8 Seconds of Courage

by Flo Groberg

  When Colonel Walrath realized that I wasn’t being put on the Walter Reed bus, he asked Admiral McRaven—a universally respected military commander who planned the SEAL Team Six mission to kill Osama bin Laden—to intervene.

  After talking to the other colonel, Admiral McRaven handed me a five-hundred dollar gift card that had been given to him by a military charity that assists wounded soldiers and their families.

  “Give this to your parents, son,” Admiral McRaven said. “Stay strong at Walter Reed.”

  McRaven went out of his way to ensure that my parents would be by my side during the difficult months ahead. As I began the long road to recovery at Walter Reed, it was humbling and uplifting to be on the receiving end of a kind, compassionate gesture by one of America’s most distinguished military leaders.

  • • •

  I was formally admitted to Walter Reed’s inpatient unit for wounded service members on August 13, 2012: five days after the suicide bombing. Over the next seventeen weeks, I would have twenty-seven surgeries on my left leg. Virtually every time I went under the knife, I was not sure whether my leg would still be attached when I woke up.

  In those three-plus months, I never slept more than four hours at a time because doctors had to constantly wake me up and check my vitals. As soon as I was able to drift off, I was back in Asadabad.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled at the suicide bomber.

  Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man who killed my friends. His eyes were glassier than I remembered, and just like that terrible day in Asadabad, he wouldn’t respond to my commands.

  What made my frequent night terrors so scary (and frustrating) was that as they unfolded, I knew for sure that the man was a terrorist who was about to blow up himself, which had not been the case in real time. No matter what I did or said differently in my dreams, they always ended with an explosion that would wake me up in a disoriented, panicked state. Usually, I would scream “I have to stop him!” at my startled nurse.

  Whenever I fell asleep, it felt like being in hell, especially when my dreams started being bombarded with grisly images of the blast scene’s horrific carnage. Demons had been firmly planted in my head on August 8, 2012, which led me to ponder whether the suicide bomber really was the devil.

  Between the nightmares and surgeries, my room was filled with visitors, from my parents and relatives to friends and fellow soldiers, including my buddy Saul Thompson. While I appreciated each and every visit, the daily routine became dizzying. Each morning, I also became grumpier from lack of sleep, which led my favorite nurse—Navy Ensign Haley Willis—to start limiting my visitors before noon.

  Eventually, I didn’t even want to sleep because of the bad dreams. Nor did I enjoy the various sleep aids and painkillers that were making me feel (and act) so strange. I was convinced that the powerful drugs were contributing to my nightmares, but even when I endured as much pain as I could to avoid the medication, I would still be back on patrol in eastern Afghanistan upon shutting my eyes.

  The night terrors were the most frightening phenomenon I had ever experienced, and eventually, they spilled into my days. Soon, every moment—awake or asleep—was filled with thoughts of what I could have done to save four valiant men from returning home in flag-draped caskets.

  What bothered me most was that I hadn’t cried since the explosion. Even though my internal emotions had been ripped to shreds, I was still unable to show my grief on the outside. My frustrating inability to shed tears made my survivor’s guilt all the more relentless. My will to live was gone.

  For several weeks at Walter Reed, I was suicidal. I did not think I deserved to have made it back alive instead of Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, or Abdelfattah.

  My low point arrived when a team of military investigators showed up to question me about the events of August 8. Because of opioids and the severe aftereffects of my traumatic brain injury, I couldn’t recall numerous fine points about our movements or the overall sequence of events. Being questioned—and talking through the details out loud for the first time—was also an upsetting, disturbing experience.

  Suddenly, my mind was once again swimming with the terrible images of August 8, including those two suspicious motorcycles, which had been intended to distract us and draw us out. I also saw the covered bodies of my fallen friends. Adding to my frustration was that even after the officials showed me satellite images of where everyone was positioned at the time of the enormous first explosion, I still failed to understand how I survived while four men standing much farther away than me had died. When my time comes, it will be the first question I ask God.

  When the officials left, my mind and body felt as though they were back in shock. My depression had become insurmountable, as I shifted from nights where I chose not to sleep (to avoid night terrors) to months of physically not being able to fall asleep. I actually could have stayed awake days at a time were it not for a sleep medication that quickly became my only solace during a very dark time. Like all prescription drugs, it had side effects, the worst of which were extreme hallucinations. As you can probably imagine, persistent delusions did not help my recovery process.

  With all due respect to my parents, Saul’s visits probably helped the most during those very dark days. Because he had known me for so long, in and out of combat, Saul was able to sense that the demons had come, even though I didn’t tell him (or anyone else) what I was feeling on the inside. Seeing the face of a friend and fellow soldier temporarily took my mind off the suicide bomber’s glassy eyes, which I knew would reappear as soon as the lights went out.

  On August 17, 2012, a nurse handed me a cell phone after I finished struggling to eat my breakfast. To my astonishment, Colonel Mingus was calling from Afghanistan. It meant a lot to hear from him, especially as he continued to lead soldiers on the front lines.

  When he asked how I was doing, I lied and said that everything was fine. What I didn’t realize was that Colonel Mingus knew Army investigators had come to see me. Even from half a world away, my boss could sense that I was less than well.

  “Flo, I want you to know that this investigation is just protocol,” Colonel Mingus said. “You did your job and everyone here is proud of you.

  “I also wanted to tell you something else,” he continued. “We killed twenty-seven Haqqani Network guys responsible for the attack.”

  Finding out that the deaths of my friends had been avenged was the best news I could have hoped for.

  “Thank you so much, sir,” I said to Colonel Mingus. “Please tell the guys I said hello.”

  When I hung up, I breathed my first sigh of relief. I think I might have even slept four hours straight.

  • • •

  Despite the best efforts of Walter Reed’s magnificent doctors, along with Haley and two more friendly nurses named Ellen and Diamond, my leg was not healing properly. Skin graft procedures failed on two occasions, and the infections always seemed to return. No one had said it to me yet, but I started sensing that the doctors and even some nurses thought my left leg should be cut off. That was when I had the worst nightmare I can recall.

  This particular dream was actually about events that had happened on August 7, 2012, the day before the attack. The dream began with me watching myself wake up at FOB Fenty in Jalalabad.

  Even through narcotics, I vividly remembered my first thought of that particular day. Should I go for a run?

  “Yes!” I shouted at my other self, who didn’t react. “Go!”

  I went on a predawn, three-mile run almost every morning in Afghanistan. For most soldiers, it was simply about going through the motions of physical training (PT), but for a former NCAA track athlete like me, running was my passion. In my dream, I watched in anguish as I decided to forgo my run that morning. Instead, I put on my Army boots for the second-to-last time and went to breakfast.

  Upon waking, I realized there was a very slim chance that I would ever jog or sprint again. My decision to relinquish what t
urned out to be my last opportunity to go for a run would haunt me forever. It soon became one of my biggest regrets.

  “What’s wrong, Flo?” Haley said when I woke up in a cold sweat from my latest nightmare.

  “Nothing,” I said, brusquely. “Give me my backscratcher . . . these drugs make me itch like crazy.”

  No matter how curt I acted toward the nurses, Haley, Ellen, and Diamond were unfazed. Their calm helped me through that awful night—and so many others.

  • • •

  Feeling miserable from another surgery and lack of sleep, I heard a voice outside the door to my room during one November afternoon at Walter Reed.

  “Hey, Captain Groberg?” the voice said. “Can I come in?”

  “Whatever,” I said, probably sounding like a jerk. “Yeah.”

  I perked up as soon as I saw the tall stranger walk in on prosthetic legs. He looked young—probably twenty-five or twenty-six at most—and he didn’t have any legs or arms. What struck me even more, though, was how upbeat he sounded.

  “What’s up, Captain?” he said while extending one of his four prosthetic limbs to shake my hands. “I’m Travis Mills.” He was an Army staff sergeant.

  As I soon learned, Travis had stepped on an IED in southern Afghanistan on April 10, 2012, less than four months before my unit was attacked in Asadabad. Four American soldiers, including Travis, were severely wounded that day.

  Travis—one of the few surviving quadruple amputees in United States military history—knew exactly what I was going through: the surgeries, the nightmares, and the survivor’s guilt. Yet despite sacrificing all four limbs and experiencing his own demons, Travis had learned to do something incredible while he was at Walter Reed, where he was joined by his wife, Kelsey, and their infant daughter, Chloe. He was smiling.

  “Look, sir, I get it,” Travis said at my bedside. “I understand what you’re going through . . . we’ve all been there.

  “It sucks,” he continued. “But at the same time, you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  After I told him about Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, and Abdelfattah, Travis’s voice rose and his tone got even stronger.

  “Open up your eyes, Captain,” he said. “Those four families need you.

  “It’s time to get out of the darkness,” Travis continued. “From this day forward, you have a responsibility to be greater than you ever thought you could be.”

  The fifteen minutes I was privileged to spend with Staff Sergeant Travis Mills significantly altered my life, which was probably headed toward chronic depression or even suicide. His wounds were far more debilitating than mine, yet somehow Travis had managed to stay positive and inspire everyone around him, including his wife and young daughter.

  The conversation with Travis also brought me back to the reason I originally joined the military. I did it for my country, for my family, and for my friends. I also knew the risks when I volunteered. Even when you give your very best on the battlefield, war can still steal away the lives of your brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Therefore, it was time to shut down the pity party and stop blaming myself for what had happened in Afghanistan.

  I was still a soldier, but I knew that the damage to my left foot and leg was permanent and would prevent me from returning to the battlefield. It was a tough realization, but at the same time I felt lucky to have served my country while fighting alongside some of the finest individuals ever to put on a uniform. I also felt fortunate for the second chance I had been given to do better and do more.

  Most important, I had the memories of four fallen heroes to honor and to live for.

  In order to carry out this important responsibility, I knew that I had to make a change. Erasing all of the physical and emotional pain would be impossible, but for the first time since August 8, my negativity and denial was replaced with motivation and perseverance.

  • • •

  September 11, 2012, was another significant day during my time at Walter Reed. In addition to being the eleventh anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, it was the day that four American heroes—Ambassador Chris Stevens, FSO Sean Smith, and two CIA contractors, Tyrone Woods and Glen Doherty—were murdered in Benghazi, Libya. Thirty-four days after my friends had been killed in Afghanistan, another four patriots made the ultimate sacrifice during America’s long struggle against terrorism.

  A special visitor was in Bethesda that day, which brought my mom, dad, and an old friend, Matt Sanders, to my room at Walter Reed. All of us were nervous, although in my case, the painkillers helped smooth out a few rough edges. But I did not know exactly what to do or say when the VIP showed up. I was excited to be meeting him, but at the same time worried that the combination of drugs and nerves would cause me to make a fool of myself.

  Suddenly, a thin, athletic man wearing a crisp black suit walked through my door.

  “How you doin’, Flo?” he said in an enthusiastic, friendly tone.

  In my room stood the fourty-fourth President of the United States, Barack Obama. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Wow . . . Mr. President . . .” I stammered. “What an honor to have you in my room.”

  “Come on now,” the president said with a huge smile. “The honor is all mine.”

  For a split second, the room was silent. Perhaps sensing that we were nervous, the most powerful man in the world broke the ice.

  “Larry!” President Obama said while extending his hand to my dad, a staunch Republican. “How are you?”

  After my dad and my commander-in-chief shook hands and exchanged greetings, President Obama turned his attention to my mom, who was normally excited and extremely talkative. During this surreal encounter, however, she was speechless.

  “Klara!” the president said. “You are so beautiful.”

  After introducing himself to my friend Matt, President Obama came to my bedside and started talking about the day that changed my life. It was immediately clear that the president had been briefed on what happened in Asadabad, and that he truly cared about my fallen friends and everyone else who had been hurt.

  “What you did out there . . . I don’t think this country could ever adequately repay you,” President Obama said. “I am so damn proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” I said.

  “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” the president continued. “But please know that you represent everything that’s great about America, and everything that I love about this country.”

  “Serving was a great honor, sir,” I said.

  Somehow, the president already knew that my family had Chicago roots, which led to more smiles and a conversation about the upcoming football season, during which we would all be rooting for the same team. We profusely thanked the president after he signed a Chicago Bears T-shirt for my mom. Then he bid us farewell.

  “If there is anything you ever need from me, Flo—anything—I am just a phone call away,” President Obama said. “Here’s my aide’s business card.”

  That promise would stay with me during the many difficult days and nights to come.

  “I’ll never forget you,” President Obama said.

  The president’s visit was the greatest honor of my life to that point.

  Four days later, I awoke to another surprise when a White House aide showed up at my door. In his hand was a box with a signed jersey from Jay Cutler, the quarterback of the Chicago Bears. I later learned that President Obama had personally called the team and asked for the signed jersey.

  With all due respect to Jay Cutler and the Bears, that jersey meant so much more to me than anything related to being a football fan. It was an affirmation of the president’s vow that he would not forget me which to me signified that he would also remember my fallen and wounded teammates. Like Admiral McRaven’s kindness a few weeks earlier, President Obama’s thoughtful gesture truly meant the world.

  • • •

  After six overseas operations and many more surgeries and nightmares after co
ming home, I finally checked out of the hospital’s inpatient unit on December 18. Getting through the most challenging seventeen weeks of my life was the first semi-decent feeling I had experienced in a while, but at the same time I knew that my journey to recovery was far from over. Because of the infections ravaging my leg and the demons that were still trapped inside my head despite my best efforts to stay positive, I would be in and out of Walter Reed for the next two and a half years.

  9 A LEG UP

  Being inside a Fort Carson gym in December to welcome home my unit from Afghanistan was one of my life’s most consequential moments.

  As soon as the returning troops were reunited with their ecstatic families, I got out of my wheelchair to applaud. One by one, the soldiers who had been at my side during that horrible day in Asadabad—Brink, Ochart, Mahoney, Balderrama, Secor, McCain, Jensen, and so many others—came by to say hello and give me a hug. I thanked each of my brothers not only for their courage on August 8, 2012, but for hunting down and killing the Haqqani Network terrorists who had ordered the attack.

  Colonel Mingus had invited me to the homecoming ceremony, and seeing him for the first time since I left Afghanistan was another emotional moment. Though still reeling with my feelings of shame, regret, and guilt about losing four men, I suddenly felt enormously grateful when I saluted my boss and shook his hand. I was thankful that Colonel Mingus, who would soon become a general, had survived the harrowing attack.

  After the emotional ceremony, Colonel Mingus and his wife, Amy, invited us to gather at their home near Colorado Springs. In the boss’s kitchen, I took a deep breath and introduced myself to Pamela Griffin, who immediately reached out to give me a hug.

  “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Flo,” she said.

  “Kevin had such a huge impact on my life,” I told CSM Griffin’s grieving wife. “Your husband meant so much to all of us.”

  Looking into the tearful eyes of Pam—who had lost her husband just four months earlier—was excruciating.