Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (3 page)

“Mark,” he said pulling me aside, “you may have to move up in a weight class and wrestle kids bigger than you, but that doesn’t make you less competitive. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” He paused to see if his point was sinking in. He often used clichés but spoke with such sincerity that the point hit home every time.

“I want you to be competitive at everything you do. If you’re on a conditioning run, try to be the first one in. If you’re in the classroom, try for the best grade in the class. Heck, if you get up to sharpen your pencil, try and make it the sharpest pencil in the room. You’ll never be the best at everything, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be the best at something. Just don’t quit trying to get there!”

I absorbed his advice and tried to incorporate it in all aspects of my life, including my choices during military service.

STAFF SERGEANT SANDOVAL

I first met Staff Sergeant Sandoval in the main hallway at the high school. He stood next to a folding table covered with recruiting materials, and he looked damn sharp in his dress blues. He was smart and personable, a good combination for a recruiter. He saw me walking by and mentioned my wrestling shirt, which led to a conversation about the sport and my love for it. He didn’t even mention the marines that day, although he made a big impression on me.

Not as big as the next time I saw him, though. It was two weeks later, and I was wrestling in a regional tournament at the high school. Staff Sergeant Sandoval showed up and greeted me by name. He had driven all the way out to the school to watch me wrestle, and frankly, I was stunned. Yes, I know, it was probably a recruiting ploy, but he was
there,
and aside from Mom, who made every match, even if it was on her way to one of her three jobs, no one really cared about my wrestling career.

A week later, I found myself in the staff sergeant’s office, and a week after that, I broke the news to Mom that I wanted to be a marine. It’s important to understand Mom’s position in all of this. She saw how the military affected my father, and she was scared witless the same thing would happen to me. On the other hand, she also knew the military would take me away from the streets of Albuquerque and the stresses at home and would present opportunities that would allow me to succeed on my own. I relayed Mom’s concerns to Staff Sergeant Sandoval, so he invited Mom and me to the office for a chat. Upon arrival, we were introduced to his parents, who both happened to be deaf. He spoke sign language to his parents and fluent Spanish to Mom, which of course melted her on the spot. We visited for two hours, and Mom began to admit this might be good for her “mijo” but was still unable to let go. Staff Sergeant Sandoval listened politely, fully grasping Mom’s concerns; after all, he’d heard them many times before from other concerned mothers.

He crossed the room and sat next to Mom, then patted her hand and spoke gently. “Mrs. Donald, I understand you want to keep your boy close by. It’s the way of our people.” He then gestured to his mother and father. “My parents are right here; family is very important to me, too. But Mark is a smart young man with tremendous potential. Maybe he’ll have a better chance of reaching that in uniform. Mark seems to think so.”

“I understand, Sergeant, but he is my boy, and like you say, family is everything,” she said. “This is very difficult for me.”

Staff Sergeant Sandoval paused for a few seconds and then smiled. “I think I have an idea.”

He then proposed a reserve contract and explained that as a Marine Corps reservist, I would be a part-time marine, which meant I could stay in Albuquerque and drill on the weekends with a specialized unit. I would attend boot camp, of course, but otherwise serve as a reservist and live at home. Mom was amenable to the idea and agreed to meet again in a couple of weeks. I, however, had a hard time with the compromise. I wanted to enlist and get far away from Albuquerque, and the thought of returning to the same hell I was currently in didn’t make me happy. Still, I wasn’t going to leave without Mom’s approval, so I met privately with Staff Sergeant Sandoval to discuss the options.

We met after practice at Vip’s Big Boy, my early-morning sanctuary and study hall. Staff Sergeant Sandoval explained how reservists were expected to attend schools just like active-duty marines; not only that, they could also apply to join one of the United States Marine Corps Reconnaissance units, commonly known as Recon. He briefly explained the missions of Recon Marines, and the thought of being part of a secretive small unit that gathered intelligence and did cool-guy missions similar to those carried out by the Navy SEALs and the army’s Special Forces really intrigued me—but there was a catch. First, the closest reserve Reconnaissance command was right here in Albuquerque. Second, I would eventually have to qualify as a Reconnaissance Marine, which meant passing a grueling training program; otherwise, I might have to drill with another unit. I didn’t care for the idea of coming back home, but if I made it I could be spending many months and sometimes years in schools far away from here. I was in optimum shape at the time, so I couldn’t imagine not being able to make the cut. That was it. My mind was set on joining the Corps, and I knew Mom would eventually come around, too. Another week passed, and we all met to discuss details.

Mom finally agreed, but with one requirement. As tears welled up in her eyes, she looked at Staff Sergeant Sandoval and said, “Staff Sergeant, my husband served over twenty years, and I know men in dress uniforms will visit me if something were to happen to my boy. So when you come to take him away from me I deserve that same respect. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Staff Sergeant Sandoval took her hand, looked her in the eye, and promised he did. To this day, I choke up thinking about that moment and the impact a mother feels hearing her child will be leaving her for the military.

It took a couple of months to finish school, fill out paperwork, visit MEPS (the Military Entrance Processing Station) for a medical exam, and button up the details of my enlistment, but the day finally came. We all watched as Staff Sergeant Sandoval pulled up to the house in the government sedan, exited the car, and walked to our door, in his United States Marine Corps dress blue uniform with his medals dangling. Mom opened the door, and the staff sergeant politely removed his hat and formally announced, “Mrs. Donald, I’m here for your son.”

3

EMERGENCE OF AN AMPHIBIAN

There’s a fine line between courage and foolishness. Too bad it’s not a fence.

—A
NONYMOUS

Boot camp at Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) San Diego was challenging, but I followed Staff Sergeant Sandoval’s advice and made it through by “keeping my mouth shut, ears open, and following orders to the letter.” Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was still in top physical condition from wrestling season and had trained in the mountains of New Mexico before arriving at sea-level San Diego, both of which helped me breeze through the PT (physical training) with relative ease. Like other kids from a blue-collar background, I was accustomed to hard work and thrived in the highly structured environment that was lacking at home. I missed my family but didn’t have time to think on it.

Not everything came easy. The Marine Corps is an amphibious assault force, and all marines have to be able to survive in the water. So it only stands to reason that basic water survival training occurs at the recruit depot. I’ll never forget the day our senior drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Shanhurst, marched Platoon 1097 to the pool for our first swim lesson. Up to that point I had excelled at every event and was in the running for top recruit and a meritorious promotion on graduation day, however, on pool day, humility came knocking. Many recruits already knew how to swim, but I wasn’t one of them. Having almost drowned at an early age, I went to great extents to avoid water over waist deep. However, being a naive and cocky recruit, I not only ignored those memories but somehow convinced myself that sheer willpower would see me through. I must have been quite a spectacle as a seventeen-year-old Mexican American kid getting ready to embarrass the hell out of myself. Heck, I’d pay good money to watch it today if I could.

It all started when the drill instructors who worked at the training tank came out and started separating us into categories. Without any regard for my own safety I jumped in the line with the experienced swimmers. After all, that’s where my competition for honor graduate was, so I had to be there, too. After a short briefing on the upcoming event, we were marched through the building and onto a cold pool deck. There the lead instructor explained that our group would be starting first so they could clear the area for the others requiring more training. Assuming things would go quickly, with no surprises (such as nonswimmers in the pool), the instructors informed us we would first swim in camouflage utilities. After a quick demonstration we were asked if anyone had any questions or doubted his ability to pass the test. Still feeling arrogant, I thought,
How hard can this be? You put on some clothes, jump into the water, and swim to the side. I can do this
.

As I approached the rack to get a pair of the wet fatigues, I saw the remedial swimmers, the group I should’ve been with, make their way to the shallow end of the pool. That’s when I started to feel as if I had made a grave mistake. Even so, rather than swallowing my pride and accepting the countless push-ups that recruits receive for their blunders, I proceeded to learn my lesson the hard way.

As I pulled the wet clothing over my body I immediately felt every piece of my skin retract underneath. It was as if I were trying to isolate the chilly fabric to my shoulders in order to preserve my body heat by ensuring the rest of my body remained dry. I took a spot at the back of the line and watched my fellow recruits go before me and realized exactly what I was getting myself into. Still, I blindly followed the recruit in front of me. Perhaps I thought my aquatic abilities had changed over time or I had intuitively learned to swim, or maybe I felt that St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, would somehow see me through. Whatever the reason, I climbed the ladder leading to the platform that overlooked the 12' pool and readied myself for the exercise, which started with an “abandon ship entry.”

I walked to the edge and looked down and was instantly terrified. Had we actually been at sea and had to make this jump to survive, I would have chosen to go down with the ship, that’s how scared I was. Apparently that wasn’t scared enough to turn around and walk toward the angry drill instructor at the end of the platform, so I decided to jump.

I landed as instructed, and the cold water collapsed around the fatigues, grabbing me and pulling me down. Miraculously, I hit bottom on my feet, and the familiarity of being upright gave me a glimmer of hope, so I looked up to the pool deck for instruction. I waited for a second or two, but when no order came down from above I started to flail as if I were trying to ascend some invisible ladder. I know the drill instructors must have thought I was some joker who was acting as if he couldn’t swim, but I was about to prove them wrong. I don’t remember much after that except waking up in a puddle of my own vomit, with a group of drill instructors yelling at me mercilessly. The Marine Corps had just handed me my first slice of mean green humble pie, and I ate every bite.

Never again would I let my ego convince me something easily demonstrated by an expert is actually
easy
! Lesson learned, and with my tail between my legs, I got up and joined the other recruits at the shallow end of the pool. Unfortunately, my stunt in the pool blew my chances at honor graduate—not because I minimally qualified as a swimmer but because I knowingly deceived my drill instructors and my fellow recruits. That was simply was unacceptable by Corps standards. Although my senior drill instructor gave me no written punishment in my military record (I’m sure the humor and humiliation of the event were more than enough for everyone involved), he had to do something. Staff Sergeant Shanhurst called me into his office and explained how I couldn’t be expected to maintain Marine Corps standards of integrity if my first lesson in the Corps was that the standard doesn’t always apply. He was right: The Marine Corps is built and survives on its values. They define the Corps, and to be a part of the Green Machine I had to live by them.

Aside from military training, boot camp is meant to be an intense life-lesson incubator. Everyone learns the basic military skills it takes to be a marine, but each individual takes away vastly different lessons. In addition to swimming, I absorbed three other extraordinary life lessons that changed the way I saw the world. First, the Marine Corps sees everyone as green. There were no rich kids, no poor kids, no black, white, or red kids. We were all Marine Corps Green, and the playing field was level for everyone, even a Mexican American kid like me. Next was what I now call the perseverance paradigm: Your success (or lack thereof) is based purely on your initiative and refusal to give up, regardless how tough the task. If you fought hard and refused to quit, if you persevered, you would succeed. Finally, I learned that smaller, aerobically fit guys had an advantage over the big muscular ones when it came to military PT. I could rip out pull-ups and clear the obstacle course in record time because my muscle mass was lean and compact. The large football players had to lift their own weight and often struggled with obtaining the maximum score for the physical fitness test. Running was second nature for smaller guys; I ran many miles as a high school athlete and enjoyed the solitude of long runs, yet most of the weight lifters struggled hauling their heavy muscle mass around the base perimeter during the three-mile timed runs. To be fair, the big guys had the advantage when carrying heavy combat gear and enjoyed cleaning up on a few of the smaller recruits during hand-to-hand combat training, especially when pitted against a wise-ass wiry guy in the pugil stick pit. Then again, I also noticed that it was much easier for two smaller recruits to drag or carry one another than it was for two of the larger ones when we simulated a wounded man. I didn’t realize it then, but I was already making observations related to the physiology of a warrior and the biomechanics of warfighting.