by Sean Parnell
Five days later, at 0300, Greeson and I were roused from restless sleep and told to report to the operations center. We rushed over to find Lieutenant Colonel Toner waiting for us on our computerized conference system.
When Captain Dye joined us, Lieutenant Colonel Toner said, “Men, I’m going to read you a quote from the former Marine Corps commandant, General Charles C. Krulak: ‘When the hard times come . . . and they will . . . people will cling to leaders they know and trust . . . To those who are not detached, but involved . . . and to those who have consciences. They will seek out leaders who stand for something bigger than themselves and who have the moral courage and strength of character to do what they know in their hearts to be the right thing.’ ”
What the hell?
“Men, we have been extended for a hundred and twenty days.”
He let that sink in. Thoughts of home vanished as I did the math. June. We would be here until June. We would have to survive another spring offensive. What were the odds of that?
The room spun. The men around me looked ashen. After Lieutenant Colonel Toner signed off, Greeson let out one of his classic Sling Blade laughs, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I need a cigarette,” he growled and stepped out into the night.
I followed, furious at his reaction. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yelled. “How can you not be pissed off at this?”
Greeson just shook his head. “Sir, every deployment I’ve ever been on has been extended. It don’t mean nothin’. Just means we get to play army for four more months.”
I stalked off to be alone with my thoughts. Here and there, the remaining men from the company suffered in the dark. A door opened, I saw our armorer stagger outside and vomit. Others wept.
I called my father. He’d been my lifeline through the entire year. He had planned a huge party for my return. After all I’d burdened him with, after all the nights he’d spent sitting next to his computer waiting for that angel’s chime, he would at last have his son back.
The news of the extension broke him. I heard it over the phone, felt my words slay his spirit. He would have to bear this, and he’d given all he had and then some.
Over the next forty-eight hours, my platoon reassembled at FOB Bermel. Most of the men had learned the news at Bagram as they were waiting for their flights home. They were reissued their body armor, helmets, and gear and thrown back onto a Chinook.
Others had already made it back to the United States. Military police knocked on their doors or met them at the airport and told them the news. They were told to pack and escorted onto the first available flights out.
They came back sullen, fearful, and devoid of hope. Everyone knew the odds. We had all had our close encounters with death. A few inches one way, a failure to duck, a left turn instead of a right—and death would have had us. We’d cheated it so many times that it seemed inconceivable that luck would have our backs now.
When we all had gathered back at Bermel, Captain Dye addressed us. “Men,” he announced brusquely, “we will begin continuous combat operations tonight. We’re back on it. Suck it up.”
We became a platoon of the condemned.
As darkness fell, our bullet-scarred Humvees awaited us. In ones and twos, the platoon gathered around them. Drivers slipped behind the wheels. Gunners climbed into the turrets and loaded their weapons. My dismounts stacked extra ammunition into their rigs. Greeson smoked and stalked around with his near beer, unflappable as ever. Sabo blew a fuse and yelled at one of his men. I watched the familiar scene and felt nothing but abiding love for these incredible human beings. Did America know the mettle of her warrior sons?
Not a man refused his duty. Despite everything, we had not lost the one thing that mattered most: faith in one another.
Chris Brown stood in my turret, shoulders sagging. As I opened my door, I asked him, “How you doing, brother?”
He looked down at me with young man’s eyes a thousand years old. “We got this, sir. No worries.”
I slid into the truck commander’s seat and settled down to wait. My fingers grew restless. I reached for my grandpap’s St. Christopher medal and pulled it out over my IBA. The last time I’d looked at it, its silver surface had been dulled by Afghan grime. Now, to my surprise, it was shiny and spotless.
Stay with me, Grandpap. This isn’t over yet.
I checked my watch. Time to put on my game face. I leaned forward and grabbed the radio’s handset. “You guys ready to rock?”
One by one, my leaders checked in.
“Roger that, we roll in five minutes.”
We counted the seconds and tried in vain not to think of home.
Epilogue
Summer 2009
Greeson and I walked side by side through the rows of white crosses, so many of which were marked “Unknown Soldier” or “Unknown Marine.” The summer heat beat down on us, and our dress blue uniforms were soon soaked with sweat. Arlington National Cemetery in August is distinctly unpleasant. We itched and stank, and it made me feel a little as though I was back overseas.
“You ready for this?” I asked Greeson.
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
In silence we headed for the mausoleum to say good-bye to a fallen Catamount. A group of mourners was clustered in the area, and my heart leapt to my throat as we approached them.
“I am so fucking sick of this,” Greeson growled.
How many funerals had we attended this summer?
Too many.
Outlaw Platoon had deployed to Afghanistan again, but this time Greeson and I had been left behind. The wounds I had sustained on June 10 had resulted in a traumatic brain injury. I suffered migraine headaches, memory loss, and blurred vision. All of those things grew worse until my cognitive ability began to degrade. I had trouble driving. My motor coordination suffered. I finally got help and was going through intensive neurocognitive rehabilitation. But I knew that I’d never be the same again and my time left in the army was coming to a close. I would soon be medically retired from the career I loved.
While Greeson and I were riding desks back at Drum, Outlaw Platoon ran into a Taliban hornet’s nest. As our men died or suffered harm, it was our job to notify the families. In several firefights, five were killed and several more were wounded. After a while, the task left both of us feeling gutted.
June had been the worst. Greeson and I had driven to Huntsville, Alabama, to say good-bye to Staff Sergeant Jeff Hall. He had been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. At the time he had been the senior NCO from our deployment left in the platoon. The men revered him. He was larger than life, and stories of how he had bolted through enemy lines to save the wounded marine were whispered among the platoon’s new members with reverence. Before he’d left, he had married Allison. She’d mourned his death at the funeral with their little girl, Audrey, in her arms.
Back at Arlington, we reached the mausoleum. We stayed close to each other, brothers in a crowd of strangers, bound together by a common sense of loss. We’d grown accustomed to the protocol of these military funerals. The folded flag, the final salute, white gloves and roses for the widows.
But we could never grow accustomed to the emotional toll each death took on us. Here we were, once again, grieving for a fallen member of our platoon.
Two years earlier, a young man had walked into my office at Fort Drum. Fresh-faced and all smiles, the kid had saluted me and told me that his uncle had told him to seek me out.
“Who’s your uncle?” I had asked.
“Phillip Baldwin, sir. I want to serve with you, in his old platoon. I’m Baldwin.”
Stunned, I had said to him, “Do you know your uncle was a hero?”
He shook his head. I told him the story of what Baldwin had done on June 10. When I finished, I said to him, “You have some really big shoes to fill. If I put y
ou in the platoon, you need to measure up.”
Resolute, steady eyes greeted those words. I could see he’d been cut from the same mold as his uncle.
Not only did he join Third Platoon, his brother-in-law, Private Matthew Wilson, did as well. Third Platoon had become more than a brotherhood, it had become a family.
Private Wilson was killed in action during the same attack that claimed Sergeant Hall. Baldwin’s family had paid a terrible price for their love of country.
Now Wilson’s coffin lay before us, sealed, with his body inside. We stood in the back of the crowd, alone with our thoughts.
That’s when we noticed him, a tall man wearing a black suit. He had a goatee now, and he leaned heavily on a cane.
“Is that Baldwin?” I asked.
He saw us and hobbled over. Before words were exchanged, our arms wrapped around each other in a fierce embrace. Long into that desperate and sad moment, I could only think of how I’d last seen him. “I can’t feel my legs, sir! I can’t feel my legs!”
As we talked among the crosses, Baldwin’s mother and grandmother walked up to us. Phillip turned to them and said, “Mom, Grandma, I want you to meet the man who pulled me off the battlefield and saved my life.”
They drew me into their arms and told me I was family. I held them close, total strangers but still connected in ways most people will never fathom.
“Thank you, thank you, for what you did for Phil,” they said through streaming tears.
“He is my brother” was all I could manage.
I held on and never wanted to let go.
Platoon Members
Though it was impossible to include all members of the Outlaws in the narrative, here posted for all to see are the heroes who made this book possible.
Sergeant First Class Gregory Greeson
Sergeant First Class Marty Belanger
Staff Sergeant Phillip Baldwin
Staff Sergeant Charles Byerly
Staff Sergeant Gordon Campbell
Staff Sergeant Jeffrey Hall
Staff Sergeant Jason Sabatke
Sergeant Christopher Cowan
Sergeant Michael Emerick
Sergeant Michael Marshall
Sergeant Bennett Garvin
Sergeant Keith Lewis
Sergeant Jose Pantoja
Sergeant Tim Stalter
Sergeant Ryan Wheat
Corporal Jeremiah Cole
Corporal Robert Pinholt
Corporal Colten Wallace
Specialist Mitchell Ayers
Specialist Brian Bray
Specialist Chris Brown
Specialist Erwin Echavez
Specialist Richard Haggerty
Specialist Mark Howard
Specialist Anthony Kienlen
Specialist David McLeod
Specialist James Murray
Specialist Khanh Nguyen
Specialist Aleksandr Nosov
Specialist Bobby Pilon
Specialist Josiah Reuter
Specialist Travis Roberts
Specialist Marcel Rowley
Specialist John Saint Jean
Private First Class Joseph Connor
Private First Class Joseph D’Ambrosia
Private First Class Jonathan Dugin
Private First Class Matthew Gallagher
Private First Class Juan Garcia
Private First Class Brandon Knight
Private First Class Dennis Leiphart
Private First Class Kyle Lewis
Private First Class Luis Perez
Private First Class Jose Vega
Private Daniel Schmid
Private Brian Warren
ATTACHMENTS:
Sergeant Dustin Dixon
Sergeant Paul “Bear” Ferguson
Sergeant David Kolk
Specialist Robert Abbott
Specialist Tony Garrett
Acknowledgments
SEAN PARNELL:
This book would not have been possible without the cumulative efforts of several amazing, talented, and supportive people.
First and foremost, I would like to thank my loving wife, Laurie. A year after redeploying home from Afghanistan, my life was in shambles. Depressed and lost, I had strayed from the warrior path. You saved me and gave me purpose. This book was your idea from the start and was ultimately born out of your loving devotion to me and my men. You are the glue that holds our family together and the most wonderfully compassionate person I’ve ever known. Ethan and Emma, watching you grow under the loving eye of your mother has been the greatest joy of my life. The happiness you’ve given me while writing this book cannot be expressed with words. I love you all.
I am blessed to have parents who love and care about me. Mom and Dad, you are responsible for all of my successes and none of my mistakes. My only hope is that I can continue to make you proud all the days of your lives. Thank you for always having my back through all the tough times. To my siblings, Shannon, Scott, and Andy, you’re the best a brother could ask for.
Nate and Kathy, first and foremost thank you for shattering the negative stereotype of the crazy in-laws. You are incredibly kind, compassionate, and giving people. Thank you for the support you gave me while I was writing this book. You’re the best in-laws anyone could ask for.
A special and heartfelt thank you to Mother of Sorrows Church, whose care packages and Christmas gifts boosted the morale of my men in ways I never could have imagined. Your dedication to the men of Outlaw Platoon was absolutely incredible. Thank you.
To my agent, first editor, and friend, Jim Hornfischer, I am eternally grateful for your dedication to this project. In a rough-and-tumble business, you are a man of impeccable integrity and character. I was truly blessed to have your guidance and support every step of the way on this project. Thank you for taking a chance on my men.
I wish to express profound thanks to my editors at William Morrow, David Highfill and Gabe Robinson. I knew from the first moment we spoke on the phone that you and your team were meant to publish this book. Your patience, vision, and positive attitude were rocket fuel for someone new to this business. Thank you so very much.
I also owe David Bellavia—writer, warrior, and cofounder of Vets for Freedom—a warm and heartfelt thank you. When this project was in its infancy, you gave me the support and advice I needed to help get it off the ground. You’re an American hero for gallantry in battle but, more important, you’re an honorable man. Thank you.
I have so many people to thank from my time in the military. Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Chris Toner, for giving me the opportunity to lead men in your battalion; Captain Jason Dye, for the trust and support you gave me during combat operations; First Sergeant David Christopher, for teaching me the ropes of being a new officer in the infantry; Captain David Brown and Billy Mariani, for your steadfast friendship.
To my soldiers, the Outlaws, you are the finest group of warriors and men I have ever had the privilege to serve. Working for you was the single greatest professional honor my life will ever know.
To my noncommissioned officers, thank you for taking the time to train and mentor me as a young leader. The life lessons you taught me extend far beyond the scope of my experience in the military. You were the heart of this platoon and the reason for our overwhelming success. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about each and every one of you. Thank you.
To Master Sergeant Greg Greeson, you were the best platoon sergeant a young officer could ever have. Down and out, outmanned and outgunned, you managed to inspire con
fidence in a group of men who had no business even whispering the word. Yet your ability to do so saved us all. Thank you for always being there for me.
Last but certainly not least, I’d like to thank John Bruning. John is the most passionate and powerful military writer I’ve ever read. I can’t put into words how blessed I have been to work with him on this project. For over a year John was wholeheartedly invested in our story. He made it his business to figuratively climb rugged mountains, man every foxhole, and engage the enemy ferociously with my men. Then, inspired by the story of the Outlaws, he went and did it all for real in the mountains of Afghanistan. John, you are a man of the finest quality and have the heart of a warrior. I’m proud to call you one of my closest friends. Perhaps fitting for a moment such as this one are words once uttered to me: John, you are a member of this platoon now. Don’t mess it up.
JOHN BRUNING:
In a career where I have been fortunate to have worked with fine people on meaningful projects, Outlaw Platoon represents one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that change everything for a writer. I remember writing The Devil’s Sandbox after I came home from post-Katrina New Orleans and hating to write the book’s final words. I felt that again as Sean and I finished Outlaw Platoon. I knew one of the most profound episodes of my life was coming to its inevitable conclusion. When we turned in the manuscript, I grieved its passing.
When Sean first contacted me via e-mail through my sister, Sherry, I was in a dark place. I’d withdrawn from a collaboration, and two of my proposals had failed to sell, ruining my perfect track record on that front. I was also still wrestling with the loss of a young man who was like a son to me. Specialist Taylor Marks had been killed the previous August in Iraq; I had been the one who set him on his course to join the military, and he had turned down a scholarship at the University of Oregon to serve his country. He was in Baghdad for six weeks before he was killed by an IED. After his death, I didn’t want to write military history anymore. I felt lost and unsure of the way forward.