by Flo Groberg
“Look, if we get hit, I need you to grab the boss and take him to safety,” I said. “Use all the strength you have.
“I don’t care what the colonel says; at that point he’s no longer the brigade commander,” I continued as Ochart nodded. “You are the boss.”
“Roger that, sir,” Ochart said.
I then walked toward CSM Griffin and asked him to please join Colonel Mingus and the other VIPs in the center of the diamond. He looked at me like I was crazy.
“Look, L-T,” he began, even though both of us knew that I was being promoted to captain. “I’m staying back here.”
“But Sergeant Major . . .” I stammered.
“We need more rear security,” he continued without pausing. “I have a rifle, and I’ve been doing this a long time.”
I had a great deal of respect for Griffin. He was right; he had the experience to excel under pressure. I had faith in Ochart, but it gave me even greater solace knowing that a seasoned leader would also be watching from my usual rear position, which was a risky assignment. True to form, the command sergeant major volunteered to face danger, even though he didn’t have to.
“Roger that,” I said. “You’ve got rear security, Sergeant Major.”
The heat had increased—literally and figuratively—as we started the thousand-meter journey through Asadabad. Even though we had encountered nothing of note during previous patrols in the city, without our perimeter team I felt a real sense of tension in the scorching air. There was already so much to worry about when we walked through an Afghan slum, from Taliban fighters and al Qaeda terrorists disguised as civilians to the Afghan National Army soldiers themselves.
“One ANA up front has his finger on the trigger,” Private First Class Ben Secor told SFC Brink.
“Keep an eye on him,” Brink said. “Keep your head on a swivel.”
For the first five hundred meters from FOB Fiaz to the governor’s compound, the slum was on our right with the Pech River on our left. Then the road curved right into a straightaway, with a bridge we had to cross three hundred meters in the distance. The bridge was about fifty meters long. After walking another hundred meters or so, we would arrive at a set of stairs, which would lead us up to the compound.
In the beginning, everything we observed was normal. While looking toward the always raging river, we saw the same three abandoned cars that were parked on the left side of the road during our last patrol. We still checked each car, of course, but after finding nothing, we kept walking.
Despite the absence of the fifteen perimeter soldiers who were supposed to guard our patrol, the thousand-meter journey progressed quietly as our group of twenty-eight Americans and Afghans, including US and ANA officers, enlisted soldiers, a contractor, and two foreign service officers, moved slowly toward the security meeting.
About three hundred meters later, just before we reached a natural choke point at the bridge, things started to change. Inside our headsets, several of us picked up a low-level signal of what sounded like a car’s engine.
“I’ve got a white Toyota Corolla on my ass back here,” Ochart said just moments later over the radio.
Oh no.
“Do what you have to do,” Brink immediately replied. “Get him off your ass.”
By the time Brink finished giving his order, the suspicious white car had turned right and sped away as we stared back with our rifles raised. It was either a simple case of a frustrated Afghan driver trying to get around us or the Toyota was what we referred to as a “pusher” car, which would have shoved us right into a kill zone had Ochart not interrupted the driver.
Seconds later, our headsets once again filled with sounds of a revving engine, except that this time it was much louder. We were hearing two motorcycles bound straight toward us—at full speed—from across the bridge.
“STOP!” one of the ANA soldiers closest in front of me yelled in Pashto.
As if to obey the order, the two men jumped off their motorcycles, left them on the bridge, ran forward and then to their right (our left) toward a nearby housing complex. A few ANA soldiers started chasing them as our rifles were once again raised. All of this unfolded in a matter of seconds.
Then, moments later, Brink turned around and looked in my direction as sweat dripped from our brows. As soon as our eyes met, I knew that something was seriously wrong. There was stark silence as I realized that Brink was looking over my shoulder at something—or someone—behind me.
My head whipped around before Brink could fully raise his weapon at what I quickly realized was a man walking backward and parallel to our patrol. He was wearing black “man-jammies”—traditional garb sported by many young Afghan men—and had stumbled out of a building to our left as if he was drunk.
What the hell? Why is he walking backward?
At first glance, I couldn’t figure out if this guy was a threat or an innocent, perhaps mentally challenged civilian. The only thing I knew for sure is that there was absolutely no way he was getting anywhere close to the boss.
Just then, the suspect abruptly turned all the way around. Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, he turned again, and was now walking rapidly toward our formation.
Without the usual security perimeter, I had no choice but to leave my post and confront him. For every split second that I wasted, he would get closer to the center of our diamond.
“Hey!” I shouted as I launched into a sprint, much like during my college track days at Maryland.
Each of the eight seconds it took to reach him felt like a silent eternity.
The man was young—nineteen or twenty at most—and he looked hypnotized or even possessed. His glassy eyes were transfixed on my boss and his face was devoid of any expression. No further doubts remained: this guy was now an imminent threat.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.
There was total silence. For just a moment, the world was made up of only this devil-like figure and me. Unlike the biblical devil, however, this devil had nothing to say. He never even looked me in the eyes. Even when my face was just inches from his, the young man always looked past me—through me—as though I was not there. It then occurred to me that this man must be intoxicated.
About one second after reaching the threat, I grabbed my rifle with both hands and slammed it into his chest. Once again: nothing. His face did not change, and perhaps most eerily, he didn’t make a single sound.
With the situation becoming increasingly dire, I placed my hands on his chest to begin driving the young man back. But my hands landed on a bulky package, which I instantly realized was a vest. All of my training and instincts led me to reach the logical conclusion: a bomb was attached to this young man’s body.
Upon this realization, time truly stood still as my heart and my mind reached a silent accord. I was going to die.
By this point, Brink, who was watching the lethal scenario unfold so fast that he didn’t have time to warn me, realized that the suicide bomber had attached a fake right hand to the outside of his man-jammies. The prosthetic hand veiled the fact that the terrorist’s right arm was tucked inside his garments, with his right thumb already pressing a “dead man’s trigger.” All he had to do was release the button and it would all be over.
But I had to complete the job I had been trained to do: from Basic Training and Ranger School to the first time my boots touched Afghan soil. There was no time left for thinking, as only actions would make a difference now.
In my final moments, using every ounce of strength that I had, I grabbed hold of the suicide bomber’s vest, and while chest to chest, started pushing the suspect away from the formation. No matter what, I would not stop until he was away from my fellow soldiers and our Afghan counterparts.
None of this was like the war scenes you’ve seen in the movies. During the commotion, I heard nothing. The terrorist was not shouting or chanting any prayers as he prepared to release the trigger. When I realized that the suicide bomber still had
not detonated his vest as I continued pushing, I decided to grab him, turn him around, and try to throw him as far as I could. If he blew himself up with his chest falling forward and away from the VIPs, I thought, that might be just enough to protect Colonel Mingus, CSM Griffin, and the others.
After I made my final push and let go, Sergeant Mahoney, who had boldly left the formation and run in my direction, reached the suicide bomber and pushed him downward. In slow motion, I saw the terrorist land at my feet. This time, death had almost certainly arrived.
Everything went black as the suicide bomber’s vest detonated, causing a massive cloud of fire and dust. But as the thundering explosion shook the entire city, I heard and felt nothing. My body flew into the air.
To this day, I do not know exactly how long it took me to wake up, but when I did, I was on the bridge, probably fifteen or twenty meters away from where the bomb had exploded. But in my first moments after coming back to consciousness, I did not know where I was. My ears were ringing while my eyes stung with dirt.
I awoke slightly propped up, my upper body reclining on my backpack, which was still strapped on. Almost immediately, I was struck by a nauseating stench of gunpowder, charred flesh, and burning hair that quickly overcame my senses.
The first color I remember seeing through the thick smoke was red, as blood was everywhere. Not yet understanding whose blood I was seeing, I quickly ran my hands over my chest, stomach, and below to make sure that everything—especially my manhood—was intact.
My assessment was that I had no internal wounds but as my eyes drifted downward, I saw a huge bone—the fibula—sticking out of my left leg. Half my calf was gone and my foot sat unnaturally askew.
I did not panic, mostly because I was confused, in shock, and felt no pain. All I did was scream a profanity and take off my helmet, which I promptly threw over the side of the bridge in disgust.
It was almost impossible to see through the smoke, and all I could hear beyond the ringing in my head was some yelling in the distance. To my relief, the shouts were in English, which meant that at least some—and hopefully, all—of my teammates had survived. Still, I knew that a suicide bombing on a US military patrol was usually part of a larger attack that involved simultaneous explosions or small arms fire.
With this reality in the forefront of my mind, I pulled my nine millimeter pistol out of its bloody holster. I cocked it and made sure that a round was in the chamber.
I was a sitting duck, and I had to get off the bridge before the Taliban finished me off. With blood gushing out of my shattered, melting leg, I used both hands to begin dragging myself off the bridge and toward the sounds of my battlefield brothers.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Brink jumped through the haze.
“We’ve got to get you out of here, sir!” he said as I looked up at his dust-covered, battle-scarred face.
Before I could respond, Brink was grasping my armor plate and pulling me away from the kill zone. A bloody trail followed us as my trusted sergeant dragged me to safety, which was a ditch where our medic, SPC Balderrama—who had a badly injured knee of his own—was waiting.
“Fix him!” Brink yelled as he took off running back toward the kill zone in an effort to save more lives.
When the dust settled a few seconds later, the utter destruction of my leg began to dawn on me. I feared the pain I knew I was going to soon feel.
“Save my leg, Doc,” I gasped in desperation.
As I lay bleeding to death on the battlefield, I knew from training that I needed a tourniquet—and quickly. With the help of an Afghan interpreter who was shaking so badly that I had to assist him with opening the first-aid package, Balderrama tied on the tourniquet and—at least for the moment—got my bleeding under control.
“Water,” I said while shaking my head back and forth. “Doc, I need some water.”
“Negative, sir,” he said. “You’re going to have surgery, and you can’t have any extra water in your system.”
As my throat dried up, my attention turned back to my mission, and whether I had succeeded or failed.
“Where are the two principals?” I said, referring to Colonel Mingus and CSM Griffin. “Give me a status report.”
Just as Balderrama was about to answer, another medic, who had just jumped down in the ditch, interrupted us.
“What is your name?” he shouted.
“Flo Groberg,” I said.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Fucking Afghanistan!” I shouted as my frustration became overwhelming.
“What day is it?” he said.
“Wednes—” I started to say before cutting myself off.
“I want to know the status of the boss and the command sergeant major,” I continued. “And I want to know right now.”
“The boss is good, sir . . . just a concussion,” Balderrama said. “The command sergeant major didn’t make it.”
What? Did he just say what I thought he said?
At first, the devastating news of CSM Kevin Griffin’s death didn’t fully register in my rattled brain. As the medics began moving me upward, the only thing I knew for sure is that I wanted to leave that ditch without giving the enemy the satisfaction of watching me being dragged out.
“Stop,” I told the medics. “Put me on my feet, grab hold of my arms, and I’ll hop on one foot.”
“Roger that, sir,” both medics said in unison.
I had hopped about twenty meters when we saw two M-ATVs, like the ones I had ridden in during my first deployment. The vehicles were based at nearby FOB Wright and weren’t on our original patrol. I realized now that I had been unconscious even longer than I thought.
The medics told me one of the vehicles would take me to the base, so we kept moving in that direction until something I saw through the dust stopped me in my tracks.
Four dead bodies—Kevin Griffin, David Gray, Tom Kennedy, and Ragaei Abdelfattah—lay in a circular formation at the location of the explosion. Right away, I knew who they were, and the unforgettable sight caused my right leg—my good leg—to completely buckle. As the medics struggled to keep me upright, I hung my head while trying to come to grips with an incomprehensible tragedy.
For the first time since the blast, I was in overwhelming pain. Not the physical kind, which would arrive in a few minutes, but from an emotional shock wave that I had never felt before. As intense confusion and grief set in, my foggy mind was unable to process how these four men—all of whom were further from the suicide bomber than me—had lost their lives while mine had been spared.
Four of the last valiant words that CSM Griffin had spoken to me—“I’m staying back here”—echoed in my head as the medics began leading me away from the tragic site. Griffin’s statement represented the truth for all four of the men who had just made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. In every sense of the word, they were selfless.
As I made my way to the M-ATV, the photos of the command sergeant major’s wife and children, which I had seen countless times in his office, flashed through my racing mind. Tears began to well in my dust-filled eyes as I thought about his family. The Grays, Kennedys, and Abdelfattahs were also about to receive the worst possible news: they and the Griffins were America’s newest Gold Star families. How would I ever face them? I was the soldier who organized this patrol, and now four tremendous men were no longer with us.
Just then I heard a lot of chatter. To my disbelief, I looked over to see a group of locals standing over the explosion site. After squinting, I realized that there was a young man, probably around the same age as the suicide bomber, who was smiling. It was a wide-eyed, sickening grin that I will never forget.
Amid the most potent mix of fury, devastation, and sadness that I had ever experienced, my emotions culminated in a moment of unprecedented, unbridled rage. There we were in Afghanistan fighting, bleeding, and dying to give these people a chance at a better future, yet as my friends lay dead, this vile human being in front of me began to laugh.<
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My pistol was still in the white-knuckle grip of my right hand. I raised it and aimed at his head.
Just as I thought about squeezing the trigger, PFC Ochart grabbed my arm and pulled it down.
“It’s not worth it, sir,” Ochart said.
“Your war is over,” Brink added.
I will always be grateful to Ochart for saving another life that day.
August 8, 2012, was my first day as a captain in the United States Army and my last as a soldier in Afghanistan. It was also the worst day of my life.
8 FREAK ON A LEASH
I woke up two days later in a daze that’s difficult to describe.
At first, I thought I was still on the battlefield because of all the harrowing sights and sounds still swirling through my head. In one moment, I would hear Brink and Ochart talking on the radio about the white Toyota Corolla lurking behind us in Asadabad. The next, I would picture my four fallen brothers lying in a circular formation. These voices and images—mixed with powerful painkillers and unfamiliar surroundings—left me in a wholly confused state.
It felt like tubes were attached to every inch of my body and I couldn’t move. Then I imagined that I was seeing some guy with dark dreadlocks, dozens of tattoos, and a patchy beard standing directly above me and looking straight into my eyes. I ignored him for a moment while trying to figure out where I was.
As the spinning in my head slowed down ever so slightly, I remembered being loaded on a bus and packed in like a sardine with many other wounded men before falling asleep. We were heading for a Boeing C-17 that I knew would take us out of Afghanistan, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where we had landed. Was I in Germany—where almost all soldiers wounded in Afghanistan or Iraq were taken before heading home—or was I already in a stateside military hospital?