We thank them for their service. We applaud them at sporting events. But how much do we really know about who our veterans are, what they did overseas, what they're doing now? In many homes, unlike in previous generations, these stories aren't shared across the dinner table. Less than 1 percent of our population have served our military abroad since the September 11, 2001, attacks. Add their direct family members, and they still amount to less than 5 percent of the nation. Most Americans have no skin in the game.
The words strike a deep chord, deep into the soul of every combat veteran to make the long, lonely walk through a busy airport. They thank us for our service, but what do the words really mean? They applaud us at sporting events, but do they really understand our sacrifice?
Since the end of the draft in 1973, our warrior caste has become increasingly distant from the people whose freedom we stand prepared to defend. The All-Volunteer Force is an enigma to much of the American public, underscored by conflicting images of joyful family reunions that bring a tear to the eye and of troubled veterans returning home only to confront the horrors of war. The media loves a happy story, but the narrative of a crazed veteran turned violent sells. The public is caught in the middle, side-by-side with the men and women of the “other 1%”, struggling to understand.
In For Love of Country, Washington Post journalist Rajiv Chandrasekaranand Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz join forces to bridge this civil-military gap, to help the public understand the veterans among them. Together, they tell our stories. Those incredible stories. These are the stories that define who we are, where we come from, why we fight. These are the stories that we don't share openly, that often come out choked and stilted. These are the stories we bury deep inside ourselves.
Those incredible stories.
On Memorial Day 2008, Leroy Petry should have been asleep. He toiled on the night shift, as did most of his fellow Army Rangers. But that morning, as the sun beat down on his plywood hut, nervous energy throbbed through his veins, and he tossed in his bunk.
The evening before, Petry’s commanders had received word that a senior al-Qaeda operative might be within striking distance of their forward operating base in the hills of eastern Afghanistan. Petry was on his eighth combat deployment, and he had performed more airborne assaults than he could remember, yet he treated each one like his first rodeo. He always brought extra food, double-checked his gear, and thought through contingency plans.
“You’re on more even ground with them,” warned Petry, a twenty-eight-year-old staff sergeant. “Be prepared for anything.”
Finally, Petry gave up on sleep, rolled out of his bunk, and stumbled into his platoon’s nearly empty tactical operations center. As he began to read his e-mail, he saw the watch officer nearby jolt upright. “Go wake everyone up,” the officer barked.
Petry banged on doors and shook guys by their shoulders. Then he ran into the chow hall and grabbed a handful of beef jerky packets. When everyone assembled in the operations center, his restlessness was vindicated. He learned that his platoon would be heading out on a rare daylight mission to pursue the al-Qaeda operative.
After the briefing, he gathered his dozen-man squad of machine gunners. He knew they were concerned about swooping in at midday, when they couldn't rely on night-vision goggles to give them a distinct battlefield advantage. “You’re on more even ground with them,” warned Petry, a twenty-eight-year-old staff sergeant. “Be prepared for anything.”
As a pair of dual-rotor Chinook helicopters ferried the platoon toward a remote cluster of homes where its target was believed to be hiding, Petry could see his own apprehension mirrored on the faces of his fellow Rangers. He hadn't been on a daylight raid in four years.
Shots were heard as soon as the helicopters landed and the Rangers hustled off the back ramp. While most of the Americans fired back and charged toward the buildings, Petry hung back with the platoon leader — their job was to command, not to kick down the doors themselves. As the Rangers started the search for their target, Petry heard over the radio that one of the squads had been delayed because it had initially entered the wrong building.
“I’m going to go with them,” he told the platoon leader as he took off running. Along the way, he summoned Private First Class Lucas Robinson, a young member of the platoon, to join him.
Petry located the correct compound and stepped through a hole in the mud-brick wall that surrounded the outer courtyard, intending to catch up with the rest of the squad, which had already walked into a walled-off inner courtyard. As soon as he and Robinson entered, a burst of gunfire tore across the compound. Petry felt sharp pain in both of his thighs, but he mustered the strength to run toward a small outbuilding about twenty yards away, hoping its walls would provide protection from the gunmen, who had trained AK-47 rifles on the Rangers from a bunker at the far end of the courtyard. Robinson, who had been grazed on the side, followed behind.
As they crouched behind the building, Petry looked down at his legs. Blood seeped out of holes in each pant leg, but his bones felt intact, and no major blood vessels appeared to have been hit. A flesh wound, he thought. I can keep fighting.
Petry got on the radio to inform his platoon mates that he and Robinson had been shot. Then he pulled a thermobaric grenade from his vest and hurled it in the direction of the bunker. After it exploded, the incoming fire ceased.
At that moment, another Ranger, Sergeant Daniel Higgins, ran into the courtyard and joined Petry and Robinson next to the building. Higgins stood beside Robinson on one end of the ten-foot-long wall; Petry was on the other end, sitting on the dirt, peering around the corner. As Higgins inspected Robinson’s wound, a grenade flew out of the bunker and landed ten yards from the Rangers. It detonated a second later, knocking Higgins and Robinson to the ground but leaving them unscathed.
“Keep your heads down,” Petry called out.
“These are my brothers — family just like my wife and kids — and you protect the ones you love.”
Fearing that the insurgents would converge from both sides of the building and kill all three of them, he glanced around the corner again. He spotted two fighters in the bunker, both with ammunition clips strapped to their chests.
“Damn,” Petry muttered to himself. So much for my grenade.
He turned to check on Robinson and Higgins. As he did, he saw an object land on the dirt a few feet from his comrades.
Another grenade, the size of a baseball, the color of an olive, with the texture of a pineapple, packing enough TNT to kill his buddies.
The others hadn't seen it. He knew that grenades typically have a four-and-a-half-second fuse. Even if he screamed out a warning, they wouldn’t have time to move away. Both of them would die. So he lunged.
In the fraction of a second between observing the grenade and reaching for it, Petry, a father of four, expected to surrender his life.
“These are my brothers — family just like my wife and kids — and you protect the ones you love.”
He grabbed the grenade with his right hand, lowered his head, and started to toss it away. As he let go, it exploded. The force of the blast propelled him backward and slammed him to the ground. He opened his eyes. I guess I’m still alive.
Then he caught sight of his right hand — or the place it had been. It appeared to have been cut off with a circular saw. He could see his radius and ulna, and a mass of flesh around his wrist. But no gushing blood.
Why isn't it spraying in the wind like in the movies?
He felt no pain.
Oh, crap, I guess I have to take care of this.
He reached down with his left hand, grabbed a tourniquet — all soldiers carried them — and cinched it around his right forearm. Then he looked over at Robinson and Higgins. They were staring in disbelief.
“Keep pulling security,” Petry admonished. He wanted them scanning for insurgents, not looking at him.
At the sound of the explosion, the platoon’s first sergeant ran into the compound. When he saw that Petry’s hand was missing, he sought to pull the injured man to safety with a strap stitched to the back of his armored vest. “We're going to get you out of here.”
“You're not taking me anywhere,” Petry growled, “until we get those bastards.”
He remained behind the wall, clutching his M4 carbine with his left hand. More soldiers stormed into the courtyard. As they began shooting at the bunker, a third gunman lurking in the other corner of the compound unleashed a volley of AK-47 rounds. One of them hit Specialist Christopher Gathercole in the face, just below his helmet, killing him.
It would take a few more hours and several dozen rounds of ammunition, but the Rangers eventually killed all three insurgents. As the fighting dragged on, Petry hobbled over to the team’s injury collection point.
“I need to take a look at you,” the medic said.
“Start with the other guys,” Petry replied. “I’m fine.”
“No, you're not,” he said, pointing to Petry’s legs.
Petry looked down. His camouflage pants and boots were soaked in blood.
I want to keep fighting, but I guess my body is running out of juice.
As he was carried to a medical evacuation helicopter, Higgins hustled over to his side. He looked Petry in the eyes.
“You saved us, man.”
Excerpted from For Love of Country by Howard Schultz and Rajiv Chandrasekaran. Copyright © 2014 by Howard Schultz and Rajiv Chandrasekaran. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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