Unbreakable: A Navy SEAL’s Way of Life (8 page)

Service is about treating the other person as if they were God. In point of fact, however, God has faults, and what most people do with those faults is deal with them instead of giving a ton of space to those faults. I noticed Stacy and I gave each other’s faults tons of space. In effect, we didn’t deal with or try to reason with the faults. Instead, we dealt with each other as if the other were God. We dealt only with what we were creating the other person to be.

That mindset, and consequently, those actions of giving space to the bad things and dealing only with the greatness, allowed even more greatness to come out in the other person. Stacy got access to being a great woman, a great mom, and a stunning wife by me not dealing with her
oh, shits
and bad ways. In effect, the things causing her to fail in other relationships most certainly came up during our courtship and marriage, but I gave them
space
and dealt with the greatness in her.

Stacy, in turn, gave tons of space to my failings, my indiscretions—my smelly feet, as it were—and dealt with what made me powerful. She fully embraced and supported me as a violent warrior. I bring that up because current society and politically minded people never talk about it. The Spartan Wife is a cliché or even a bad word. The current trend is to equate the phrase Spartan Wife with the N-word for black people. I hold Stacy, my Spartan Wife, equal to God, and am not ashamed of it. Don’t you ever be ashamed of it, either.

In turn, all the space given to fail, to make mistakes, caused many to go away or even die. I know this is truly counterintuitive. Giving space to the bad and dealing with the good springs from the grace of an Internal Dialogue of
need
to be
needed.
Dealing only with the things in others that make them powerful, while giving space to their weaknesses, literally
reshapes the other person. Changing the other person never occurs to you. Dealing with greatness signals to the other person they are great, so why not be great?

How does this work in reality? I know words on paper are fun to read and make sense, but in the back of your mind, you may not see a way to make it work. That’s why, in my opinion, self-help books don’t resoundingly make a difference to anyone. Love thy neighbor as thyself gets lost because you try it, and the neighbor shits on you, then you deal with the shit and give space to others’ greatness. You spend every waking minute dealing with shit from others, and you move away from them. Instead, what works is the opposite. The neighbor shits on you, and you give it space. Acknowledge the shit, then give it space. Deal with what is powerful. For instance, Stacy had to give space to my going to war and being alone with two children who were not hers to begin with. She then dealt with me being aggressive and violent, and embraced and promoted those traits. She dealt with being a mom to our kids and embraced it full throttle.

Need
to be
needed
works in combat as a rallying point—even for the hardest of men in the worst conditions. Men who survive when others fail have a
need
to be
needed.
The
need
to be
needed
by a woman is paramount for the development of a man … any man, really. Also, the
need
to be
needed
works between men in combat. We need each other, not just for combat, but also for the connection to each other. Embracing this understanding does not make a man soft. This is actually what sets successful men apart from failures. History is rife with accounts of successful men having a strong woman; it’s equally rife with failures having no woman to
need.
I can’t think of one single man who doesn’t have a woman behind his successes. That doesn’t mean in any way that woman was his wife, but behind every great man is a woman.

I don’t think buildings would be built if men were alone. Hell, why even make a fortune if you have no one to share it with or do it for? I know I wouldn’t achieve anything difficult if not for Stacy, who fosters and embodies that need in me.

So my fourth task for you is this: find, discover, and create an Internal Dialogue with a man that says, powerfully, “I
need
him, and he
needs
me.” I know this will take a great deal of time, and yes, mistakes will be made. Men will not know what to do with you. I suggest they will ask less of you or push you toward subservient crap. Be patient, strong, and never settle. Hone and reshape your own Internal Dialogue, and do your best to push away those who would lessen you as a woman. Don’t fall prey to sex as the only way to connect. And trust me, that will be a hard feat in itself. Oh, don’t confuse love and lust with the power of how your own Internal Dialogue will connect all things. Look to Stacy as a guide.

JOSÉ ORTEGA Y GASSET
“We do not live to think, but, on the contrary, we think in order that we may succeed in surviving.”

A
fter four days of sleeping and tending to his face wounds, Carnie recovered and engaged with life again. I had been keeping my eye on him. LT and I talked often about how we should deal with Carnie. Paying close attention to those around you is vital; yet equally important is not indulging in the drama of emotions. Now, that may seem hardened and cold, but in fact, it is the opposite entirely. Tough physical and emotional times make you even more sensitive to life and living. And, as Carnie slept off the emotions of what could have happened, LT and I continued on and allowed him time to sort through what had happened.

I personally do not put much stock in seeking psychological counseling, because when you focus on the drama and a bad situation over and over again, tying how you feel to the bad situation, emotional upset becomes practice. Your focus will become your reality. So as the days progressed, we began to task Carnie with doing his job in the platoon and did not talk about what had happened in any serious conversation. All I would say to Carnie was, “I need your help with getting my sniper rifle set up because I need you to carry it in for me on the next target.” I needed him to focus on what he liked to do and what others needed him to do.

Eight days after the IED had exploded and blown bone fragments up in his grill, we were inserting once again into hell. We had pinned down a certain Taliban leader in an area no other forces would go. Letting this man roam around wherever he wanted to just didn’t seem right, so as we watched him go to bed that night, we jumped in the helos and began our infiltration into what we later called Afghani-nam.

When Nike again woke me at the one-minute-out call, I rubbed the dust out of my eyes, clicked on my night vision, and gazed out the back of the helo. To my surprise, and to Nike’s, this beautiful line of machine gun tracer fire crisscrossed the sky behind us and snaked its way right into the side of the helo. I jumped backward and landed on Lawyer, who had not seen the light show, and who jokingly said, “Jesus, Chief, your radio isn’t that heavy.” Before I could speak, the helo landed, and unbeknownst to most of the passengers, we had just been shot.

Since my comms never worked anyway, I couldn’t warn them, so I decided to just get out with them and let that fact sit in the deadness of my radio. Once off the helo, the dust enveloped us all, and the power and noise of the blades lifting the helo skyward drowned out the screaming voice in my head yelling to take cover. At 100 feet in the air, the helo Gatling guns opened up, and we all ran toward the nearest trench. I recall looking up and watching the red arc of bullets heading off into the distance, opposite our direction of travel, and thinking to myself, “Shit, we have four miles to go, and they already know we are here.”

But as I turned to Nike, I saw my platoon and Nike already moving silently in the direction of our target and fanning out into an aggressive pattern that would be our trademark response to encountering the enemy at night. It was simple: keep your eyes open, and don’t return fire unless you see someone to shoot at. We owned the night with our night vision, tactics, and our eyes in the sky. Therefore, we pressed on.

I laugh as I write this, because hell is supposed to be a desert, but within 100 yards of the helo insert, Nike had already found a river and was knee deep, walking close to the bank. Damn, I love that man. I liked the feel of the water and seeing my platoon moving in rhythm with each other, feeling their way, and most importantly, making their way when nothing else worked.

After two miles in the river, deep in filthy, rushing water, I stopped liking
Nike. I waded up to Nike and said, “Bro, I think it is time to get on the bank. We are not going to hit the target at the designated time.” He smiled and said, “But walking in the water is much cooler, don’t you think?” We laughed, then helped each other up the steep bank into Afghani-nam.

Once up top, we discovered the fields had just been irrigated and were now two feet deep with mud and water. We had not planned for the swamp, but we did plan for the twenty-two canal crossings we had seen in the route planning. We constructed two ladder/bridges to get across the canals and to scale the walls outside the target. As we pushed the first bridge across the first canal, the stupidity of this idea resonated with the snapping sound of the wood when the second guy, who weighed 300 pounds, fell into the deep canal. As he worked his way up the far bank, he calmly reached down and pulled the broken ladder/bridge over to his side, and spinning like a discus thrower, launched the would-be bridge off into the darkness of the night. We all laughed and jumped into the canal to swim across. Who would have thought SEALs would be swimming in hell?

Our patrol extended out to cover about 800 yards from point element, which I was in, and the rear security element. My point element was me, Nike, our EOD, Carnie, All Around, and Texas. We had separated ourselves about 100 yards ahead in order to allow for more ease in movement of the main effort. We often “bird dog,”—move left and right—and often stop and retrace steps to find the best path. More importantly, if we walk into an ambush, the rest of the force isn’t caught up in the killing field and can easily maneuver to take vengeance.

Throughout the years of training and deploying as a SEAL, I’ve always found that no matter how well you plan something, it is always different when you actually get there. The desert had turned into marshland—fully equipped with 10,000 mosquitoes for good measure. After wading through two feet of muddy, irrigated swamp, I was covered in bites and muddy up to my thighs. My gun was still clean, so at least I could fight from the swamp, because I sure as hell couldn’t move fast enough to run away. Approaching the target area, I breathed a sigh of relief—it was on top of a hill, which meant no more swamp.

Now is the hour of calm, when everything makes sense and all the pain and frustration goes away, and you truly live in the moment. That
unforgiving moment matters more than anything else in combat. In that moment, the bugs do not matter, the pain seeps away, and the sock that was bunched up near my toes just isn’t important any longer. Right now, is just the men and the enemy.

My boys were supposed to lock down the target so the main assault could go after and find the bad guys inside the buildings. We approached the wall around the compound, and Nike and Carnie extended the ladder. “For Christ’s sake, the fucking sticks extend three feet out from the roof,” Nike laughed. I looked at Nike and said, “Who cares. Get your ass up there. Break them or saw them, but I need eyes in that compound right now.”

Carnie and I pushed Nike over the lip and broke some branches in the process. We ended up on the roof, and no one in the compound was awake. When the main assault came up to the gate, I halted them and suggested two men climb over the gate and open it from the inside, instead
of blowing the hell out of the gate. Although blowing things up is always fun and causes chaos, it also wakes up everyone within earshot. Since we had the drop on them, I figured we should keep it and not wake the bad men up as they slept.

As the initial entry changed, I moved around the wall toward my final position to check on the rest of the men. For Christ’s sake, I do hate the uneven ground in rural countries. I stumbled my way toward Jake, who was on top of the ladder, looking into the compound. On the last two steps toward the ladder, I fell through a rotted footbridge. When I looked up, Jake, with his ever-disgusted look, said, “Fuck this place. We need to make it a glass factory,” then calmly looked back into the compound.

Once I righted myself, I walked by the ladder and shook it, excited to hear his creative Internal Dialogue on loudspeaker. He didn’t even look down. But after four more steps, I heard him mumble, “Pussy.” That is the Jake I love … everything was going to be OK.

We had been on target for three minutes at this point, and I was close to my final position when I heard the voice of the assault lead say he had secured the two primary bad guys. We had three hours left until the helos were to return to pick us up, which meant we had more time to clear more buildings and more time to pick a fight.

Looking through my sniper scope and night vision, I could see movement on the final target building. Or did I? Multiple targets and three elements maneuvering throughout the battle space is always complicated. I wasn’t sure where my boys were, and I couldn’t tell if the person was carrying a weapon. I waited … and waited … and waited. Wow, the eyes do play tricks on the mind, but I waited longer.

I had pushed out on comms to the assault element what I had seen, and after an hour, the person was gone and no shots had been fired. Although you may hear SEALs and the military just kill and blow up everything, this simply isn’t true. In the confusion of battle, shooting without 100 percent target identification is never a good idea. I sure as hell wasn’t willing to kill one of my own men.

Finally, the entire target was secured, and we were beginning to organize for movement off target. Again, we had people spread out over a 700-yard area and eight separate buildings. I called for my team leaders to check in, and within one minute, we had a full head count and were
poised for movement. We also called the helos to ensure they were ready and that everything was normal on their end. Nothing is worse than no one being there when you are ready to leave. Even in the airport where people miss a flight, people get a bit aggravated. In combat, things get worse.

Everything was going perfectly; we had the two bad guys and were ready to blow up all the drugs and weapons found on target. We now had to move some distance to where the helos would pick us up. Yeah, right.

When we detonated the leftovers, all the lights in all the houses within a kilometer turned on. Someone said over the radio, “Wakie, wakie. Eggs and bakie. Game on, boys.”

My element again took up point and briskly put some distance between the target and us. Again into the fields of mud, again jumping across canals, and again kissing the mosquitoes. At helo pick up point, we fanned out into security positions and waited for the ride home. Nike and I shared a Copenhagen, and he looked at me and smiled, saying, “Chief, it would be a bitch if the helos got shot down, wouldn’t it?”

I looked at him, paused, and finally replied, “Why would you waste a good dip of Copenhagen on that?” We sat looking in the direction the helos would come, trying to smile, and waited. There is always waiting. There will always be waiting.

Finally, I heard the sound of the helos and saw the first of two rise over the crest of the hill nearest us. Nike grabbed my arm as a rocket propelled grenade launched from the ground and hit the helo. For a moment, neither Nike nor I moved. The helo opened fire on something unseen to us and started to land.

Let me tell you something: until that point in my life, I didn’t think running on top of the water like good ol’ Jesus did was possible, but suddenly, Nike and I were up and running across the mud and swamp as if it were the Olympic 400-meter dash. And trust me, we only took forty seconds to cover the distance. As the two helos landed and the ramp lowered, we jumped in and slid across the deck, getting our final head count. Since I was the last man into the helo, I smacked the crew chief on the back and said, “Bro we owe you a beer. But, seriously, let’s get the fuck out of here!”

Although the helo had just been hit with a dud RPG, and we had tons
of excitement on target, I again fell asleep mid-flight. When Nike kicked me awake, the sun was just coming up as we landed. Sunrise did not make the big dent on the side of the helo any less ugly. Bravo platoon had made it through another close call with only dents and scrapes. LT and I debriefed the boys, talking about what we did right and asking the men what we could have done better. After the men left the room, LT and I sat for a minute, not talking.

“Chief, what are your thoughts?” LT asked.