The first bodies came on the first day of the operation. It was a
Saturday, hot and quiet, the wind spinning eddies of sand around Forward
Operating Base Joyce in eastern Afghanistan. Out of the midmorning
silence came the crackle of a hand radio.
“Medevac! Medevac! Medevac!”
said the dispatcher, and eight camouflaged figures—the helicopter crews
of DUSTOFF 73 and DUSTOFF 72—darted out of their tents, a rehearsed riot
of belts and straps, buckles and Velcro. Going by the manual, it takes
more than an hour to prep a Blackhawk helicopter for flight. But both of
these birds were airborne within five minutes, the pilots still
blinking sleep from their eyes.
The call came from a unit in
Operation Hammer Down, a mission to clear Taliban training camps in the
Watapur Valley, just over the border from Pakistan’s most dangerous
tribal regions. The same terrain stymied the Soviets in the 1980s, and
controlling it was an elusive centerpiece of the war against the
Taliban and al Qaeda. Every summer U.S. forces charged in by the
hundreds, but every fall the bad guys were back again, and the cycle
repeated. This mission was meant to be the last dance, a crucial
partnership with the Afghan National Army before the Obama
administration began unwinding the war.
It
broke down almost immediately. Before dawn a lumbering Chinook
transport helicopter clipped a tree line and crash-landed high in the
mountains, stranding a platoon of infantry soldiers. At least two other
platoons were ambushed at dawn as they moved into the valley. And by
midday the medic calls were stacking up like bids at an auction. The
most urgent came from Gambir, a village notched into the mountainside,
where 40 soldiers dug in against the onslaught. The first in command
was already dead, shot in the neck as he moved to higher ground to
organize an evacuation. Now a skinny black private was slowly choking
on his own blood, his jaw shot away.
Inside
the cockpit of DUSTOFF 73, the pilot, Chief Warrant Officer Erik
Sabiston, 38, stared out from behind dark shades. Back at base he’s
known as a jokester, the guy who carpets a Red Sox fan’s locker with
Yankee paraphernalia. But not in the air. Now Sabiston talked maneuvers
with co-pilot Kenneth Brodhead, 44, one of the most experienced fliers
in the Army; behind them were two relative rookies, 24-year-old
Specialist David Capps, the crew’s technician, and next to him the medic
herself, Sgt. Julia Bringloe, one of the few women on the front lines.
They were flying over a region where more than a hundred Americans have
died fighting, a many-named series of valleys known among some veterans
by only one: the “Valley of Death.”
There
was no way to land in Gambir; the fighting around the gravely wounded
soldier was too intense. Trees burned, buildings smoldered. Taliban
reinforcements streamed in from a network of caves and the homes of
sympathetic locals. So over the next few hours—while American gunships
tried to clear Gambir for an emergency landing—the two DUSTOFF
helicopters knocked down their rescue lists elsewhere. There was a
patient with shrapnel in his thigh, two patients with gunshot wounds,
and then two more with the same. Neither helicopter landed; instead,
Bringloe and the other medic were hoisted down on hooks, and then
hoisted back up along with the stricken. No shots were fired, no enemy
engaged. It was almost like a training day.
Then Sabiston swung the helicopter
toward Gambir. The village came into view all at once. It looks like a
war movie, Sabiston thought to himself, like Apocalypse Now. A
hot tide of adrenaline rushed through him. Capps, who flew with an
American flag wrapped beneath his body armor, thought of his son, just 5
months old. Bringloe, whose own son was 11, hung IV bags and set up
monitors, prepping the cabin for more patients. Then, as the chopper
approached, she dipped into a stash of gummy bears, trying to steady
her nerves.
Their
sister ship made the first attempt at the rescue. The soldier with the
missing jaw was positioned near a mud hut built into the cliff,
surrounded by tall pine trees. As the helicopter moved in for a hoist,
however, the Taliban opened fire. A rocket-propelled grenade arced over
the tail and into the rock face. A spray of small-arms fire was more
accurate. It caused catastrophic damage to the hydraulic system. As
another day in the desert turned toward a cloudy and moonless night, the
sister ship peeled off for an emergency landing. And something heavy
settled in the minds of Sabiston, Brodhead, Bringloe, and Capps, the
crew of DUSTOFF 73: they were the only medevac crew left in the sky.
it
was June 25, 2011, and what happened over the next 48 hours has become
one of the most decorated missions in aviation history.
Newsweek was
able to re-create it in full for the first time, drawing on military
records, interviews with the participants, and other published reports.
And yet what makes the story so special isn’t the details of those
days—the shark-toothed terrain, thin air, and thinner margins—but the
weirdly pedestrian nature of it all. The Army air ambulance corps is the
only fully equipped emergency fleet in the military, and heroism is
inscribed in its basic job description. Its helicopters are on the front
lines of a parallel war effort, a mission not to take lives but to
save them—and, almost unbelievably, it’s a mission that’s working