8 Seconds of Courage
Page 15
After putting on my coat, I looked in the mirror and smiled. I never wanted to be in this position, I thought, but here I was. As Heather Gray had told me when we first met, God had spared me and given me the tools to keep making a difference for families of the fallen and veterans. That meant I needed to devote my entire life to being a better person. In that quiet moment before heading to the White House, I accepted the challenge. A few minutes later, my one hundred guests and I boarded buses for a police escort through rush hour traffic to the White House.
As I sat alone on the bus, Carsen, who was sitting in front of me, turned around to make sure I was okay. Her compassionate eyes brought me back into the once-in-a-lifetime moment.
After several rounds of thorough screenings by White House security officials and the Secret Service, Carsen and I, along with our families, including her brother, Max, were taken to a beautiful green room of sorts to await further instructions. When that guidance was given, I barely paid attention, as I was too distracted by the intricate White House decor. Suddenly, I was a long way from a tiny forwarding operating base in Afghanistan or the inside of a hospital room.
This is really happening, I thought. You can’t turn around and leave.
After a few more minutes of admiring the green room’s historic artwork, my parents, Carsen, and I were suddenly whisked out of the room and into the West Wing. The president, we were told, would soon be in the Oval Office to meet with us.
I was excited to see President Obama again. Every time we had met or talked, he had always been so friendly. My sweaty palms met Carsen’s as we waited outside the Oval Office.
My heart was racing by the time the giant white door opened. As usual, though, the tension disappeared as soon as I heard the president’s voice.
“Flo!” he said while giving me a firm handshake. “It’s great to see you again.”
After welcoming me into the Oval Office, President Obama hugged Carsen and my mother before shaking my father’s hand. Then we walked toward his desk, where President Obama signed a certificate that made my Medal of Honor official. After signing, he got up and asked us to join him for a group picture.
The president then inquired where I was working, and how things had been going since the White House announced I would be receiving the Medal of Honor.
“Just trying to keep everything in perspective, Mr. President,” I said. “Actually, I just finished painting Carsen’s old apartment. She moved in this week.”
Everyone laughed as we entered an elevator that would take us back to the green room.
As we prepared to walk into the East Room, I realized that I was standing to the president’s right, which could be viewed by some as disrespectful to our country’s leader and commander-in-chief.
“Sir, would you prefer that I walk to your left?” I asked President Obama.
“Don’t worry about formalities,” he said. “This is your day.”
• • •
As I looked below the bright lights and into the audience, I saw Brink, Mahoney, Secor, Ochart, and Balderrama. I also appreciated that Jensen and McCain, the two soldiers who drove me from the blast site to the field hospital, were there. They were seated near General Mingus and his wife, along with my boss’s brother, Shawn, and his wife, Karen.
In addition to Staley, my Afghanistan battle buddy and college classmate Saul Thompson was there, along with Army friends Hugh Miller, Tommy Anderson, John Wade, and Captain Jason McPhee (a different McPhee than the specialist I served with during my first deployment).
Retired Army Staff Sergeant Salvatore Giunta, who had received the Medal of Honor for heroism in Afghanistan nearly five years to the day before my ceremony, was sitting among the many past recipients in attendance. I was in awe of each and every one of them.
Sal had not only served as a mentor during the hectic days leading up to this moment, but had also fought alongside Staff Sergeant Erick Gallardo in the perilous Korengal Valley. In a bizarre, rather mind-boggling coincidence, Gallardo was the same soldier who encouraged me to get up and keep going when I thought about quitting Ranger School.
On the civilian side, Matt Sanders, who was in my hospital room at Walter Reed when the president came to visit, was joined by childhood friends Adam Forgione, Steve Carlin, Jamie Baker, and many others.
Whatever happiness I felt in seeing my friends vanished as soon as I looked back toward the Gold Star families, and specifically the children. Heather Gray had brought Nyah, eleven, Garrett, nine, and Ava, seven. When I looked at those sweet kids, all I could think about was running faster on August 8. If I could have pushed the suicide bomber to the ground one second earlier, maybe their dad would still be alive.
Pamela Griffin had brought Kevin’s and her son, Dane, twenty-six, who had served with honor and distinction in Iraq, and their daughter, Kylie, nineteen.
Kami Kennedy brought Tom’s and her five-year-old twins, Maggie and Brody. Also in attendance were Tom’s parents, George and Patricia, his brothers, John and George Jr., and Kami’s sister, Kitchi Joyce.
Each Gold Star wife appeared emotional by the end of the invocation and the start of President Obama’s remarks.
“Good morning, and welcome to the White House,” President Obama said. “A little more than three years ago, as Captain Florent Groberg was recovering from his wounds as a consequence of the actions that we honor today, he woke up on a hospital bed, in a little bit of a haze. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he was in Germany, and someone was at his bedside talking to him.
“He thought it was the lead singer from the heavy metal band Korn,” the president continued as the audience began to laugh. “Flo thought, ‘What’s going on? Am I hallucinating?’ But he wasn’t. It was all real.
“And so today, Flo, I want to assure you, you are not hallucinating,” President Obama said with a grin. “You are actually in the White House. Those cameras are on. I am not the lead singer from Korn.”
As the audience laughed even louder, I surprised myself by laughing, too. It felt good to see all the smiles in the East Room.
“We are here to award you our nation’s highest military honor and distinction, the Medal of Honor,” the president said.
Suddenly, I was embarrassed and uncomfortable once again. My leg was still hurting. Despite my awkwardness, the president proceeded to give an eloquent speech filled with honor, warmth, and humor.
Now, Flo and I have actually met before. Three years ago, I was on one of my regular visits to Walter Reed to spend some time with our wounded warriors—and Flo was one of them. We talked. It turns out he liked the Chicago Bears—so I liked him right away. And I had a chance to meet his parents who could not be more gracious and charming, and you get a sense of where Flo gets his character from. It is wonderful to see both of you again.
I also want to welcome Flo’s girlfriend Carsen, who apparently, Flo tells me, he had to help paint an apartment with just the other day. So there’s some honeydew lists going on.
Once again, there was laughter. When we met a little more than a year earlier, Carsen never could have imagined being recognized by the president as her boyfriend received the nation’s highest military award.
Carsen had watched previous Medal of Honor ceremonies on YouTube and seen Presidents Obama, Bush, and their predecessors almost always mention the wives and fiancées in their speeches. Given that she was neither at the time, she never thought her name would be mentioned. She told me later that the fact that President Obama saw fit to mention her showed a genuine respect for our relationship and it meant a lot to her.
The president continued while I stood with my arms crossed; left hand over my right. Sweat was also beginning to drip from my chin and forehead.
His many friends, fellow soldiers and family, all of our distinguished guests: A day after Veterans Day, we honor this American veteran, whose story—like so many of our vets and wounded warriors—speaks not only of gallantry on the battlefield, but resilience here at home.
Flo’s college coach called him “the consummate teammate.” As good as he was in individual events, somehow he always found a little extra something when he was running on a relay, with a team. Distance running is really all about guts—and as one teammate said, Flo could “suffer a little more than everyone else could.” So day after day, month after month, he pushed himself to his limit. He knew that every long run, every sprint, every interval could help shave off a second or two off his times. And as he’d find out later, a few seconds can make all the difference.
I looked straight into the camera lights as the speech continued, but as soon as I heard the word “bomb” while President Obama told the story of that day, my nervous glance quickly moved downward toward the Gold Star families. For a split second, I locked eyes with Tom Kennedy’s two brothers, whose eyes were welling up with tears.
The motorcycles had been a diversion. And at that moment, Flo did something extraordinary: he grabbed the bomber by his vest and kept pushing him away. And all those years of training on the track, in the classroom, out in the field, all of it came together. In those few seconds, he had the instincts and the courage to do what was needed. One of Flo’s comrades, Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, had joined in, too, and together they shoved the bomber again and again. And they pushed him so hard he fell to the ground onto his chest. And then the bomb detonated.
Ball bearings, debris, dust exploded everywhere.
The increasing pain in my leg as I continued to stand was nothing compared to the discomfort I felt in watching three families—especially the children—listen to a story that ended with their loved ones being killed.
That blast by the bridge claimed four American heroes: four heroes Flo wants us to remember today. One of his mentors, a twenty-four-year Army vet who always found time for Flo and any other soldier who wanted to talk: Command Sergeant Major Kevin Griffin. A West Pointer who loved hockey and became a role model to cadets and troops because he always “cared more about other people than himself”: Major Tom Kennedy. A popular Air Force leader known for smiling with his “whole face,” someone who always seemed to run into a friend wherever he went: Major David Gray. And finally, a USAID foreign service officer who had just volunteered for a second tour in Afghanistan; a man who moved to the United States from Egypt and reveled in everything American, whether it was Disneyland or chain restaurants or roadside pie: Ragaei Abdelfattah.
These four men believed in America. They dedicated their lives to our country. They died serving it. Their families—loving wives and children, parents and siblings—bear that sacrifice most of all. So while Ragaei’s family could not be with us today, I’d ask three Gold Star families to please stand and accept our deepest thanks.
This is your day, not mine, I thought while clapping for the Griffin, Gray, and Kennedy families during a burst of emotion that instantly swamped the East Room. I was also thinking about the Abdelfattah family, halfway across the world in Egypt.
By this point, tears were filling my eyes, sweat was readily apparent, and my nose had become obnoxiously runny, which my mom—bless her heart—noticed and signaled me to wipe.
Today, we honor Flo because his actions prevented an even greater catastrophe. You see, by pushing the bomber away from the formation, the explosion occurred farther from our forces, and on the ground instead of in the open air. And while Flo didn’t know it at the time, that explosion also caused a second, unseen bomb to detonate before it was in place. Had both bombs gone off as planned, who knows how many could have been killed.
Those are the lives Flo helped to save. And we are honored that many of them are here today. Brigadier General James Mingus. Sergeant Andrew Mahoney, who was awarded a Silver Star for joining Flo in confronting the attacker. Sergeant First Class Brian Brink, who was awarded a Bronze Star with Valor for pulling Flo from the road. Specialist Daniel Balderrama, the medic who helped to save Flo’s leg. Private First Class Benjamin Secor and Sergeant Eric Ochart, who also served with distinction on that day. Gentlemen, I’d ask you to please stand and accept the thanks of a grateful nation, as well.
As soon as we finished applauding the real heroes of this story, I wanted the ceremony to end. I was in dire emotional and physical pain, and I didn’t know how much more my tired mind and body could withstand.
At Walter Reed, Flo began his next mission: the mission to recover. He suffered significant nerve damage, and almost half of the calf muscle in his left leg had been blown off. So the leg that had powered him around that track, the leg that moved so swiftly to counter the bomber, that leg had been through hell and back. Thanks to thirty-three surgeries and some of the finest medical treatment a person can ask for, Flo kept that leg. He’s not running, but he’s doing a lot of CrossFit. I would not challenge him to CrossFit. He’s putting some hurt on some rowing machines and some stair climbers. I think it is fair to say he is fit.
Today, Flo is medically retired. But like so many of his fellow veterans of our 9/11 Generation, Flo continues to serve. As I said yesterday at Arlington, that’s what our veterans do: they are incredibly highly skilled, dynamic leaders always looking to write that next chapter of service to America. For Flo, that means a civilian job with the Department of Defense to help take care of our troops and keep our military strong.
And every day that he is serving, he will be wearing a bracelet on his wrist—as he is today—a bracelet that bears the names of his brothers in arms who gave their lives that day. The truth is, Flo says that day was the worst day of his life. And that is the stark reality behind these Medal of Honor ceremonies: that for all the valor we celebrate, and all the courage that inspires us, these actions were demanded amid some of the most dreadful moments of war.
That’s precisely why we honor heroes like Flo, because on his very worst day, he managed to summon his very best. That’s the nature of courage: not being unafraid, but confronting fear and danger and performing in a selfless fashion. He showed his guts, he showed his training; how he would put it all on the line for his teammates. That’s an American we can all be grateful for. It’s why we honor Captain Florent Groberg today.
May God bless all who serve and all who have given their lives to our country. We are free because of them. May God bless their families and may God continue to bless the United States of America with heroes such as these.
When I saw President Obama step away from the podium, I knew it was my cue to turn half right and give my back to the commander-in-chief, who would face forward while the official citation was read before placing the Medal of Honor around my neck.
As an Army major prepared to read the citation, my eyes focused on crystals adorning a chandelier hanging from the White House ceiling. I was exhausted, and as an imaginary blowtorch continued melting away my leg, I was preparing to collapse.
At the end of my rope, the president’s military aide began reading aloud in a confident, booming voice.
This is it. I am going to fall down.
As my left leg turned in to Jell-O, I wasn’t sure whether to tumble forward into the crowd or backward onto the president. With my mind clouded by fear and embarrassment, I decided that since President Obama had been so nice to me and my family, he would understand if I fell into him.
“Captain Groberg’s extraordinary heroism and selflessness above and beyond the call of duty at the risk of his life are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflect great credit upon himself, Fourth Infantry Brigade Combat Team, Fourth Infantry Division, and the United States Army,” the major said in conclusion.
Feeling the air shift ever so slightly behind me, I somehow managed to stay on my feet. Suddenly, I thought of my Uncle Abdou.
“You are
my Flo,” he would have said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
In an instant, a final burst of energy temporarily strengthened my wobbly left leg just in time for the president to put the medal in place.
After gently tapping my right shoulder to signal for me to turn around and face him, President Obama extended his hand.
“Good job, Flo,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered back.
Together, we turned and faced the audience, all of whom rose up in applause. It was finally over, and I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief before looking into the eyes of my parents, Carsen, and the Griffins, Grays, and Kennedys. I gently nodded my head toward the Gold Star families to acknowledge that their loved ones had been memorialized for eternity at the White House.
After the benediction, President Obama made his closing remarks.
“That concludes the formal portion of this ceremony,” the president said. “I need to take some pictures with the outstanding team members, as well as the Gold Star families who are here today, as Flo reminds us this medal, in his words, honors them as much as any honors that are bestowed upon him. And on Veterans Day Week, that is particularly appropriate.”
He continued by thanking my fellow soldiers and jokingly reminding everyone that we were about to eat some “pretty decent” food prepared by the White House kitchen staff. This also got a laugh from the audience, and with that, the ceremony concluded.
It was the most trying twenty minutes of my life since August 8, 2012.
Millions of Americans watch a Medal of Honor ceremony on television thinking that it is a happy or even joyous occasion. For most soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines, it is in fact a devastating experience. We never wanted the Medal of Honor. We wanted to bring our battle buddies home to their parents, siblings, spouses, and children.
Before leaving the stage, I looked toward Dane and Kylie Griffin, along with five beautiful, much younger children: Nyah, Garrett, and Ava Gray, and Maggie and Brody Kennedy. I said to myself, I will never forget your fathers. Our country will never forget them. Every time I look at my medal, I see their faces, and yours.