That Night at Camp Integrity: In Honor of 1st Sgt. Peter A. McKenna Jr.

It was just after 10 p.m. on August 7th, 2015. Kabul was quiet, for once. Too quiet, if I’m being honest. Those of us who’d been downrange enough times knew that silence in a combat zone isn’t peace—it’s pressure building before the blast.

I was on rotation at Camp Integrity, a small NATO compound tucked into the chaos of Kabul. That night, I was off shift, relaxing near the team room. The air was dry, hot. The kind of night where the dust sticks to your skin, and the smell of diesel and sweat never really fades.

A few of us were gathered outside, talking about plans for when we got back home—cold beers, football, family barbecues. You know, the usual dream talk. First Sergeant Peter McKenna, or “Drew,” as we called him, had just walked by us, giving that familiar half-smile. He always checked on everyone, even when he didn’t have to. That’s the kind of leader he was.

Then it happened.

The ground erupted beneath us—an explosion so powerful it knocked the breath out of my lungs. A deafening boom, followed by a shockwave that threw debris, bodies, and every ounce of calm we had into the air.

A vehicle-borne I.E.D had slammed into the front gate. The blast ripped through the entry control point, collapsed a guard tower, and turned the night into a firestorm. Chaos followed. Dust filled the air. Alarms screamed. Gunfire started before we could even get our bearings.

I grabbed my weapon and sprinted toward the gate. Drew was already there, rallying the Q.R.F—quick reaction force—before I even reached the blast zone. He was calm. Focused. Moving like a man who knew exactly what needed to be done.

“Let’s go. On me,” he said, locking eyes with me for a split second. No fear. No hesitation. Just that same quiet intensity he always carried.

As we rounded the shattered gate, the rest of the insurgents breached the perimeter. Four of them, dressed in stolen Afghan army uniforms, armed with rifles, grenades, and suicide vests. This was a coordinated attack—textbook Taliban: shock, breach, detonate, overrun.

McKenna led from the front. Always.

He didn’t stay behind a wall shouting orders. He ran straight into the firefight, engaging head-on to push the enemy back before they could reach the living quarters. I remember watching him take point, weapon up, shouting directions over the comms and the gunfire. He wasn’t just fighting—he was protecting. He was positioning himself between the enemy and us.

Rounds snapped past us. The firefight intensified. I remember hearing the distinct pop of grenades, the staccato of AK fire, the shouts in Dari. At one point, one of the insurgents made it within thirty feet of the barracks. Drew caught him first—dropped him with controlled fire before the vest could go off.

One by one, we neutralized the enemy. But not before one of them triggered a suicide vest. The explosion rocked the compound again. It felt like the ground lifted beneath me. My ears rang. Dust clouded my vision.

When I stood up, I saw Drew on the ground.

I ran to him. So did two others. He had taken shrapnel—bad. The medics were there in seconds, but the look on their faces told me everything. He was gone.

There was this moment. Just a moment. Where time seemed to stop. The noise faded. The smoke hovered in the air like it didn’t want to leave. And in the middle of that ruined perimeter, I looked down at one of the bravest men I’ve ever known.

We lost eight Afghan contractors that night. Several of our guys were wounded. But it could’ve been worse. Much worse.

Because of Drew McKenna, it wasn’t.

He absorbed the worst of it. Led the charge. Took the fight to the enemy. He didn’t fall back. He advanced.

He was a 17-year veteran. A Green Beret. A five-time Bronze Star recipient. And above all, he was our First Sergeant—our brother.

He was the guy who remembered your kid’s birthday. The one who volunteered for the toughest assignments. The guy who always said, “I got you,” and meant it.

A few months later, I stood at a ceremony where he was posthumously awarded the Silver Star. His parents were there—strong, proud. I didn’t have the words to tell them what he meant to us, but I hope they saw it in our eyes.

Drew’s name is etched on walls now. On plaques, in articles, in legislative halls. But for those of us who fought beside him, he’s etched into our hearts. Forever.

To the man who never backed down.

To the man who put his team above himself.

To the man who saved lives by giving his own.

Rest easy, First Sergeant.

We’ll take it from here.

This story is dedicated to the brave souls who stood their ground on the night of August 7th, 2015, during the attack on Camp Integrity in Kabul, Afghanistan.

To the eight Afghan contractors who were killed while serving alongside U.S. forces—your partnership, your labor, and your loyalty will never be forgotten.

To the American service members who were wounded—you bore the scars of that night with silent strength, a testament to the cost of our continued freedom.

And to First Sergeant Peter Andrew McKenna Jr., U.S. Army Special Forces—your courage, your leadership, and your ultimate sacrifice saved lives and inspired all who knew you.

You were more than a warrior.

You were a protector. A brother. A son. A leader.

You fought not for glory, but for the men beside you.

And in doing so, you became immortal in our hearts.

We remember.

We honor.

We continue the mission—because of you.

Rest in eternal peace. We will never forget.