Read an Excerpt From ‘8 Seconds of Courage'

Read an excerpt from Retired Army Captain Florent Groberg's new book "8 Seconds of Courage: A Soldier’s Story from Immigrant to the Medal of Honor":

“Coming up on Turali,” I said over the radio. “We don’t know how many of these guys we got last time, so be ready for anything.”

That was one of the biggest challenges about serving in this part of Afghanistan. Even after unloading hundreds upon hundreds of missiles, bombs, and bullets in a given hotspot, you usually wouldn’t know whether you actually took out the enemy.

Things were unusually quiet as Richardson scanned Turali using his joystick-controlled viewer, which I could also see on my separate command screen. After finding nothing, my eyes wandered toward the passenger’s window and beyond a nearby police station to the seemingly endless mountain scenery. In an attempt to calm my racing heartbeat, I took a deep breath while adjusting my perpetually uncomfortable heavy body armor.

Another soldier named Moffett, who was also scanning Turali, then broke my stare with six emphatic words.

“We are about to get hit,” he yelled.

While zooming in on the police station, Moffett had seen an Afghan policeman looking at the ridgeline to our north with binoculars while talking on his phone. As was all too common with the Afghan police force, he was probably working (or being forced to work) with the Taliban, and was therefore relaying our precise position to the enemy.

I was frantically scanning the riverbank for threats when a terrifying shadow appeared less than fifty feet from my window. I will never forget the sight of the rugged, bearded Taliban fighter popping up from behind a rock while holding a rocket launcher on his shoulder. It was aimed squarely at my face.

This was the moment of my death. I was sure of it.

I was just starting to warn my men of the looming rocket when I heard the unmistakable scream of an RPG being fired. As the terrible sound echoed through my ears, there was nothing left to do except shut my eyes.

My limbs tensed and my mind went blank. My heart rate slowed as I recognized that it was neither fight nor flight. All that was left for my men and me was to be at peace with our demise.

I thought of my Uncle Abdou. Even though I was about to be killed in Afghanistan at a young age, I thought, at least I had done everything in my power to avenge his death, as well as the deaths of many innocent Americans who lost their lives on 9/11. I saw the RPG coming directly at me.

Just as it was about to make contact, I blacked out. 

A miracle occurred that day on the banks of the Pech River when the Taliban fighter’s RPG faltered.

Instead of crashing through our vehicle and blowing up four American soldiers, the RPG instead hit the top of the frame of the very window I was looking out of. It then bounced straight up in the air, detonating above us.

I was jolted back to consciousness when our vehicle shook from the explosion.

“Holy shit!” my driver yelled as the detonation rattled the M-ATV’s windows and the pits of our stomachs. “Smoke that guy, Richardson!”

Staying as calm as he could in a life-or-death moment, Richardson quickly found the enemy fighter, who was running away, on his screen. After adjusting his joystick, he pressed the red button and fired.

Just as the lethal .50 cal rounds were about to hit him in the back, the Taliban fighter turned around—seemingly on cue—and looked at us. The rounds struck him in the chest and blew his body apart.

As pieces of this man’s body flew in the air, I heard cheering. I recognize that this must be strange and rather sickening to read about a bunch of guys celebrating a man’s gruesome death, but having just survived a terrifying attack, we cheered.

The near-death experience shook me up, and both Moffett and Richardson knew it. After we were in the clear, they started reminding me over the radio that the threat had been eliminated.

“We got him, sir,” Richardson said.

“Thanks for saving our asses,” I said. Those were the only words I could muster while my mind came to grips with the fact that I wasn’t dreaming.

Somehow, we had all made it out of Turali without suffering a single scratch."

Copyright 2017 Florent Groberg and Tom Sileo. Reprinted with permission from Simon and Schuster.