What combat cameraman Ian Ives could recall most vividly in the moments following the devastating explosion was not chaos or panic, but an eerie, almost otherworldly calm that seemed to suspend time itself. In that strange stillness of shock, his first conscious thought surfaced with startling clarity: he believed he was in heaven. Speaking recently with journalist Jake Gabbard of Business Insider for the *War Journal* video series, Ives recounted that fleeting illusion of peace that accompanied what would become the most life-altering moment of his existence.
Yet that serenity evaporated almost instantly as pain crashed into him like a tide. Waves of unbearable agony flooded through every nerve in his body. “Everything started to hurt,” he remembered, describing how in the hazy aftermath of the blast he could hear the cries of his teammates—his brothers in arms—screaming in confusion, shouting out to one another to make sure they were still alive. He tried to respond, to reassure them that he was conscious and still fighting, but discovered he could not form words, his mouth and face too badly damaged to obey him. As the disorientation cleared and the magnitude of the suffering became undeniable, a grim realization replaced his earlier thought: he was not in heaven at all—he was living through hell.
The explosion that forever changed Ives’s life occurred during a 2019 mission in Afghanistan. An improvised explosive device, a weapon routinely hidden in the dirt and debris of war-torn roads, detonated with ferocious power. The blast tore through his right arm, ravaged his face, and severely wounded his leg, leaving behind injuries that surgeons later described as catastrophic. His comrades and medics worked frantically to evacuate him from the battlefield, and he was eventually transported thousands of miles away to the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Washington, D.C., a facility known for treating America’s most grievously wounded service members. That airlift did not merely mark the end of his mission in Afghanistan; it signaled the beginning of a far longer and more uncertain fight—one for his recovery, identity, and future.
When Ives finally regained consciousness a full month later at Walter Reed, he confronted a reality more painful than any memory of combat. His right arm was gone, amputated to save his life. He had lost a portion of his right leg and one of his eyes had been surgically removed due to irreparable trauma. Recounting that awakening, he later admitted that, paradoxically, the hospital—the very place meant for healing—was the hardest experience of all. “Honestly, being in the hospital was the worst part of everything,” he confessed. It was not only the relentless physical agony but the oppressive immobility: weeks confined to a bed, relying entirely on others, stripped of the independence that once defined him. “It was just pain,” he explained, and after a pause, he reflected that he came to understand during that period that pain, agonizing as it was, could sometimes be preferable to what he endured next: complete helplessness. The inability to move or to speak, which persisted for more than a month because of the extent of his facial reconstruction, became a mental and emotional torment far deeper than physical suffering alone.
Compounding his ordeal was a vicious bacterial infection that had entered his wounds from the Afghan soil where he had fallen. The infection nearly claimed his life, spreading rapidly and defying early treatment. Looking back, he acknowledged how narrow his survival had been: “That is almost what took me out,” he said, recognizing that if it had not been for the precise expertise of the physicians at Walter Reed—and perhaps simple timing and chance—he likely would not have lived. In his words, “If I had not gone to Walter Reed and gotten the exact doctor that I had gotten, there’s a very strong chance I would not be alive.”
Despite the magnitude of his injuries, Ives’s determination to serve remained unbroken. After months of intense physical therapy and adaptation to prosthetics, he succeeded in returning to duty with his Special Forces unit, an extraordinary achievement given the extent of his wounds. In a new role as a training noncommissioned officer, he found renewed purpose mentoring the next generation of combat cameramen—young soldiers eager to document the realities of military life from the front lines. Passing on his hard-earned knowledge and experience gave him fulfillment and connection to the warrior identity that still pulsed through him.
By 2021, however, he faced a truth impossible to ignore: his physical limitations prevented him from performing the way he once had. The demands of combat and fieldwork were unforgiving, and Ives, ever conscious of responsibility, refused to risk becoming a liability to his teammates. Rather than endanger others or compromise the mission, he made the heartbreaking decision to step away from active service. Thus, he retired from the military—a career and calling that had once defined every part of him.
Yet leaving uniformed service did not equate to leaving behind the community and purpose he loved. Instead, Ives transformed his path into a new kind of mission. He soon accepted a position as the media relations officer for the U.S. Army Cadet Command, a role that allowed him to interact daily with the future leaders of America’s military—the cadets who would one day carry forward the values he had lived and bled for. Reflecting on his journey, Ives explained that throughout his career he had discovered two passions that guided his heart. One was the raw, visceral intensity of combat: the camaraderie of small teams facing danger together and the clarity of purpose forged in the chaos of a mission. The other, equally profound, was the joy of mentorship—helping others grow, preparing them to lead, and inspiring them through his experience and dedication.
Speaking about his current role, Ives emphasized that working with these next-generation cadets enables him to remain intimately connected to the institution and ideals that shaped his identity. “I want them to see how leaders are—being empathetic, compassionate, and mission-driven above all else,” he explained. His commitment extended beyond teaching technical skills; it involved modeling a mindset of resilience, humility, and humanity.
When asked what the sacrifices he made ultimately meant to him, Ives responded with characteristic directness and humility: “Someone had to do it.” He stated that, if given the choice, he would make the same sacrifice again without hesitation. “I would go out and lose my arm ten out of ten times if it means that we get to keep our country the way it is,” he said, his voice steady, carrying the conviction of someone who has already paid the ultimate price for that belief. For him, such loss had meaning only insofar as it spared others—the rest of America—from having to endure the same peril.
For his extraordinary service, professionalism, and unyielding courage, Ian Ives received the Bronze Star for his exemplary performance as a public affairs sergeant, along with two Purple Hearts awarded for the grievous injuries he sustained in Afghanistan. His story, stitched through with pain, perseverance, duty, and transformation, stands as a testament to the enduring spirit of those who have given everything in the defense of others—and then found the strength to rebuild their lives anew.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/retired-army-soldier-life-changing-moment-not-heaven-in-hell-2025-11
