by Flo Groberg
It was a white lie. I was ready to take the heat for Campbell because this was my patrol. To be honest, I could sympathize with him as well.
Pearl didn’t need to worry about a private going down due to exhaustion, so I grabbed Campbell by the arm and brought him to his feet.
“Don’t quit on me and I won’t quit on you, got it?” I said while reminding myself of what another soldier had done for me during Ranger School. “We can rest at the top.”
“Roger, sir,” Campbell responded.
When we eventually made it to the top of the mountain, the view was breathtaking. I took off my helmet and passed a water bottle to Campbell, who thanked me for covering for him.
This day was the first day in Afghanistan that I felt like I had accomplished something. That night was also the first time I joined the orchestra of nineteen snoring infantrymen.
Unfortunately, my first night of shut-eye wasn’t quite as relaxing as I expected. After drifting off to sleep, I started dreaming of the last time I was unprepared and lacked confidence: my incredibly awkward freshman year of high school.
• • •
“O Romeo, Romeo!” the prettiest girl at Walter Johnson High School in Bethesda, Maryland, said while looking squarely into my young, very wide eyes. “Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
After my very lovely counterpart effortlessly finished her lines during a dress rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, it was my turn.
“Shall I . . . hear more,” I stammered in broken English. “Or shall I spoke—I mean speak—at this?”
As the disastrous rehearsal continued, I turned bright red and beads of sweat popped up on my forehead. Some of my classmates were openly snickering at my poor command of the English language, which I had been studying for quite a few years by that point. Yet with my nerves surfacing, I sounded like a brand-new immigrant.
To make matters worse, this embarrassing scene was unfolding in front of my real-life Juliet. I had wanted to ask this girl out since the first day of high school.
“I take she—thee—at thy world—word,” I said. “Call me butt—I mean call me but love—damn it, and I’ll be new baptized.”
By now, even my Juliet was laughing at me. My heart sank as I realized that my semester-long dream of taking her on a date was officially over.
“Henceforth, I will never be Romeo,” I recited with my shoulders slumped. Fittingly, it was just about the only line I got right.
Clearly, I wasn’t ready for Shakespeare. At home that evening, I told my parents, in French, about what had happened at school earlier in the day. While my mom was sympathetic, my dad took a different approach.
“Stop whining and study harder,” he said.
“But it’s impossible, Dad,” I said. “English is nothing like French.”
“Who the hell told you that life was easy?” he shot back.
Suddenly, my dad broke his own rule and started speaking English inside the house instead of French.
“That school has great teachers,” he said. “Stay after school and ask one of them to help you with your English.”
“Okay, Dad,” I said in French. “Whatever.”
“Tell me that in English,” he said.
After I did just that, my dad stared me down. While the Romeo and Juliet debacle was a bitter pill to swallow, especially for a teenager, I made a conscious choice to use the embarrassing episode as motivation to improve my English. Instead of starting fights with the male classmates who taunted me, I took my dad’s advice and stayed after school for extra tutoring.
By the year 2000, I was learning the language faster than I ever thought possible. My hard work finally paid off during my junior year, when I was enrolled in Honors English and sat next to many of the same kids who had laughed in my face two years earlier.
Take that, Juliet.
• • •
On December 21, 2009, I arrived at COP Honaker-Miracle, where both American and Afghan soldiers were stationed. The makeshift mountain base was named after two fallen US Army heroes: Specialist Christopher Honaker and Private First Class Joseph Miracle, who were among thirty-nine soldiers killed during the 173rd Brigade Combat Team’s 2007-to-2008 deployment to Pech River Valley. This was also where my Ranger School mentor, SSG Gallardo, earned his Silver Star.
When I arrived at the COP, the first thing I did was wait on line to call my dad. There were only four computers and one phone for the ninety soldiers stationed there, which we also shared with the Afghan National Army (ANA). Still, getting to speak to my dad was always well worth the wait.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do it, Dad,” I said. “These guys have all been here fighting for months already, and I don’t know anything. I don’t feel prepared.”
“Of course you’re not prepared,” my father said. “Nobody is ever prepared for war.”
“Yeah, but I’m responsible for their lives,” I said. “I don’t care what happens to me—I care about them.”
“Well I care a lot about what happens to you,” my dad said, his voice beginning to rise.
“Ask your most senior NCO for support,” my father said. “Trust me; he will be glad to hear that from you.”
A lot of fathers might have told their sons to do whatever they could to avoid combat. My dad, on the other hand, knew how much leading a platoon in battle meant to me, especially with my family history in mind. The fact that he set aside his fears for my safety and helped me become a better soldier gave me a huge confidence boost at a time when I needed it most.
Later that day, I went to see Sergeant First Class Korey Staley, a tough, seasoned soldier who—along with the outgoing platoon leader—had successfully helped lead Dagger Company through the Pech River Valley’s chaotic summer fighting season.
“I know what you and your men just went through,” I told SFC Staley. “I also know that I’m a rookie and your guys probably aren’t too excited about another amateur.
“But I stand in front of you asking for your support and guidance,” I continued. “I am setting my rank, my pride, and my ego aside to tell you that to be the most effective platoon leader, I will need you to be my mentor. I only care about taking care of our men and accomplishing the mission.”
After I finished my speech, Staley told me—in blunt terms—what I needed to do.
“For the next seven days, I think you should shut up and listen, sir,” he said.
It was crucial, Staley explained, for me to spend the next week “outside the wire,” or outside our base’s relatively friendly confines, so that I could observe my new platoon in action. Under no circumstances—whether it was an IED (improvised explosive device) attack or a Taliban fighter shooting at us—was I to do anything other than watch and learn.
Staley wanted me to absorb how the platoon reacted to contact once engaged by the enemy. He also wanted me to observe how soldiers on the ground communicated with each other, how they coordinated mortar fire back with the closest US base, and how information was relayed to helicopters or airplanes to support us. Staley also wanted me to study all seven villages and their elders, while simultaneously learning all that I could about key US battles with the Taliban in the Pech River Valley.
Most important, Staley wanted me to talk to each of the young soldiers whose lives would soon be in my hands.
“Find out if they’re married or have kids,” he said. “But remember—don’t get too close to them, because by this time next week you’re going to be their boss.”
I would technically be Staley’s boss, too, and that’s why I especially appreciated his helpful advice.
Presumably, I would spend the next seven days under enemy fire without the ability to shoot back. While Staley’s method of showing me the ropes may have given new meaning to the expression “trial by fire,” he was clearly taking this unconventional route for an important reason.
“Give me a week, and I’ll have you and the platoon ready,” my new battlefield mentor said.
It took
only two days outside the wire to put Staley’s theory—and my intestinal fortitude—to the test. We were driving in a Humvee near a rugged, cliff-surrounded village called Tantil when I first heard an unfamiliar sound: a cannonade noise that sounded far too close.
“Man, every time we hit a pothole, the back doors slam,” my driver, Sergeant Mauldin, said. “It makes it sound like we hit an RPG.” (A rocket-propelled grenade.)
Boom!
“Um, never mind,” SGT Mauldin said. “We are getting hit by RPGs!”
All of my training and instincts as a military officer told me to start ordering soldiers around so that we could maneuver and eliminate the threat. Yet as my mouth started to open, I remembered Staley’s advice: shut up and listen, even while under attack. So I did exactly that, and even took out my camera to record the firefight. It was surprising to me at the time that during no part of this enemy engagement did I get scared. Instead, I was simply in awe of the fact that other human beings were actively trying to kill us.
There was a wire-guided missile on top of our vehicle manned by a private named Cortez, and in a matter of seconds he had it aimed squarely at a Taliban fighter. Thanks to modern technology, through a command viewer screen I could watch as the missile slammed into what appeared to be the insurgent’s stomach. Cortez killed the man’s Taliban partner as well, which resulted in a bunch of shouting and high-fiving inside our vehicle.
Even though I played no role in making it happen, that patrol marked the first time I had really seen the reality of combat. At the same time, it made me feel good that I was surrounded by such brave, confident soldiers who could perform with such brilliance under pressure.
We got into a few more firefights over the next five days. It was during that key period that I first realized, even after my training, that modern war was nothing like the Rambo movies that I had grown up watching.
In Afghanistan, battles generally started with four or five bad dudes waiting to ambush us with RPGs. Most of the time, they missed in comical fashion while cursing at us over the radio. Despite their primitive tools, the Taliban were incredibly skilled and had the upper hand of knowing their landscape better than we ever could. If they ever got hold of the technological advancements that the US Army used, they would be a super-serious threat.
Our biggest threat—as I was told by Staley, my men, and my commanding officers in mission briefings—was a Taliban commander named Dairon. When Dagger Company was attacked, he was usually the guy calling American soldiers “sons of shits” over the radio in Pashto. While he was widely considered to be a clown who couldn’t hold a torch to a US Army general, he was still a clown armed with bullets, bombs, and grenades. Over the next seven months, one of my most important jobs as a platoon leader would be finding a way to take him out.
I kept hearing about Dairon and other threats as my “shut up and listen” week continued. In a stunning coincidence, it also turned out that Saul Thompson, my best friend from the University of Maryland, where I had transferred after a semester at UNC–Wilmington, was leading the COP’s other US Army platoon: 3rd Platoon, Chosen Company.
I knew that Saul had previously been assigned to the same battalion and had been deployed since the summer, but I didn’t realize that he was at Honaker-Miracle until I got there myself. From that moment on, I knew that no matter what, I would have my best friend with me in combat. This is going to be fun!
After a huge hug and a few hearty laughs about the unlikely circumstances of our reunion, I asked Thompson for advice on the massive challenge that I was about to undergo. Like Staley, Thompson told me to get to know my men, while also emphasizing the importance of winning their trust. If I was going to lead my soldiers through life-or-death battles, they had to know that I would always have their backs.
Many of the guys were understandably suspicious of their rookie second lieutenant, and all week they had been testing me by asking ridiculous questions that they knew I couldn’t answer without sounding like an idiot.
“Hey L-T, how do you zero an M203?” said one soldier, Jones, while referring to his grenade launcher in front of several fellow soldiers.
“Zeroing” is a term commonly used for aligning a rifle’s sights in order to precisely aim at a given target. From weapons training, though, I knew that an M203 grenade launcher didn’t work that way.
“I don’t think you can,” I said diplomatically to Jones, not wanting to embarrass him in front of his platoon mates.
“What do you mean you don’t think so, L-T?” Jones said. “Are you saying that you don’t know your shit?”
Before I could answer, Staley walked in.
“Hey Jones, stop screwing with the new L-T,” he said.
Staley then turned in my direction.
“Sir, don’t mind them,” my mentor said. “It’s usually a good sign if they are messing with you.”
I understood the game and it didn’t bother me at all. In Afghanistan, rank didn’t matter nearly as much as experience. If a guy wasn’t battle-tested, he’d better have tough skin, so I let it go. Had I been in Jones’s position of putting my life in the hands of someone who had never set foot in a war zone until a few days earlier, I probably would have done the same thing.
My first real test arrived during my second week at Honaker-Miracle, when Staley announced that he was taking a short flight to our base in Jalalabad to complete some administrative tasks.
Despite the progress I had been making over the past few days, I secretly hoped that it would be a quiet, uneventful few nights. Yet as was usually the case in this part of Afghanistan, which we called the “Wild West” even though we were deployed in the easternmost part of the country, the Taliban had other plans.
That night after returning from a routine patrol, I was chatting with Saul in the tactical operations center (TOC), which is like a control room, when one of the sergeants came running in asking for me. The soldier told me that he had a Lieutenant Capasso on the line calling from FOB Blessing.
“Hello, this is Groberg,” I answered.
“Look brother, Alpha Company responded to a Troops in Contact [TIC] request in Chapa Dara and they were met by some serious assholes,” Capasso told me via satellite phone. “We need you as part of the QRF.”
QRF stands for “Quick Reaction Force,” which scrambles to support another platoon—including those stationed on other FOBs and COPs—when they get hit.
Capasso would go on to explain that Alpha Company was stuck in the depths of the Pech River Valley. As one of several platoons headed out there to help them, our job was to investigate and then secure a nearby bridge that intelligence officers believed might be booby-trapped with IEDs until Alpha Company crossed it. To reach the bridge, we would have to take four trucks and drive seventy-five minutes through dirt roads along tall, uneven cliffs.
Many of my soldiers thought it was a suicide mission, and I couldn’t disagree with them. Driving through perilous mountains to reach a bridge that was almost certainly booby-trapped wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my first solo mission.
No matter what I may have thought about the thorny task in front of us, it was my job to complete the mission my platoon was given, no matter how difficult or dangerous, and bring everyone home alive. Despite my apprehension and trepidation, that’s exactly what I planned on doing.
I rushed back to my room to put on my kit and headphones. Per tradition, I blasted Korn’s “Freak on a Leash” to pump myself up before putting on my body armor, knee pads, helmet, and an attached iPro camera lens to record the day’s action. Then I ordered my men—who were probably just as nervous about my leadership as they were about what we would encounter on the battlefield—to do the same.
“Let’s do this,” I told my men as we embarked on a dangerous first journey together into the mountains of eastern Afghanistan.
Tensions were high throughout the bumpy, rocky drive. At any moment, we could have hit an IED or, like the previous mission I had recorded with
my phone, gotten pounded by RPGs. I also knew that Dairon and his gang of Taliban were out there somewhere, and that at any moment we could find ourselves in a battle even fiercer than what Alpha Company was enduring.
To make matters worse, the dark, gray Afghan sky suddenly opened, causing massive streams of rainwater to cascade off the cliffs and turn the dirt roads into mud. Nature seemed to be having its way, putting us at an extreme disadvantage and setting up the enemy fighters who were waiting to strike. Needless to say, my first experience leading a platoon in Afghanistan was no walk in the park.
By the time my truck and the three behind us somehow got the bridge in our sights, you could feel Dagger Company’s tension about to erupt.
“Sir, I see the bridge, let’s stop here,” my gunner, Sergeant Richardson, shouted over the radio. “They are probably watching us right now!”
“Everyone scan your sectors,” I instructed while trying to stay calm.
While I had just met these guys a few days ago, I already knew from watching them in action that none of them were afraid of a firefight. They were well-trained, experienced soldiers who knew an unnecessary risk when they saw it. Still, I had my orders in hand, and it was my job to figure out a way to follow them.
Just as I was finishing telling my soldiers how we would handle radio traffic as we got closer to the bridge, we heard the panicked voice of one of Dagger Company’s sergeants, Wade, who was in another truck.
“SHIT!” SGT Wade suddenly screamed on the radio. “We are going down!”
“Sir, Wade is in trouble!” my driver said while hitting my arm.
Immediately, I switched communication channels to figure out what was happening. To my surprise, all I could hear was laughter from the team. It turned out that SGT Wade’s driver—exhausted from an earlier mission—fell asleep at the wheel and almost drove the second truck off the cliff. Fortunately, he stopped just in time, and everyone was okay.
This was going to be a long night.
As it turned out, when we reached the bridge, we learned that it wasn’t booby-trapped. But we would still have to spend several hours guarding the bridge to make sure the Taliban didn’t show up to plant IEDs.