PFC. Devin K.P. Cardenas

We started Basic Training on October 15, 2003.

The first stop when arriving at Basic Training to become an infantryman at Fort Benning is the 30th AG. It’s the purgatory unit we’re assigned to before Basic Training officially begins. I came from Kentucky, where I played baseball in a small city called Owensboro—a one-major-traffic-light town with a single lonely recruiting station.

Devin, on the other hand, came from an LA recruiting station. Funny enough, it would’ve been the same place I enlisted if I had signed up while still living in the San Fernando Valley. But as fate would have it, we met in a cramped 10×10 room, where I watched his big personality take over the space as he played makeshift referee for a bootleg UFC match among the future infantrymen of Delta 2/58 Infantry Company.

He was larger than life in a room full of nervous kids, all bracing for the adventure of Basic Training and what was to come in a wartime military. His smile was the kind that made you smile back instantly, even after just a glance. He was full of bravado and charisma.

We spoke to each other like new kids stuck in unfamiliar territory often do—just a quick “what’s up” with a head nod and handshake. It wasn’t just any handshake, though; it was the LA handshake, followed by a homie-style hug. A pretty standard practice for LA kids. He had a little entourage of guys who hung around him.

At 30th AG, during the in-processing stage, it was common to see little factions of kids who came from the same MEPS state location. Strangers, but with a new commonality—it was easier to endure the misery with unfamiliar company. Devin hung out with the LA MEPS kids. One of these kids was Solomon Kim. He stood out the most—a short Korean kid with a firecracker personality and relentless energy. He was a good kid with even better character.

After a few days, we headed to our actual Basic Training location, where we would train to become infantrymen: Delta 2/58. From that point until graduation, everything was a blur. Our company was 90% Ranger contracts, meaning most of us would head to the same pipeline to become Rangers in the 75th Ranger Regiment—if we didn’t fall out, quit, or get injured.

Devin and I weren’t in the same platoon, but I’d see him in passing or during company smoke sessions. I could always count on looking over at him in his platoon, cracking a smile at the most inconvenient times. That smile gave me a little extra motivation when I needed it. He was definitely a light for those around him.

After Basic Training, we headed to Airborne School. Airborne didn’t have the same level of physical intensity as Basic Training, and we now had weekends off. A group of about eight of us stuck together. We knew the mission: to be ready for the RIP (Ranger Indoctrination Program), a four-week selection that began with a strict PT test.

Devin and I were in the same platoon and, to add to that, the same squad. We were only two soldiers apart in rank, which made it hard to focus. If I was a clown, Devin was the circus. He gave me more confidence to be a fool because he wouldn’t just match it—he’d beat it.

We made a pact: if one of us got called to do push-ups, we’d both do them. “Can’t smoke a rock, Sergeant!” we’d say. We planned to make sure our fitness didn’t degrade before RIP. We got smoked as much as possible, always with an over-exaggerated, condescending “HOOOOOAH!” as we pushed.

We pissed off a lot of higher ranks during that course—so much so that one Sergeant First Class pulled us aside to tell us we weren’t “Ranger material” and would never make it. Fuel to the fire. We pushed harder. “HOOOOAH!”

We didn’t care what anyone thought of us. We knew the path.

We had one mission: to become Army Rangers.

On our last weekend before the Monday morning PT test to get into RIP, we decided to go out in the Columbus area for a beer. We just wanted to relax and release some stress. We both opened tabs and got a table. Devin walked away to talk on the phone with his family, and I was doing the same. Another two future RIP students, Bloody and Quartermouse, were still at the table, talking amongst themselves—until one of them turned to a table of girls and said something.

Devin and I were wrapping up our calls and heading back to the table. As I closed the distance, I heard Bloody say the word “RANGER” through the music while gesturing with his hands on his chest. Within moments, two large gentlemen perked up and turned toward Bloody. One of them asked, “Ranger, eh? So, what company are you guys in?”

At that point, I knew Bloody had just gotten us into some shit we might regret. Bloody carefully searched for his next lie, hoping it would land with ease. “Delta Company.”

As I squinted, waiting for their reaction. He had no idea that, at the time, 3rd Ranger Battalion didn’t have a Delta Company.

“There is no Delta Company!” one of them said, and that was that. A scuffle broke out. We practiced breaking contact the best we could to avoid drawing attention before the MPs got involved. We ran down the street until we found a parked truck and jumped into the bed, hoping to let the scene settle. A few hours passed, and Devin and I were able to close our tabs without issue.

During morning formation, there was an extra NCO standing at the front, scanning the formation for a few familiar faces. None of us broke. We were lucky.

After formation, Devin went up to the RIP cadre and told them he couldn’t find his military ID card. The cadre decided to recycle him. (“Recycle” is a term used in the military schooling system to process a student to restart the course or start at a later date. It’s used as punishment or for retraining if standards aren’t met.) At the time, we thought he might’ve lost his ID during the weekend drama, but he later found it in another pair of pants in his locker. Unfortunately, they’d already decided to recycle him.

I went off to 2nd Ranger Battalion, then to combat, and eventually back to the Regiment before I saw him again. During our next training cycle, on my way to chow, I saw him walking back to his company.

“Devin!”

It was a reunion I wasn’t expecting, but damn, I was excited about it.

Ranger Battalion training cycles during that time of the war were intense. After returning from combat, the unit typically got a few weeks to recover before diving into a rigorous six-month training cycle covering all the Mission Essential Task Lists (METLs) needed to prepare for the next deployment. This time, my platoon was training for Iraq.

Rangers typically trained in different cycles within the broader training cycle—jump cycle, raid cycle, special training cycle, and so on. Once Devin and I reconnected, I invited him over for a home-cooked meal. At the time, we were all rotating through the same training site. It was a live Close Quarters Battle (CQB) training location, meaning we used live rounds to clear rooms and bounded forward as a squad to the next building, shooting at threats (silhouettes and paper targets representing bad guys).

Alpha Company went first on Tuesday, Bravo Company on Wednesday, and Charlie Company on Thursday. Dinner at my house was planned for Friday.

I received a call early Friday morning, around 2 a.m., that Charlie Company had a training accident. A soldier named “Figueroa” had lost his life. Half-asleep, I didn’t register the name and just said, “Thank you, Sergeant,” before going back to sleep.

When I woke up, the call lingered in my mind. It was the first time our unit had lost someone to training since I’d been there. I wasn’t sure what to expect. When I showed up to the platoon, I was greeted by Kim from Basic Training. We were in the same platoon now, and he had a glossed-over look in his eyes.

“Bro, did you hear? Devin was killed in training last night.”

I didn’t hear him clearly. It was almost like an echo. My subconscious knew who he meant, but my physical body wouldn’t let me process it.

I said, “No, bro. It was someone named Figueroa.” Then a long pause.

“No, bro. It was Devin.”

The rest of the day was a blur, a confusing haze for both Kim and me. What was the process? How did we learn more? As a PFC in Ranger Regiment, we weren’t privy to any information. To be honest, I didn’t even know what I was expecting. Two of his closest friends in the Regiment weren’t given any option to take time to mourn or be involved—because we weren’t in his platoon or company.

On my drive home, it all started to boil inside me. This was the first friend I had lost since being in the military, and this one hit harder because he was killed in a training accident—something that felt so preventable.

As I pulled up to my apartment, everything inside me came to a boil. My hands trembled as I struggled to get the key into the lock. Finally, I burst through the door and broke down—Devin wouldn’t be joining us for dinner tonight.

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As the months passed, I wrapped up a deployment to Iraq and was sent to Ranger School. While anticipating my graduation date, I realized that if I went straight through without recycling, I would graduate on December 16, 2005—the one-year anniversary of Devin’s death.

Devin wanted nothing more than to become a Ranger. He was incredibly dedicated to that dream. Being recycled multiple times before reaching the battalion didn’t stop him. And if he had been given the opportunity, nothing would have stopped him from earning his Ranger tab.

I was driven to honor my friend. I did everything I could to avoid mistakes, with only one goal in mind: to earn that tab for Devin.

During the second part of the Mountains phase, on one of the first nights of patrolling, I fell down a steep hill. My rucksack strap snagged and jolted my body backward. It shook me up, but I couldn’t quit. Two Ranger buddies pulled me up, and I pushed forward with the mission.

The next morning, I knew something was wrong. My right arm had stopped working. What I thought was just a moment of numbness turned out to be something far worse—my right arm was dead.

(Later, the medics called it Rucksack Palsy. The official medical term is brachial plexus nerve damage.)

With one arm, and in one of the most challenging schools in the military, I had to rely on some of my closest friends to help me, but I refused to go to the medics for fear of being recycled. I had a mission: to graduate on December 16, 2005. Through some of the most challenging moments of my life, I found the strength—or the support I needed—to get through the rest of the Mountains phase and Florida phase. A part of me believed that Devin was with me.

On December 16, 2005, I received the Distinguished Honor Graduate Award from Ranger School—the highest award given during graduation. I’ve always been proud of earning that tab, but more so because I did it for Devin.

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I wanted to write this to keep Devin’s memory alive. He was more than a friend—he was a brother. His personality, his charisma, his drive to be the best, and his ability to light up a room were unmatched. Even now, I can still see his smile, hear his laugh, and feel his presence in the moments when I need it most.

Devin may not have had the chance to earn the tab he aspired to, but I am proud to wear ours for both of us every time I put on the uniform. His legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew him, and I’ll carry his memory with me for the rest of my life.

December 16, 2024, marks 20 years since Devin lost his life in that tragic training accident. While the pain of his loss remains, so does the strength of his memory and the impact he continues to have on those who knew him—and even those who didn’t. Devin’s family has worked tirelessly to ensure that his legacy lives on, not just in our hearts but through a meaningful mission to support others in his honor.

The PFC. Devin K.P. Cardenas Memorial Foundation was established by his family to honor Devin’s sacrifice and uphold the values he lived by. Devin was a proud Army Ranger assigned to Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, who gave his all to uphold the honor of the Ranger Regiment. His family’s foundation reflects that same dedication and commitment to service.

The foundation’s mission is to provide scholarships for military personnel, their children, and grandchildren, ensuring that education remains accessible to those who serve and their families. It also offers general relief funds to assist Ranger families in times of need and supports the soldiers of Charlie Company, 75th Ranger Regiment, during deployments.

Through these efforts, the PFC. Devin K.P. Cardenas Memorial Foundation not only keeps Devin’s memory alive but also embodies the spirit of selflessness and sacrifice that defined his life. It stands as a testament to his legacy and ensures that his dedication to freedom, liberty, and justice for all will never be forgotten.

As we reflect on 20 years since Devin’s passing, let us honor his memory by supporting the foundation’s mission that bears his name. Devin’s light continues to shine through the lives it touches, and his legacy of service and sacrifice will live on for generations to come.

For those who wish to learn more or contribute to the foundation’s mission, please visit www.devinkpcardenasfoundation.org. Together, we can ensure that Devin’s sacrifice and the sacrifices of so many others are never forgotten.

R.L.T.W.