Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (12 page)

Just as the likelihood of real-world interdictions seemed eminent, my mentor would be heading home, leaving me as the only medic among the group, at least for the interim. Despite being an unseasoned SEAL and medic, I knew I was ready. As the junior corpsman, I ran all my squad’s medical issues past Scott in order to prevent making a well-intentioned but naive mistake. Although Scott could be very direct, he wasn’t controlling and took pride in his ability to train me in the particulars of battlefield medicine without stifling creativity. Some lessons were obviously necessary for a medic who operates in and around the ocean, like how to waterproof medical gear well enough to exit a submarine while at depth, or how to transport a casualty long distances through the brush, over the beach, and eventually out to sea. Others were more obscure but equally important, such as knowing how to balance the ethical and tactical requirements of being a special operations medic.

Most of these lessons couldn’t be found in textbooks or explained on a chalkboard; they needed to be demonstrated to be understood and then practiced to acquire the craft. Combat trauma medicine is a triad of skill, art, and knowledge that requires being able to combine speed, dexterity, and ingenuity in a calm fashion that can only be gained through practical application, and I had received plenty. The same could be said regarding my operational capabilities. My platoon was loaded with experienced frogmen with every qualification in the book, each one of them willing to pass on his knowledge, and over the course of the workup I, like my fellow FNGs in the platoon, absorbed as much as I could. I knew the level of responsibility that lay on my shoulders and wasn’t about to let any of them down.

*   *   *

As the United States continued lobbying the world for support, Iraqi-flagged vessels slowly positioned themselves outside of the notional “do not cross” line in the sea. With only days remaining before the UN vote on Resolution 678, giving coalition forces the authority to militarily take back Kuwait, they pulled up anchor and ran the blockade. Scramble Alpha was transmitted over the ships 1MC (the main circuit public address system), sending us into action. In less than fifteen minutes we were geared up and test-firing our weapons on our way to the flight deck.

The rules of engagement were extremely strict: Do not fire unless fired upon! There was no way to “positively” know who or what was on those ships, and America couldn’t risk wrecking its newly formed alliance. We may have been designed to be killing machines, but unlike the ancient boarding parties who’d lay waste to both crew and passenger, SEALs are trained to be the most precise and discriminating weapon system in the navy’s inventory, and we weren’t about to let the country down.

I knew this wasn’t going to be some simple search-and-seizure operation. If that were the case they would have sent sailors from one of the neighboring ships. The Iraqi captain had already shown complete disregard for authority by failing to yield to any of the countermeasures the navy was obligated to try on renegade vessels. Make no mistake about it; we would be facing a belligerent crew.

As wheels lifted off we officially received the word “go” and quickly moved into holding pattern until the last bird cleared the flight deck and indicated it was ready for the assault. The helos fell into formation as they approached the target and then descended one by one to a height just above the water’s edge. The low and fast approach prevented the ship’s crew or radar from detecting our assault until it was too late.

“Two minutes,” the door gunner mouthed over the engine noise while holding up his fingers to emphasize his point. Simultaneously the air-crew chief slid the side door open and our cast master positioned the coiled rope next to the door’s edge. As the cold wind started swirling through the airframe, I quickly rechecked every piece of my gear and made sure everything was still in place. This would be my first experience facing a hostile force, and I didn’t want to take any chances. “Thirty seconds!” Through the open door I could see a sniper bird and the other squad’s helo cutting away as we exchanged positions.

“Go!” My hands gripped the rope and I focused on the landing area below. When I hit the deck, I saw the other squad had set security and was waiting on us to start our movement forward. As the last man touched down and drew his weapon, the train began moving toward the bridge. Within minutes we secured the wheelhouse and started sweeping through the rest of the ship. Everything was going according to plan. Although some of the Iraqi crew heard us coming, they had little time to effectively react before finding themselves hogtied and huddled in a holding area. The hard part was done; we had stopped the vessel dead in her tracks. Now all we needed to do was bring on the marines to provide enough manpower to finish searching the vessel.

I think every fighting man yearns to be in a position to impact the outcome of a battle or the history of his nation. I know I did, but I can only speculate whether it was Saddam’s intention to goad America’s navy into sinking a vessel or unnecessarily harming a crew member in hopes of gaining sympathy for his cause and a “no” vote on the UN resolution. That being said, I unequivocally believe that had we, or our SEAL brothers operating in the Persian Gulf, wounded or killed someone the Arab world perceived to be “innocent,” the outcome of the Security Council’s vote would have been different.

History tells us a single shot by a lunatic can be the flashpoint for starting a war, but what I discovered those days at sea was that the discretion of a professional warrior might avert battle altogether. Unfortunately, Saddam never could reciprocate this sensibility, and by mid-January America’s Shield turned into a Storm.

It took less than forty-five days for American forces and our allies to overwhelm the Iraqi army. Our special operations brothers on land found the Iraqis to be largely compliant and apathetic about the fight. As for my fellow warriors, we felt somewhat disappointed. After years of training, months of buildup, and flawless execution, the enemy simply folded like a cheap card table, limiting my platoon’s involvement to interdiction operations. Vietnam was twenty years in the past, and I had very little frame of reference for how war should look and feel. To me, war seemed easy; America had gone up against the third-largest army in the world and soundly defeated it. It would take nearly a decade before I found out how wrong I was.

*   *   *

I ended up spending a little over four years at SEAL Team Two, where I felt I had earned a master’s degree in special operations warfighting from some of the world’s best operators. I would take this expertise on to my next command and a whole new set of teammates. There, other skills would be added and refined, but not before a yearlong stop with the army at the renowned Special Forces Qualification Course—18D.

18 DELTA

Prior to attending 18 Delta the intricacies of battlefield medicine were passed down from one SEAL corpsman to the next, just as Scott had done with me. Although OJT (on-the-job training) was effective, it took an indeterminate amount of time to develop a corpsman and did not guarantee equal proficiency across the force. The army certainly didn’t have this problem; Special Forces had developed the world’s finest combat medical training program and continually updated it to stay in step with modern medicine. Not wanting to reinvent the wheel, Naval Special Warfare Command started negotiations to send all of its SEAL corpsmen through the program. Fortunately, by the time it was my turn to rotate from Team Two all the logistical details had been worked out, so I packed my bags for San Antonio, Texas, and a short tour with the army.

*   *   *

The medic course was broken into three segments. The first portion was held at Fort Sam Houston and included six months of painstaking didactic instruction covering everything from anatomy and physiology to zoonotic disorders. This was followed by two months of clinical training at some of the country’s most remote medical treatment facilities. Each of these was carefully selected based on the medical staff ’s dedication to teaching the 18 Delta and its geographic location. The more isolated the hospital, the more credible a site. Being near the top of the class I had an early pick, so I chose one of the most removed areas in the Southwest run by one of the best medical providers in all of special operations.

Dr. Warner “Butch” Anderson started his career as a Special Forces medic before becoming a physician assistant and later MD. He’d held nearly every medical position in Special Forces, but you’d never know it. His humility and knack for conveying expertise without arrogance made him a favorite among medics and physician interns alike. Yet in spite of his calm demeanor, action always seemed to follow Butch, making him the preferred preceptor for students eager to put their newfound skills to work. It took all of five minutes before I was engulfed in his medical mojo.

It was my first day in the emergency room at the Gallup Indian Hospital, and Butch had just sat me down at the doctors’ station to tell me that not everything I’d see or do would be exciting. “I’ve heard the rumors and I don’t want you to think that every five minutes an emergency is going to burst through that door.” He’d barely finished his sentence when a call came over the radio from the local ambulance company. They were bringing in a man who in a drunken stupor managed to tear his chest open by stepping in front of a moving train. With little time to prepare, I immediately threw on some surgical gloves and readied myself for the inevitable mess.

Minutes later the glass doors slid open and in rolled a man with a partial amputation of his upper and lower limbs, a lacerated chest exposing his lung, and a heart that was barely beating. Butch immediately grabbed my forearm and thrust my hand into the patient’s chest. “Compressions” was all he said as he placed my hand on the heart. “Doc, I guess we’ll finish the conversation about how mundane this place is a little later,” I said as I tried to mimic the heart’s contractions. Butch smiled, then went about directing the rest of the team and paramedics. Despite our best efforts we ended up losing the patient in OR, but what I learned was that even the most traumatic situations could be managed if a competent leader was at the helm, directing, not doing.

Over the next eight weeks I absorbed an enormous amount about the practical application of medicine from Butch and laid the foundation for a lifelong friendship before heading to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. There the class would finish the course with an intense three-month trauma module on frontline care. We weren’t sure what we’d encounter, but we knew this final segment would piece together the education of Fort Sam Houston and skills we practiced during our hospital rotations with the realities of war.

*   *   *

Having worked with Army Special Forces in the past, I thought I knew them, but it took nearly a year working side by side to earn the Special Forces medic qualification before I really understood who these men were. Green Berets didn’t enlist to be special operations; rather, they joined to be soldiers, each one proudly serving in the infantry, armor, artillery, intelligence, or combat support. However, somewhere along the way each one of them had a revelation that unconventional warfare was his true calling. Unlike BUD/S, where the average rank and age were indicative of men entering the service, Special Forces recruited from within the rank and file of the army, seeking only the most experienced soldiers, which is the key to their success.

Special Forces sergeants from Vietnam to Afghanistan have led company-sized forces against hardened enemies and won. They do it because they are “intellectual” warriors using judgment and reason to develop tactics foreign fighters can implement to win in battle. For them textbook maneuvers only work if the men they lead understand the textbook, so they are often forced to develop unconventional approaches to nearly everything they do. They certainly did when it came to the instruction of medicine, and all of special operations is better for it.

10

EVACUATION

Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; and many things which cannot be overcome when they are together, yield themselves up when taken little by little.

—P
LUTARCH

After graduation I was assigned to a team tasked with training our allies in South and Central America, especially those battling internal threats such as rampant drug trafficking. I’d soon find out that was only a small portion of the adventure that lay ahead.

*   *   *

We arrived at Soto Cano Air Base in Honduras to help the regional authorities develop the necessary skills to deal with the troubles affecting the territory. We were there as advisers; the local troops handled the heavy lifting. Immediately after touching down, we received orders for our first operation. The mission would take half of the platoon to the shore of the Caribbean Sea, just within the borders of Honduras. We were dropped off by air and set up a base near an airfield that paralleled the sea. As usual, I set up a small clinic, used primarily for the treatment of my guys but also for the foreign troops serving with us. I would also treat the locals if supplies and time permitted. We were ahead of schedule for the first few days, so Dave, our officer in charge, gave us the morning off to enjoy the sun and water. While most of the platoon got up for a morning ocean swim, I opted for alone time at the other end of the compound. I snuck away and strung a hammock made out of parachute cord and jungle netting facing away from the others. I would have hung a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign had one been available.

For an hour, I enjoyed the rising sun while listening to local music on a small radio and thumbing through medical journals. Just as the sun rose above the eastern horizon, a hulking figure approached and blocked it out. The silhouette told me it was Smitty, a large SEAL who looked like a scruffy Mr. Clean, but with a bad disposition.

“What’s up, Smitty?” I asked, assuming he wanted me to look at someone’s sprain or perhaps a nasty jellyfish sting.