Inside SEAL Team Six (4 page)

I felt a sharp pain. Then another. Then dozens in succession from multiple cops.

They beat the living hell out of me until I passed out. I woke hours later on a bench in a local jail, badly bruised and hurting.

I called my mom, who was extremely upset but managed to remain calm. She came and got me released on bail.

I said, “Mom, I’m really sorry.”

She looked at me sadly and shook her head. “When your dad comes home tonight, make sure you tell him everything that happened.”

Most weeks he was away from home four out of five nights, traveling for work. But because this was a Friday, my dad returned for the weekend at around eight.

When he walked in the front door, I was still wearing the same tank top that I’d had on all day. It was ripped and spotted with dried blood. My bottom lip was badly swollen and I had big black-and-blue bruises covering my ribs, arms, and shoulders.

He asked, “What happened? You have an accident on your bike?”

“No, Dad. I got caught riding on the road.”

“You were riding on the road?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But look what the cops did to me. I was unconscious by the time the cops hauled me to jail.”

I couldn’t tell if Dad was angrier at me or the cops. He wanted to know the name of the arresting officer.

“Officer Phil Smith,” I told him. “Of the Salem, New Hampshire, police department.”

Seconds later he was on the phone saying, “This is Arthur Mann. You arrested my son this afternoon for riding on the road, but you had no right to beat him up the way you did.”

I watched the expression on his face change from outrage at them to anger at me as he listened to Officer Smith describe chasing me through four towns and two states, the cars that had been run off the road, and the scene in the Dairy Queen parking lot. I heard the officer explain, “We would have shot your son, but he looked too young.”

My father’s face was red when he turned to me and said, “You’re never riding that motorcycle again as long as you live in this house! You understand me?”

I nodded and said, “Yes, Dad.” But I was thinking,
Where am I going to live?

I mean, I had to keep riding and racing motorcycles.

I stashed my Kawasaki in the basement and worked on it at night. For a couple of weeks, I obeyed my dad, but I knew it was just a matter of time.

One Saturday afternoon a couple weeks later, my dad asked me if I would go pick up my brother at his friend’s house.

“On my bike?” I asked, knowing that where we lived, kids were allowed to ride on the back-country dirt roads without a license.

He said, “Okay. I’ll make an exception this time.”

Excited, I passed through the kitchen where my mom and my sister Wendy were washing dishes.

Minutes later I was screaming down a dirt road, enjoying the wind in my face and the smell and the feel of my Kawasaki. I knew that I’d be passing the house of my girlfriend, Jody, and I wanted to impress her. To let her know that I was back.

She lived on a dirt road by a lake. The lake was on my right; her house was on my left. I did a second-to-third-gear wheelie as I swerved around the corner.

It just so happened that a friend of mine was on his bike speeding in my direction. He was in the process of passing a car around that same corner, and we smashed into each other head-on.

My girlfriend, Jody, was looking out her bedroom window, and she heard a terrible crash and saw both bikes fly in the air. She said they rose as high as the telephone lines.

I hit the ground and broke all the ribs on my right side so severely that bone fragments stuck into my liver. I also broke my arm and several bones in my face and suffered a concussion. I was in a coma for almost a week.

The doctors told my parents that I wasn’t going to survive.

I woke up hovering near the ceiling of a hospital hallway. Below, I saw my dad in his suit and tie holding my mother, who was crying. They were watching a gurney being wheeled past by several orderlies. A bloody sheet covered a body.

 Months later, I realized that I had had a near-death experience.

I was looking at myself.

It look me months to recover from my injuries, and between visits from my hoodlum friends, I made a decision to dedicate my life to something, and I chose the only thing that really excited me at the time: motocross racing.

It might seem like a strange decision given the fact that I had almost killed myself on a motorcycle, but it gave my life some purpose and direction. Besides, in motocross, all riders travel in the same direction, so the chances of a head-on are very slim. At least, that’s the reasoning I gave my parents.

When they asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I said a weight set. They got one for me, and I started working out. Every night at around eleven, I’d come home after working or hanging out with my buddies, put on my headphones, crank up Black Sabbath on my stereo, and lift weights—curls, bench presses, overhead presses—then do rowing, push-ups, and sit-ups. I’d try to do a continuous set of a particular exercise to each individual song. “Iron Man” and “Paranoid” were my favorites.

Often I’d keep going until two or three in the morning, then I’d catch a couple hours sleep before heading off to school.

After school and weekends, I worked various different jobs—pumping gas, washing cars. One of my most memorable jobs was at a place called Raymond’s Turkey Farm on Hampstead Street. They hired me even though I was underage because I was willing to do the nastiest job they had, which was working in the cellar and preparing the turkeys for the slaughter.

I was fourteen or fifteen years old and experiencing something that was like a scene out of the horror movie
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
. Or worse.

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’d work day and night, sometimes fifteen hours at a time, up to my knees in blood. My job was to reach down, grab the turkeys by their feet, and hang them on these racks. Then an old guy with an electric knife cut their heads off.

Next, these ladies put some kind of vacuum cleaner down their throats to suck their lungs out. These were dumped into big barrels that I had to clean out at the end of every shift. It was disgusting, and the smell was awful.

But I was young and making $1.65 an hour, which helped support my motorcycle habit. My parents wouldn’t let me go out on the weekends unless I came home with my paycheck and posted it on the refrigerator. That was for bail money, in case I was arrested.

Which happened often.

The guy who got me the job, Bobby, was two years older than me. He used to pick me up on the way to school and drive me home after school. And every time he left my house, he burned rubber, leaving behind tire tracks in our driveway and a cloud of smoke. He drove like a maniac, always over a hundred miles an hour—blasting “Hot Rocks” by the Stones from his eight-track and Jensen triaxial speakers. I don’t know how we survived, but somehow we did. Barely.

Between working, school, and training for motocross, I still managed to routinely get into trouble.

One of my best friends, Gary DeAngelis, was the mechanic for my bikes at the motocross races. He was a big, heavy guy with a thick black beard and long matted hair, and he was on probation to be a member of the Hells Angels. As part of his initiation, the whole chapter had urinated on him, and he wasn’t allowed to change his clothes or take a shower for a year.

One night, he and I and three or four other bikers went to a bar together; a fight broke out, and someone kicked a glass door in. I ran out because I was underage and didn’t want to get caught.

Instead of calling it a night, we rode to another bar, where we were all arrested. I was handcuffed to Gary for an entire weekend. Man, did he stink!

When I turned sixteen, in October of 1973, I finally got my license. Christmas Eve I borrowed my dad’s station wagon because I was going out to buy my girlfriend, Kim, a Christmas present. On the way to the mall, I stopped at her house and ran into her dad, who was a World War II veteran, and his best friend, Nicky, who was a member of the Hells Angels, the Lawrence, Massachusetts, chapter.

Nicky said, “Don, I heard you just turned sixteen. Come have a drink with us.”

“I’d better not.”

“Come on, man. Let’s celebrate. Don’t be a pussy.”

Nicky was one of the craziest, funniest people I’d ever met. I looked up to him as a role model of a sort.

I said, “Okay,” had some drinks with them, then got into my dad’s station wagon. While I was inside, a blizzard had blown in. The roads were slick, and visibility was terrible. But I still had to get a present for Kim.

Seeing a snowplow ahead of me, I decided it might be a good idea try to catch him.

I hit the gas hard, did a three-sixty, smashed into some trees, and ended up in a frozen swamp.

I’d just gotten my license and now I had wrecked my dad’s car.

Sitting in the frozen swamp waiting for the tow truck, I felt like the guy in the Albert King song—the one later recorded by Jimi Hendrix and by Cream: “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

I didn’t realize for a long time how lucky I was to have parents who loved me, despite everything, and to still be alive.

I
t was the mid-1970s, and my friends and I were teenagers filled with wild, rebellious energy.

The mood in the country had turned dark and angry. Nobody trusted anyone. It was the tail end of the Vietnam War. President Nixon was in the White House trying to find his way out from under the debris of Watergate. Kids marched in the streets and burned the flag. Talk of revolution and repression filled the air.

My friends and I didn’t understand what was going on around us. Nor did we know what to believe in. All we knew was that the world our parents had helped create was coming apart.

 Were we aware that by emulating our neighborhood’s motorcycle gangs, we risked getting drawn into a vortex of drugs and violence that seemed to grow faster and more powerful every day? Maybe on some level.

But what did we really understand?

Somehow, thank God, I managed to stay right on the edge of the whirlpool and never got completely sucked in—partly due to motocross training and racing. I practiced relentlessly at a track in Salem, New Hampshire. Every day, like a teenager possessed.

Friday after school my buddies and I would tear our bikes apart, clean them, and get them ready for the race on Sunday. Saturday afternoon we’d drive to some track in the New England–New York area in a ’63 Chevy van, which we’d sleep in overnight.

I was raw and fearless, and drawn to the energy, excitement, and danger. (Some things never change.)

My goal was to become a professional. By tenth grade I was racing 125 cc and 250 cc, and in the open class and I already had a sponsor: Dave McCullen, the owner of New Haven Suzuki.

That changed one Sunday at a race in Pepperhill, New Hampshire. I was in fourth place, trying to catch Dave himself, who was in third. Even though he was my sponsor I was determined to beat him. Because that’s the way I rode—WFO.

Motors screaming, mud spitting from our tires, Dave and I started climbing up a rocky slope. He was eight feet ahead of me, bouncing all over his bike. I bore down.

As I started to pass, his leg flew out of the peg. I whipped by, fighting to control my bike, with no chance to stop. My front tire smashed right into his leg. The leather motocross pants and boots Dave wore didn’t save his leg from snapping.

Sorry, Dave. Good-bye, sponsor.

Despite the danger and my many accidents, I raced as often as I could, and I hung out with my rowdy friends at night.

School meant nothing to me. Some years I never once opened a book. When textbooks were handed out on the first day of class, I’d stash them in my locker and not look at them again until the last day of school, when we had to turn them in.

Once, at the end of the year, when a teacher asked for her textbooks back, I remember answering, “I’m sure they’re in good condition, but they’re in my locker, and I don’t remember where my locker is.”

I attended Amity High School in Woodbridge, Connecticut, where my Flat Rats friends and I were known as torks.

The jocks were from rich families. They played football, drove Chevy Camaros, and dated pretty girls. We torks wore dirty jeans, black boots, and black leather jackets, rode motorcycles, had muscular arms, and got into fights. Our girls were tough, drank and did drugs, and rode on the backs of our bikes.

There was a third group called the ziegs—the hippies who listened to the Grateful Dead and smoked pot.

Whenever torks and jocks were in the same room, you could feel the tension crawl up your neck. Insults were exchanged, and usually threats.

I shared a class after lunch with tall, blond Bobby Savage, the captain of the football team and leader of the jocks. At the time I’d reached about five eleven and weighed 165. Bobby was about six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. He made snide remarks and tried to intimidate me all year long.

One day during class, I dropped a pencil that rolled under Bobby Savage’s chair. When I went over to get it, he kicked the pencil to the back of the room.

All the kids in class stopped what they were doing and waited to see how I was going to react.

I walked to the back of the room and calmly picked up the pencil. But inside I was seething, thinking,
I can’t let him disrespect me like that. I’ve got to do something. What am I gonna do?

I blew off the next class and met up with a group of torks sitting at a table in the cafeteria. They were all Italian Americans and had fathers who were associated with the Mafia. Tough guys.

I leaned on the Formica tabletop with my foot resting on a chair behind me; the other torks huddled around me. As I started telling them what had just happened, one of my friends said, “Here he comes.”

“Who?”

“Bobby Savage.”

“Where?”

I turned to look over my shoulder and saw the big football player stride into the cafeteria with a tall, blond friend of his from the basketball team by his side. They even had the gall to walk by our table.

“Son of a…”

Without thinking, I kicked the chair my right leg was resting on, hard. Bobby’s friend coolly stopped the chair and pushed it away.

I turned to face Savage, cocked my right arm back, and smashed him in the face.

Shock registered in his eyes. Blood shot from his shattered nose.

As his friend and my friends looked on, Savage crumpled to the floor. Immediately, I jumped on him and pounded him in the face about seven more times.

Then I got up and walked away.

The school was in an uproar. A tork had beaten up the big, tough captain of the football team—the leader of the jocks.

What was going to happen next?

I knew I was in trouble. About an hour later, I was walking down a hallway alone on my way to the bathroom when I saw Bobby Savage and his basketball friend come out of the nurse’s office. Bobby’s nose was covered with bandages and he had two black eyes.

He saw me and charged. Before I could react, the two big jocks grabbed me and pinned me against the wall.

“You asked for this, asshole.”

“Take your best shot.”

As Savage brought his arm back to slug me, I lifted my knee up as hard as I could into his crotch. His torso bent in half, and he lowered his head.

I brought up my knee again, this time into his face. Crunch!

A couple months later, I was sitting in a bar with three of my tough Flat Rats friends, flirting with four girls we’d just met. I was particularly interested in this cute brunette who had a mischievous smile and dimples in her cheeks.

The eight of us were sitting at a table laughing and drinking when we heard a loud commotion at the front door. Looking up, we saw this big, greasy guy in a black motorcycle jacket push his way through the crowd. He looked like an ex–football player who’d put on some weight.

He appeared to be out of his mind on drugs.

The girl sitting to my right looked alarmed. She picked up her purse from the chair and slung it over on her shoulder, as if she were getting ready to run.

I asked, “Who is he?”

One of my buddies answered, “That guy’s a real scumbag. He used to deal drugs in front of the elementary school and just got released from jail.”

Another friend added, “I heard he beat this one girl up so bad that her parents had to bring pictures of her to the hospital so the doctors could reconstruct her face.”

The guy was clearly looking for someone, scanning the crowd. His bloodshot eyes came to rest on the girl beside me.

“You know that guy?” I asked her.

Before she had a chance to answer, the big, greasy scumbag stomped up to her and grabbed her arm.

He shouted, “You’re coming with me, bitch!”

The brunette beside me started to tremble. The other girls at the table froze.

I felt like I had to protect her, so I said to the drug-crazed guy, “Back off. She’s with me.”

He brought his finger to within an inch of my face and snarled, “You, shut the fuck up!”

All the people in the bar stopped what they were doing to watch.

Then the big drug dealer yanked the purse off the girl’s shoulder, which caused her chair to fall backward; her head slammed against the floor.

“Hey, man. What the hell!”

A bolt of fear passed through the packed crowd.

Then, while the girl was still moaning on the floor, the big scumbag grabbed her purse and stomped out of the bar. No one tried to stop him.

I got up and followed him outside, hoping my buddies would come with me. They decided to help the injured girl instead.

Now I was in the parking lot running after the big thug, wondering,
Why did he take her purse? Where the hell is he going?

I saw his wide body ahead, pushing through the pools of light, and yelled at his back, “Hey, man, give back her purse.”

He spun around and looked at me with cold fury. The guy was twice my size and clearly out of his mind on drugs. I knew that if he hit me, I’d be in serious trouble.

So I tried my best to defuse the situation. I said, “Look, man, I don’t want to fight you. I just want the girl’s purse. You walk one way, I’ll go another. We’ll forget this whole thing.”

He growled back, “I’m going to rip your head off and shit down your throat.”

Nice image.

I was standing about five feet away when he reached into the girl’s purse, removed a set of keys, and threw the purse to the ground. Spewing a stream of curses at the girl and me, he stomped over to a light blue Corvette parked nearby and removed the hard T-top roof.

I expected him to jump into the Corvette and drive off.

Instead he raised the hard T top over his head and started coming at me. He looked like he wanted to kill me with it. He probably did.

I shouted, “Hey, put the roof down. I’m not here to fight you!”

He kept getting closer, the T top raised as a weapon. I backed away.

“The cops are coming. They’ll be here any minute!”

When he got within five or six feet, I picked up a rock the size of a large toaster to defend myself with. Then I started to back away from him, down a path that led into the woods. He followed me with the T top held over his head and murder in his eyes.

We were descending into the dark woods, away from the well-lit parking lot.

I was growing increasingly nervous because I didn’t know where I was going. I said again, maybe a little more desperately, “The cops are coming! I don’t want anything from you. Just drop the roof and go!”

He kept bearing down on me with the T top held over his head. I backed downhill until we were out of sight of the bar. Probably out of earshot too. Then I stumbled on something, and he swung the hard roof at my head. I recovered just in time to jump out of the way.

“Hey!”

“You’re a dead man. I’m gonna kill you!”

My heart was pounding wildly. I was alone with this crazed lunatic and scared.

At the bottom of the hill, we reached a little clearing with a junked car in it. The drug dealer swung the roof again. I ducked.

This time his momentum caused him to spin around, so he landed with his back against the grille of the car. He froze for a minute, and I saw the panic of a trapped animal flash in his bloodshot eyes.

I still held the rock over my head but backed away to give him space.

I was in the awkward position of confronting him and trying to defuse the situation at the same time. I didn’t want to fight, but he was growing increasingly aggressive and intense.

To my great relief I heard footsteps running down the trail. Three of my buddies entered the clearing, out of breath.

One of them shouted, “What’s going on here? Don, you okay?”

“Not really,” I answered, not taking my eyes off the thug. “This big guy’s trying to kill me.”

The big drug dealer, looking confused, wheeled and swung the roof at the biggest of my friends—a bodybuilder named Jay.

I shouted, “Jay, watch out!” and simultaneously threw the rock I’d been holding at the drug dealer’s head, thinking,
If I have to, I’ll kill him, but I don’t want me or my friends to get hurt.

The crazed man ducked his head at the last second, so the rock missed him, smashed the windshield of the junked car, and slid down the hood to the ground.

“You’re a dead man now!” the drug dealer roared.

If he was crazed before, now he was completely unhinged. He threw down the roof, picked up the rock, and lunged at me.

I charged into him as hard as I could. My right shoulder sank into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The big man grunted, reeled backward, and crashed into the car.

I kept pushing my shoulder into his stomach.

From near the ground, I reached with my left hand, grabbed his nuts, and pulled down with all my might. The big man screamed and bent over. At precisely that moment, I punched up with my right hand and hit his face straight on.

Blood poured down my arm.

My friends descended on the guy, kicking and punching him. With my ears against his stomach, I could hear each impact, and I pulled away and shouted, “Guys, let up!”

We watched the drug dealer slump against the grille of the car. His face was a mess.

We left him bleeding into the ground and scrambled up through the woods to the parking lot. I told my friends to go home. I’d call them later.

One of them asked, “What about you?”

“I’m going to go back to the bar to see if the girl is okay.”

“Are you crazy, Don? You can’t do that!”

I said, “No. No, I’m fine.”

Figuring that maybe it was better to wait for things to calm down, I walked to another bar nearby and headed to the bathroom.

When I walked in, people looked at me like I was a mass murderer. It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror that I realized I had blood all over me—down my arm, splattered across my tank top, and smeared along the side of my face.

I washed up and went outside, where I heard police cars and saw a police helicopter hovering overhead. I ducked into a nearby miniature golf course, feeling like a fugitive. Actually crawled inside one of those doghouses people putt through, thinking,
Boy, am I in trouble!