On June 30, 2009, FOB Sharana—and, subsequently, the entire U.S. military—was rocked by the news that an American soldier named Bowe Bergdahl had been reported missing. At the time, I didn’t know anything about Bergdahl; no one did. But over the ensuing days, months, and years, he’d become famous—or infamous—in military circles.
Private Bergdahl was a young guy, twenty-three years old, who had enlisted in the army in 2008. But that was not his first experience with the military—previously, he’d enlisted in the Coast Guard but did not even make it through basic training. Why or how he ended up in the army is anyone’s guess. Regardless, Bergdahl eventually was assigned to the 501st Infantry Regiment and sent to Afghanistan on his deployment. Had he not decided to stroll away from his post one night, I doubt our paths ever would have crossed. I mean, not that I ever met the guy, but his actions had a profound impact on me and a lot of other people, sometimes with grave consequences.
The circumstances surrounding Bergdahl’s disappearance were a source of debate almost from the beginning. Did he walk away from his post? Was he captured while on patrol? Around the base, it was generally accepted that Bergdahl had simply deserted. Regardless, it wasn’t long—fewer than twenty-four hours—before word came down that he had landed in the hands of the Taliban. With that news came an abrupt shift in the war in Afghanistan. Suddenly, we weren’t just looking for insurgents and other Taliban forces and generally trying to root out the baddest of bad guys throughout the country. Instead, it seemed, the entire might of the U.S. military was temporarily redirected to a singular cause:
Find Private Bergdahl and bring him home.
Understandably, there was an urgency to the mission—and to call it a mission was to undersell the task; it was actually an objective that included dozens of missions. Generally speaking, the longer a captive remained missing, the less likely he was ever to be found alive.
For the remainder of that deployment, much of our work revolved around trying to rescue Bergdahl. This led to many dry holes and a lot of nights without contact, as well as some nights with unanticipated and violent contact. I’ll be candid here: it was tough on morale. Bergdahl’s actions put a lot of people at risk. I understood the importance of finding him. Politically speaking, Bergdahl’s capture was a nightmare for the U.S. military. And from a human standpoint, it was the right thing to do. Bergdahl was an American. Thousands of miles away, back in the States, he had a mom and dad who hoped to see him again. It was our job to bring him home.
On the night of July 9, 2009, just ten days after Bergdahl was taken captive, an assault force was dispatched on a hostage rescue mission. Now, the truth is, for the last two months of that deployment, basically everything we did revolved around the search for Bergdahl, so it would not be inaccurate to say that every operation was, in fact, a hostage rescue operation. These missions were unsuccessful in terms of recovering the hostage, although some did provide collateral reward in the form of capturing or eliminating other targets.
I was not part of the unit involved in the July 9 rescue mission—I was out with another unit, helping to clear the area in support of the mission—but I had friends who were there. The operation, which resulted in American casualties, is a matter of public record, so I’m not giving away any secrets by discussing it here. Suffice it to say, we had strong intel that led us to believe that Bergdahl was being held in a specific place, and we acted on that intel. But apparently the Taliban knew we were coming, for according to official accounts of the mission, the two helicopters carrying U.S. forces came under heavy enemy fire from machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades before they even touched down.
Outnumbered and under withering attack, the unit nevertheless advanced steadily toward its target position: a large, strongly fortified building on the edge of a field, where intel suggested Bergdahl was being held captive.
Among those on the mission were Senior Chief Petty Officer James Hatch and Senior Chief Petty Officer Michael Toussaint. I knew both of these guys well. Jimmy was an older member of the squadron whom I liked personally and respected professionally. He was a funny, sweet-tempered guy, as well as a courageous and reliable fighter, having completed hundreds of missions as both an operator and a dog handler. Obviously, we had some things in common. Three years earlier, in Iraq, Jimmy had lost a dog named Spike. I know that Jimmy was shattered by the dog’s death. He often said that Spike had saved his life many times over, which isn’t hard to believe.
By the time of our deployment, Jimmy was no longer a dog handler, but as he moved toward the target that night, he did so in proximity to a combat assault dog named Remco. A big, beautiful Belgian Malinois who was part of the same training class as Cairo, Remco was accompanied by Mike Toussaint, a master-at-arms (MA). As previously noted, it wasn’t unusual for MAs to be involved in combat missions, and some of them fought not just well but every bit as effectively as their SEAL counterparts. Mike was one of those guys. I’d gotten to know him when I first began working with Cairo and considered him a friend. He had my respect as both a fighter and a dog handler.
As the platoon advanced toward its target, a small group that included Jimmy, Mike, and Remco broke off in pursuit of two men they spotted running off into the field. The group pursued the two men until they disappeared. Then Remco was dispatched with the hope of revealing their hiding place.
Moments later, as Remco dashed forward, one of the insurgents, hiding in a nearby culvert, stood up and fired his AK-47 directly at Remco, hitting the dog in the head from a distance of only a few meters. He died instantly, but that act of sacrifice revealed the insurgents’ position, which led to an immediate and deadly confrontation. Seconds after Remco was killed, Jimmy Hatch was shot in the leg. As another member of the team ran to Jimmy’s aid, Mike Toussaint charged at the culvert, through heavy fire, and killed both insurgents. Mike also retrieved Remco’s body and dragged him back to the same position where corpsmen were treating Jimmy Hatch.
Private Bergdahl, as it turned out, was not in the vicinity.
Some two years later, Mike Toussaint was awarded the Silver Star and a commendation for extraordinary heroism from the chief of naval operations. Befitting his status as a member of an American fighting unit who gave his life in the line of duty, Remco was also awarded a Silver Star. His heroic actions, according to the citation, drew enemy fire that gave the members of his unit “the split seconds needed to change the balance of the fight.”
Jimmy Hatch received the Purple Heart, but his military career was effectively ended by the injuries he sustained that night. He spent several months in hospitals, enduring multiple surgeries and endless physical and emotional pain, which are so often a consequence of a soldier’s time in battle. Like I said, it’s not so much the things you do that follow you home; it’s the stuff you didn’t do, or the things you think you could have done to alter the outcome. Jimmy is a great guy and a heroic SEAL. Like all of us, he lost friends during his service. And two of those friends were dogs that saved his life.
Trust me, that shit will weigh on you.