Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (10 page)

8

THE TEAMS

The test of a good teacher is not how many questions he can ask his pupils that they will answer readily, but how many questions he inspires them to ask him which he finds it hard to answer.

—A
LICE
W
ELLINGTON
R
OLLINS

My orders were to Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek in Hampton Roads, Virginia, now called the Joint Expeditionary Base. Little Creek, as it’s known colloquially, is a medium-sized installation that sits on the Chesapeake Bay, just a few miles southeast of the world’s largest naval base in Norfolk, Virginia, and roughly ten miles north of Virginia Beach’s resort area. It was established in the early 1940s as a training station; its primary mission was to train naval forces on how to put a substantial number of troops on the beach while facing enemy gunfire. Ships specifically designed for this task, dubbed “amphibs” or “gator freighters,” continually trained offshore with landing crafts perfecting these procedures. As the Second World War came to a close, the base’s central location on the eastern seaboard and its proximity to Naval Base Norfolk’s support facilities made it an ideal berthing for the Atlantic Fleet’s amphibs. As time passed, Little Creek would become the home to a number of operational commands including Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the navy’s Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit, and eventually, the Navy SEALs.

I had orders to SEAL Team Two, one of the two original Sea-Air-Land Teams established by President John F. Kennedy in 1962. SEAL Team Two would be my home port for the foreseeable future, and I was eager to finally get started on real-world operations. I remember arriving in Virginia Beach on a rainy Thursday night, a few days earlier than expected. The next day I tried to make use of the time by getting some personal items squared away, but just like in the Corps, I had to be officially checked on board a command, so I had time to kill. I called Tony, a classmate who had already checked on board his team. We met for beers at a local team guy bar, and I tried to pump him for intel. All I got was a sly smile and “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. It’s loads of fun.”

On Monday morning, I arrived at the team an hour early in a perfectly pressed dress white uniform and found out the Administration Department had already scheduled a 1000 meeting with my commanding officer. I didn’t have time to do anything before then, so I sat in the office watching the clock until precisely two minutes till, then walked up to the CO’s hatch (a nautical term for the doorway), knocked on the frame three times, and requested permission to enter. The skipper called me in, placed me at the position of attention in front of his desk, and proceeded to flip through my ridiculously thin military record. After several minutes, he put me “at ease” and began explaining the team’s mission and his commander’s intent. His tone was calm and measured, ensuring I clearly understood his objectives and how the officers and senior enlisted would execute their assignments. This never happened in the Corps; young marines followed orders, rarely expecting or receiving explanations about their leaders’ objectives. From the moment I arrived on base, though, I could tell things were going to be vastly different from anything I ever knew in the past. The skipper continued describing how the SEAL Teams operate on the premise that America will be at war by the end of the day and we will be fighting it. It doesn’t matter if peace reigns throughout the world; in the SEAL’s mind it only takes a few critical minutes to harm America, as evidenced at Pearl Harbor in 1941. To SEALs this means much more than being ready to deploy at a moment’s notice; it means the CO expects his crew to think and act independently to accomplish the mission. This was a dramatic departure from the highly structured world of the Marine Corps. In the teams, our ability to think and act as individuals was not only valued but expected, as long as it supported the team’s mission.

I listened intently to everything he said and even asked a question or two to clarify a few points, but by the time he finished there was absolutely no doubt he lived and breathed physical, mental, and operational readiness, and expected me to do the same.

“One last thing,” skipper said before dismissing me.

“Sir?”

“Don’t think making it through BUD/S proves anything to anyone. All my men have done the same thing. You haven’t demonstrated anything, yet. If you stay hungry you’ll earn your spot here among my warriors. Ease off and you might find yourself leaving for the fleet.” His calm, steady tone reinforced the strength of his words.

“Yes, sir, I know what’s required of me, and I won’t let the team down.”

Skipper then stood up, firmly gripped my hand, and shook it. “That’s the spirit, Doc. Welcome aboard.”

Next stop was the command master chief ’s office. He was the senior ranking enlisted member, and he knew everything that happened within the team, and then some. Master Chief Ponson was a lean and fit SEAL with a slight French accent, decades of experience, and an obsession with skydiving. He welcomed me in his office, then promptly told me I was the only FNG, or “f***ing new guy,” from my class assigned to the team. He explained how the navy purposely spreads new graduates across the force to keep the number of FNGs at each team fairly low. This maintains a high median experience level while allowing for one-on-one mentoring by the team’s senior members, a key training element in the SEAL Teams. Master Chief launched into an oral history of Naval Special Warfare and the teams, then drilled down on the storied past of SEAL Team Two. I listened intently and took mental notes in case I was quizzed later. In just under two hours I had learned what the CO expected of me as a member of his crew and what the community expected from me now that I had officially become a member of the frog family.

“Donald, don’t worry about the rest of the check-in process today. I want you to go find a place to live right now. That’s your top priority. I don’t care if you’re staying with another SEAL, if you rent an apartment or buy a home. I want you out of the bachelor quarters by the end of the day, if at all possible.” Master Chief went on to explain how life in the barracks can lead to trouble, and that certain segments of the military challenged “the SEAL” to fill a void in their manhood that was created by their lacking the courage to try to become one themselves. He went on, “There’s plenty of opportunities for fighting, but the type you’ll find in town is not the type you need to be doing.”

Having always lived in a crowded home, the idea of having a place of my own was music to my ears. After speaking with Tony and a few of his teammates, I knew exactly where to look.

As I rose to leave, Master Chief gave me the plans for the following days’ events. “Doc, Quarters is at 0700 every morning immediately followed by two hours of PT. Since you don’t have your gear issue, it’s probably best you just wear your dress whites again. I’ll meet you on the quarterdeck at 0645 and introduce you to the boys then. Welcome aboard. It’s great to have another corpsman. It’s one of our biggest shortfalls in the teams.”

“Thank you, Master Chief, I look forward to meeting everyone then,” I said before hustling out the door.

*   *   *

The next morning I met Master Chief on the quarterdeck as instructed and followed him outside for morning muster. The team was gathered in the compound, ready for another fine navy day. I was the lone FNG walking among a herd of barrel-chested “been there, done that” frogmen. Master Chief had me stand off to the side where I couldn’t hear his comments to the executive officer, but I certainly heard the laughter coming from the seasoned SEALs as we waited for Quarters to begin.

The leading petty officer called the team to attention. I looked over at Mater Chief Ponson, to see if he wanted me to stay put or jump into formation with the rest of them, but he kept staring straight ahead. Then I started to hear voices softly saying “meeeeeat, meeeeeeat,” referring to my being the new meat on the team.

“Alright, that’s enough, get into formation,” Master Chief said to the crowd. The platoon chiefs immediately reacted to his orders and instantly turned the gaggle of team guys into a military formation. “Attention,” Master Chief barked as the CO walked out to join his crew.

“At ease,” said the skipper as he made his way to the center of the formation. The CO’s message was quick and to the point, just like the day before when I’d met with him. This time, however, his speech was followed by an inauguration ritual.

“Skipper,” Master Chief said, trying to conceal his smile under his mustache. “Remember, sir, we have a new man to introduce to the crew.”

“Yes, you’re right, Master Chief,” he replied, acting as if he’d forgotten, although he certainly hadn’t. “Carry on.”

“Petty Officer Donald front and center,” Master Chief said firmly.

Not knowing how formally Quarters was run in the SEAL Teams, I decided not to chance it, so I marched up to the elevated walkway, making sure I did proper facing movements along the way.

“Relax, Donald,” the CO said under his breath before addressing the troops. “Petty Officer Donald is a BUD/S graduate and one of our new corpsmen.”

“Wow, was it hard?” one of the voices yelled from the back, followed by “Hey Doc, why does it burn when I pee?”

Unfazed, the CO continued on. “Interestingly enough, Petty Officer Donald was a marine before he joined the navy.” He hadn’t even finished his sentence before jarhead jokes started among the group. I was beginning to feel like the skipper was waving a twenty-four-ounce steak in front of a pack of rabid dogs that hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Calm down … calm down,” Master Chief said, laughing under his breath. It took a few seconds, but eventually everyone quieted down. We all stood there silent for a few moments. Master Chief then looked at me and said, “Well?”

“What, Master Chief?” I stammered, looking back at him. A voice from the crew yelled, “Tell us about yourself!” I glanced at Master Chief, unsure how to proceed.

“Well, Donald, are you going to tell us about yourself or not?” Master Chief asked.

“Uh, alright, Master Chief,” I answered, trying to think about what to say. Apparently I wasn’t thinking loud enough to hold off the comments coming in from the peanut gallery.

“It’s not rocket science, meat, tell us about yourself.”

“Where are you from?”

“Do you enjoy long walks on the beach?”

“Pipe up! We can’t hear you in the back!”

Completely confused, I attempted to answer. “Well, I’m originally from…” was as far as I got before the whole crowd erupted with team guy shouts.

“Shut up!”

“No one wants to hear you, meat!”

And the more polite “Close your mouth, Donald!”

“Quiet down and let him speak,” Master Chief answered back to the men while I stood there shocked, not sure which way to go.

“Please continue,” Master Chief said with a nod.

I tried again, only the second I opened my mouth a virtual tidal wave of taunts and insults rolled over me like a tsunami.

“Shut the hell up, meat!”

This continued for a few more times, until I received the message loud and clear: As an FNG, I’d better keep my mouth shut and listen to what the salty team guys say—the SEAL equivalent of “Do not speak until spoken to.”

Even the skipper enjoyed watching my attempts to be heard, and I’m sure he probably would’ve let it continue if it hadn’t been cutting into PT time.

“Attention,” Master Chief called out, bringing everyone back to the reality of the military so he could officially end Quarters. “Carry on,” the skipper said before he entered the building with his officers in tow.

That wasn’t too bad
, I thought.
A little bit of yelling to reinforce my naïveté within the community and …

Thud! I was suddenly on the deck and being stretched as if I were on some medieval torture rack while a few of my teammates taped my ankles and knees together. They then flipped me over to secure my hands behind my back as if I were wearing handcuffs. I knew where I was going, straight into the drink. At BUD/S every SEAL is taught how to survive in the water with our hands tightly bound behind our back and our feet strapped together. We call it “drownproofing,” and successive repetitions of this drill and many others relieve any fear a student might have of water. This was just going to be the “same old, same old,” only this time I was in my dress white uniform.

They finished the tape job and hoisted me overhead and carried me to the bay as if I were some rock star who’d dived from the stage into the crowd. Everyone seemed so happy with the idea of having me take an ocean swim, I couldn’t help but laugh along, wondering if I’d ever find my shoes again.

“Welcome overboard, mate!” was the last thing I heard before my right side hit the cold Chesapeake Bay. Of course, with a uniform on I immediately began to sink to the bottom, but training kicked in. I bobbed right up like I had been taught at BUD/S. I then started dolphin swimming toward the boat ramp as my new friends looked on. It took several minutes to get there and then another five to worm my way onto the dry area of the ramp.

I was lying there catching my breath when one of the team guys came over to look at me.

“Glad to have you as part of the team, Doc,” he said while he cut me free.

“Damn glad to be here,” I answered back as I got to my feet and shook his hand. For the rest of the week, I endured nonstop teasing, taunting, and relentless pranks that often ended up with me in the bay fully dressed, but it was all part of being a team guy. I’d earned the chance to join a platoon by finishing BUD/S. To earn the trust and respect of my teammates, I had to embrace the initiation period and drive on with good humor, even when dripping wet in a dress uniform. More importantly, I had to perform as a warrior and medical provider and prove my worth by my actions and dedication to the mission and the team. I was up for the challenge and jumped in with both feet.

MY FIRST PLATOON

SEAL Teams are broken up into smaller operational platoons, and I had been assigned to one shortly after arriving in Virginia due to the shortage of SEAL-qualified corpsmen. My new platoon had just returned from a long deployment that took them across Europe and parts of Africa. There, they helped bolster the defense forces of our undeveloped allies, with hopes they would defend themselves against threats to their governments, thereby preventing the need for a U.S. military presence there in the future. They also spent time working with the renowned British Special Boat Service, or SBS, and other allied frogmen, concentrating on improving “interaction and coordination” between our countries. This would prove essential as America headed into the First Gulf War.