexpected places — shaped a lot of who I became later in life.
In high school I joined Army JROTC and found something that felt right. I was promoted to officer by the end of my freshman year and became battalion commander by the end of my sophomore year. I loved the structure, the purpose, and the feeling of belonging.
When I turned 17, I enlisted in the U.S. Army Reserve as a 12C — Bridge Crewmember. My parents made it clear they weren’t paying for college, so if I wanted a degree, I had to earn it. I figured the best officers were the ones who’d been soldiers first. So between my junior and senior years of high school, on Memorial Day 2000, I left for basic training at Fort Leonard Wood.
It was a culture shock. I wasn’t in great shape, and the drill sergeants reminded me of it daily. On day one, the head drill sergeant said “At ease!” — when he meant “Stand at ease.” I’d learned the distinction in JROTC, so I tried to correct him. Let’s just say that was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. The nickname “Battalion Commander” took on a whole new meaning after that.
After basic, I returned to finish high school and applied for an ROTC scholarship. I was accepted, but I’ll be honest — I didn’t have the right mindset yet. I saw “the standard” as the goal, not something to exceed. That was a mistake I’ve since learned from.
After graduating college, I was commissioned as a Signal Corps officer in the U.S. Army. My first duty station was Fort Lewis, Washington, with the 51st Signal Battalion. For my first eight months, I served as the Battalion Maintenance Officer — far from HQ, under two warrants and a crusty old master sergeant. It was a rough education, but a good one.
By spring 2008, we knew we were deploying to Iraq. I took over my first platoon in April — right as we were training on new networking equipment and running constant field exercises. Those were some of my favorite times in the Army: long days in the field, learning the gear, and getting to know my soldiers.
Our company HQ was in Kirkuk, but my platoon — 47 soldiers in total — was sent to FOB Sykes outside Tal Afar, about three miles from the city. We provided communications across the base and supported outlying posts.
When we first flew into Iraq from Kuwait, we landed in Mosul around midnight. To reach Tal Afar, we had to take Blackhawks. The aircraft available that night had only two open seats, and I wanted to be the first one on the ground to get things ready for the platoon’s arrival the next morning. Over the mountains that night, we took fire. The helicopter zigzagged and dropped flares — my M16 jammed between my legs, duffel bags pinning me in place — and I remember the helplessness. That moment burned into me.
Life at FOB Sykes was quiet by comparison. Tal Afar had been stabilized and was considered a “success story.” I spent six months there before moving to FOB Warrior near Kirkuk, where the story was very different. The first night, we took incoming fire. I didn’t even know where the bunkers were yet, so I hid under my bunk and prayed. Eventually, the fear dulled. You stop wondering if something will hit you. You just keep moving.
At Warrior, we’d sometimes take thirty mortar rounds in a day. Maintenance, communications, logistics — it all had to continue, incoming or not. That was life. One night, my soldiers banged on my door and said, “Sir, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is here — his comms are down.” We ran across camp and ended up at Admiral Mike Mullen’s quarters. He answered in pajamas, told us everything was fine, and slammed the door. Maybe he’s a great American, but that night, he was an asshole.
When our replacements arrived in August 2009, I stayed behind a few days to finalize property transfers. On my way out of Iraq, I caught the only available flight — a human remains transport. Two flag-draped coffins sat across from me the entire ride. I was leaving Iraq. So were they. Seventeen years later, I still see those flags.
After Iraq, I went to the Captain’s Career Course and then to Fort Bliss, Texas. By then, the war was winding down. The Army was changing, and so was I. Standards seemed to drop when they needed bodies, then tighten again when it was convenient. It often felt arbitrary — as if the goalposts could move at any moment.
I watched lower enlisted bear the brunt of that shift. There were times when overzealous officers went looking for reasons to make examples out of good soldiers to burnish their own credibility. More than once, I stepped in and defended my Joes when the punishment didn’t fit the situation. I believed then — and still do — that leadership means protecting your people while holding the line where it matters.
That period changed how I saw the institution and my place in it. It confirmed for me what mattered most: the work, the mission, and the people doing it — not the politics around them.
In 2010, about a year after returning home, my dad took his own life. A month before, his doctor told us to remove the guns from the house. I did. Later, when things seemed better, he asked for them back. I gave them to him. A few weeks later, he used one of them to end his life.
I know I didn’t pull the trigger. I know he was a 58-year-old man fighting his own demons. But it’s still something I carry with me. I gave my dad the gun he used to die. That truth will always live somewhere inside me.
After seven years on active duty, I left. A head-hunting firm helped me transition into corporate America. For the next five years, I traveled the world — China, Japan, India, Australia, Brazil, Argentina — and used the points to see Amsterdam on New Year’s Eve 2014. From the outside, it looked like I was doing great. Inside, I was drinking too much, smoking too much, and trying to keep the noise quiet.
For years, I told myself I didn’t have PTSD. I thought I was fine. But I wasn’t. In 2017, I finally reached out to the VA for help. Therapy gave me tools to process the past instead of run from it. It’s still a work in progress.
In 2023, my body and mind both began to show the wear. The VA rates me 100% permanently and totally disabled from the injuries — physical and mental — I sustained in service. That reality gave me time and space to focus on what actually matters.
After everything — Iraq, my dad, my own battles — I realized I wanted to create something that means something. Did You Kill Anyone Over There? is that purpose.
Every day, an average of 22 veterans take their own lives. Countless others fight the urge quietly. Most Americans don’t understand the cost of service — not really. I know I didn’t at 17. I thought war meant respect, meaning, belonging. Movies like Saving Private Ryan, Full Metal Jacket, Rambo, Platoon — they made it look noble.
What I’m doing now — telling these stories, capturing them honestly — is for anyone who ever wore the uniform, and for every kid who thinks war will give their life meaning. Maybe if they see our stories — my story, your story, our brothers’ and sisters’ stories — they’ll understand the real cost before they raise their hand.
And maybe, just maybe, the rest of the country will, too.