American Heroes

EXCERPTS

Paris D. Davis

Captain, US Army

Conflict/Era: Vietnam War

Action Date: June17–18, 1965

Medal of Honor

Not long after I entered the Army, I had just completed the IOBLC, the Infantry Officers Basic Leadership Course, when a sergeant major who is white comes up to me. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

It’s been fourteen years since President Truman desegregated our military, but Black people are still looked upon as less than people — less than Americans. Sitting at a lunch counter, getting a book from the library, walking a picket line to support the right to vote and integrate schools and public transportation — these actions can get Black people arrested, beaten, or killed.

I straighten a bit. “I’m waiting to be assigned, sir.” He looks at me, thinking.

“I have an Airborne slot,” he says. “You want it?” “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what ‘Airborne’ means?” “No, sir.”

“Good. You’ll find out once you get there.”

I start training — running, push‑ups, everything — and go to Airborne School.

As the airplane levels off for our first jump, everyone is crossing their fingers. Some guys wet their pants. When I get to the door, I don’t want to jump. I have to be pushed out.

I manage five jumps without breaking my legs.

The sergeant major sees me and my new jump wings and says, “What’s going on now?”

“I’m still waiting to be assigned, sir.”

“I’ve got an assignment for you. You’re going to work for me for a while, and then I’m going to send you… let’s call it a surprise.”

The “surprise” is an invitation to the Ranger Course.

Rangers are predominantly white. People pull me aside and say, “Are you sure you want to join? There aren’t a lot of people like you in this outfit.”

I don’t listen to them, and enroll. Two other Black soldiers are selected to go through the Ranger Course. They’re in the same company as me. On the second day, they run into the hooch, pack all their stuff into a Jeep, and drive away.

I’m assigned a “buddy” — a blond guy who is six foot two and built like he whips butts all day long. During judo class, he throws me around like I’m a rag doll. Breaks my lip several times and bangs me up, but I hang in there with him. He takes a liking to me, and we become friends.

Together, we go through Ranger School together without any problems. The experience teaches me the importance of having a buddy.

I’m now an Airborne Ranger, After I graduate, I’m sent to South Korea. While I’m there, I hear about President Kennedy expanding Special Forces. I decide I am going to volunteer, so that’s what I do. I’m determined to become a Special Forces soldier. The distinctive Green Beret is, as President Kennedy says, “a symbol of excellence, a badge of courage, a mark of distinction in the fight for freedom.”

After I complete my Special Forces training, I’m one of America’s first Black Special Forces officers. A Green Beret. I get my next assignment. I’m going to Vietnam.

Back home, the United States is engaged in another kind of war. It’s a battle over segregation. In 1964, President Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, signed into law the Civil Rights Act, which ended segregation in public places and prohibited discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. Not every‑ one is happy about it. Some white people cross to the other side of the street when they see me. Some white soldiers I know, too.

Protests are erupting across the country. On March 7, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and a group of nearly six hundred people march from Selma, Alabama, to the state capital in Montgomery, in a peaceful protest about Black Americans being denied the right to vote. They reach the Edmund Pettis Bridge when Alabama state troopers, armed with tear gas, nightsticks, and whips, beat the protesters back to Selma.

Less than a month later, I’m back in Vietnam for my second mission. I’ve been promoted to captain, and I’ll be serving as the commander of Alpha Detachment A‑321, 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne), 1st Special Forces.

And because I’m Black, my commander warns me, I’m going to have to work twice as hard.

“You’re going to have an all‑white team, and you have some guys from Alabama and one from Mississippi — it could be a rough thing,” he says.

I address my men. “If you call me anything besides ‘sir,’ I’m not going to waste time reporting you, I’ll just knock you to the ground.”

We get along splendidly. I think one of the good things about a war or any type of crisis like Vietnam is the fact that people that are committed to it gel. There’s no race here. In the dark, brown is just as black or white as anyone else.

One of my tasks is training South Vietnamese volunteers in Binh Dinh province to serve in the Popular Forces. The “Ruff Puffs,” as they’re called, dress like the Vietcong, in shorts or loose black clothing, and patrol at night, armed with American M16 rifles. They are exceptionally skilled at ambushing the enemy.

What I do know is that when it comes to soldiers, if we don’t work together, we won’t get the job done. If I get with a group that ostracizes me because I’m Black and they’re white, when something comes up where I need their help, they won’t do anything, and I’ll be left by myself.

My men and I build a camp together in Bong Son. The camp is an outpost in hostile territory. By necessity, we become a tightly knit group.

I get some schooling on how to fight the Vietnamese from William “Billy” Waugh, a fellow Green Beret who will later be recognized as one of the best American jungle fighters who ever lived. He teaches me the importance of cross‑training soldiers. On patrols, if you can’t have a medic with you, then you want, say, a weapons guy who has been cross‑trained as a medic.

The second thing he teaches me is the importance of protecting your camp.

We pay the locals to help with the building. During those first few weeks, our senior medic, Hugh Hubbard, makes it a point to get to know the families — especially their babies and children. He examines their scars and runny noses and other maladies and always offers some medical solution.

Hubbard gives the kids little tubes of toothpaste. They think it’s candy. They chew it and blow bubbles. The kids are fascinated by our monkey. His name is Joe, and Hubbard has taught him how to read colors. While the kids sit in the clinic, coloring with crayons, Hubbard will tell Joe to grab some box based on its color. Joe climbs a pole and always comes back with the right stuff.

The families are grateful, and now we have an added layer of protection. The Vietcong see we have so many of the indigenes working for us, see how well we’re treating them, and decide to leave the camp alone.

When it comes to fighting, we have a pretty good record. Our actions gain the attention of General Westmoreland, the commander of US forces in Vietnam.

“We have two other divisions here,” he tells me. “Why are you doing better than both of those divisions?”

“Sir, I’m not going to get into a battle unless we have an advantage. If we don’t have an advantage, we can’t win.”

On the evening of June 17, I lead three Green Berets and about 100 Ruff Puffs on a ten‑mile march to conduct a raid northeast of Bong Son. The raid lasts well into the morning. We capture four enemy combatants who, during questioning, reveal the location of a well‑trained and well‑armed Vietcong head‑ quarters equipped with two hundred to three hundred enemy soldiers.

Ron Deis, a junior member of my Special Forces team, is our spotter. He’s flying in an L‑19 Bird Dog propeller plane. I relay the information to him. As the sun starts to rise, Deis confirms the enemy‑obtained intel is correct.

I set off for the camp with Sergeant Major Billy Waugh; my medic, Spec‑4 Robert Brown; and Staff Sergeant David Morgan, my demolitions specialist. Accompanying us are roughly seventy Ruff Puffs.

The Vietcong general, we’ve been told, sleeps in a big tent in the middle of the compound. We find it easily, and when we enter, a woman jumps straight up from the bed. She’s buck‑ naked — and armed. She’s getting ready to take a shot at me when Waugh shoots her.

The general is also here. He’s turning his weapon to Waugh when I shoot him.

The battle is on.

We go from hooch to hooch, throwing grenades and engaging in firefights. Some NVA soldiers fight back. Others flee. There are several times when I’m forced to engage in hand‑to‑hand combat. Sometimes I use the butt of my rifle as a weapon.

I hear a bugle. The sure sign of a counterattack.

We push forward, heading to what we believe is the enemy’s command building. I open fire with my M16, and when I reach the building, I throw a grenade through a window. Then I move inside and open fire again, taking down several NVA soldiers. I sustain a wound to my forearm.

I radio for more ammo as hundreds of enemy combatants begin to converge on our position. Within minutes, the jungle lights up like it’s the Fourth of July. The blast from a grenade takes part of my trigger finger and several teeth. The spotter aircraft with Deis is damaged in the fighting and flies back to base camp. I spot a South Vietnamese commander fleeing the ambush. I leave the rice paddy and chase after him. He escapes. By the time I return to the rice field, a sniper has put five shots in Sergeant Major Waugh’s foot and leg. He’s pinned down in the paddy, inside a buffalo rub, a big hole where oxen roll around on the ground.

My medic, Brown, has been shot in the head. An exploding mortar has taken down my demolitions specialist, Staff Sergeant Morgan. He’s stuck in a cesspit on the far side of the field, and he’s taking fire from the enemy sniper.

The enemy is coming at me in waves. I manage to move myself and the rest of my soldiers to a hill where the NVA has left behind a dozen or so foxholes. I need to call in for artillery and air strikes. I use my PRC‑10 radio but communications are down.

The Vietcong tries to overrun us. I see five coming over the trench line. I kill all five when I hear firing from the left flank. I run down there and see about six Vietcong moving toward our position. I throw a grenade and kill four of them.

My M16 jams, so I shoot one with my pistol and hit the other with the butt of my M16 again and again until he’s dead.

That’s when it hits me.

I’m the last American standing.

Sergeant Major Waugh is crying for help.

“I’m coming for you!” I yell. “I’m coming for you!”

Then I hear Morgan yelling from a ditch.

I search for the sniper. Finally, I find him and his camouflaged hiding site. I kill him with my rifle and then crawl to his site and lob a grenade in it.

Two more Vietcong are dead.

Morgan is stuck in a trough of human shit the farmers use as fertilizer. I throw him a rope and pull him free.

The Ruff Puffs are young, and they don’t have any fighting experience. They’re staying in the fight, but some, I believe, are breaking under pressure. Their numbers are dwindling, and the enemy is coming at us from all directions. Bodies are stacked on top of one another, creating walls of human flesh; I’m beginning to run dangerously low on ammo, and I’m worried that we’re going to be overrun by the enemy.

I pick up the radio and manage to regain communication. A medevac helicopter, I’m told, is inbound, just a few minutes away.

I call for an artillery strike within thirty meters of my position. Any artillery strike within five hundred meters of friendly position is considered “danger close,” but I need to take the risk. I need to kill as much of the enemy and push the remaining ones back if I’m going to have a chance of rescuing Waugh.

After the Army rains down hellfire, I sprint from my position — and immediately take on gunfire. I’m shot in the arm. I turn back and treat the wound the best I can, with what I’ve got, and then I wait for another window of opportunity.

The Army fires more artillery. I sprint again from my position, and this time I make it to Waugh.

Enemy fire forces me to retreat and find cover. I’m going to get Waugh out of that buffalo rub. A Green Beret doesn’t leave anyone behind. It’s our mantra. The code we live by.

Again, I sprint to Waugh. The enemy gunfire is intense. Again, I can’t break him out of the buffalo rub.

And now, the enemy is about to swarm on our position.

I pick up a machine gun and start firing. I see four or five of the enemy drop. The remaining ones break and run. I then set up the 60 mm mortar, drop five or six mortars down the tube, and then run back to Waugh.

This time, I have help. A fellow Green Beret, Sergeant First Class John Reinburg, joins the fight. He arrived here on the medevac helicopter, and it’s waiting at the top of the hill. Reinburg begins running ammo to the remaining Ruff Puffs.

Waugh can’t walk. I drag him away and then pick him up and carry him. I’m halfway up the hill when I’m shot in the leg. I keep walking and deliver Waugh to the waiting helicopter.

I’m with Reinburg when he takes two rounds in the chest. I lift his 240‑pound body in a fireman‑carry — four hundred meters across the muddy rice field to safety.

My thoughts never leave my medic and fellow Green Beret, David Brown. Brown is a brand‑spanking new dad. The day before, his wife gave birth to their first child. I have no idea if he’s dead or alive, but he’s somewhere out there, and I’m going to find him.

A rescue helicopter has landed. Major Bill Cole, my commander, is here.

“Leave with the wounded,” he tells me. “I’ll relieve you.”

I’ve been fighting for roughly ten hours. “Sir, please don’t do that to me. I’m not hurt that bad. I still have an American out there.”

“You’ve got it, Davis. Good luck and God bless you.”

Late in the afternoon, a badly wounded Vietnamese interpreter tells me he found David Brown.

“He alive,” he says.

Air support is circling overhead. I’m on the radio, directing tactical air and artillery fire on the enemy’s position, when the Air Force colonel who is flying high above the battlefield and serving as a forward air controller orders me to leave the area.

“That’s not going to work, sir.”

He insists that I leave. I insist that I’m not going to leave until all my men have been recovered.

I’m disobeying a direct order.

After we have a heated exchange, he says, “I wish I was down there.”

There’s plenty of room, I say to myself.

The colonel doesn’t join the fight, which is probably a good thing. If I saw him, I’d probably kick his ass.

As fighters drop bombs, I begin a 150‑yard crawl through mud and human waste. Enemy forces fire at me and lob grenades. Shrapnel singes and pierces my skin. Finally, I reach Brown.

My medic is drifting in and out of consciousness, his body covered in leeches. His head is bandaged. Brown tells me a Vietnamese medic did it, before the man was killed. Brown says he was shot in the head early in the battle and has been lying right here, in this rice paddy, ever since.

That was over fourteen hours ago.

“Am I going to die?” Brown asks. “Am I going to die?” “Not before me.”

Shortly after the battle, Major Cole nominates me for the Medal of Honor. Billy Waugh does, too. He personally writes a letter while he’s receiving medical treatment for his injuries at 5th Special Headquarters in Nha Trang, Vietnam.

“I only have to close my eyes to vividly recall the gallantry,” Waugh writes. Major Cole tells a newspaper that I “showed as much cold courage as any human I’ve ever heard of.”

Later that year, I’m awarded the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal, and the Purple Heart. Years pass, and I don’t hear anything about the Medal of Honor.

In 1969, I’m told the Army can’t find the nomination package.

A hearing is held. Major Cole states he submitted the nomination packet to the Special Forces headquarters. From there, it should have gone to the Pentagon, but there’s no evidence it arrived — or was ever sent.

The conclusion is that the packet was either lost or destroyed.

Major Cole is ordered to create and submit a new packet.

It disappears. Again.

A Medal of Honor packet requires substantial paperwork — eyewitness statements, map, a unit report of the action, and other documentation. It’s not something that gets lost. The chances of it being lost not once but twice are nearly impossible.

Race, I believe, is a factor.

“What other assumption can you make?” says Ron Deis, my fellow Green Beret who was on my team in Bong Son and flew over the battlefield that day in Vietnam.

When you’re out there fighting, everybody’s your friend, and you’re everybody’s friend. The bullets have no color, no names. I think about a pilot I rescued while on another mission. He was white. I was at Fort Bragg and saw him with his wife and child, and when he saw me, he crossed to the other side of the street. If I

had been white, he would have come over and hugged me.

In 1981, with still no word about my nomination, Waugh writes another personal statement. Waugh, who was awarded the Silver Star and has gone on to have a legendary military career, is told that my packet is, in fact, working its way through the system.

“My mind is fixed on it,” Waugh says. “Davis did a good job, and I am proud of him.”

The new recommendation again goes nowhere.

I retire from the Army in 1985. I start a small newspaper in Virginia called The Metro Herald and, for the next thirty years, publish stories about the accomplishments of Black people. I’m often asked about my thoughts on why my medal nomination kept getting lost or why I kept running into enemy fire to save my men. I always answer the same way.

“Life suddens upon you, it just suddens upon you. Every day, something comes up that you don’t expect.”

In 2014, a diverse, fifteen‑member group of veterans and volunteers with legal, research, and communications expertise resume efforts to revive my Medal of Honor nomination. They assemble an updated awards package comprised of Army files, after‑action reports, new and old affidavits and interviews, long‑ lost news reports. They soon get the package in the hands of a new generation of Pentagon decision‑makers.

Behind the scenes, the volunteer group continues to meet and make hundreds of calls and presentations to military, political and veteran leaders. This goes on for several years. I am unaware of most of the details of their work during this time. Then, in mid‑2021, they introduce me to CBS Mornings and the New York Times, which first share my story with the American public.

For the next two years, CBS’s ongoing reporting and our team help keep the story in front of high‑level decision‑makers. As their efforts go on, they begin to get quiet, encouraging signs from the Pentagon. Then, in early 2023, more than fifty‑seven years after that battle in Vietnam, I get a call at home from President Biden. He tells me I will be awarded the Medal of Honor and to prepare for a White House ceremony.

Speaking with the president prompts a wave of memories of the men and women I served with in Vietnam — from the members of the 5th Special Forces Group and other US military units to the doctors and nurses who cared for our wounded. I remain so very grateful for the support of my family and friends within the military and outside it. Their work, the White House ceremony, and many events at the Pentagon and elsewhere in America keep alive the story of A‑team, A‑321 at Camp Bong Son.

Most of all, I want to share the medal with my Special Forces troops — the other soldiers I worked with and fought with that day. Somehow, they need to touch that medal. It ain’t all mine. It’s for America, too.

•••

Earl D. Plumlee

Staff Sergeant, US Army

Conflict/Era: War on Terrorism (Afghanistan)

Date of Action: August 28, 2013

Medal of Honor

I’m a Green Beret and I feel like I’m being punished.

I’ve just finished serving on an Operational 1434 as the lead of the A‑Team, the heart and soul of Special Forces. I trained and worked with local militias and the paramilitary Afghan National Police to eliminate the Taliban and create good governance to run the country.

Though we risked shoot‑outs with the Taliban daily, it didn’t take long to drive the insurgents out of town, permanently. Miri, a village in the center of Andar District, Ghazni Province, is safe, its bazaar, small hospital, and school intact. For now.

The operation ends and I’m given a choice. I can go home or I can stay in‑country and take a desk job at the company command headquarters at Forward Operating Base (FOB) Ghazni, about eighty‑five miles southwest of Kabul. The battalion of the 10th Mountain Division is here, retrograding, along with a brigade of Polish soldiers.

I accept the position, but after being a Green Beret field operator, working logistics behind a desk feels more like a penalty than a reward.

August 28, 2013, dawns clear and gorgeous. It’s close to the end of my deployment and I dress in full gear for a “change of command” photo. I also bring along my coolest weapon: a .308‑caliber SCAR MK20, a sniper support rifle (SSR) designed for both long‑range and close‑quarters combat.

Pilots get a bad rap for always making sure you know that they’re pilots, but I joke that snipers are way worse. I go all out, so that anyone who sees this picture will know they’re looking at a super cool sniper.

After the photo, I set my gear down and go grab coffee in the med shed with my medic buddy Scotty.

Suddenly, we’re rocked by an explosion. It feels like a giant grabbed the building and shook it. I’m thrown to the floor, along with all the medical equipment. The dust inside is as thick as fog.

We’ve been hit directly by artillery, I think, getting to my feet.

Scotty and his patients are fine. I’m fine. Right now, I need to see where we’ve been hit and let the base know everyone in the med shed is okay.

Outside, there’s so much dust hanging in the air, it’s nearly obscuring the blue summer sky and amping up the confusion. Everybody is thinking their building got hit by artillery, but there aren’t massive injuries, so there’s no way we all got hit.

I hear small arms fire. It isn’t ours. I’m hearing AK‑47s and Soviet‑made machine guns called PKMs and explosions from RPGs, and roughly half a mile away, near the rear of the base, I see a monstrous, fiery black mushroom cloud. The plume is massive, the biggest I’ve ever seen. Watching it, I feel small.

The explosion, I’ll learn later, is caused by a nearly five‑thousand‑pound Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device, or VBIED. Our base is under attack — but instead of coming through the main gate, the insurgents are coming through a sixty‑foot hole in the rear perimeter wall.

Clearly, the enemy has a plan of some kind.

I’ve got to get out there.

My stuff is still all laid out where I left it, ready to go. I put on my kit and helmet and forgo the heavy gun belt. I conceal my Glock 19 pistol inside the waist of my uniform pants and grab my SCAR MK20 sniper rifle.

Now I need to find a way into the fight.

I spot a soldier driving one of our Toyota Tacoma pickup trucks. It’s not a fully up‑armored vehicle. More like half — just the doors and the back of the truck, not the glass. I bolt toward it as another soldier, Sergeant First Class Nate Abkemeier, comes running up.

“Are we doing this?” he asks me. “I’m driving.”

We commandeer the truck. As we pull away, Nate almost runs over a four‑wheeler. I recognize the driver. Sergeant First Class Andrew Busic is another Green Beret buddy of mine. Drew’s about to drive into the fight, only his truck doesn’t have a stitch of armor.

“Hey, Drew,” I yell. “Get in with us. You’ll get shot up in that four‑wheeler.”

He jumps in the back of the Toyota. And I jump out.

The SF compound has its own gate. I need to protect the physical integrity of our compound, to prevent the Taliban from entering. I need to close the gate.

“Get in the truck!” Nate yells to me.

There’s a three‑story building overlooking our base. It’s located 180 degrees from the blast — and the Taliban has occupied it. They were hiding in the building, waiting for the VBIED to go off. Now they’re sprinting from cover, sixty, eighty, maybe as many as 150 guys. Some are shooting at Drew and Nate while I’m locking the gate.

“Get in the truck!”

As I make it back out through the foot gate, I hear a ton of fire coming from the breach in the perimeter wall.

I jump back in the truck, and as we drive away, another four‑wheeler drives next to us. It’s manned by Matt, a Green Beret medic, and Army Chief Warrant Officer 3 Mark Colbert. These are my guys. We’re all working at headquarters.

“You guys going in there?” Matt asks, pointing.

“Yep,” we reply. “Let’s go.”

We give each other a thumbs‑up and speed off together.

The Taliban has a huge amount of weaponry. RPGs and recoilless rifles and a mortar section.

I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat, my MK20 lying lengthwise on my lap.

“Slow down,” I tell Nate, as we pull onto the airfield. “I’m going to dismount and climb that wall and employ my sniper rifle. I can hear these guys. They’re on the airfield, about a hundred meters outside the camp.”

As Nate slows, Matt’s four‑wheeler pulls in front of us. He edges toward the opening of the airfield.

They’re immediately slammed by a monstrous amount of small arms fire. Rounds are hitting everything all around them. Both Matt and Chief Colbert get hit.

We’ve all rehearsed battle drills endlessly. We can’t see where Matt and Chief Colbert are taking fire from, but we can see where the rounds are landing. Nate pulls our truck in between them and the incoming fire to create some cover. When Nate stops, I’m going to kick my door open and provide covering fire over the hood while Drew and Nate climb out after me to drag Matt and Chief Colbert to a better position.

But as Nate starts to turn, I see about a dozen Afghan Army guys standing in a semicircle about ten to fifteen meters away. The truck stops and I kick the door open, wondering what they’re doing over here, facing the wrong way.

Then I get a closer look. These guys aren’t Afghan soldiers — they’re Taliban soldiers wearing Afghan uniforms.

They bring up their weapons and start shooting the shit out of our truck as they scramble for cover. It’s then that I realize there’s no protective armor inside the doors. The armor panels have been replaced by plywood.

My sniper rifle is a little over forty inches long. I jerk my rifle up and I spin. The motion accidentally shifts the truck into neutral. Nate doesn’t realize. He’s flooring the gas and not going anywhere.

I stick my arms out the door. As I present my rifle, the charging handle hits the doorframe.

I fire off one .308 round. It hits the dirt in front of the lead insurgent and throws rocks and gravel all over him. He ducks his head. I squeeze the trigger again.

My rifle jams.

Everything turns slo‑mo.

My rifle has never jammed before — or since — but it’s jammed now.

I see these guys staring at me. I see the muzzle blasts from their AK‑47s. I’m not going to die sitting in a truck seat. I’m going to buy Nate and Drew some time.

When your rifle goes down, your pistol comes out. My Glock is drawn before my feet hit the ground. I shut the door behind me, trying to keep any incoming enemy fire from hitting Nate.

I’m an exceptional pistol shot by any standard, but I’ve never fired one in combat. Now I’m going to engage Taliban fighters using only a Glock 19 handgun with ball ammo. I target the nearest group of fighters.

There’re three of them. I hit the lead guy in the pelvic girdle and he instantly collapses. I’d always heard stories about how a nine mil doesn’t have any knockdown power, that you need a .45 to create any effect. I thought I’d have to put fifteen rounds in him.

His fellow soldiers don’t run to help. They run away.

Clear the front site post. If you don’t, you’re not going to hit anything — and you’ll die out here.

The best cover is your own muzzle. That’s always been one of my mantras. As I squeeze off rounds and advance, Nate manages to jam the truck into reverse. He floors the gas, yanks the wheel and spins around, and ends up crashing into a wall behind me.

I keep firing, closing the distance between me and the enemy. Keep waiting for a bullet to hit me and for it to be over. I just want to make as much of an impact as I can before that moment comes.

The bullets keep missing me, but they keep hitting Nate and the Chief. I see the two of them hit the ground like sacks. Drew is trapped in the back of the seat. He’s shaking the doors, trying to get out to join me, and he’s catching hell from all the incoming fire.

I end up driving the enemy back and away from us.

My pistol is now mostly empty. My rifle is jammed. I’m alone with at least a dozen or more insurgents somewhere in front of me. The closest one is the guy I hit in the pelvic girdle. He’s not dead, but he can’t walk. He’s lying on the ground, and he’s firing his rifle. At me.

I’ve got to find cover so I can reload my weapon.

I duck behind a little water tank. Then I remember I have a hand grenade.

I can use it to create just enough time for me to fix the malfunction in my rifle.

I grab the grenade, pull the pin. I lean out and gently toss it in the direction of the insurgent I wounded.

He starts firing at me, then the tank. He doesn’t let up. Little pieces of white plastic rain down on me as I’m locking the bolt of my rifle to the rear and ripping the magazine out. I’m digging out the mess in the chamber when the grenade detonates.

In the movies, if a guy gets hit by an explosion, he gets blown straight up in the air because that’s cinematic — but in real life, usually the person just folds over. But this explosion actually does blow the insurgent straight into the air. His arms and legs are pinwheeling, his body flopping around, and I’m thinking, That’s not a thing you normally see. Nobody is ever going to believe that that happened.

I’ve got my rifle up now. I’m looking around, but I can’t find anybody. The insurgents who were here moments ago seem to have retreated.

They know something I don’t. What are they planning to — ?

Fire to my rear — the distinctive snap‑thump sound made by a rifle.

A round cracks, then hits the wall eight inches above my head. I look over and see a guy lying on the airfield, in a sling‑supported prone position at a hundred meters out. I know the exact distance because he’s lying at the edge of the area where we do our sprints.

He’s taking well‑aimed slow fire at me. He’s missing, but not by much. If he aims for a body shot, it’ll probably be a different story — but he’s going for a head shot.

I drop to a knee, look through my sniper scope and hold the notch where the guy’s throat and clavicle meet up.

I hold center. Pull the trigger.

He’s gone. Vaporized off the planet.

I’m startled by the tremendous thunderclap of sound that follows. I start looking around, thinking the Polish Armor has shown up with a tank, maybe hit him with a main gun.

That’s when I figure it out: The guy was wearing a suicide vest. I must have shot the vest and detonated it — which, I’m guessing, also explains what happened moments ago with the other guy, the one I saw sailing through the air like in a scene from a movie. My grenade must’ve detonated his suicide vest.

That’s why his insurgent buddies retreated. They didn’t want to get blown up. Maybe these guys have some sort of pact where they detonate their vests if they go down, and they suspected that’s what he’d do.

Which brings up a disturbing question.

How many of these fighters are wearing suicide vests?

My guys are yelling for a medic, for help, for support. They’re behind me, somewhere around the corner. I can hear them. Chief’s hit. Matt’s hit. Everybody back there’s hit. But if I run back to them, the fighters will be right on top of me. That’s not going to help my guys.

I scan the area, looking for more insurgents, wondering what their big plan is. I’m worried they’re making their way back to the camp. I’ve got to delay their movement. I decide to go close with the enemy, figuring if they’re running away from me, at least it’ll keep them off my guys. Got to buy time for my guys until support arrives.

When the insurgents scattered, I saw a few of them run down this little lane in front of me. I get about halfway down when I engage three or five fighters, but it feels like a hundred guys because all I see are muzzle flashes. They’re firing from cover, about twelve to fifteen meters away. I’m too close to use my sniper scope, but my rifle has a little .45 optic on the side that allows me to line my sights up.

I start playing Whac‑A‑Mole. I focus on one bad guy while his buddies fire at me. I move toward them, eyeing a generator panel ahead. I need to get there for cover because I’m running out of ammo.

I don’t make it.

I dump the mag. Now to reload. As I pull my muzzle up, the nearest fighter breaks from cover. He throws his rifle into his sling and screams, “Allahu Akbar!” and starts sprinting toward me.

He’s wearing a suicide vest.

I’m faster at reloading than he is at sprinting. I drop my muzzle down as I send the bolt home. I start firing and move behind the generator panel. He’s seven, maybe ten meters away when my third shot detonates his vest.

The generator panel absorbs the fragments from the explosion, but I still get rocked down to the ground. I’m not knocked unconscious, but it knocks me down, rings my bell. I’m TKO. Confused as to what’s going on and where I am.

Another fighter breaks cover. He looks over his rifle as he walks toward me, calmly cranking off round after round. He’s trying to shoot me in the face as I’m lying there, yet all his shots keep landing short. He’s making eye contact with me but missing, because he’s looking at me instead of looking down his weapon sights.

I jerk my rifle up and start hammering away at him. He collapses in a heap.

Now I’ve got to engage the other fighters to his rear.

We’re exchanging fire when a five‑hundred‑gallon tank full of aviation fuel detonates into a huge fireball. It’s intensely hot. There’s black smoke everywhere, tons of it. I use the opportunity to move around the corner and reload again.

I’m gagging on the thick, sooty smoke when Drew appears. A round hit must have hit the safety locks on the truck earlier, trapping him in the back seat. He’s covered in huge cuts from where the incoming fire hit the truck — the bullets fragmented, deforming into big, fat ninja throwing stars and bouncing around all over the place.

“I know where they’re at,” I tell him. “Let’s go get them.”

Together, we turn toward the lane. We’re doing cross cover‑ age and getting closer to where the body of the last bad guy I shot is now smoldering and smoking. Drew is about to step over him when I yell, “Stay away from the bodies. They’re all wearing suicide vests.”

Then, as if on cue, the guy’s vest goes into what we call low order. It doesn’t detonate, but it starts burning like a gigantic blow torch—an intense plume that shoots twenty or thirty feet in the air. It’s hot and nasty, and I’m so close that the heat feels like it’s cooking my skin. We duck behind another generator panel to wait it out.

Aviation fuel smolders behind us. The area is thick with smoke, and every now and then the wind stirs up and scatters the smoke just enough for us to see a bad guy or two. We engage them, only these guys are different than the others.

These fighters are carrying a tremendous amount of ammunition. They have under‑barrel launchers for their AKs, and they’re all wearing belts carrying about twenty hand grenades. One guy shoots at us while the other throws grenades as fast as he can, over and over and over again.

There’s a constant thump‑crump, thump‑crump as grenades detonate. I’m trying to line up my sights, but fragments from the explosions are blowing rocks and dirt in the air, and although the junction panel absorbs the force, the concussion is like a jab to the face every time. I feel like my bones are getting split in half.

Drew and I are constantly getting concussed, but whenever there’s a clearing and we see a guy, we take a couple of shots. I’m working my cover when something whacks the top of my plate carrier, near the base of my throat. It sounds like a loud crack.

I look down. A hand grenade is trapped between my admin pouch and the junction panel.

If I step back, the grenade will fall between my feet. I’m trying to keep it pinned against the panel so I have control of it, but I’m also trying to slap it away from me like a poisonous spider. So I start pawing at the grenade and eventually manage to rip it away from me. There’s another detonation. Drew and I get whomped again.

I’m clawing my way back up when another grenade hits the back of my knee. Drew and I kick it away furiously. The grenade explodes, blowing us down again.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Drew says. “They’re going to kill us.”

He yanks me up. We only take three or four steps before getting blown down again. We fall together to the ground in a tangled heap. This time I land on top of him. I’ve got forty pounds on Drew, and I’m crushing him. It’s all a big mess.

I’m trying to get my rifle up when I look down and see a severed forearm on my rifle. The explosion threw this severed arm so hard it damaged the butt stock of my rifle. I stagger to my feet and try to fix the butt stock. Drew drags me down an alley. We make our way back to the corner, back to where we were first ambushed.

Then I see Chief Colbert come limping up. I thought he was dead — was sure he was dead. But here he is, not only standing on his own two feet, but not even looking like he’s hurt too bad.

I want to run over and hug him, I’m so elated. He looks us over. Grins.

“What are you boys doing?”

Nobody is shooting at us, but we’re not in a safe position.

Drew says, “We know right where they’re at.”

“All right,” Chief Colbert says. “Let’s go get ’em.”

My pistol’s empty. My rifle’s empty. I start fishing around in my kit for a fresh magazine. There isn’t one. All my magazine pouches are empty.

“Chief,” I say. “I’m out of ammo. You have to take point.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The only magazine I have is the one in my rifle. I’ve got two rounds left. I can’t take point. You have to do it. But hey, don’t worry, I’ll cover you.”

He shoots me a look that says, You’re going to cover me with two bullets. Thanks, asshole.

Someone calls out behind me. I turn around and see a Polish Army lieutenant, Karol Cierpica, and Staff Sergeant Mike Ollis, a soldier from the 10th Mountain Division, sprinting toward us.

“We want to come with you,” Ollis says.

He isn’t wearing any body armor, just his combat top. He doesn’t have any gear on his rifle, just a single magazine. I’m about to say something about how he shouldn’t be over here with no gear and no ammo when I look down at my own rifle, loaded with only two shots.

“If you want to go,” I say, “let’s go.” They stack up behind us.

Another guy joins us. Lieutenant Turnipseed, a Navy SEAL. We have a good formation. I know we’re going to dominate the enemy. There’s just so much energy radiating off these guys, they’re ready to hunt. Win.

There’s no other place I’d rather be than right here. We’ve been taking it on the chin, but now we’re coming back. I let the moment sink in as we march together to the gates of hell.

But the gates of hell are quiet now. There are bodies everywhere — but not whole bodies, just pieces. Arms and legs and rib cages. Spinal cords and organ meat. Dark smears of blood and bile on concrete.

The indirect fire has slowed down because the Polish armor has moved up and filled the breach. They’ve pushed the insurgents off the camp, and now they’re hammering away at what’s left of the Taliban.

We’re standing there, watching, when we see movement from behind a nearby pile of bodies. It’s one of the fighters. He sits up and throws two hand grenades as he screams “Allahu Akbar!” and yanks on his vest, detonating it.

Everyone scrambles for cover as the grenades bounce across the ground. I’m backed by the junction panel again, wearily thinking, Oh, man, these again.

I turn my head away from the explosion as the grenades detonate. Man does it hurt. My bones feel as though they’ve been pulverized into dust. By this point, I’m thinking, I’m a pro at getting grenaded.

I hear gunfire behind me. When I turn around, I see Drew yelling something from the other side of these clear shipping containers — and I see him shooting at our rear.

A Taliban fighter is trying to attack us. Drew is trying to fight him off. Mike Ollis is also nearby. He’s rendering first aid to Polish Army lieutenant Cierpica. Mike moves himself between the attacker and Cierpica and starts firing.

I raise my rifle and fire my last two rounds.

I don’t know if I hit him, or if it was Mike or Drew or maybe all three of us, but the fighter’s vest detonates. Mike takes the brunt of the blast. It launches him backward ten feet. He hits the ground right in front of me and rolls and comes to a dead stop. He isn’t moving.

My rifle is empty. I drop it. The only weapon I have left is my knife. I take it out, thinking, I’m going to run over to the fighter and cut his throat. Then I realize that’s ridiculous since the insurgents are wearing suicide vests.

There’s an AK on the ground. I grab that instead and I run back to Mike. His eyes are open. He looks startled, but when he sees that it’s me, he relaxes a bit. His left arm is partially amputated.

I pick up my rifle, sling it over my shoulder, and try to drag him by the shirt. It keeps stretching off him, so I grab him by the buckle of his belt and carry him back to the compound. I have no idea if it’s safe, but it’s got to be safer than where we’re at. Mike’s arm is bleeding badly. I drop the AK and put him down. I talk to him, and as I get a tourniquet on his arm, I see he’s also got a leg injury. It’s not bleeding yet, but I don’t want to take any chances. After a blast injury, when someone starts to relax a bit, things can turn bad. Fast.

He’s no longer conscious. I slap his face, urging him to stay with me, but he’s not responsive. As I throw a tourniquet on his leg, I look around for my guys. They appear to have run off. I have no idea where they went. I’m alone, and I’m worried about someone walking up behind us.

Mike is fighting to breathe. I rip up his shirt. He’s got a huge depression on his chest.

I’m at the camp. Literally. The hospital is a minute away. I know Mike’s best chance is there, not here with me trying to figure out what’s going on.

I spot a civilian with a vehicle, and load Mike up in it. As another soldier comes running over, I say, “I’ll cover you two. Get this kid to the hospital.”

Then I turn back.

I’m alone, with absolutely no ammunition, and I need a gun.

I return to the spot where I dropped the AK earlier. Something’s rattling inside. I take a closer look. The rifle has bullet holes through the bolt and operating system. Crap.

Fortunately, rifles are scattered everywhere. I pick up another AK. This one has rounds through the magazine right next to the receiver, which is now stretched apart. It doesn’t work, but it’s got a good bolt. I rip the bolt out and throw it back in the other rifle. Now I’ve got a working weapon.

I’m scurrying around, grabbing grenades for the launcher and rifle magazines off the ground when I see my new incoming commander, Major Kaster. I tell him what’s going on, and then the two of us start clearing all the buildings in the area.

People have trickled back into the compound when we return to company headquarters. Everyone looks shot to pieces. Drew sees me, wants to know how badly I’m wounded.

“I’m not hit.”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. Every single part of me is covered in blood. I look like I’ve been dipped in it. Every time a suicide vest detonated, it threw aerosol sprays and splashes of blood.

“You’re shell‑shocked,” he says, and starts sweeping me over for wounds. The only injury I have is a piece of unfired brass from a rifle stuck in my arm. I pull it out myself and go to check on Mike. The bleeding in his leg, I’m told, is from a severed femoral artery. He’s also been shot in the stomach. When the doctors go to do chest compressions, they discover that all of his ribs are broken. The blast from the suicide vest inflicted extensive internal injuries.

He doesn’t make it. He sacrificed his life to save Polish Army lieutenant Cierpica, who lay on the gurney next to Mike the whole time. Cierpica is able to tell Mike’s grieving father that the doctors did everything they could to save his son.

Chief Colbert and Drew receive the Silver Star for their valor in battle. Nate receives a Bronze Star with V device, one level below the Silver Star. Mike is awarded the Silver Star posthumously — and becomes a hero in Poland, where he is also posthumously awarded the Army Gold Medal, the government’s top award for a foreign soldier.

Lieutenant Cierpica and his wife later name their newborn son Michael.

When I first tell my story, I underplay it a bit because it’s so over the top. So crazy.

An investigation is launched. Investigators come to the base. A rarity. Step‑by‑step, I take the investigators through the various crime scenes by retracing my footsteps. I tell them, “I was standing here when I threw my grenade.” Then as I look down at the gravel, I find my grenade pin.

“This is bonkers,” the investigators keep telling me. They find all my brass.

Since it happened on base, both witnesses and video corroborate different parts of my story. Investigators count three hundred–odd rounds in the truck and in the wall where the gunfight happened. The shots were all fired inside of twenty meters, and not once did I get hit.

Which drives Drew crazy because he was getting pummeled by rounds, shrapnel, and grenade fragments.

When I think about the attack, I always go back to that moment when we got organized and decided to engage the enemy as one. The way we assembled into a synched stack and moved aggressively, right into the chaos. To be with those guys, at that time, on that day, is probably the proudest moment of my career.

It’s the epitome of soldierly virtue on the battlefield.

•••

Hershel “Woody” Williams

Corporal, US Marine Corps Reserve

Conflict/Era: World War II

Action Date: February 23, 1945

Medal of Honor

Interview with Brent Casey, grandson

My grandfather, Hershel “Woody” Williams, was a Marine who fought in World War II. A picture of Jesus hangs on the wall of his farmhouse in Ona, West Virginia. Two vials of sand from Iwo Jima sit on a kitchen shelf near a picture of him dressed in his OD‑green Marine uniform shaking the hand of President Truman as he received the Medal of Honor.

As a kid, I don’t know the details of what my grandfather did during the war or why he was awarded the Medal of Honor. I don’t know anything about the medal or its significance, only that he doesn’t wear the medal often. Maybe to a local parade or when he and my grandmother travel to some event or gala.

If my grandfather wants something done, he only asks once. He works for Veterans Affairs (VA), where he’s respected and admired enormously. He also has a horse farm, where at any given time he’s raising and training from ten to fifteen horses for other people to show.

Woody isn’t opposed to using corporal punishment to get a horse — or a kid — back in line. I’m the only grandchild who hasn’t received a horse crop to my backside, but when, at sixteen, I’m having some behavioral challenges, my mom’s solution is to send me to work on my grandfather’s farm.

“He’s going to tell you how things are supposed to be and show you how things are supposed to be,” she says.

Woody teaches me a lot about selflessness and how it relates to discipline and hard work. He inspires me to serve my country. At nineteen, I join the Army. That’s where I learn about my grandfather’s actions in Iwo Jima. Why he’s a hero who played a part in protecting this great country.

Woody is seventeen years old and lives on a dairy farm in Quiet Dell, West Virginia, with his mother and eleven siblings. War is coming — one, he is sure, that will take away America’s freedoms and privileges.

On October 2, 1923, Woody was born on the farm weighing three and a half pounds. Mom lost several children to the 1918–1919 flu pandemic and was sure she was going to lose him, too. The country was in the grips of the Great Depression when Woody’s father died of a heart attack. Eleven‑year‑old Woody helped support his family, working as a taxi driver and deliver‑ ing telegrams to the families of American soldiers who were killed during the early days of World War II.

Marines wear snappy blue uniforms around town and Woody is impressed. If he’s going to war, he’s going as a Marine. At seventeen, he needs his mother’s signature to enlist.

Mom refuses to sign the papers. He turns eighteen next October. If he wants to be a Marine, he’s going to have to wait.

December 7, 1941: Japan attacks Pearl Harbor.

November 1942: Woody walks into the Marine Corps recruiting office. The recruiter doesn’t so much as glance at his papers. The man is too busy studying Woody’s stature.

“I can’t take you,” the recruiter says. “You’re too short.”

To be a Marine, Woody is told, you must be five eight or better. He’s five six.

His two brothers have been drafted by the Army. He might’ve seriously considered following in their footsteps if it weren’t for the Army’s old brown wool uniform. It’s the ugliest thing in town.

I want to be in those dress blues, he thinks.

If he can’t be a Marine, well, he’s not going. Woody returns to working on the dairy farm with Mom.

In early 1943, the recruiter shows up on his doorstep. The Marine Corps, he explains, has lowered the height requirement.

“Do you still want to go?”

“Yes,” Woody replies, and signs up.

When he thought about protecting his country, he believed it would happen here, on US soil. Instead, he’s sent eight thousand miles from home. On the boat, he looks at a map of the pork‑chop‑shaped island of Iwo Jima.

His unit is in reserve to two other Marine divisions for a campaign expected to last three to five days. There’s no intelligence, only belief in the strong chance that his unit will never leave the ship. He doesn’t know — no one does — that twenty‑two thousand Japanese have dug miles of tunnels across the island and entrenched there.

The Marines sustain catastrophic losses on the beach. Woody and his unit are parked out at sea. That night, they receive new orders to board Higgins boats to Iwo Jima.

There’s no room for them to land. All day long, they huddle down and circle, awaiting the signal. It never comes.

The next day, they head into the beach.

The ramp lowers and Woody pops his head up, catching a glimpse of chaos. The beach is strewn with bodies and limbs torn apart by bullets and explosions; blown‑up tanks and Jeeps and equipment; craters and burnt vegetation.

Exiting the ramp, Woody does a double take. Dead Marines are wrapped in rain ponchos, their bodies stacked like cordwood along the black sand beach made from volcanic ash.

Woody and the six Marines with him crawl across fine sand the texture of BBs. Dig a hole and the sand refills it. Near the first airfield, sand becomes soil where they can dig foxholes.

A flag! A flag!

The Marines start yelling and shooting their rifles into the air. Then Woody sees it — an American flag mounted on Mount Suribachi, the wind unfurling its cotton fabric appliquéd with the familiar red, white, and blue stars and stripes. He joins the celebration and fires his rifle.

The airfield is protected by a cluster of bazooka‑proof concrete pillboxes reinforced with rebar and fronted with a four‑inch‑tall aperture where the Japanese place the barrells of their Nambu machine guns and rifles to mow down US soldiers.

An all‑NCO meeting is called. Woody is a corporal, not an NCO, but Woody’s captain tells him, “I want you there.”

Sheltered inside a huge shell crater, the commanding officer explains the grim reality. The Marines are in an open area. Unless the pillboxes are taken out, there’s no way to advance against the Japanese in their protected position. They’ll have to advance on the pillboxes without any cover.

The commanding officer looks at Woody. “Do you think you can do something with the flamethrower against some of these pillboxes?”

Woody is the only flamethrower left in C Company. The other Marines who came with him, he has no idea where they are, if they’re alive or dead. He’ll never know, even decades later.

“I’ll try,” Woody says.

He trained as a demolition man stateside, knows how to use the M2 flamethrower. Its two fuel canisters filled with compressed gas and liquid diesel fuel and high‑octane gasoline are mounted on a steel rack fitted as a backpack and altogether weighing close to seventy‑five pounds. A full blast lasts about seventy‑two seconds. The weapon’s average lifespan: four minutes.

The key is to pull the trigger in bursts. Once the canisters run dry, the operator has to roll out of the backpack and put on a new one.

He’ll be moving slowly behind a bright orange flame that will draw the attention of enemy snipers.

He’s scared to death, but reminds himself, Everyone has some instinct of bravery. As long as you can control the fear, you can be brave. He thinks of Ruby, the girl waiting for him back home.

When the war is over, he’s going to marry her.

Four Marines are assigned to cover Woody. He selects another Marine to be his “pole charge man.” After Woody sprays liquid fire through the aperture, the pole charge man probes the pillbox with a long piece of wood capped with an explosive fatal to any enemy who’s survived the flamethrower attack.

It’s time to get to work.

The combat is fierce, so intense as to blur his actions over the next four hours. Some events and moments he’ll never recall. Others will live vividly within him forever.

He remembers crawling on his stomach to reach the top of one pillbox. There, he sticks the flamethrower’s nozzle down a vent pipe and squeezes the dual trigger. He remembers his pole charge man taking a round to the head. The man’s helmet saves his life, but he’s taken out of commission. Woody takes over the man’s duties preparing the explosives.

He has no idea how he repeatedly gets his hands on fresh fuel canisters — people say he ran back to the lines; others say Marines delivered canisters to him. Two of the four Marines assigned to cover him are killed. He remembers how each man died and he remembers being on his own, bullets pinging off the tanks strapped across his back and, near the end, Japanese soldiers bursting out of the pillbox with bayonets fixed to the rifles, determined to take down the small American Marine who has killed so many of their own. Woody remembers, will always remember, pulling the trigger and watching the Japanese soldiers catch on fire before falling to the ground.

He feels no remorse. The Japanese have killed many Marines — including his best friend, Vernon Waters. The battle — the war — needs to be won. He keeps fighting, a one‑man killing machine, and by the time he’s done, he has managed to wipe out seven pillboxes.

Woody doesn’t think he’s done anything special. He was just doing his job.

In the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division, I serve as a combat medic deployed to Saudi Arabia to support Operation Desert Shield/Desert Storm. Day after day, I try to do my job while another part of me is full of fear — fear of the unknown.

In 1991, I return home. That’s not true. Only my body returns. My brain . . . is still somewhere overseas.

I get divorced and hit the bottle. I self‑medicate for fifteen years. I end up homeless, jobless, and carless. I have absolutely nothing left except for addiction and alcoholism.

In 2005, my mother, brother, and Woody come collect me. I’m taken to the VA hospital in Huntington. I’ve never been to the VA. The doctor tells me that I’ve flagged 19 out of 19 on my PTSD questionnaire.

“What the hell is PTSD?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about that,” the doctor replies. “You’re in the right place. We’ve got all the tools and resources you need to get back on track.”

I get involved in the VA’s rehab and PTSD residential rehabilitation program. I learn healthy coping skills. Woody helps me the entire time. He, too, was diagnosed with PTSD. He’s all too familiar with my struggles.

My grandfather shares the nightmares he had after the war — fighting fires instead of shooting fire. One time he jumped out of bed and pounded the wall because he believed it was on fire. Attending the Pea Ridge Methodist Church changed his life.

The nightmares stopped, but the regrets he had over killing people remained.

The VA completely changes my life. I go back to school, get a bachelor’s degree in business administration and management, then work full‑time on my MBA with the goal of becoming a teacher.

My grandfather retires — from the VA and from horse farming. When Woody turns eighty, my grandmother says, “It’s time to hand up the horse reins.” He does, moving about a thousand yards down to the bottom of the hill, where he can still see the farm and, whenever he wants, walk back up and take a look at the horses.

Woody continues his speaking engagements and I often accompany him. My grandfather doesn’t need the money he earns, so I say, “Papa, why don’t we do something with the honorariums and create a nonprofit?”

Woody loves the idea.

I get together with my brother Bryan, who has a law degree. He works on the 501(c)(3) form while I go about assembling a board of directors for the foundation we create together. I’m building out the website when I receive a call from my grandfather.

“I was at Donel C. Kinnard Memorial State Veterans Cemetery and came up with an idea,” he says. “I’ve been working with an architect. I’m going to snail mail you some copies of this monument I have in mind.”

“This monument, what is it?”

“It’s going to honor Gold Star Families.”

That’s what the military calls immediate family members of a soldier who died in the line of duty. I do a Google search for “Gold Star Families Memorial Monument.” None exists.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I tell my grandfather. “Your idea for ‘Gold Star Families Memorial Monument.’ It’s original.” Some might say — correctly — that the idea fell into our laps. But in our minds, it’s a God thing, no question. It’s the way

Woody and my parents raised us.

The first monument is unveiled at Donel C. Kinnard Memorial State Veterans Cemetery on Woody’s ninetieth birthday. The foundation starts to take off and I’m forced to make a decision. Do I want to write my PhD dissertation or run the nonprofit? I can only do one.

I decide to help my grandfather, pay him back for everything he’s done for me. He’s the reason I’m still alive.

The foundation dedicates twenty‑five Gold Star Families Memorial Monuments across the country. Then we start working on establishing a memorial in each state. When we reach that goal, we expand into other countries.

My grandfather insists on attending each dedication. Even at age ninety‑eight and dealing with a leaky heart valve, he still moves at a hundred miles an hour. On the road together 230 days a year, we share airplane flights, hotel rooms, and meals.

One day at home, Woody makes a misstep. Instead of the bathroom, he steps into the stairwell. He tumbles down all eighteen steps and is knocked out. He breaks five ribs and his pelvis in three places.

He spends a month in the hospital, then two months inside a physical rehabilitation center. Tell my grandfather to do twenty‑five push‑ups and he does fifty. He’s released in time for Christmas. By January, he’s completely recovered.

We’re in Dallas, Texas, for the groundbreaking of the National Medal of Honor Museum when we receive a call from the World War II Museum in New Orleans, Louisiana. They want to create a 4D hologram of Woody so that museum visitors from all over the world will be able to sit down and have a simulated conversation with him.

My grandfather can’t wrap his head around the concept. And he isn’t excited about going to California where, over several days, he’ll be filmed using sophisticated technology. The week before we’re scheduled to leave, he calls me to cancel.

“Papa, you don’t understand,” I say. “The museum has already paid for our expenses, has everything in place to film.”

He doesn’t want to go.

I text the other four grandsons. We all get on the phone with him, talk him through how this is a unique opportunity.

“Papa,” I say to him, “my kids’ grandkids will be able to go to the World War II Museum forty, fifty years from now. What better way to leave your legacy and your story behind?”

It takes some effort, but we manage to convince him. A friend offers the use of his private jet and Woody flies to Hollywood and films for four straight days.

The technology is incredible. Museum visitors will see a projection of Woody sitting in a chair. When they ask him questions about his life, what it was like growing up in West Virginia and serving overseas, Woody will answer right back.

Around March, he develops vertigo. He gets fluid in his legs. Woody ignores it, and the fluid builds until it gets inside his lungs. We take him to Huntington, West Virginia, and the same VA hospital where I was treated, now renamed the Hershel “Woody” Williams VA Medical Center.

The VA medical staff recommend further evaluation at the Cleveland Clinic. Doctors there believe Woody’s heart has a second leaky valve. They can’t push the fluid out, so they put him on Lasix, a strong diuretic used to treat excessive swelling. His kidneys can’t handle the medication.

The doctors suggest dialysis.

“Nope,” Woody says. “Nope, nope, nope. We’re not doing any of that. I want to go home.”

“What do you mean when you say home?” the doctor asks. “Do you want to go to a rehab center, or do you want to go to your house?”

“I want to go to the Woody Williams VA Medical Center.”

I need to get him home right now. It takes a lot of phone calls well into the early morning hours, but I finally arrange a StatFlight, and the company generously donates their services free of charge. I manage to get Woody on the helicopter flight home the following morning, Saturday.

By Sunday, Woody’s feeling pretty good. He wants to see my mom — it’s her birthday — and my youngest brother, who he hasn’t seen in a while. My grandfather is in good spirits, sitting up in a hospital chair, but we all know he’s sick.

Senator Joe Manchin stops by Woody’s room. Woody wants the senator’s help. For some time, it’s been on my grandfather’s mind to build a protective shelter for families at the Donel C. Kinnard Memorial State Veterans Cemetery.

“I’m going to make that happen,” the senator says.

My wife, Mary, and I are with Woody in the early morning hours of June 29, 2022. I’m playing him church hymns on my iPhone. “In the Garden,” Woody’s favorite song, comes on, and that’s when my grandfather, the last living Medal of Honor recipient who served in World War II, takes his final breath, at the VA hospital named after him.

It’s another God thing.

For two days, Woody, wearing his dress blues, lies in state in the state capitol building in Charleston, West Virginia. A Gold Star Families Memorial Monument sits on the capitol lawn. Woody’s final tour continues. His casket is loaded onto a C‑130 for transport to Washington, DC, to lie in honor at United States Capitol Building — the thirty‑eighth American to do so.

My nephew, who two years ago joined the Marine Corps because of Woody, accompanies him.

A ceremony is held in the rotunda. It’s a beautiful day. Just God‑given. And special. Later, Woody will be moved to the World War II Memorial on the National Mall.

My grandfather knew of these plans before his death, and only agreed once he was satisfied that the day would honor not only him but all World War II veterans. To his very last breath, my grandfather believed he was the caretaker of the Medal of Honor.

“I didn’t earn it,” he often said. “I wear it for those Marines who lost their lives protecting mine.”

•••

Brian M. Kitching

Captain, US Army

Conflict/Era: War on Terrorism (Afghanistan)

Action Date: October 4, 2012

Silver Star

It’s the middle of the night. My brother Julian and I are sitting in my beat‑up car, talking about our futures. I’m grappling with how to find more purpose through leadership and service.

“If that’s what you’re really interested in,” my brother tells me, “you might want to consider joining the Army.”

It’s what he really wants to do, but he’s working through some health challenges. (Julian will go on to have a distinguished career as a Green Beret.)

I’ve recently started college in Huntsville, Alabama. That night, I decide to drop out and enlist.

“You’re throwing your life away,” friends and family say. “You’re going down the wrong path.”

I do it anyway.

My first duty station is Fort Campbell, located on the Kentucky‑Tennesseeborder and home to the Army’s storied 101st Airborne Division. My report date is September 11, 2000. I don’t know anything about how the Army works. I’m the first in my family to serve. I didn’t have anyone in my life who could coach me on so many of the dynamics unique to the

Army and military writ large.

But I instantly connect with Army life, and I’m fascinated by the stories of people from all over the US and world who have volunteered to serve our country. I’m also fortunate to have mentors who encourage and challenge me to always care for people and strive for excellence.

It’s not long before we all face a challenge that changes everything.

One morning, I’m putting my camouflage uniform on as I’m walking down the hallway in the barracks. I look over at a TV and see two big office towers on fire.

“Is this a movie?” I ask the other soldiers in the room. It’s September 11, 2001.

Leaders begin yelling, “Go to the arms room and draw your M4!” Everyone is grabbing their rucksacks and weapons and scrambling to secure different areas of Fort Campbell. In the following days and weeks, security at Fort Campbell tightens dramatically, and our training schedule intensifies.

Over the course of the next several months, we receive information slowly — and train relentlessly. Our infantry platoon sergeant has us stand in formation while he reads aloud accounts from combat in Afghanistan. For someone who has just joined the Army, I struggle to imagine what combat looks like halfway around the world.

In March 2002, I deploy to Afghanistan as our brigade finishes wrapping up Operation Anaconda. I’m a corporal, a forward observer for 3rd Battalion, 187th Infantry Regiment (Rakkasans). Essentially, my job is to conduct intelligence activities and call for indirect fire from mortars, close combat aviation, or in some cases, fighter jets. It’s unclear how long we’ll be in‑country.

Almost no one in our formation has any substantive combat experience. Many of us assume that we’ll be facing direct com‑ bat the moment we hit the ground.

That’s not what happens. When we land at Kandahar Airfield, the forward operating base (FOB) is still in the process of being built out. There are minimal combat patrols on that first deployment.

Our days are filled with various work details, rehearsing for potential missions, and pulling guard duty for detainees. We train constantly, and sit around our tents talking about home, or whether we’ll see action.

One day, General John “Jack” Keane addresses our formation. “Make no mistake, we’re going to be over here for a long time.”

“No way, we’re going to be out of here in no time,” mumbles one of the young officers standing near me.

A few months into the deployment, I’m notified that I’d been accepted into the Army’s Green to Gold program. It selects enlisted members to complete college and become commissioned officers.

Over the next decade, I finish college as an Infantry officer, and after completing Ranger School, I deploy to Afghanistan three more times as a platoon leader — once with the 82nd Airborne Division, and twice with the 75th Ranger Regiment, the Army’s premier raid force.

I take command of a mechanized infantry company (essentially, an infantry company that delivers soldiers via the Bradley fighting vehicle) in November 2011. Only a few weeks later, I’m notified that we’ll be deploying to Afghanistan. We’ll be relying principally on our feet to do the job.

We deploy in March 2012. This will be the first Afghanistan deployment for most of the soldiers and leaders in the company. Most of these soldiers are brand‑new to the Army, kids who have only qualified on their weapons in basic training. Many of the leaders have several combat experiences from Iraq, but this combat will be different.

Most of them have relied heavily on vehicles to conduct operations — and there isn’t a strong culture of dismounted operations. Up to this point, I’ve always prioritized combat‑ focused training in the organizations I led, but when I learn of the specific area where we will be in Afghanistan, it gives me pause. I know I’ll have to intensify our efforts.

The district of Panjwai in Kandahar Province is notorious. It’s one of the birthplaces of the Taliban and known for fierce, well‑equipped fighters and elaborate improvised explosive device (IED) tactics. It’s also one of the most violent areas in the entire country.

Generally, I think it’s more effective to spend time cultivating a greater sense of buy‑in within a team, but we don’t have the luxury. In the ninety days leading up to the deployment, we push our soldiers hard, emphasizing extended foot movements, functional fitness, nutrition, and patrolling tactics. We study our enemy’s tactics and regularly review real‑time reporting from the unit we’ll be replacing.

“This is the way we must train in order to meet the demands of combat,” I tell them.

Our company operates out of Combat Outpost (COP) Sperwan Ghar, a towering, man‑made piece of terrain in Panjwai District, Kandahar Province, west of Kandahar City. I’m one of three people in the 135‑man unit with previous combat experience in Afghanistan. A company of Afghan National Army (ANA) soldiers is colocated with us.

Our mission is to prevent the Taliban’s ability to destabilize Kandahar City with large‑scale attacks. That means finding and destroying weapons, explosives, and fighters attempting to organize operations against our partnered Afghan forces.

We quickly begin conducting operations in our area. Within weeks, we destabilize the Taliban’s operations, knocking out key IED and drug facilities. We patrol day and night. We’re disciplined with after‑action reviews, and we’re continuously refining our tactics based on the operational environment. The noncommissioned officers and young soldiers of the company perform with astonishing bravery every day.

But our operational successes come at significant cost. By September, we’ve lost five men, with more than a dozen wounded.

Our company is scheduled to redeploy in December, and the fighting hasn’t let up.

In late September, I’m given the objective to conduct a company helicopter assault in a village named Nejat, to clear and destroy the village’s IED facilities. Nejat is by far the most dangerous village in our area of operations — notorious for running drugs and weapons. Its tight clusters of mud structures and mazelike paths make it a nightmare for IED attacks. Of the two hundred–plus battles in my area of operations over the course of the nine‑month deployment, almost forty have occurred in Nejat alone.

We infil the company on CH‑47 helicopters on October 3, 2012, and I spend the evening with 3rd Platoon, clearing the east part of the village. Second platoon is running logistics for us and resupplying as we clear the area on foot. By the time night falls, we’ve engaged in several firefights. I grab a couple hours’ sleep on the dirt next to my radio telephone operator (RTO).

The next morning, on October 4, we link up with 1st Platoon to finish clearing the last group of buildings in the east while 3rd Platoon moves to clear the southern portion of the village.

Because of the IEDs in the area, we go to extreme lengths to limit the enemy’s ability to predict our approach. I insist we vary the design of our movement formations and routes to get into the villages. We travel in single rows (files), often dispersed, sometimes climbing mud walls, or using axes and picks to tear them down. But it’s incredibly hard, slow work. Brutal. Cover‑ ing eight hundred or so meters can take hours.

On October 4, we move in a file, even though there’re thirty of us, plus some ANA soldiers. What’s also taking time is that at the front of the formation, I have someone searching for IEDs with a dual‑sensor handheld detector. It uses ground‑penetrating radar and metal detection technology that can locate IEDs even if they’re buried a bit deeper into the ground. The clearing device isn’t great, but most of the time, it’s better than nothing. It’s the only one 1st Platoon has, which creates an additional risk for us.

The day is heating up when I start receiving reports through my RTO about intercepted radio traffic. The Taliban is watching us and is planning an attack.

Many times, it’s a bluff meant to scare us off. But in this area, anytime I receive those reports, there’s always been a fight. We move into an area of the village with a maze of sharp turns and alleyways, and disperse to clear a series of reported IED facilities. It’s the afternoon, and I can tell the men are

exhausted, hot, and nearly out of water.

Nejat is relatively quiet. When we get to an intersection, my RTO reports that the Taliban is close enough to hear us.

“Freeze,” I tell the fire team. “Do not move.”

I have thirty people with me; one wrong move and we could potentially trigger an explosion.

All our “elements” — individual squads, platoons, and other units — are spread out. They won’t be able to support, and the high chance of friendly fire in this area would be too risky. Not to mention all the IEDs.

I pull a set of graphics from my pocket so I can orient myself.

As I look to the north, an AK fires at us from about fifty to seventy meters away.

We return fire and look for cover.

When we break back to the rest of the formation, I direct one of the team leaders to use an M320 Grenade Launcher Module (GLM) to fire multiple grenades onto the enemy’s position.

Reports say there are five to seven fighters. After ten minutes of fighting, the enemy breaks contact.

Staff Sergeant D, a phenomenal NCO and one of the fittest guys in the company, is operating the mine‑clearing device. The day is incredibly hot. When we approach a gate leading to the final sets of compounds, a lot of people are low on water.

The staff sergeant stops by the gate and says, “I’m getting a high reading.”

“Let’s use one of the line charges,” I say. We worked with a nearby Special Forces detachment and made line charges from detonation cord, or “det cord” — thin and flexible plastic tubes filled with explosives — attached to C4. It’s much more efficient than carrying around the heavier device that launches line charges. We throw a line charge onto the path and, sure enough, two IEDs detonate.

We move around the gate, into a huge marijuana field that’s around two hundred by two hundred meters. The plants are massive, probably twelve feet tall, and provide us some conceal‑ ment, but no cover. And it’s hard to stay quiet when you have thirty guys moving single file, trying to avoid IEDs.

We’re probably midway through the field when we start

getting hammered by heavy machine gun fire from a PKM, a Soviet‑manufactured machine gun with a muzzle velocity of seven hundred meters per second.

Everyone drops to the ground as rounds cut down the plants and leaves around us. I’m in the middle of the formation, screaming at everyone to return fire. No one does. They’re physically and emotionally exhausted and possibly suffering heat exhaustion, disoriented from dehydration. Most of them are kids. While they’re trying — wanting — to do the right thing, their capacity is somewhat limited.

Two people have been wounded — one of my squad leaders and an ANA soldier. At the moment, there’s very little I can do to affect the tactical situation while stuck in the middle of a marijuana field. I need to get to the front.

I emerge from the field and see a few soldiers being treated for injuries. My RTO and I find cover behind a small dirt wall and receive reports on the wounded. The rest of the platoon begins returning fire.

I direct my RTO to initiate the call for the medevac aircraft. We start to return fire. We’re pinned down in an open area, and we need help. I call for attack helicopter support.

A pair of Apaches arrive and identify ten to twelve fighters moving amid a maze of paths and firing at our position with PKMs, AK‑47s, and RPGs. Our helicopters engage enemy positions while we wait for the medevac to arrive.

The helicopters begin firing and launching rockets into the village. I mark the landing site for the medevac with smoke, but the helicopter flies directly over the landing zone and lands in an adjacent field — with an eight‑foot wall between us.

Why didn’t they land in the LZ? Did they see something that scared them? Made them nervous?

There’s no way we can move our wounded over that wall in the middle of a firefight. “Stay here,” I tell my RTO, and break into a run.

It’s so hot. I’m dripping sweat.

I run about fifty yards and find a break in the wall large enough to go through. I sprint to the helicopter and direct the pilot to go back to the area we marked. It’s not far, but the helicopter’s got to go over the wall.

As the pilot moves over the wall, the helicopter starts taking gunfire from various positions. As we return fire, I’m hoping and praying the enemy doesn’t launch an RPG at the helicopter. We’re only able to get one of the casualties on the medevac helicopter before it’s forced to take off. The other wounded will have to continue the mission. There’s no way that medevac helicopter is coming back.

The enemy gunfire was coming from a cluster of compounds about one hundred meters away. I see huge flames leaping into the air from a large pile of trash and straw that got hit by a rocket from one of our attack helicopters.

I do a water check. These kids barely have any. I can tell they’re all smoked.

We need to move forward and continue our mission of clearing the rest of the village. We still have adequate ammunition and two Apaches in the area.

We move up to a wall. This one is ten feet high. I climb it and drop into the first compound. After I establish security, I tell Staff Sergeant D to follow.

“I want you to establish security east of our position,” I say, taking the mine‑clearing device from him. “I’m going to clear the courtyard of this structure so we can get the rest of the platoon safely out of this open area.” I’m thinking, I don’t really know how to use this thing, but I’ve got to demonstrate some courage and confidence for these soldiers if we’re going to get this done and get out safely.

When I’m relatively certain the area is safe, I give the go‑ahead and the rest of the platoon starts flowing into the courtyard. We take some pop shots from a fighter with an AK‑47, but we’re somewhat protected by the surrounding walls.

Staff Sergeant D, now back to working the mine‑clearing device, says he’s getting readings for potential IEDs.

My RTO receives a report. “The Taliban wants to bring in ‘more friends and the big gun.’” He says this in front of most of the soldiers. I wish he hadn’t.

I’m pretty sure it’s just a tactic, but the fighters in Nejat are well equipped. These kids are terrified. I can see it in their eyes. I’ve spent more time in Nejat than anyone else on the ground. I’ve moved multiple platoons through this village and

know the area inside and out.

There’s an open area that leads to a wall a hundred yards away, directly to our front. Behind that wall is the final grouping of structures we need to clear.

It’s no one’s job but yours to get your men to safety, I tell myself.

No one else will be able to do this.

“I’m going to make that run,” I say to one of my teams. “Cover me, and I’ll secure the other side.”

It’s the longest run of my life.

I make it to the other side, start pulling security, and we’re able to bring the rest of the platoon up.

“We’re getting too many readings,” the platoon leader says, meaning he assesses there are a lot more IEDs somewhere around us. “I don’t know what we should do.”

My soldiers have been fighting most of the day. Some are close to becoming heat casualties. No one wants to move. Out of the hundreds of patrols I’ve been on, I’ve never seen this level of fatigue — but we can’t stay put.

I clear the last few structures on my own, attempting to complete our mission. The Afghan Army soldiers refuse to assist. I report to my battalion commander that we’re complete with the objective. I tell my soldiers we’re going to move to the exfil point outside the village.

Given the IED threat, this will be an extremely risky movement.

The only way we’re going to make it out of here is if I lead us out. These men have fought so hard and sacrificed so much this deployment. I go to the front of the formation and tell my men that I’m going to lead the way. Staff Sergeant D will follow from a safe distance. We have only the one mine‑clearing device, and my soldiers will need it if I get killed leading them to the exfil point — and there’s a strong chance I will.

I take a moment to mentally say goodbye to my wife and son. I love them so much.

I know this area of the village well. I walk north as the point man, choosing my path carefully where the dirt is packed almost like concrete, and keeping my weapon at the ready should enemy fighters emerge from one of the alleyways. My heart pounds with every step.

As I skirt around a crumbling wall, multiple IEDs detonate, one directly in front of me and another one directly behind me.

I’m blown into a wall. When I regain awareness, all I can see is dirt and dust swirling, pebbles falling around me. Then I hear people yelling. I get on the radio, and as I start asking for reports, I look up and see the mine‑clearing device, broken in half, suspended in a tree.

I don’t see Staff Sergeant D anywhere.

We find him lying face down in a nearby creek. One leg is gone, the other mangled. Blood is running downstream. My RTO and a couple of other guys jump in the creek to retrieve the wounded staff sergeant.

I send the casualty report over the radio, and the platoon medic, in the rear of the formation, moves up to respond.

As he does, he triggers another IED. It costs him his leg.

Another sergeant is wounded in the face from shrapnel. He’s covered in so much blood it’s indescribable.

It’s a nightmare. The most violent deployment I’ve ever experienced.

Before long, the medevac helicopter is inbound. The pilot radios to ask if the field has been cleared.

“There’s no way we can clear it,” I say. “This casualty needs to be evacuated. He will die if you don’t come and get him.”

It’s an extremely tight space, but they land. I carry the staff sergeant to the helicopter with a few other soldiers. He’s barely conscious as we place him on the litter, but he grabs my arm so fiercely out of pain I can feel his fingernails piercing my skin.

In that terrible moment, I pause to look at him. I touch his head softly, hoping with everything in me that he’ll be okay. His remaining leg is just sort of dangling there. There’s no question he’s going to lose it.

The medevac aircraft takes off. I consolidate our remaining forces and begin moving. As we reach the exfil point, I’m devastated — for our wounded, and for the soldiers that remain. But I keep reminding myself that everyone is still alive, and that we did the best we could with what we knew and the resources at our disposal. Combat feels natural to me. And while I don’t enjoy some of what I’ve experienced in battle, there’s nothing like fighting side by side with my soldiers. The most unbelievably magnetic experience is witnessing what soldiers will do to save the lives of their friends.

That’s what motivated me that day in Nejat.