by Flo Groberg
Even though we had just met, I could tell that Carsen genuinely cared about not only my time in the military, but me as a person.
About an hour or so later, Marie floated the idea of heading to a less congested nearby restaurant, where the kitchen was open late. As everyone got up while continuing to talk and stumble around, I told Carsen that I would meet her there after a quick stop at a convenience store across the street. Because it had gotten so loud, I didn’t really hear her reply, which I assumed was a simple “okay.”
I bought some chewing tobacco and headed to the restaurant. The ache in my leg was gone without taking a single painkiller. Meeting Carsen, who I immediately knew was someone special, had all but erased the pain.
When I arrived at the restaurant, however, she wasn’t there. As if I were on a mission in Afghanistan, I went over to Marie to ask for a status report.
“Carsen left,” she said. “I think she thought you went home.”
Oh no. She probably thought I was a complete jerk for leaving without saying goodbye, especially after such a lengthy conversation.
Dejected, I sat down at the table and sipped my beer. That was until Marie, who was at it again with her wonderful ideas, chimed in.
“Do you want Carsen’s number?” she said.
“Yes, please!” I said while profusely thanking her.
Within seconds, I was texting an apology to Carsen along with a brief explanation for why I left. I was grateful that she understood, and after I asked if I could take her out for a more formal date, Carsen said that she was free that coming Sunday.
For the first time since moving to the United States, I did something other than watch football on a Sunday in October. Needless to say, going out with Carsen was much better. During dinner, I realized how lucky I had been to find her.
Because of Carsen’s patience and willingness to listen to even my most traumatic war stories, I was soon able to get a full night’s sleep without pills or alcohol. Finally, my life started to resemble something normal thanks to my remarkable doctors, nurses, squad leader, fellow wounded warriors, and most of all, my new girlfriend.
• • •
“Hello?” I said, answering a cell phone call from an unknown number.
On a hot, miserable day in September 2015, almost a year after I had met Carsen, I was on a training exercise for the Department of Defense in Nevada, when I received the call.
“Is this Captain Florent Groberg?” a male voice said.
“Yes, sir,” I said, despite having medically retired from the Army a few months earlier, in July.
“This is Colonel Slaney, and I need you to listen very carefully,” he said. “On Monday, September 21, between the hours of 1400 and 1430, you’ll be receiving a call from a Pentagon senior high-ranking official.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Is the number that I just called you on a good number for the call?” he asked.
“Roger that, sir,” I replied.
“Do not miss this call, Captain,” Colonel Slaney said with authority before saying goodbye and hanging up.
I had absolutely no idea what to make of the colonel’s phone call. More than three years after the attack in Asadabad, had investigators determined that I was partially responsible for the deaths of four men? Or, perhaps, was I about to receive some sort of recognition for confronting the suicide bomber? I was baffled.
At the Pentagon, where I had recently started working in a civilian capacity, I had heard rumors about my name being floated for the Distinguished Service Cross. I didn’t feel like I deserved any award, let alone the second-highest that can be bestowed on a US Army soldier.
I didn’t know whether I should alert my parents and Carsen to some potentially good news or ask them for help in finding a good lawyer.
No matter how things turned out, my hope was that the phone call would lead to some form of closure for the Griffin, Kennedy, Gray, and Abdelfattah families. As long as the forthcoming news helped ease some of their pain, I didn’t care what happened to me.
• • •
When September 21 arrived, Carsen sat on the couch and watched The Ellen DeGeneres Show to pass the time while I stayed in the kitchen to think and work on a graduate school paper.
Then, at 1420 (2:20 p.m.), my cell phone finally rang. Like the previous call from the colonel, the screen said Unknown.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi, this is the White House,” a female voice on the other end of the line said. “Would you please hold for the President of the United States.”
I was stunned.
The fact that the president was calling all but eliminated the possibility of the Distinguished Service Cross. By this point, all I could do was clear my throat and get ready to talk with the leader of the free world.
“Hey Flo, how are you?” said President Obama, who seemed to be picking up right where we had left off three years earlier. “I hope you’ve been recovering well.”
“I’m doing great, Mr. President,” I said. “Thanks again for coming to visit me and my family in the hospital.”
“Thank you, Flo,” he said. “Listen, I’m giving you a call to let you know that you’ll be receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor in a few weeks.”
I was speechless.
After explaining that the Pentagon would coordinate logistics, the president concluded our call on a gracious, humbling note.
“I am so proud of you,” President Obama said. “Ever since I first heard your story, I had a feeling this [Medal of Honor] recommendation would cross my desk.”
After sincerely thanking the president and saying goodbye, I was quiet. Finding out that you will receive the nation’s highest military award doesn’t make you want to jump for joy or open a bottle of champagne. It is a solemn moment.
The Medal of Honor, I said to myself in the kitchen, was far bigger than any one service member. In my case, it would represent four selfless men who made the ultimate sacrifice. From that day forward, their names would not only be on my wrist and in my heart, but I promised myself that they would be spoken every time someone asked to hear my story.
After taking a few moments to digest the unexpected news, I looked at Carsen, who had muted The Ellen DeGeneres Show while calmly waiting for my reaction on the living room couch.
“I guess our lives just changed,” I said.
After a brief moment of reflection, Carsen unmuted Ellen and I joined her on the couch. Then, without saying anything else, I resumed working on my graduate school paper.
10 A GREATER HONOR
On November 12, 2015, I walked into the East Room of the White House shoulder to shoulder with the President of the United States. “Hail to the Chief” boomed and echoed through the hallowed hall while dozens of cameras clicked. The room was hot, bright, and packed with people, which made me immediately uncomfortable.
I was slightly reassured knowing that within the crowd of that large room were my family, friends, Army brothers, fellow Medal of Honor recipients, and most important, the loved ones of Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin, Major David Gray, and Major Thomas Kennedy.
All I could think about was staying in step with the president and reaching the stage without making a fool of myself. I would stand to President Obama’s right, in front of a blue Medal of Honor flag, which has thirteen white stars and gold trim that was almost an exact match for the East Room’s regal gold drapes.
Upon reaching the stage, I looked into the audience for the first time and became overwhelmed. When the president eventually began his remarks following an opening prayer, the ceremony would be carried live by cable news outlets and online throughout the world, including at military bases in Afghanistan.
In addition to being nervous, my left leg was starting to hurt—badly. For reasons I cannot explain, it was the worst pain I had felt in my leg and foot in more than a year.
Standing at attention in the White House, I thought about a conversation that I had
had with my dad shortly after informing my parents that I would receive the Medal of Honor. We had discussed how it would reflect on the Army if an infantryman was seen sitting during a nationally televised ceremony. With my branch’s pride at stake, I decided to stand even though several past Medal of Honor recipients—all tougher men than me—had elected to stay seated because of their injuries.
I soon realized that I had made a huge mistake. As soon as the Army’s chief of chaplains, Major General Paul K. Hurley, began the invocation with “almighty God, we hear your words,” my leg started to shake.
At the precise moment I was about to panic, a calming thought entered my mind.
Stop, Flo. Breathe. Relax. Bend your knees. It won’t be long.
“Today, we remember your goodness and the sacrifice of all our soldiers,” General Hurley said in prayer. “Heal our hearts with the tears of their grieving families.”
Their grieving families. All three were sitting right in front of me in the row behind my parents, Carsen, and her family. As I looked into their eyes, I felt anxious, but also filled with resolve to ensure that I made it through the ceremony, where their loved ones would soon be honored by the president. This day was about them.
Without their strength, along with the support I had received from so many others during the seven-week whirlwind that followed the president’s phone call, I would never have made it to the White House to begin with.
• • •
“You talked to the President of the United States on the phone?” my mom exclaimed after I called my parents to tell them that I would soon receive the Medal of Honor.
“Yes, Mom, and he actually mentioned you during the call,” I said. “He said that he was looking forward to seeing you again, and that he trusted that you won’t tell a soul about the ceremony until the White House makes an official announcement.”
It was a white lie. President Obama had actually told me to please keep the news to myself, which meant that already I was technically violating an order from the commander-in-chief. Still, I couldn’t keep something this big from my mom, who screamed with joy before I could finish explaining what the Medal of Honor signifies: millions of US troops and veterans, fallen brothers and sisters, and Gold and Blue Star families. It represents our flag and every single person who ever put on a uniform.
“I won’t tell anyone, Flo,” my mother said after calming down. “But you have to tell your father, too.”
My dad’s reaction was different from my mom’s. He was stoic and almost strangely at ease, as if he knew the totally unexpected news was coming.
“I am proud of you,” he said. “Now comes a big responsibility.”
Just as we were about to hang up after talking for the next five minutes or so, my dad said something else.
“I also want you to know something, Flo,” he said. “I love you.”
My father rarely said those three words, not because he didn’t care, but because our relationship had always been built on tough love. Having him say it meant a lot, and gave me the confidence I needed to proceed with the three extremely difficult conversations that came next.
As soon as I hung up with my parents, I sat down to call each Gold Star wife: Pamela Griffin, Heather Gray, and Kami Kennedy. When I dialed each phone number, I dreaded the ensuing conversation. Would these grieving women bristle at the idea of me getting an award after their husbands had died during a mission that I had planned? Even after having met each kindhearted, compassionate widow, I had no idea what to expect.
One thing was certain: while I already knew that the loved ones of USAID Foreign Service Officer Ragaei Abdelfattah were overseas and couldn’t make it to the White House, I planned to forgo all ceremonial proceedings and press opportunities if Pam, Heather, or Kami declined to attend.
To my surprise, all three Gold Star widows were excited by the news. They each promised to be there, which took a tremendous amount of courage since they undoubtedly knew the day’s events would be a painful reminder of how their husbands died. Their enthusiasm would always mean the world to me, and I could not have been more grateful.
In the days to come, I was told that I could bring up to one hundred people with me to the White House ceremony, which would take place the day after Veterans Day. While Carsen and I worked on the invitation list, the Army assigned me to work with a few amazing public affairs folks who prepared me for many different public speaking scenarios, including television and radio appearances.
During mock interviews, the public affairs officers (PAOs) trained me to stay away from controversial topics and to remain focused on the main message that I wanted to spread, which was honoring my living and departed Army brothers and sisters.
After three tense, busy weeks, the White House finally made its formal announcement on October 14.
On November 12, 2015, President Barack Obama will award Captain Florent A. Groberg, US Army (Ret), the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry. Captain Groberg will receive the Medal of Honor for his courageous actions while serving as a Personal Security Detachment Commander for Task Force Mountain Warrior, 4th Infantry Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division during combat operations in Asadabad, Kunar Province, Afghanistan on August 8, 2012.
Captain Groberg will be the tenth living recipient to be awarded the Medal of Honor for actions in Afghanistan. He and his family will join the President at the White House to commemorate his example of selfless service.
That night I received more than two thousand text and social media messages, along with countless congratulatory phone calls and emails. Local and national news crews also set up camp outside my condo in the heart of our nation’s capital, even though I was under strict orders not to speak with the media unless it was organized and monitored by the Army’s PAOs.
The commotion created feelings that could not have been more conflicting. While I welcomed hearing from close friends and family, I was still ashamed to be receiving all of this attention and prominence for such a tragic incident.
When the military-sanctioned interviews began, I struggled to tell my story. The PAOs had done a great job in preparing me, but I wasn’t emotionally ready to speak about the bombings over and over again, let alone in front of the media’s most prominent journalists, including several from my native France.
I was dreading the week of the ceremony, which I knew would be filled with interviews and events. Even though my life had already changed to a degree, becoming a Medal of Honor recipient was quickly becoming a reality that I was still not ready to accept.
I was told to check in to the Sheraton in Arlington, Virginia, the evening of Tuesday, November 10, 2015. This would be my staging point for the next five days. But before Carsen and I went to the hotel, I had a critical task to accomplish. Carsen had recently agreed to move in with me on the condition that I repaint one wall of her old apartment when she moved out. I hate painting, but of course this trade-off was well worth a couple hours of labor.
Of all the days her lease expired, it had to be two days before I received the Medal of Honor. Alone in an empty apartment, I began a task that I thought I would loathe when I realized it was actually a cathartic exercise. Inside a literal blank canvas, all I had were my thoughts, which began to pour out.
Two hours later, I closed the door to Carsen’s former apartment for the last time with a new sense of resolve. The Medal of Honor was not about me, nor would it change me as a person.
I was on edge upon arriving at the Sheraton until I saw a familiar face that instantly put me at ease. It was Sergeant First Class Korey Staley: the same soldier who had told me to “shut up and listen” during my first tour in Afghanistan. Without preaching, SFC Staley had taken me under his wing and taught me how to lead troops in combat, which eventually helped me become an effective US Army officer.
While I had invited Staley to the ceremony, I did not realize that he would be among the first people I saw. It was a big deal, especially with all the butterflies flying ar
ound in my stomach as ceremony week began. After sharing a hug, the three of us went upstairs to the living quarters (actually a luxury hotel suite) that Carsen and I would share.
That evening in Arlington, I would see all my August 8, 2012, teammates in the same room for the first time since I had flown to Fort Carson to help welcome them back from Afghanistan. It was surreal to be sitting around a table smiling and joking around while preparing for the joint interviews that the Army had arranged.
Over a few beers later that night, Brink—the first soldier to spot the suicide bomber—pulled me aside to share that one of the soldiers in our group was still having a hard time speaking about the events of that day. After we asked the soldier how he was doing, he eventually decided not to participate in the next day’s marathon interview session.
More than three years after the suicide bombing, my Army brother was still hurting deeply inside, which made sharing his story with strangers very difficult. It reminded me that so many combat veterans, including myself, grapple with these types of emotions on a daily basis.
The next day marked Veterans Day, which was a big blur of camera lights and microphones. From sunrise to sunset, we were peppered with question after question—individually and as a group—from reporters all around the globe. It was extremely taxing, and other than August 8, 2012, was more emotionally draining than any combat mission I had ever led.
That night, my soldiers and I got together to unwind, tell stories, and raise our glasses to the fallen. This time, we were joined by our boss, General Mingus, and his wife, Amy, which made the evening even more memorable.
On the morning of November 12, I woke up at 0700 to begin my day just like any other with a cup of coffee and fifty push-ups. The only difference was that this time I carefully put on a formal dress uniform.
Before Carsen and I walked out of our hotel room, I gave her a kiss.
“Today, our life might change in theory, but I will never change,” I told her. “I love you more than anything in the world.”