by Flo Groberg
As my mother would tell me upon returning from Algeria, the only saving grace was that Uncle Abdou had been shot through the heart. That was my mom’s only comfort after her brother had expressed his fear of being tortured. According to Abdou’s religion, he was in a better place now. In Islam, life on earth is only preparation for the eternal life to come. The Muslim faith dictates that Allah will balance the good deeds a person has done in his or her life against the bad deeds. If the good outweighs the bad, the person will go to paradise: a place of joy and bliss.
I didn’t go to school for an entire week after being told about Uncle Abdou’s death because I was so upset. With my mom still in Algeria, my dad stayed home from work because he was worried about me. He had never seen his only son experience these kinds of emotions, and frankly, I didn’t know how to handle them. Never in my life had I felt that kind of piercing grief and unbridled rage. I didn’t want to sit around mourning my uncle. I wanted to find his killers and bring them to justice.
It’s hard to remember much else from that week other than one moment. As soon as I walked in my room and wiped away the tears, I went straight to my drawer and pulled out those two plastic bags full of green and gray soldiers. Bags in tow, I walked downstairs, past my dad.
“Flo, where are you going?” he asked as I walked out the back door. Defiantly, I ignored him. A few moments later, I had started burning my toy soldiers in a makeshift fire pit.
As the green and gray plastic melted, I had a paradigm shift in the way I thought about religion. I remember thinking, How can people use religion to justify murder, rape, and dismemberment? I did not associate myself with a religion after that day because too many used it as fuel for violence, but I continued to believe in God.
War was no longer a game. From that night forward, I was finished with toy soldiers.
• • •
Staring through the darkness up at Staff Sergeant Gallardo, I knew it was time to decide whether I should quit Ranger School and head back to my regular Army unit, or keep moving forward. Mountain Phase had absolutely kicked my ass, but if I decided to leave, this friend and Afghanistan war veteran was leaving North Georgia with me.
Still, I couldn’t find that damn tripod that had fallen off my ruck, which would almost certainly result in me getting kicked out of Ranger School anyway.
“Are we quitting?” Gallardo asks.
Before I could answer, another soldier interrupted.
“Hey bro, do you know why you keep falling?” he said. “The tripod is dangling from your ruck, so you’re dragging it through the mud.”
This revelation was so obvious it was almost comical. It sent waves of energy through my tired body and mind. I hadn’t lost the tripod after all.
Before thanking our observant fellow soldier, I answered Gallardo.
“Negative,” I said. “Let’s keep pushing.”
Covered in dark brown mud and finishing the death march in the black of night, I was suddenly the happiest soldier in the world. It was 0400, so if I could make it through the next hour, I knew that I would conquer the last three weeks of Ranger School, too.
“We can do this,” I said to the guy walking next to me.
“Who are you talking to, Groberg?” a squad member walking behind me asked.
“Mickey Mouse,” I replied.
Honest to God, the figure to my left looked exactly like a costumed Mickey Mouse you would see mobbed by adoring children at Disney World. When I reached out, I could even touch his white, puffy hand.
“Bro, you’re hallucinating,” another soldier said.
I no longer cared. The death march was almost over, and as I described Mickey Mouse’s big, black ears, my Ranger School brothers shared a hearty laugh at my expense. We were all relieved to experience that brief moment of humor.
When my teammates, Mickey, and I reached our objective, we collapsed like a house of cards. The RIs told us that the next day would start in exactly twenty-five minutes, which left us with two choices: eat our MREs or take a quick nap.
During my time at Ranger School, I learned the difference between what we called a “Hungry Ranger” and a “Sleepy Ranger.” Myself, I tended to be a Hungry Ranger, so the choice was easy: I always picked eating over sleeping. Mickey Mouse slowly faded as desperately needed food and water began to stabilize my system.
When the hallucinations finally subsided, I pulled a piece of unread mail out of my pocket.
Inside the envelope was a letter from my dad, which was scribbled onto bar napkins. In it, he described drinking a beer and eating a steak while watching the Chicago Bears, which had been our favorite NFL team since we first moved to Illinois from France.
To be honest, the contents of his letter kind of pissed me off, as I would have given anything to wash a New York strip down with a cold one. I would remind him about that letter for years to come. Still, my dad had taken the time to write me, which meant a lot. As I enjoyed those twenty-five minutes of downtime, I allowed myself to mentally escape Ranger School.
• • •
I was a freshman at the University of North Carolina–Wilmington on September 11, 2001. Like anyone old enough to remember, I was rocked by the first images of the World Trade Center’s burning North Tower, which I saw on my dorm’s shared television. As black smoke billowed up into the skies above lower Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty, which had been a gift from the country where I was born, I suddenly felt the same sense of rage I experienced on the night my uncle was murdered.
Instead of retreating to my room to find something to burn, I picked up the phone and called home.
“Mom, they did it again,” I said as soon as she answered. I was thinking of Uncle Abdou.
“Flo?” she said with the same concerned voice I heard whenever she was worried about me. “Are you all right?”
“They’re knocking down the World Trade Center in New York,” I said in French. “Turn on the TV.”
When she started watching, the World Trade Center was still standing, and the South Tower hadn’t yet been struck. Even though it was impossible to conclude that 9/11 was a terrorist event from the very beginning, I just knew. Perhaps the awful experience of losing an uncle to the same evil ideology gave me the preconceived notion. For whatever reason, I had no doubt that America was being attacked.
I heard my mom drop to the floor in anguish when the second plane hit. Five short years after she had been in Algeria for Uncle Abdou’s funeral and witnessed the devastation to her homeland as a result of the GIA, like-minded terrorists were attacking her new country just a few hundred miles from where she lived. I, too, began to panic when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon.
Of course, Osama bin Laden and his psychotic followers were not the same terrorists who had dismembered my uncle in Algeria, but al Qaeda and the GIA were one and the same to me.
“Mom, put Dad on the phone,” I asked.
After my father picked up the phone, I told him that I was going to quit college and enlist in the United States Army as a Ranger. The terrorists had done this to my family in 1996 and now to my adopted country. There was no way that I was going to stand on the sidelines and not be a part of the solution.
My father silently listened to me vent about my frustration and anger. Once I was done, he told me that he was angry as well, but it was in these specific moments that I really had to take a step back and not make a decision based on emotion.
He then asked me if I remembered what he made me promise.
Though I couldn’t remember, my father made sure to remind me.
“When I gave you the name Groberg, I told you that it came with a specific requirement,” he said. “When we start something, we finish it.
“I know that you are angry,” he continued. “So are millions of Americans, and guess what? We all should be. But if you decide to quit school to join the military, you will always find a reason to quit anything that you have started.”
My dad’s
advice—delivered on September 11, 2001—was profound.
“You are a man and you can make your own decisions,” he said in conclusion. “Remember: the tough decision usually isn’t the most popular. But I expect you to make the right one.”
My father was correct. He never let me down and always took the time to teach the right lessons. In this case, I might have hated his answer, but I nevertheless understood his perspective.
As soon as I hung up the phone, I heard singing. I realized it was coming from the television, where Republican and Democratic members of Congress—hand in hand on the steps of the United States Capitol—were singing “God Bless America.” My throat clenched and my eyes welled.
That night, I went to bed understanding that I wouldn’t join the military the following morning, but my future in the military was solidified. I would put on a military uniform sooner rather than later.
Following the attacks of September 11, 2001, I was no longer a guy from France. From that day forward, I was an American.
• • •
After finishing Mountain Phase and then successfully navigating the swamps of Florida, which marked Ranger School’s final challenge, I embraced my mom and dad after the US Army Ranger tab was pinned on my shoulder during a ceremony at Fort Benning. I also finally got to sit down and eat! I had never been that hungry in my life, and for about a week, this Hungry Ranger ate every meal as if his life depended on it. I also made my dad take me out on the town for the steak and beer he had joked about in that letter.
Of the three-hundred-plus soldiers in our original Ranger School class, just sixty-nine of us graduated. The fact that I was one of them meant a great deal to my parents, who knew that my path to becoming a soldier started because of Uncle Abdou and was cemented on 9/11. They were also naturally scared for my safety, but seeing me earn the Army Ranger tab made them proud.
Ranger School is a leadership school, but in my opinion it is also a test of character. It wasn’t any ordinary camping trip, but a life lesson learned through trial by fire. I learned a lot about myself and my peers during those two trying months.
With the support of my Ranger buddies, I had made it through the hardest challenge of my life. Getting to celebrate the achievement with my family and brothers-in-arms like Staff Sergeant Gallardo was a privilege. After so much hunger, exhaustion, and self-doubt, I knew that those sixty-one days of hell had made me a better soldier, and a better person. To this day, I live by the US Army Ranger Creed.
Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of the Rangers.
Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier.
Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.
Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.
Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.
Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.
Rangers lead the way!
Just six weeks after graduating Ranger School, I was in Afghanistan.
2 SHUT UP AND LISTEN
Even through the war-torn night sky, I could tell that eastern Afghanistan’s jagged, soaring cliffs would be a lot tougher than the mountains of North Georgia.
I had already been in Afghanistan for three days after stops in Germany, Romania, and Kyrgyzstan, but it wasn’t until our helicopter landed at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Blessing that I felt like I was really at war. It was surreal to finally have approached the moment that I waited for my entire life. I kept Uncle Abdou in the forefront of my mind a lot during those first few weeks on the ground.
Until you are in a combat situation, it is impossible to know how you will react. After seventeen months of intense training, there I was making a nighttime landing in Afghanistan’s treacherous Pech River Valley, which is near the country’s border with Pakistan. Hundreds of American soldiers had already been killed and wounded in this valley of death, and in a matter of minutes my journey would start with a bang.
Despite everything that the Army does to prepare a second lieutenant like me for his or her first night at war, even the most competent military leaders question whether they’re truly ready to take command of a platoon in battle. I learned this the hard way as our Chinook landed at FOB Blessing with a literal and proverbial thud.
“Go, go, go!” several soldiers on the ground shouted at us.
Given that we were landing on an American base, I was a surprised that we had to hurry off the helicopter, but as the highest-ranking officer, I was responsible for every soldier on board.
“Haul ass,” I shouted at my fellow passengers. “Let’s go.”
Whipping dirt filled my eyes as I exited the helicopter. More yelling from soldiers on the ground, along with the deafening sounds of the chopper’s revolving blades had me hearing white noise. I knew that the soldiers wanted us to hustle, but still didn’t fully understand the situation’s urgency.
That changed when the soldiers on board and I arrived next to a guard tower and were instructed to crouch down.
“Take cover under the guard tower, sir,” a senior Army noncommissioned officer (NCO) said. “Right here and right now, we are going to make a few things clear.”
Shit. I screwed up already?
“When I tell you to giddy up, Lieutenant, that means you move your ass,” he shouted directly into my already ringing ears. “Y’all were taking rocket-propelled grenades!”
To my complete shock and embarrassment, the soldiers I had been responsible for were under attack—and I didn’t even know it. The pitch-black darkness combined with the helicopter noise made it almost impossible to comprehend that we were taking fire, but that was no excuse. In five minutes, I learned my first lesson from “The Stan,” a common military nickname for Afghanistan.
“Roger,” I said as firmly as I could manage under such circumstances. I had to meet with the battalion commander the next morning, and knew that I would almost certainly face tough questions about my failure to lead.
My soldiers, whom I had never met, had spent 2009’s violent summer fighting season squaring off with insurgents and terrorists while I was busy hallucinating on death marches through the North Georgia mountains. Even though finishing Ranger School was the reason I was showing up mid-deployment, it didn’t change the fact that I was as green as a platoon leader could be, and would therefore be viewed with skepticism by the men I was supposed to lead.
As I tried to sleep during that first night at FOB Blessing, named in honor of fallen Army Sergeant Jay Blessing, who made the ultimate sacrifice six years earlier in the valley, I was restless. My mind was racing through what had just happened and what I could have done differently.
Meanwhile, inside our transient barracks, nineteen soldiers were sleeping in cots that were just inches from mine. Hours earlier, we could have all been killed by the Taliban, and yet these young men were sleeping like babies. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this would become a normal feeling as an officer in charge of troops.
While chatting with some of the officers around the compound the following morning, I did everything I could to gather some tips that
would help me as I took over my future platoon. I knew that in about ten days, I would travel about forty-five minutes southeast in a convoy headed to Combat Outpost (COP) Honaker-Miracle, which was closer to the Pakistani border than FOB Blessing. COPs are generally smaller than FOBs, which serve as logistical hubs.
At COP Honaker-Miracle, I would assume responsibility for one of two Army platoons on the COP: 4th Platoon, Dagger Company. As platoon leader, I would be charged with the difficult task of leading twenty-four soldiers through the Taliban- and al Qaeda-infested valley, where our mission would be relatively straightforward: kill the bad guys and protect seven villages, all while somehow winning the hearts and minds of the local Afghan population.
I had limited time to get acclimated to the environment and the unit. Luckily, a lieutenant colonel named Pearl had tasked me with leading a patrol for him during my fourth day at the FOB. On the mission, we would walk approximately two miles from Blessing toward one of the observational posts overlooking the valley. I remember thinking that I didn’t have much room to screw up considering the highest-ranking officer in my area of operations (AO) was joining us.
The first mile took us north of the base, following a road leading to a mountain pass. From there, it was one mile straight up the mountain. Though the rigorous training of Ranger School had prepared me for this walk, this wasn’t the case for a private named Campbell, who had deployed with me from Fort Carson. Halfway up the mountain, PVT Campbell decided that he had had enough, and took a seat.
“Campbell, what in the hell are you doing?” I yelled at him.
“Sorry, sir,” he responded through short breaths. “I’m just exhausted.”
“Shit man . . . get up—the battalion commander is going to have both of our asses,” I screamed.
Just then, I heard the lieutenant colonel’s voice.
“GROBERG!” LTC Pearl yelled as he moved up closer to Campbell. “Why do we have a break in contact?”
“Sorry, sir,” I immediately responded. “Private Campbell rolled his ankle and we are stabilizing it.”