The only comprehensive, firsthand account of the fourteen-hour firefight at the Battle of Keating in Afghanistan by Medal of Honor recipient Clinton Romesha, for readers of Black Hawk Down by Mark Bowden and Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell.
“‘It doesn't get better.’ To us, that phrase nailed one of the essential truths, maybe even the essential truth, about being stuck at an outpost whose strategic and tactical vulnerabilities were so glaringly obvious to every soldier who had ever set foot in that place that the name itself—Keating—had become a kind of backhanded joke.”
In 2009, Clinton Romesha of Red Platoon and the rest of the Black Knight Troop were preparing to shut down Command Outpost (COP) Keating, the most remote and inaccessible in a string of bases built by the US military in Nuristan and Kunar in the hope of preventing Taliban insurgents from moving freely back and forth between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Three years after its construction, the army was finally ready to concede what the men on the ground had known immediately: it was simply too isolated and too dangerous to defend.
On October 3, 2009, after years of constant smaller attacks, the Taliban finally decided to throw everything they had at Keating. The ensuing fourteen-hour battle—and eventual victory—cost eight men their lives.
Red Platoon is the riveting firsthand account of the Battle of Keating, told by Romesha, who spearheaded both the defense of the outpost and the counterattack that drove the Taliban back beyond the wire and received the Medal of Honor for his actions.
The Apple Orchard
By: Keely Conley
The apples were one of the best things Gregory had ever experienced. It was coming up on the 9th year of the Afghanistan war, but he had only been deployed for about four years at this point. He was in the process of heading towards their next rendezvous, when they suddenly came across an apple orchard.
Ten lines of apple trees, stretching about fifty feet laid in front of the platoon. The air was still dusty, but it carried a sharp, tangy sweetness—like the first bite into a fresh apple.
A light rain had started to fall, cool against his face, cutting through the thick heat that had followed them for days. For the first time in a while, the air felt breathable.
Sweat clung to him beneath his gear, his breath getting trapped against the gear around his neck. As he stood there, he became aware of the weight he was carrying–the vest, rifle, helmet, backpack–as if it had all just been laid on him at once.
He watched his friend Kendall grab an apple, and then everyone followed–one, two, some even taking three or four of them.
The bites, and crunches around him told him others were eating the apples, and as he bit into his own, juice ran over his fingers, mixing with the dust, then someone started laughing–Greg can’t remember who it was–and it spread quickly, turning into jokes and half-finished sentences.
For a moment, everything was quiet. Then, his world was split open.
A blast tore through the air, louder than anything he’d heard before, and he felt himself hit the ground. There was a ringing in his head, and the dust was suddenly filling his asthmatic lungs. The world was muffled around him, but he thought he could hear someone calling out about something.
He couldn’t see, and began to reach up to rub his eyes free of the dust covering them, before he realized his eyes were just closed. A voice cut through the ringing–his Sergeant, shouting into the radio about a medical evacuation.
Hands grabbed his vest, pulling him across the ground. He tried to focus, but everything was blurred together–voices, movement and the smell of dust and smoke.
He heard the hum of helicopters getting louder, then everything faded.
When Greg woke again, he was in a hospital bed far from the orchard. The air he was breathing was clean–too clean, and so unlike the dust he remembered.
He recognized the feel of his mother’s hand in his own, and turned slightly to see her sitting there. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, he tightened his grip around his mother’s hand, and she didn’t let go.
After earning his purple heart, became an Army Recruiter, no longer required to go back out to the battlefield. He found himself in Meadville, Pennsylvania, with a house that smelled of coffee and dogs. His two children ran through the yard chasing each other, laughter floating into the crisp, morning air, and his step-daughters sat with him and their mother in the garage, talking about school and work schedules.
For the first time in a long time, he could sit quietly and watch, feeling the weight of his gear gone, replaced with the football hoodie he was wearing and the warmth of family around him. The orchard now seemed far away, but in moments like these, he realized his own peace could grow–and be shared–in new places.
Gregory Traylor