By C. W. Johnson, Jr. 

A young grunt in the mountains of Afghanistan must fight both Taliban fighters, villagers of dubious alliance and by-the-book commanders as he desperately tries to rescue his brothers-in-arms.

Short Pitch

It’s called Into The Fire.

It is a War Drama.

It is in the vein of Lone Survivor.

It is like Eye In The Sky meets 13 Hours: The Secret Soldiers of Benghazi.

It follows a young grunt eager to see combat named Corporal Dakota Meyer.

And professional veteran advisor Captain William Swenson.

As they battle to win hearts and minds and save their comrades as they battle the Taliban in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Problems arise when local villages take sides with the Taliban and the high command refuses to give Meyer and Swenson the reinforcements and artillery support needed when they are trapped in a valley of crossfire.

Together they will defy their commanders and drive the Taliban from the valley.

The idea came to me when listening to an audiobook while traveling and being shocked at the outcome of the battle.

My unique approach would be using Meyer’s experience as a microsome of the War on Terror, showing a frustrating war, a misplaced strategy, and the grit of American warriors.

A set piece would be when Meyer finds a wounded Afghan teenager. The boy had shrapnel wounds in his chest and left arm. Meyer administers first aid, placing a decompression dart in his third rib and a plastic stopper up his left nostril. He leaves him with Army logistics in the rear. After a frustrating battle with Taliban forces and higher command, Meyer is feeling good about saving someone’s life. When he returns to check on the Afghan, he finds a dead boy. The other Americans had let him bleed out. Meyer slams a bloody hand against the window of one of the Army vehicles.

Target audiences would be military veterans, history buffs, and men and women 30 to 70 years old.

People would want to see this movie because it honors America’s fighting men and women, contains the story of two Medal of Honor recipients, and the themes of courage, devotion, and comradery.

Today’s book I would like to pitch as a movie is Into the Fire: A Firsthand Account of the Most Extraordinary Battle in the Afghan War by Dakota Meyer, with Bing West, from Random House.

Throughout my life, I’ve held a variety of opinions on America’s foreign and military policies. I started with the jingoist belief that America was always right, a Wilsonian belief that it is the Manifest Destiny of the United States Government to make the world safe from terror and for democracy. I went through my hippy stage when I believed the Iraq War and the one on terror was perpetrated by power-hungry politicians bought and paid for by Big Oil and the Military Industrial Complex. Now a-days my opinion has matured into the belief that while some wars are necessary, all wars are evil.

Through this development of thought, there was one constant tenant I held: do not refer to our troops as baby killers. Yes, atrocities have been committed by US military personnel. The perpetrators are not patriots. As Adam Brown wrote his children in light of the Abu Ghraib prison scandal, they are “punks that have humiliated our country and sovereignty. I show them no pity and insist they are in the deepest minority of American professionals. What they did was not to gain intel but only to elevate their weak and pathetic lives to a status that for some reason they have only dreamed of” (quoted in Fearless by Eric Blehm, p. 175). Closer to home I was at a family reunion where a conservative military wife was complaining about the liberal media paying so much attention to a massacre in Afghanistan committed by a US soldier. “Well, there are crazy people in the military,” replied her husband, who was serving in the Navy. “And they need to be held accountable.” Yet most of the men and women in America’s military are honorable warriors who do everything possible within their means to avoid collateral civilian casualties.

The desire to avoid civilian casualties has permeated the highest military commands and official policy. With modern technology and drone footage, field commanders can see the full picture of the battle and give commands that avoid civilian causalities. Special forces are required to take photographs of enemy KIA during raids to document the fact that no civilian lives were taken. In ISIS territory, pamphlets were dropped to civilian truck drivers warning of approaching bombers. Modern military technology is even able to cause missiles and other projectiles to curve around obstacles and strike the bad gun on whom a target has been locked.

Yet the horror of war means that sometimes civilian casualties are at times unavoidable. As Paul Harvey said in the days after 9/11, “In a war on terror there are no civilians.” When these unfortunate truths are ignored during policy-making by politicians and high-ranking officials occupying chairs far from the battlelines, it is often others, the average soldier, who pay the price. The Battle of Ganjigal as told by Dakota Meyer in Into the Fire is both an exciting and heart-rending example of what occurs when modern sensibilities meet frontline realities.

In September 2009, Meyer was riding with a team of Americans through the Hindu Kush. The other members of the team were looking to go home. Meyer was looking for a fight. As someone from the hills of Kentucky, Meyer knew that if the stubborn people who made a living in the rugged mountains supported the insurgents, then America would be in for a long war. He grew up in The Blue Grass State with Big Mike, one of his mother’s husbands who had adopted him. He was also raised by his grandfather, Dwight, a retired Marine. From them he learned heartland values like hard work, standing up for family, finishing strong, and working through the pain. He played football and even rode a cow named Tinkerbell, making him a real cowboy instead of the dudes who rode horses.

Meyer was in high school when he met a recruiter for the Marines. The recruiter tells him he would never make it as a Marine. Meyer took that as a challenge, and since he was seventeen, Big Mike Meyer had to sign for him. He knew what he wanted to be: a grunt on the battlefield. He was afraid he would miss the Iraq War. After two years of training, he made it to Iraq. And then was sent home due to a spider bite. While recuperating, two friends died in car crashes just after visiting him.. Meyer began to think that he might be a bad luck charm for his friends

After his recuperation, Meyer believed that the war in Iraq was winding down, so when a chance to volunteer for Afghanistan was offered, he took it. He found himself assigned to Team Monti on the Afghan-Pakistani border. Their mission was to stop insurgents from crossing the border, win the hearts and minds of the mountain tribes, and train the Afghan soldiers called Askars.

The team consisted of four men. Marine First Lieutenant Michael E. Johnson. He was Mr. Oregon and loved keeping himself in physical shape and hiking. When his enlistment was up, he wanted to be a forest ranger and “live the good life”. Meyer told him that he most likely would end up in Silicon Valley. The Only married man on the team, military service had been a family tradition and he had volunteered to be an advisor. He was upbeat, smiling, had an easy laugh, and treated everyone equally. Staff Sgt. Aaron Kenefick was an NCO and despite being The Old Man at thirty, he looked like a movie star. A former high school quarterback, he was by the book and worked day and night to keep the Askars organized. And as a true New Yorker, he loved his Yankees. Every time they won, he acted like he had helped them win. He kidded Meyer about his Kentucky accent. Hospital Man 3rd Class James Layton was on his first tour. He was a classic laid-back California surfer dude who had never had a short haircut in his life. He had a young, happy face, heavy-metal music playing in his earbuds, and was always watching out for the team’s health. After leaving the Marines, he planned to have a career in radiology while operating a recording studio on the side.  Together they adopted a stray named Annie.

Meyer was the grunt, infantryman, and weapons trainer. He wasn’t ready to settle down. His job also was to train Askars. Some Askars were trouble, showing up for a couple of days, smoking hash on base, collecting their pay, and then going AWOL until the next payday. Other Askars were good soldiers. When they found out the size of the Meyer farm, they thought he must be the richest man in the world. They called the Taliban, also called dushmen, bandits, and murderers, and laughed at Meyer’s strong desire to get in a fight. He became close friends with two Askars. This included Hafez, a veteran of the Afghan army several advisor teams. He had requested a passport to America but was turned down because his sponsors were not high enough on the command structure. Still, he was loyal to America. Another was Dodd Ali, who Meyer considered his closest Askar friend. Ali explained that in the mountains he was a stranger and even he couldn’t be sure who was Taliban.

Meyer was desperate to see combat. He had heard about a sergeant who had worn a big bright orange air panel on his back trying to get the Taliban to shoot at him. Meyer stuffed one in his pack. When friendly fire landed too close during a patrol, Meyer found his excuse to pull the orange panel out and wear it. Team Monti thought he was crazy, but as a sniper, they trusted him. He was their bodyguard, like Kevin Costner. “An ugly Kevin Costner.” We feel safe with you, the lieutenant said. Maybe Meyer was not a bad luck charm after all. 

Orders came down to meet with the elders at a village called Ganjigal. “Bad people, bad land” was Hafez’s response to the news. The land sloped so steeply that houses were supported by those below them. The compounds were made of stone, concrete, and adobe bricks baked by a thousand summers. High mud walls enclosed the courtyards and compounds. These interlocking gun pillboxes were separated by twisting footpaths. A man could walk along the alleyways from one end of the village to the other without being seen. Boomerang-shaped farming terraces stepped down the hill to the wash below. More than twenty of these giant steps guarded each side of the wash. Each terrace was held in place by a stone retaining wall four to six feet high on the downhill side. There were even stone watchtowers at the valley’s entrance.

The decision was made for Team Monti to walk into the valley at dawn. The noise of trucks would alter them and possibly scare them off or alert the Taliban. During the pre-mission briefing, Meyer met Captain William Swenson, a quiet, long-haired Border Police advisor known by reputation. This was his third combat tour, and he was known for being able to call in artillery fire on the dot. If anyone could provide cover for Team Monti, it was Swenson.

After the briefing, Meyer received a shock. He was being replaced by a Marine Gunnery Sgt. Edwin W. Johnson Jr. from Georgia. Meyer’s desire to fight had given him a bad reputation around headquarters. Lt. Johnson tried to convince his commanders that Meyer was an essential part of the team. But orders were orders, and Meyer watched with a bad feeling as Team Monti headed into a horseshoe-shaped valley.

Meyer was left with Staff Sgt. Juan Rodriguez-Chavez, the motor transport chief. Rod had grown up on a ranch in New Mexico. Because of their similar backgrounds, Meyer and Rod had become close friends.

0530 hours September 8^th, first contact with the enemy was reported. The Battle of Ganjigal had begun. At 0545 Meyer heard Lt. Johnson request for supporting fire to get out of a house. Meyer requested to enter the valley. Denied

Meyer wanted to enter the valley anyway. Rod told him to give it time. Disobeying orders could get him court-martialed. The ridgelines on the horseshoe were a tangle of rocky outcropping. Enemy machines, three hundred to six hundred meters away from the patrol, were nestled in the crevasse, concealing their gun flashes. Their angle of fire crisscrossed the valley. Only the retaining walls of the farm terraces provided cover.

Swenson was dodging his way forward. He called in a 120-millimeter mortar strike. The fire came fifteen minutes after the request. It would be the only effective fire of the day. The next time Swenson called in a fire mission, it would take twenty-three minutes for the guns to open fire.

Team Monti had taken cover in a house on the south edge of Ganjigal. The Askers were in an open wash, scrambling for cover. The wash turned into a perfect killing ground as the enemy worked their way down above them, shooting downhill, tracking on one Askar, then another.

It soon became apparent that one of the biggest challenges that Meyer and his comrades placed was behind them at the tactical operations center (TOC). Frustrated that the artillery hadn’t fired, Swanson sent word that if any shells struck friendlies or civilians, he would full responsibility. The TOC response was asking for information if all friendlies were accounted for, and if any civilians would be endangered. The patrol was half an hour into a fight and advisors were pinned down, this was the kind of information that couldn’t be provided. The TOC denied the mortar’s fire mission. Over the first hour of the battle, only twenty-one shells would be fired.

A little background behind TOC’s decisions, or lack thereof. Starting in 2006 high command began trusting sergeants and lieutenants less and less, believing they were too quick to call in fire missions that endangered civilians. General Stanley McChrystal has issued a directive that the artillery would not be used against any building or structure likely to contain civilians. Such artillery strikes could only be approved by the higher headquarters commanders. Swenson, who was actually on the ground, was not trusted to call in strikes. Officers in the rear with confusing secondhand reports were the ones who could make the call. TOC’s senior officers claimed that there was a lack of situational awareness regarding the disposition of civilians in the area. Meyer believes that is BS.

Swenson called for helicopter support. Insurgents often disappeared when they appeared. The response was they would be there in 15 minutes. 15 minutes passed and no helicopters had appeared. Swenson asked for a smoke cover. There was none to be provided. Meanwhile, The TOC kept asking for information unessential to the situation, like the Social Security of each American in the valley.

Then a call from Lt. Johnson came in. They were pinned down in a house, receiving accurate fire from the one next door. “We have to get out of here,” Johnson said before he was cut off by others trying to use the same frequency. Kenefick tried to pass on their location on the grid. “I can’t shoot back because I’m pinned down. They’re shooting at me from the next house and it is so close.” But his message became staticky and garbled

At 0600 hours air support still had not arrived. Meyer decided to disobey orders. Rod began driving slowly down the narrow, twisting path into the valley.

As they were looking for a way into the wash, dushmen attacked. Meyer got on the Mark 19 and began firing toward the dust kicked up when the Taliban fired. Before he had even fired 30 bursts, the gun jammed. He switched to a XM250-machine gun, but it was too unstable. Rod turned the vehicle around and returned to the operational release point. There they found another truck with a .50-cal and headed back into the fray.

As they returned to the valley, Askars were stumbling out of the valley. Meyer asked them where the Americans were. They pointed to the village. Rod pushed forward as Meyer threw water bottles to the exhausted soldiers. When Taliban fire forced the vehicle to stop, several Askars jumped into the backseat. Rod turned the vehicle around to find a safe place to drop them off. Once again Meyer was leaving his friends in the valley.

Another officer was asking for reinforcements. “Vehicles are too big for the mission,” was the reply. The officer, Staff Sergeant Valadez, told them to drive forward to some Afghan vehicles and use them. The platoon leader replied he had to wait for clearance from TOC.

Helicopters still had not arrived, so one staff sergeant broke the chain of command and called the helicopter base directly. Helicopters were finally on the way. But then they were called back. The request had been canceled since the staff sergeant had not gone through with official channels.

Smoke was requested to cover the Americans as they broke contact with the enemy. Denied. The structures were too close.

Willie Peter, a white phosphorous permitted by the UN rules of war, was requested. Denied. Charges that civilians had been burned by it during the 2014 Battle of Fallujah in Iraq had created a media uproar.

Swanson called TOC, telling them he knew the location of the enemy machine guns. TOC claimed he did not have situational awareness since he did not know every position of the Americans and Askars.

The Taliban were zealous, but they were not crazy. Artillery could have sent them scurrying to safety. But TOG unleashing a barrage in their backyard would not go over well with high command who had released the following statement: air-to-ground or indirect fire against residential compounds, defined as any structure of building known or likely to contain civilians was not to be deployed unless the ground forces commander had verified that no civilians are present.

Swanson found himself laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Lt. Johnson came back on the net, requesting smoke to conceal their movements. He calmly gave the grid where he wanted the shells to land. TOC replied that the fire mission would be too close to the village. “Too close to the village,” replied Johnson in disbelief. If they did not get the cover, they were going to die, he said. “Try your best” was the response. Finally, at 0630, white phosphorus was fired into the backside of the village. Not close enough to provide cover for the team. Those were the last rounds fired during the battle. TOC had forbidden any more artillery support due to garbled communications, incomplete calls for procedures, and the claim that those on the ground did not have situational awareness.

After an hour of no support, the men in Ganjigal released that the villagers had joined the Taliban, supposing them to be the winning side. The thousand-year mountain way of siding against the outsides was in play. More machine guns were being fired. Flashes were coming from the mud huts. A woman in a red and purple dress was carrying ammunition from house to house. Another woman was creating a fighting position by stacking rocks. With the villagers on their side, the Taliban took up the offensive. To avoid being surrounded, some Americans and Askars began falling back, leaving Team Monti still held up in a house. Taliban leaders began mocking the Americans over a captured  handheld police radio

Still, the TOC continued to go by the book. When Swanson requested a medivac, they asked if WIA was Army or Marine. Swanson replied that he was an American. It’s regulations, replied TOC.

Meanwhile, as Rod and Meyer made their way up the valley, they came across bags of white powder on the road. They could be roadside bombs. Meyer decides that the dushmen haven’t had time to wire them. Rod drives over them. The only disruption was a slight bump.

As Rod drove them down the road, they came upon Hafez. Meyer jumped out of the vehicle, gave him water, and dressed his wounds. Hafez explains that it was all confusion farther up the valley, heavy shooting. He had told Lt. Johnson that he knew the way. The lieutenant had told him to go first, and he would follow. They made their way down the terraces. The last Hafez had seen of Team Monti was the lieutenant covering him.

Meyer returned to the post just outside the valley and dropped off wounded. On their way back into the crossfire, Staff Sgt. Kenefick came on the radio. He said he needed a medevac and tried to give his coordinates, but his transmission broke off.

Two Kiowas had just finally showed up. They related to Meyer and Rod that for their safety they should stay in the center of the wash. It did not give them much room to maneuver. We could get stuck in there, Rod said. Then we’ll die with them, Meyer replied.

They came upon more Americans and Askars falling back. Team Monti was not among them. Meyer kept going. The enemy had turned a concrete schoolhouse into a pillbox. Meyer’s .50-caliber could not penetrate the walls, but Rod made sure the vehicle was a moving target.

As Rod drove them through the hailstorm of bullets, the valley took the shape of the Roman Colosseum. The Taliban were the lions and Meyer and his comrades were the Christians. Rod became one with the truck, skillfully maneuvering through the wash. Meyer became one with .50-cal, walking its fire over the highs.

The vehicle was moving in the space of a running man. At 0812 hours, Meyer and Rod were swarmed by the enemy. The Taliban were so close that Meyer couldn’t turn the .50-cal down and shoot. He switched to a M4. A dushman appeared in front of the vehicle. Rod was still focused on driving, so he ran over the man. Back up and do it again, Meyer said.

Still, the Taliban couldn’t keep missing Meyer forever. When his hand kept slipping off the handgrip, he went to wipe the sweat. It was red. A bleeder on his elbow. He quickly bandaged it up and went back to fighting. Rod kept the vehicle steered away from incoming RPGs. Soon both of them were laughing. The crazier things got, the more they laughed.

Then the Kiowas providing cover declared they were Winchester, meaning they were out of ammunition. With their cover gone, Meyer said they would need a new gun. Once again they headed back out of the valley. As they withdrew, they began picking up wounded Askars. Meyer broke a vertebra picking one soldier up. He doesn’t know how he broke the second one. Meyer’s experiences dressing dear after a hunt came in handy as he dressed the wounded.

The Kiowas returned rearmed, covering Meyer and his comrades as they rescued the wounded. At first, Meyer tried to fire the .50-cal and dress the wounded at the same time. Realizing he could not be a medic and gunner at the same time, he asked Hafez to take over the gun.

The incoming fire from the enemy did not relent. It was obvious that they had spotters in the houses. Meyer continued looking for wounded Askar. Whenever the bullets sounded close or dirt kicked up near him, he would find a depression in the ground and lay there until the shooter moved on to another target. Meanwhile, the Kiowas were running search patterns trying to find Team Monti.

While searching for the wounded, Meyer came across the body of Dodd Ali. Ali had been scheduled to take leave in a few weeks and visit his estranged mother. As Meyer tried to drag his body back to the vehicle, he realized that Ali’s body army was too heavy. While engaged in removing his armor, a dushman snuck up and pointed his AK at him. Meyer refused to surrender. He fired his grenade launcher at him. The rocket knocked the man down but did not explode. Meyer stumbled on him and the two began wrestling. Meyer did his best to avoid the legs of the man that had been strengthened over the years of mountain living. He finally found a rock and slammed it into the man’s head until he was dead. 

Swenson stopped his Ranger next to Meyer’s vehicle. The vehicle was beat up, the shocks gone and the suspension, door, door handle, real window, and cab were peppered with bullet holes. Swenson himself had torn the ligament in his right knee. His shins were peppered with shrapnel.

Together Meyer and Swenson returned to the casualty collection point. Meyer wanted to return to the valley to find Team Monti. He was going to return alone but the Kiowa hovering above him told him to stop while Swenson was trying to gather reinforcements. For once the TOC gave a platoon the orders to advance. But the platoon leader was called back again and received permission to stay out of the fight.

There are two incidents from another time that poetic license could place at Ganjigal to portray Meyer’s frustration with the system. First, he found a vehicle with a .50-call. Bloody handprints covered the doors and windows from Afghan drivers begging to be let in. Meyer asked why the .50-cal was not being manned. The occupants of the vehicle replied they were logistics. Second, Meyer found a skinny teenager bleeding from shrapnel in his chest and arm. Meyer performed emergency first-aid, plunging a decompression dart below his third rib. Meyer felt good about saving someone. But when he returned to check on the kid, he found a dead body. The crew in the Army truck had let him bleed out. He banged his rifle butt on the truck, yelling for them to at least give water and a medpack to the rest of the Afghans cowering in a trench nearby.  His demands were answered, but the officer in charge of logistics came close to pressing charges against him.

Meyer, Swanson, Rod, and Hafez returned to the valley. A few Afghan trucks followed. There were so many wounded to be dragged to safety and aided that the rescue of Team Monti was almost forgotten. Apache helicopters arrived but ran low on fuel before they could give any help. Two  F-15s arrived but did not drop any bombs out of fear of hitting Team Monti’s unknown location. TOC continued to deny fire missions and ask endless questions.  

By 1030 Hours the enemy fire had slacked. The Kiowas flew low over the village at a speed of 25 MPH, looking for Team Monti. Dushmen glared out of the windows at them and then took shots at their rear. The flashing glare of signal lights was spotted, but upon inspection, the Kiowas found them simply to be shiny cooking pots. Someone said they saw an orange panel. It was an ice cooler.

The battle had now gone on for five hours. Some of the Askars still held their ground. Finally, word had reached commanders higher than TOC that Americans were missing. A three-star general hundreds of miles away declared a mission of personnel recovery. An Air Force para-rescue team came, but enemy fire kept it from landing.

At 1110 hours a Kiowa pilot reported spotting five bodies. That was all that Meyer needed to hear. He sprinted toward the spot over which the Kiowa hovered. Swanson yelled at him but Meyer kept running, knowing he would be right behind him.

Meyer came into a deep trench. Inside he found the bodies of Gunnery Johnson, Lt. Johnson, Sergeant Kenefick, Doc Layton, and an Afghan translator.

Gunny Johnson lay on his back, his arms outspread. Lt. Johnson also lay on his back. Doc Layton lay on top of him, his right cheek having taken a three-round burst. His medical supplies were scattered around. Kenefick was facedown, busted GPS clutched in his right hand, his mouth full of dirt and a gunshot wound in the back of his head. Most of their gear was gone. A sick feeling came into Meyer’s stomach.

Swenson stood above the scene for a moment even as random shots were being fired at him and Meyer. Then he picked up the remaining gear and left Meyer alone. Even though it was not part of his job description, Meyer accompanied the bodies back to base and helped clean and prepare them for being shipped home. Afterward, he looked in the mirror and saw a blood-streaked monster. He had been his friends’ bad luck charm.

After washing the blood off, Meyer almost committed a court-martial offense. A commander ordered the stray dog Annie to be shot and thrown on a burning pile of trash. Meyer almost attacked the sergeant who carried out the order, punching the sandbag next to his face. Other Marines had to drag him away. Insult added to injury.

There were other casualties in addition to Team Monti. Army Sgt. 1^st Class Kenneth W. Westbrook had died of his wounds. Five Afghan advisors lost. Eight Askars killed and thirteen wounded.

Soon reports began swirling around the base that Meyer’s officers had recommended him for the Medal of Honor. He didn’t care. Why should anybody get any medals when his friends were dead? An official investigation by Marine and Army officials was fuzzy and the copies released to the public had all the names redacted. The investigation’s lack of decisiveness added fuel to Meyer’s anger. Lessons were supposedly learned but he never heard what they were. All he knew was that the lack of supporting fire had made the Americans lose face among the Afghan advisors whom they were supposed to be protecting. He wanted out of the military. And that his friends who trusted him to protect them were gone.

He turned to Kentucky. Neither Big Mike Meyer nor his grandfather talked to him about his war experience, keeping a respectful silence. Dakota had spent most of his twenty-one years being critical of others who, in his eyes, failed in their responsibilities. Now it was all being dumped back on him. Another report came out that failed to lay the blame squarely. Meyer believed it lay on the one person who had a straight shot into Ganjigal – him. Despite all his efforts he had failed to save his friends.

He began attending PTSD counseling at the VA. He learned not to judge others so quickly as he had done in the past. He even had a brief moment of healing when he pulled a driver from a wreck, feeling good at having saved someone. He went to college. During one class a professor declared that the US had fought in Afghanistan for nothing. Meyer challenged him. He was not going to sit there and let him say his guys had died for nothing.

The recommendation for the Medal of Honor for Meyer went through. He would be the first living Marine in over thirty years to receive the nation’s highest military honor. He attended the ceremony at the White House, where he had a respectful conversation with President Obama despite disagreeing on several issues with the Commander-in-Chief, including rules of engagement. Throughout the ceremony, Meyer remained glum. His country was rewarding him for the worst day of his life. As a Marine, his duty was either to bring his buddies home or die trying. He had failed at both. His team had said they were not worried, knowing that he could get them out if anything went bad. He had not fulfilled their trust. (Note: Lieutenant Colonel William D. Swenson would receive the MOH after a few years of bureaucrat delay).

I think the final scene in a movie based on Into the Fire should be Meyer driving into a parking lot at three A.M. He pulls out a Glock from his glove department, sticks it to his head, and pulls the trigger. Nothing. It is empty. Someone watching out for him had emptied the chamber. From then on out, no matter what the future held, Meyer knew he was not going to quit.

Into the Fire was one of the books that inspired me to start That Should Be The Movie. I was listening to the audiobook version while driving. When the part where Meyer found the bodies of his team, I could just see Peter Berg’s style of handheld camera and editing capture the sickening feeling that he must have experienced. Co-writer Bing West admits in the epilogue that he focused on Meyer’s character growth during his writing. His character arch of a young, cocky grunt into a mature humble Medal of Honor recipient with the confidence to take each day at a time is perfect for the three-structured act of a screenplay. While listening to Meyer’s account I was reminded of my situation involving PTSD. While my experience pales in comparison with Meyer’s, it also involves leaders not doing their duty, refusing to take responsibility for their actions, and going unreprimanded. It involved leaders falsely accusing me of not doing my duty and then ignoring and burying the evidence that I had gone above and beyond my duty. I too felt like a failure. Writing about Meyer’s story and others from history is part of my own journey of healing.

While the box office success of films like Lone Survivor, 12 Strong, American Sniper, 12 Strong, 13 Hours, Max and Dog has shown that there is an audience for military-related movies, there is a deeper reason why I think Into the Fire should be a movie. There’s a common misconception that the American military goes in gun blazing without consideration for civilian casualties (e.g. “The Ride of the Valkyries” scene in Apocalypse Now), leading some in their virulent rhetoric to call American military personnel “baby killers.”

The truth is far from that depiction. Bureaucracy, red tape, and rules of engagement play a large role in how America wages its wars. The only film in which these rules are the focus point is the fictional account in the excellent Eye In The Sky. What that film did not capture is the cost that frontline military personnel pay when top-ranking offices in both military and political positions are guided by rules to impress those modern sensibilities living comfortably in developed nations thousands of miles from the battlefield. One of these rules says there cannot be strikes on buildings unless a ground commander can confirm the presence of hostile actors. It does not have an exception for when all of the actors on the field, including supposed civilians, are hostile. At Ganjigal a legalist interpretation of the laws cost five Americans their lives. I believe a movie based on Into the Fire could help create better dialogue by silencing rhetoric that targets our military personnel as baby killers, since, in the words of Douglas MacArthur, it is the soldier “who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.”

In order to honor Meyer, Swenson, and their fallen comrades and to create better dialogue regarding America’s fighting men and women is why I believe that Into The Fire by Dakota Meyer Should Be A Movie.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider a donation so I can continue posting in the future. Thank You.