However, exactly five feet behind the officers, a man in a navy blazer had been standing for two minutes. It was General Raymond T. Caldwell, this soldier’s commanding officer. He was the man whose son this soldier had saved. He was standing right there, unnoticed, and in three minutes, they would wish they had checked who was watching.
Six hours earlier, Aaron Griffin closed his eyes as the plane began its descent into Atlanta. It had been fourteen months—four hundred and twenty-six days of sand, searing heat, and the desperate work of saving lives that would never remember his name.
He was a combat medic with the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 101st Airborne Division. A Staff Sergeant. He was the kind of soldier trained to run toward the explosion while everyone else ran away.
