The Outpost: An Untold Story of American Valor (28 page)

Specialist Steven Dorrell attempts to comfort Private First Class Jason Westbrook after Able Troop’s 3rd Platoon was ambushed on November 4, 2006.
(Photo courtesy of Jeremiah Ridgeway)

When the call came in the next night that another team of insurgents was attempting to dig in a rocket, Ben Keating saw a chance not only to kill the enemy but also to motivate his men. He specifically chose Westbrook’s platoon to take with him, hoping that a successful mission might undo some of the damage of the previous day. His strategy seemed to work, though it didn’t do Westbrook himself much good: the damage would stay with him forever.

Keating had just finished reading
The Afghan Campaign
, a newly published historical novel by Steven Pressfield that tells the story of Alexander the Great’s invasion of Afghanistan, as seen through the eyes of a young Macedonian soldier named Matthias. It had a great impact on the lieutenant from Maine. Alexander the Great “speaks of will—our own and the enemy’s,” Matthias recalls. “The foe, he declares, has no chance of overcoming us in the field. But if he can sap our resolution by his doggedness, his relentlessness; if he can appall us by his acts of barbarity, he can, if not defeat us, then prevent us from defeating him. Our will must master the enemy’s. Our resolve must outlast his.”
²⁸

“We’ve been up here for less than seven months,” Keating told the journalist Matthew Cole when he visited the outpost. “We have a couple of thousand years of history against us,” he said, holding up his dog-eared copy of
The Afghan Campaign
. “You do the math.”

Still, that was as far as he’d go in public. All day long, Keating spent time with his fellow soldiers, telling them to stop feeling sorry for themselves, urging them to brainstorm more inventive ways of killing the insurgents. He pushed them to figure out how to defeat the enemy even as he thought to himself, You can’t! You
can’t
defeat this enemy! Yet he was willing to let them continue risking life and limb to try. It was his job, but he felt like a liar.

Upon his return, Keating had been stunned to find the immense LMTV, with two of its tires shot out, parked at the outpost. He was told the story about how Howard had demanded that it be driven up, how the convoy had been attacked twice on the way, how six soldiers had been wounded, including the gunner on the LMTV, Specialist Tim Martin, who was awarded a Purple Heart. Gooding was emphatic that the truck needed to go back to Naray; he didn’t have room to store it at the outpost, he said.

“Matt, there’s no reason for it to come back,” Stambersky told him. “Put it at the front gate. Use it as a firing position. Put a gunner in it.”

But Gooding needed the space. The whole outpost was only about an acre and a half in area, and the LMTV was taking up valuable territory, not to mention serving as an inviting target—symbolic as well as practical—for the enemy. The camp now housed some 250 soldiers—about a hundred from the Afghan National Army, another hundred American troops, and up to fifty military police, cooks, mechanics, and other support personnel—and there simply wasn’t enough room for everyone.

And in any case, Stambersky had been overruled at squadron command, so the message from Naray was clear: the LMTV had to come back for repair and recovery. It had been at Kamdesh too long already, it had to be fixed up, it was an expensive and useful piece of equipment that other troops could use. Squadron XO Sutton conveyed all of this to Keating.

Ben Keating decided that
he
would take it back. He and Staff Sergeant Vernon Tiller, his most senior mechanic, would drive the LMTV to Naray, say, “Thanks for nothing, assholes,” and leave.

“Fuck it,” Netzel told Keating. “Don’t take it back.”

“No, they’re insisting, so me and Tiller are gonna do it,” Keating said. “I got a bad feeling about it, so no one else is going to take it back but me.”

“Want me to come with you?” Netzel asked.

“No, I just want two in the vehicle,” Keating said.

Tiller figured they would need extra protection, so he spent an entire day stripping a dead truck of its gunner’s protection kit and mounting it on the LMTV. “Who’s our gunner gonna be?” Tiller later asked Keating and Netzel. “I put a GPK on the truck, and a weapons mount. All we need is a gunner.”

“We can’t put a gunner up there,” Keating said. “If that vehicle rolls over, the gunner won’t make it, you and I both know that. We’ll take our chances without. If we get ambushed, we’ll ride out the storm.”

“This is retarded,” Cerezo said when Keating briefed the convoy team on the mission. “This vehicle’s not going to make it on this road. Humvees can’t even make it.”

“It
is
stupid,” Keating agreed. “And it’s dangerous. So I’m going to drive.”

This was no small decision. It was considered a general standing order that officers were not to drive vehicles while on an operation; they were supposed to focus instead on “commanding and controlling” the convoy and were responsible for navigation, security, speed, and maintaining continuous communication with every truck on the move. Keating didn’t seem to care.

Dusk had fallen when Lieutenant Vic Johnson from Able Troop’s 1st Platoon approached Keating. His hand was wrapped in bandages; just a few days prior, when he and his men were out making sure that no insurgents were hiding in caves, he’d fallen down the side of a steep hill. Needing X-rays, he’d hitched a ride back to the outpost on a D Troop Humvee that had then gotten too close to the edge of the road and flipped, tumbling down the hill and into the Landay-Sin River. He’d nearly drowned but somehow managed to swim to the riverbank while wearing his body armor and holding his weapon. Johnson didn’t know much about Keating’s mission other than that he was commanding a convoy back to Naray.

“What vehicle are you taking there?” Johnson asked.

“The LMTV,” Keating replied.

Johnson told Keating that was a bad idea; the road couldn’t even support Humvees, he said.

The two men moved their conversation next to a fire pit, and Johnson tried again.

“Someone is going to have to die before anyone admits these roads are really dangerous,” he said.

It had been raining off and on for three days straight when the convoy—five Humvees, four jingle trucks, and the LMTV—left Combat Outpost Kamdesh on the night of November 25.

Earlier that day, Keating had taken out a patrol to inspect his route. Although it had rained or snowed on seven out of the previous ten days, he thought the road was suitable for travel and told Gooding that after the recent construction, the section from Urmul to Kamu was in better shape than it had ever been. Tiller inspected the LMTV and pronounced it to be in good operating condition. He, Keating, and Gooding agreed that hauling an extra Humvee for their return trip would be too cumbersome; they would leave it behind. The truck was prepped, the radios checked. Keating briefed the convoy team on all possible hazards and conditions.

They left at night in order to avoid an enemy attack. The sky was clear, with a quarter slice of moon offering little luminescence. The LMTV and the Humvees had infrared spotlights, and the troops were wearing their night-vision goggles.

Back at Combat Outpost Kamdesh, Gooding assumed that Tiller was driving. That assumption was wrong.

Detailed to provide additional security for Keating’s convoy, 3-71 Cav’s sn 3-71 iper team, led by Cricket Cunningham, hiked to the high ground along the road to Naray to conduct surveillance. They were there to deal with whatever the night might bring. Wearing their night-vision goggles, they watched as the Humvees slowly made their way down the road to Naray, followed by the LMTV. The road curved slightly to the right, toward the mountain, and then sharply to the left, toward the river ledge. In anticipation of the second curve, Keating steered the LMTV close to the edge of the cliff. The ledge had been reinforced with rocks loosely stacked on top of a stone retaining wall. It was not strong enough for the LMTV, which at its lightest weighed seven tons. As their left rear tire passed over the shoulder, Keating and Tiller felt the road give out from under them. The LMTV slid to the left, down toward the river. And then it dropped.

The LMTV landed on its left side, crashing and tumbling, then rolling over and over.

Tiller felt himself roll about four times, and then all of a sudden he just stopped rolling and he wasn’t in the LMTV anymore: he was lying spread-eagle on a boulder, about thirty feet from the river. He didn’t remember being thrown from the vehicle, but there he was.

Keating, too, fell out of the LMTV before it splashed into the river and became almost entirely submerged.

Tiller was in unbearable pain, mostly from his back. Keating was worse off—much, much worse.

Cerezo was driving the last Humvee in the convoy. He saw a flash of lights from the LMTV.

He looked at Yagel.

“What was that?” Cerezo asked. He braked to a stop.

Specialist Brandon Snell ran up to them. “The LMTV just flipped off the cliff!” he exclaimed. “We got to go get them!”

“Oh, shit,” said Cerezo. He hopped out of his truck.

The area where the LMTV had fallen was too steep for them to climb down, Snell told Cerezo, so they tried to descend right there, to the left of Cerezo’s Humvee. But the gravel at that spot was too loose and the decline too severe. They quickly went to another location, but that was no good, either.

“Dude, show me where the LMTV went off,” Cerezo said.

They ran to the crumbling patch of road. Some of the other troops were now starting to congregate nearby.

“Show me how to get down there, take me,” Cerezo ordered an Afghan National Army soldier. The man didn’t really respond. Cerezo looked down and saw that the LMTV was underwater, with just one tire poking up from the surface of the river.

“Fuck this,” Cerezo said to Snell. “Dude, are you game?”

“I’m game if you’re game,” Snell said.

“Let’s do this,” Cerezo replied.

They jumped down onto the steeply descending mountain and started sliding down the gravel-covered slope.

Netzel was listening to it all from the operations center back at Combat Outpost Kamdesh.

Yagel had been leading the convoy. He now came on the radio, his voice loud: “The LMTV just fell down the cliff!”

Yelling from the road, Yagel had been able to speak with Tiller, who was growing more frantic with each passing minute. Tiller had reported to him that Keating was unconscious and out of his reach.

“We’re trying to go down and get them,” Yagel said. “We need some help!” Keating and Tiller were down a cliff and not easy to get to, and on this dark night, visibility was low. “I need help, please, get us more help,” Yagel repeated.

Able Troop responded immediately with two Cavalry sections and an MP platoon, all racing down the road to the site. Cunningham, who heard Yagel’s pleas over the radio, called in and requested permission to move down the mountain with his snipers. Permission was granted. He told Gooding and Netzel that he needed to have a Hilux truck, climbing ropes, a Skedco hard plastic stretcher, and a medical kit waiting for him and his team when they came down from their position.

“Okay,” said Gooding. “Hurry up, get down there.”

Cunningham ran down the hill, on the way selecting a team of troops who he thought could help him:

Matthew Gibson is a SAW gunner; great, take him for security.

John Garner took a course on combat injuries; good, pick him.

Cory Townsend is good with ropes; he went through air-assault training. Let’s go.

The four men ran back to Combat Outpost Kamdesh and met up with the ready Toyota, in which sat 3-71 Cav surgeon Major Christopher Martin. Garner hopped behind the wheel, and they sped down the road. The Toyota didn’t offer any protection from bullets, but it was the right size and weight for the road.

When Cerezo and Snell reached Tiller, he was leaning against a rock. Hurt, but alive.

“Don’t worry about me,” he told them. “Go help Keating.”

Ejected from the vehicle, Keating had landed between two rocks almost 150 feet down the cliffside, right near the Landay-Sin River. On its way down, the LMTV had rolled over him. He was wedged between the boulders, facing the rocks and the river. His pelvis was pinned down, and water was running over him.

“We have to flip him over,” Cerezo said. He, Snell, and Specialist David Mendez, who had joined them, pulled Keating from the rocks and laid him on his back.

Keating suddenly snapped awake and tried to lift himself up. “Get me the fuck out of here!” he cried, and then he blacked out again.

Cerezo identified multiple open fractures to both legs, open wounds on his thighs, open fractures of his left arm, a possible broken back, and head trauma. Keating also had excessive bleeding in his abdomen and groin. His face was banged up, and there was blood by his left eye and his nose. His left and right feet appeared to be almost completely severed from his legs at the ankles.

The medic cut Keating’s clothes off him and began packing his wounds with Kerlix gauze and wrapping him with bandages. The splints he had with him weren’t big enough for a guy like Keating, so he took a few of the boxes of MREs that had scattered all over the hillside when the LMTV fell, cut them apart, and fastened the sections together to serve as improvised splints. He got on the radio with Martin, the squadron surgeon, but their conversation kept getting interrupted by others.