was my commander-in-chief, and he was conveying what was expected of me. I understood his subtle message. I’d have to be extra-careful whenever I drank, or said something when I went out with my friends. I was expected to represent with dignity those who had gone before me, who had given their lives and who had been terribly wounded.
The next afternoon, I returned to the White House for the ceremony. When the president hung that medal around my neck, I felt glum. I couldn’t smile and I said nothing. I gave no remarks and avoided the press. As a Marine, you either bring your team home alive or you die trying. My country was recognizing me for being a failure and for the worst day of my life.
In attendance were other Medal of Honor recipients, generals and politicians, friends and relatives, and my comrades-in-arms. Rodriguez-Chavez and his wife were there with his beaming daughters, as were Swenson, Kerr, Bokis, Devine, Jeffords, Skinta—and on and on.
The president hosted us in the East Wing, where kings, prime ministers, ambassadors, and Hollywood stars were normally welcomed. The setting spoke to the history and traditions of America. In the Blue Room hung George P. A. Healy’s finest presidential portrait. In the East Room, Gilbert Stuart’s painting of George Washington hung above the fireplace. Ben Franklin was on the far wall of the Green Room. The White House seemed almost a living thing, full of power, dignity, and tradition.
Sgt. 1st Class Leroy Petry, awarded the Medal of Honor a few months earlier, showed us how he could rotate his prosthetic right hand. He had lost his hand in Afghanistan throwing back an enemy grenade.
“Why didn’t you pitch the grenade away with your left hand?” someone asked him.
“I can’t throw lefty,” Petry said. “I’d have blown up my buddies and me!”
We all laughed. Here we were—Army and Marine grunts in uniforms with ribbons from a dozen campaigns— drinking beer in rooms accustomed to diplomats and senators. Where else in the world would the head of state welcome into the halls of power, pomp, and history simple warriors who had no political connections or financial riches?
The Marine Commandant, Gen. Jim Amos, and Gen. Joseph Dunford attended the ceremony. Throughout the years after Ganjigal, the Marine Corps leadership had provided consistent support not just to me, but to all who had fought there. The top enlisted man in the Marine Corps, Sgt. Maj. Mike Barrett, twice came to our farm to meet my dad and granddad and to encourage me.
There is no such person as a former Marine. Fifty years after they have left active duty, Marines still sign emails to each other with
The Medal of Honor, given in the name of the Congress of the United States of America, symbolizes the courage and determination of our entire country. I think if the president hadn’t said what he said, I wouldn’t have been able to stand it. But I met great people, and still do.
I was in New York City, at the Twin Towers site, Ground Zero, with Gunny Joshua Peterson, someone I knew from my first days in the Corps. We were greeted by hundreds of police, firemen, construction workers, Wall Street guys in suits, city officials, and the families of the fallen.
“Meyer, I can’t believe this scene,” Gunny Peterson said. “Make sure your ribbons are squared away.”
We stood side by side, two grunts in sharply ironed khakis, waving like we had won an election. I thought of my sad, fumbling meetings with the families of Team Monti when I couldn’t think of much to say; I was alive and their loved ones were not. Now here I was standing before a monument for three thousand dead.
I saw some big ironworkers in hard hats standing off to one side. When the ceremony ended, they sneaked me onto a work elevator. Up we went to the top of the ride, where we then climbed wooden ladders until we couldn’t go any farther and there weren’t any guardrails. I stood there looking out at the most beautiful country in the world, trying to make sense of my feelings. This was where it had started, so many good people lost, the people who had been working here, and the people I had known who had not gone blindly into uniform, they had reasoned why—Americans do that—but they had gone ahead to do and to die.
An ironworker handed me a silver marker. I wrote on a girder:
For those who gave all.
I cannot finish my account without making a special appeal. I’m a Marine sergeant, but I hope the higher-ups in the U.S. Army will listen. On the battlefield, we’re all brothers. Rank and service make no difference, and the basic truth is that Capt. Swenson was not treated fairly.
Will Swenson wasn’t excitable or impulsive. He wasn’t a hard-core jock like Lt. Kerr, primed to take on all comers. Will was your classic laid-back college graduate from the outdoors state of Washington. He sailed, skied, climbed mountains, and traveled the globe. He gave others their space while he went about his job without fuss or drama. Swenson was this quiet, dangerous dude who never said much while calling in fire missions to blow away jihadists. He was the George Clooney type—cool, detached, and lethal when you least expected it.
Swenson had been infuriated by the lack of fire support at Ganjigal. He had signed statements blasting the rules of engagement and the attitudes of higher headquarters.
“I get these crazy messages saying that, ‘hey!, brigade is saying you can’t see the target from your OT [observer-target line],’ ” he wrote. “Brigade, you’re in Jalalabad. Fuck you. I am staring at the target…”
“I’m still sleeping in my [sleeping] bag,” Swenson said a few weeks after he testified. “I expect to be kicked out.”
Hundreds of soldiers and officers at all levels knew that Swenson had been nominated for the Medal of Honor. Gen. Dunford met with Swenson at Joyce in mid-November to thank him for his courage. Dunford’s schedule had been coordinated at all the senior commands. Yet no Army general flew to Joyce to meet with Swenson.
Lt. Col. Mark O’Donnell signed the recommendation for the Medal of Honor in December of 2009. The form, together with thirty-five supporting appendices, was sent to the 4th Infantry Brigade, the next higher headquarters. The brigade commander signed the form, added a handwritten endorsement, and in January sent it to the Combined Joint Task Force, or CJTF-82, commanded by Maj. Gen. Curtis Scaparrotti.
JTF-82 was an infantry command, where performance in battle is everything. A nomination for the Medal of Honor was a huge happening. If you join the Army or Marine Corps, you obey its rules and trust the institution to apply the same rules to everyone—corporals, captains, and generals. Strict regulations prescribed the chain of custody and signatures required for the Medal of Honor.
Army Maj. Gen. Jeffrey Schloesser, who commanded RC-East in 2008, nominated three soldiers for the Medal of Honor. “The process of nominating,” he said, “is truly one of the most important things a commander does in combat.”
In 2009, Maj. Gen. Scaparrotti took command of RC-East, and unfortunately Swenson’s nomination was eventually lost. This occurred during a period of intense scrutiny into CJTF-82. In addition to the investigation into the events at Ganjigal, three other investigations were under way regarding CJTF-82’s combat procedures. In May of 2009, the insurgents had overrun an outpost north of Joyce called Bari Alai. Three American and two Latvian soldiers had died, leading to an investigation by the television correspondent Dan Rather. In July, Battalion 1-32 was sent north to fight in a fishbowl called Barge Matal, leading to questions about operational decision-making. Then followed the ambush at Ganjigal, with an initial investigation that infuriated the Marine Corps. In October, an outpost named Keating was overrun, with a loss of eight U.S. soldiers. Another investigation was opened. Then in November, a second investigation into Ganjigal revealed serious command errors.
Swenson symbolized Ganjigal, and Ganjigal conveyed the wrong message: failure to support advisors, failure to provide artillery support, failure to deliver timely air support, et cetera.
