Sacrifice: A Gold Star Widow's Fight for the Truth

Prologue

The day my husband was buried, his casket pulled by six black horses, the sun shone brightly. With my boys on either side of me, I wept for their loss, and for mine. I had always assumed that Bryan and I would grow old together. Surely a folded flag was never meant to be mine. But here I was.

Twenty-six days earlier, ten Green Berets fought a lethal battle on the ground in Niger, Africa, against ISIS militants. The ambush, which resulted in the death of my husband and three of his fellow soldiers, was the largest loss of American life in that region since the Battle of Mogadishu—also known as Black Hawk Down—in 1993. After being ambushed by an ISIS-affiliated group outside of the village of Tongo Tongo, six members of Green Beret Team 3212 would emerge alive but forever changed.

What most Americans remember about the Niger ambush, however, is the argument that erupted over a phone call between the president of the United States and one of the three widows. The poor handling of the phone call, coupled with a media firestorm and a handful of callous tweets, and the resulting feud took the focus from the soldiers and placed it firmly on American politicians. Because of this, the four American and five Nigerien soldiers who died in the attack were forgotten within a couple of weeks.

But not by us. Not by my family and the other families of the fallen.

We were shocked by the attack and wanted to know how and why it had happened. Niger was not meant to be a dangerous assignment. Teams like my husband’s conducted missions on the continent using a by, with, and through strategy to train their partner forces by having their partners take a lead role.

Knowing this, we had questions about the ambush: Why was the team out near the Mali border by themselves with no backup and so poorly equipped? Who had made the decisions leading up to these terrible events? General Thomas D. Waldhauser, the commander of AFRICOM (United States Africa Command), quickly started an investigation to learn the facts surrounding the mission that led to the ambush. I knew there was a process to military investigations, and I was certain that the Army would probe every decision that led to this heartbreaking loss of life.

I expected the story of the ambush would be simple, and the investigation truthful. However, over the months of waiting I was surprised and confused by how the team was being treated. The Army referred to the Green Beret soldiers as a team that went rogue and acted like cowboys in order to go after a risky target, putting their lives and teammates in danger. They were disparaged in the media and their captain was blamed and vilified for his decisions during the operation. I counted on the investigation’s results to clear up my confusion. But after the family briefing in April 2018, I found that I had more questions than I’d had going in.

I had thought the day my husband was buried, when my sons saw him put in the ground, would be the worst thing I could survive. But somehow, life had become less bearable. I needed to know the truth, to hear every detail of the ambush, to find out what AFRICOM had failed to tell us. What exactly happened to the men before, during, and after the ambush? The men of Team 3212 knew what had happened on the ground, but due to gag orders put in place by the military, they were not able to speak about it.

I was faced with an overwhelming task, one that I had no idea how to begin. In late spring of 2018, I began talking with the remaining members of Green Beret Operational Detachment Alpha (ODA) Team 3212. When the gag orders were lifted, many of the survivors came to my home one at a time and allowed me to record them as they told me every moment of those fateful three days. They answered every question; I wrote their story. Simply by listening to the men of ODA 3212 and not blaming them, I had earned their trust. That trust meant the world to me—and I knew I couldn’t let them down. I had become the key to telling the true account of what happened in Niger.

I often say I’d prefer to hear an ugly truth than a beautiful lie. In the year following my husband’s death, I was told plenty of both. Sacrifice details many of the ugly truths I faced following the ambush and the lies I was told in the aftermath. It tells the story of what happened to ODA 3212 in October 2017 in Niger, and shows how that account differs from the official narrative. I have aimed to share that truth—and to honor the men who lived it.

PART ONE

Life and Death

1

Bryan

Since the day Bryan left for Niger, I’d had a horrible feeling deep inside. We’d been through several deployments and long separations, but none had made me as nervous as this one.

In many ways I enjoyed my routine when Bryan was gone. I woke up early, got the kids to school, went jogging, worked on a house project. At night, when I wasn’t reading or painting walls, I caught up on all the girl shows Bryan hated, like The Bachelorette. I hadn’t felt uneasy when he left on his two previous deployments, and neither of us had ever seen the need for long goodbyes. A quick hug and a kiss; I love you and then See you in six months. But this time was different. I suppose some people would call it a premonition, others would call it God’s voice whispering to warn me, and others would say it was just my imagination. All I know is that as I stood at the curb of the small Fayetteville Regional Airport in North Carolina that sunny Saturday morning in August 2017, I desperately wanted to tell him to stay. For the first time in six years of watching him leave for training or deployments, I couldn’t let him go. He seemed to feel the same way, pulling me in a second time for a stronger embrace. I began to tear up, which had never happened before, and he promised he’d be home soon, but he faltered as he picked up his bags and walked away, turning back for a second glance. He called out, I love you. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

It was the last time I saw his handsome face, heard his deep voice, held him in my arms. I didn’t feel right about letting him go that day, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was more in love with him than ever, and I willingly let him walk out of my life when every fiber of my being was screaming at me to stop him. But what could I have done? Who can stop the tide from going out, even if you know a tsunami is what it brings back in? So I let the Army pull Bryan out of my arms that day.

—

I met Bryan fifteen years earlier in Mammoth Lakes, California, a ski town in the winter and a hiker’s paradise in the summer.

After graduating college, I’d wanted some time off from reality to have fun. I learned I had epilepsy after having a seizure my first day of college classes, and it had taken me longer than expected to graduate as I adjusted to taking daily medication and managing my condition. When I treated it correctly, I could completely prevent my seizures. But I could not party, go without sleep, or take on heavy loads of schoolwork like most college students. Upon graduation, I was proud to have proved to myself what I could do—but I was ready for a break. I went skiing.

Every morning I’d walk a mile to the village, where I would take a gondola up to the ski lodge and teach children my favorite sport. I loved walking in that crystal cold air as the sky lightened. After a day on the mountain, I’d head down to my next job at a fur-and-leather shop in the village, where I’d make espresso for customers and run the register. At night, sitting by the woodstove while my roommates socialized and watched movies, I crocheted colorful hats for local boutiques that sold them to tourists.

Mammoth was a daily adventure. My jobs were enjoyable, and in my free time I explored the surrounding mountains and lakes with my friends. Some nights we would hike up local peaks to snowboard down in the full moonlight; other times we would sneak into condominium hot tubs or seek out hidden local hot springs. I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone when Bryan came along.

Like me, Bryan moved to town that fall after finishing college. He planned to ski, and he played online poker at night. He’d found a room for rent online and had accidentally moved in with the town drunk. In an effort to get out of the house one night, he wandered into the church I attended.

I spotted Bryan standing at the back by the coffeepot. He was hard to miss at 6′2″ and 230 pounds, with a neck as big around as my thigh. He stood with his arms crossed in front of his massive chest and gave no hint of a smile. He seemed like a tough guy with a bad attitude, but his outfit intrigued me. The ski-bum crowd usually wore saggy pants and fur-lined jackets, but Bryan was wearing fitted jeans and a blue crewneck sweater. I decided to say hi and find out what his deal was.

When I introduced myself, I was met by a deep monotone and a goofy smile. I’m Bryan.

Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bryan, I said, smiling back.

It’s nice to meet you, too. Already I could see there was nothing tough about this tough guy.

Have you been in town long? I asked.

No, just a couple weeks, he said, continuing to smile at me in silence. I couldn’t decide if he was dumb or simply to the point.

As I was leaving church, it was snowing and the roads were covered in solid ice and lined with four-foot snowbanks. There on the steep main street that ran directly in front of the church, Bryan was gliding and sliding fearlessly down the icy road on a bike that looked two sizes too small. I would find out later that he had recently backed his truck into a park barbecue—and even though he had gotten out and bent it back into shape, he had been charged with a hit-and-run by an officer who had witnessed him fleeing the scene. The resulting rise in his insurance had led to him parking his truck for a year.

A few months after we met, I arrived home from work one night to find Bryan in my living room watching a movie with my roommates. Having been raised in a large family, I generally liked such gatherings, but that night I needed quiet, so I opted to stay in the front room crocheting. As I gathered my wool, Bryan came over and said he wanted to learn.

I tried to teach him the basics. As he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me, he awkwardly held a crochet hook and pink yarn in his large hands. I thought it was the silliest thing in the world: a muscle-bound wrestler taking a night off from playing poker to take a crochet lesson from me. We giggled and joked back and forth, insulting each other as he worked on the knotted mess that he handed me proudly at the end. I liked that Bryan took the lesson seriously and learned a few skills despite the challenge that holding a small needle and yarn posed to his strong fingers. We decided the hat he made was actually more like a doily, but still called it a success.

The more Bryan talked, the more interesting and fun I found him to be. I appreciated that he was able to laugh at himself as he sat making a mess of my pink yarn, and in the years that followed I don’t remember a time when he cared about his image or what anyone thought of him. He was certain of who he was and more secure than anyone I have ever met, and yet he rarely talked about himself. I would find out later that he was a child chess prodigy and tied for second in the nation at just eleven years old. He continued to compete in national chess championships throughout his teen years.

At the end of ski season, we all looked forward to the Poodle Prom, a dance party with an open bar that was put on by Mammoth Mountain for all the instructors. I had broken my foot, landing me on crutches. As my friends partied and danced, I hung out at one of the tables, bored, trying to avoid advances from some of the drunker guys.

Bryan playing in the National High School Chess Championships. (Henry Black)

Bryan had been dating one of my coworkers for a while, so it came as a surprise when about halfway through the night I saw her up on the back corner of the bar swinging her long blond hair around and dancing suggestively for a couple of guys I didn’t recognize. I watched in bewilderment, wondering what had happened to Bryan. Then I saw him sitting alone at a table looking bored, with two full bottles of beer for company. Dressed in a light blue button-down shirt that complemented his eyes, he looked handsome.

He glanced up at me on my crutches, then smiled and asked if I wanted a beer, pointing to one of the bottles. I paused and looked back at the bar, where his girlfriend was dancing.

Don’t worry, she’s already drunk and is too busy trying to make me jealous to notice either of us, Bryan said matter-of-factly, then chuckled a little.

I put my crutches against one of the free chairs and laughed, too. Well, okay, then. Then I asked him why he wasn’t joining his girlfriend on the bar.

His answer was simple and direct: I don’t dance. I’m bad at it.

Well, I said, I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad I’ve got someone to talk to.

As we drank and joked, the hours flew by. Before I knew it, I was regretting having to leave.

In the summers, most people left town and the ratio of men to women changed to around ten to one. One night I was the only girl at a condominium rec room playing pool with a group of male friends of mine. It was loud and raucous. I loved playing pool and knew I was good at it. I had just won a game as Bryan walked in. I asked, Well, does anyone else want to play?

I don’t think any of us can beat you, one friend replied.

Bryan walked right past everyone and said, I can beat you, in his booming voice.

I laughed at him and said, Really? I doubt that.

Bryan smiled his big, warm smile and said, Okay, then if I win you have to make me dinner.

The room got really quiet. Then one of the guys yelled, Hey, you can’t do that, that’s a date!

To which Bryan responded, Next time, you ask her first, then.

Trying to lighten the situation, I turned to the guy who’d objected and said, Well, technically it’s not a date if you’re buying the food.

As Bryan and I racked the balls, I told him that when he lost he’d be making the dinner, and it had better be good. I took the first shot and sank two balls. I knew I had gotten lucky, but I tried to play it off as pure skill. As I leaned in for my second shot, I gave Bryan a triumphant smile and asked him if he knew how to cook a roast, because I really could go for some prime rib.

I carefully aimed and took a deep breath before hitting the cue ball, sending it straight past the green 6 ball I had been aiming for and ricocheting off a bumper.

Bryan smiled at me and said, Prime rib does sound good.

Annoyed, I handed the stick to him. He leaned over and set up his shot, pulled the stick back, then paused, glancing up at me before easily sinking his first ball. I like horseradish, too. He set up his second shot, angled the cue ball to send it straight past all his balls and directly into a bumper, where it bounced. I was smiling, thinking he had missed his shot, when I realized it was heading for a ball near the corner pocket. It hit the ball dead on, sending another of Bryan’s balls into a pocket. We were tied. Bryan continued to sink one after the other while I sat there watching helplessly. I got one more turn, but I missed my shot and Bryan won easily. I made sure to let him know that he’d just gotten lucky and that next time I would be handing his butt to him. Bryan told me that the only way I would ever win against him was if he let me.

The very next night I made everyone fettuccine at my house, since we couldn’t actually afford prime rib. Just when we finished dinner, my college boyfriend called to catch up. As I looked across the room to where Bryan sat talking to everyone, I told my boyfriend I was not going to be moving back.

—

Living in Mammoth during the summer meant being surrounded by stunning scenery and backcountry hiking. Pick just about any path and you would soon find yourself ten thousand feet up and completely secluded in the rugged beauty of the Sierra mountain range. The countless paths, high mountain lakes, and peaks of the John Muir Wilderness and Pacific Crest Trail were a playground to those of us who lived there.

Bryan and I began planning backpacking trips with others from our church. We often left after dark with headlamps after working all day and were poorly equipped with our Eddie Bauer sleeping bags bungee-corded to our JanSport school backpacks. Sometimes I wonder if it was age or the lack of oxygen at that altitude that helped us consistently make such ludicrous decisions, always going out underprepared. It wasn’t long before the number of people interested in going dwindled. Midway through summer it was common for just me, Bryan, and one or two other friends to go on each trip.

By late in the season, Bryan had become one of my best friends and my constant companion, so it should not have surprised me one night when he called me his girlfriend. It was now August and we were walking across the parking lot from church toward my car. The air had a sharp chill to it that night and the scent of pine needles mixed with the fine mountain dirt. I was commenting on the beautiful purple and red hues in the sky when Bryan said, I’m just glad I get to enjoy it with my girlfriend.

It was clear he was testing me, hoping to see my reaction. I slowed my pace as I looked him over, my eyes narrowing. There was a moment of silence between the two of us, during which the word seemed to hang in the air.

What do you mean I’m your girlfriend? I said to him. I’m no one’s girlfriend. I had always hated not only the word but the idea of it; I felt it gave another person permission to think they owned me.

Bryan stopped and looked back at me, goofy smile in place, and simply said, Yes, you are. He paused for a moment before continuing. Besides, I’ve already been telling everyone that we have been dating.

Really? I asked, dumbfounded. We had both stopped walking and just stood in the center of the parking lot. And how long have you been telling everyone this? Bryan looked entirely unaffected by my disbelief, which served only to annoy me more.

The streetlights began to turn on one by one while I tried to hold my glare at Bryan. I unlocked my car and we climbed in. Looking over, I saw Bryan could barely contain the smirk on his face.

You can’t just go around telling people we are in a relationship. That’s ridiculous, I told him.

It’s not ridiculous if it’s true, he argued. We are in a relationship.

Clearly, I was not getting through to him. Why in the world do you think we are in a relationship? We’ve never even talked about it.

"Well, we are talking about it right now . . . and we are in a relationship."

"How? Define relationship, Bryan, because I’m completely confused, and I think you are wrong."

I tried everything I could that night to prove to Bryan we were just friends, and instead of getting his feelings hurt he thought it was funny and just kept on arguing with me in his annoyingly analytical way. "I’m not wrong, you are wrong. We hang out every day when we aren’t working. We are always together alone at your place or mine. We ditch everyone else and eat most meals together. We don’t have to eat at a restaurant or watch a movie at a theater for it to be a date. If we are together and we are eating with no one else but us, then it is by definition a date. Besides, neither of us has the money to go out all the time, and people only do those things to spend time together and decide if they like each other. We already know we like each other, so technically we are in a relationship."

Well, I said, exasperated, "technically we aren’t in a relationship if one of us didn’t know. But finally I said, Fine. We are dating. But you cannot date someone if they do not know about it. So up until this moment, I had not agreed to date you or be your girlfriend, so, technically, we were not dating until now. As of this moment, we are officially dating—but no sooner."

Bryan smiled his huge grin and said, Fine.

I laughed and said, Okay, boyfriend, let’s go.

Bryan corrected me: "Manfriend."

I rolled my eyes as I started up the engine and drove the five miles back to Bryan’s house.

—

The following weekend, Bryan and I set out on a backpacking trip we had been planning for some time. Our goal was to hike thirty miles to reach a set of natural hot springs in the backcountry somewhere between the Pacific Crest Trail and the John Muir Wilderness Trail. We decided to leave on a Friday night after work and camp at one of the lower lakes before doing a big push on Saturday to get near the hot springs so we could enjoy them longer. We were more prepared for this trip, with larger, better-insulated sleeping bags and a tent we’d borrowed from a friend, as well as a water filter so we could safely drink from the lower lakes. I had even gone to the extra effort to buy real hiking boots rather than use my old running shoes, which had been my go-to the past few years.

We were excited as we switched on our headlamps and set out that night through the woods. Walking in the dark, we talked about why no one else wanted to come and how much they were going to miss out on. That’s when Bryan said the pastor of our church had pulled him aside and suggested the two of us alone shouldn’t go. Being twenty-six years old, I was shocked that the pastor felt it was any of his business.

Bryan said matter-of-factly, I told him we aren’t rabbits.

I started laughing. You seriously said that to the pastor?

Yep.

I suddenly could picture all the rabbits in the woods that surrounded us, millions of them listening in on our conversation and multiplying. In the pitch-dark forest, with only a tiny headlamp for light, my laughter grew louder and echoed in the darkness. Bryan was grinning from ear to ear but saying nothing. I started laughing so hard that I had to stop walking for a minute and try to breathe.

At the midway point to Duck Pass, we set up camp for the night. When I awoke the next morning Bryan was already up and arranging things to make us breakfast. That morning, enjoying the incredible view, we talked at length about the future. Bryan unabashedly began telling me his dream the night before: In it, he had proposed and I had asked him what took him so long.

Maybe you should just propose already, then, I said.

We laughed and began to talk about marriage, and that set the tone for the conversations that continued as we hiked that day. I remember being terribly excited at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with Bryan; I knew that no matter where we went, life would be a great adventure together. Bryan was just my type, a strong and silent leader who loved God and was both kind and formidable. When I was with him, I always felt safe, adored, and respected. I never tired of being around him, with his quick wit and his deep interest in the world, and I finally admitted to myself that I had been falling in love with him for weeks. But that trip was the first time I allowed myself to say it out loud.

Bryan and I stopped at an elevation of about eleven thousand feet and sat next to Purple Lake to eat our peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches before making the long descent to the floor of the valley below. It was a pristine summer day. At high altitude, the light feels brighter and stronger, and though the landscape is stark, the colors seem more vibrant. Even the sky seems bluer.

We had come such a long way in such a short time, and there was a certainty and security with him that I’d never felt with anyone else. I wouldn’t just call it falling in love, I’d call it finding my equal. Someone I could enjoy every day, who I would not grow weary of. He already seemed like he belonged in my life.

After resting, we set out again in hopes of making it to the springs by sunset. Our biggest obstacle of the day lay ahead of us in the thousand-foot switchback descent. As we made our way down the mountain in the bright August sun, we shared tales from our pasts and discussed the future—but soon, pain in the middle of my right Achilles tendon started nagging me. My new boots were not as fabulous as the store clerk had said; they were breaking down along the spine after only one day of hiking. By the time we reached the valley floor near Fish Creek, I was limping badly and could go no farther. That night, we set up camp in a beautiful spot hidden in a patch of aspen trees made even more peaceful by the sound of the creek as it snaked its way past our tent. Bryan wouldn’t let me do a thing but sit with my foot submerged in the cool creek water as he set up the tent, made a fire, and cooked us a meal.

That night as we lay in our tent, I remember staring at Bryan and thinking how much I loved his funny face. His big blue eyes, his long chin, even his teeth. He jokingly but proudly told me he’d had people compare his looks to Shrek’s. That made me laugh and I said, "A hot Shrek. But do you have layers like an onion? I reached up and put my hands on his cheeks and stroked them gently, then smiled. I like you," I whispered to him.

I like you, too, he whispered back before reaching over and kissing me.

The next morning, I woke up with my heel no better than it was the day before. We realized there was no way I could continue on to the hot springs. We’d have to turn back and head home, and my only pair of shoes was useless. But as the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention. For some odd reason—with Bryan, there was often an odd reason—Bryan had packed an unreasonable number of socks, which ended up working to our benefit. We pulled the laces and insoles from my useless new hiking boots. Then, poking holes in the insoles and attaching the laces, we created flip-flops of sorts. On top of the flip-flops, we layered several knee-high socks to provide cushioning. And then we set out, with me looking completely absurd but feeling far more comfortable than I had the day before.

We slowly made our way back up the thousand-foot ascent to Purple Lake. It was late afternoon by the time we arrived, and we decided to camp there for the night. We were surprised to find that we were the only people in the area that day. As the day settled into night and the colors of the sky changed from pink to purple to black, Bryan and I sat at the water’s edge and held hands.

Look over there, Bryan said. Do you see that?

An eagle floated majestically through the sky, then dipped down, landing on the far end of the lake near a collection of large boulders and pine trees.

That’s amazing! I said.

Not as amazing as you, Bryan said, and I turned to see that he was giving me fake puppy-dog eyes.

You are such a dork, I said and laughed.

Soon darkness engulfed us and the sky became a sea of stars that stretched from one mountain horizon to another. It felt like we were sitting in a snow globe filled with stars. Just me and Bryan, the lake and the universe.

Four months later, I opened a huge present from Bryan on Christmas day. It was a box of the most beautiful yarns I’d ever seen. I pulled them out one by one, thrilled by the soft texture and the bright colors of each skein, imagining the hats I would make. At the bottom, I found a small velvet box, inside of which was a beautiful diamond ring. Bryan got down on one knee. I told him I couldn’t take him seriously on his knees, so he should get up and kiss me and I’d say yes.

On