Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (37 page)

*   *   *

Captain Peter Wikul was Naval Special Warfare’s “Bullfrog,” a title reserved for the longest-serving Navy SEAL on active duty. He’d already served thirty-three years before receiving orders to ONI on what would turn out to be his last assignment. He arrived in Washington, D.C., soon after the war began with instructions to coordinate with naval intelligence for increased support to Naval Special Warfare. His plan was a simple concept: create a new multidisciplinary intelligence officer whose skill set mimicked the skill set of a SEAL, at least in principle. Instead of training up a sailor in diving, parachuting, weapons, demolitions, et cetera, he wanted to take a general intelligence officer and layer on discipline after discipline of intelligence analysis, outfit him or her with all the latest digital analytic tools, and then send that person forward to the battlefield. His rationale was “If I can only get one or two of my people on the battlefield, they damn well better be able to do it all.” Mike was one of his best.

We met for coffee at a McDonald’s not far from the Pentagon with a mutual friend and colleague. “Bullfrog, thanks for meeting with me. Even though I’ll be visiting your office on Monday I thought it best to update you on how Chief ’s doing,” I said as we walked to a table in the back corner.

“Thanks, Doc. Chief Wade is one of my top performers, with extensive experience assisting unconventional warriors in counterinsurgency operations. He may not be a SEAL, but he’s certainly seen his fair share of battles.”

Our conversation might have started out about Mike but quickly shifted to the effects multiple deployments were having on the force, then transitioned to how his concept for a new type of intelligence officer had proven so successful that it had been selected to become one of the four pillars of intelligence support ONI offered to the fleet. I was intrigued with what Bullfrog had been able to accomplish. They were in need of SEALs to assist in standing up the command, he said. I couldn’t help but ask if he’d have room for a fellow frogman to join him at his new digs.

“Absolutely, I could definitely use you, but I don’t want to steal you away from where you’re at now. Those guys and I go back a ways.”

“You go back a ways with half the navy, Bullfrog,” I said with a wink.

He laughed, then said, “How about you let me speak to them first and see what I could do. As long as you think you’ll be able to handle both jobs from my location, I don’t see too much of a problem.”

*   *   *

Captain Wikul pulled the necessary strings to transfer my desk from the basement of the Pentagon to the Office of Naval Intelligence to assist in the development of a fledgling navy command. The move into Bullfrog’s Trident program was good for me both mentally and emotionally, and I definitely needed the support and flexibility the larger boat crew offered.

Not long after Korrina arrived on the East Coast she was told she’d be deploying to Iraq with the next task force. Although I knew her departure date months ahead of time, shamefully I didn’t pay too much attention to it until it was only weeks away. Soon our roles would be reversed and I would be the one staying at home while she went off to war. Luckily the kids wouldn’t be affected too much. Tabetha still lived with her mother in New Mexico, and with the travel my job entailed, we all felt better if Korrina’s son, Cody, stayed with his father in Wisconsin.

We spent the last week together vacationing with the kids, preparing for the familiar separation we’d once again endure. Although Korrina had deployed in support of special operations in the past, this was the first time she’d be heading into a war zone. I knew she was an extremely competent naval officer able to take care of herself, her patients, and the corpsmen working under her, but the idea of her going into Iraq was still distressing for me. I had seen the effects of rocket and mortar fire firsthand, and lately I’d been reading intel reports about the increased use of vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices and suicide bombers inside the Green Zone. The only solace I had was that she’d be deploying with a SEAL Team, giving us direct communications over the secure net, and the knowledge that camp security would be wired tight.

Even so, she’d been my rock, faithfully staying by my side during the worst of times, and I couldn’t imagine not having her in my future. In an effort to keep such thoughts off my mind I engrossed myself in work. As always, I would be wearing dual hats, but this time it was more SEAL than medic. My primary job would be as programs training officer, while my position as a medical officer slipped into a secondary role. Having recruited some top-notch corpsmen into a few programs that were in need of support freed up the time I needed for Trident.

As a young SEAL I served as an intel rep for my platoon when criminal and terrorist activity were among the nation’s top priorities. Although intelligence work is more desk-intensive than SEALs prefer, I found the time researching and reporting on the condition of the enemy intellectually stimulating.

Later, as I moved up the health care ladder, I noticed similarities between the sourcing of information for national security and patient care. Although there are times when the information gleaned from a military operation or clinical procedure is concrete, I was discovering that these instances were more the exception than the rule.

Intelligence analysts like medical providers pore over every piece of information with their colleagues, more often than not concluding they need more details before making any recommendation. Just as a patient is hauled back into the radiology suite for another look, SEALs are reinserted into the wild or a drone is launched, all three situations driven by experts trying to confirm or deny their hypothesis. It isn’t as if they are intentionally trying to be difficult; it’s simply the means to the end. Both the physician and intelligence officer understand that lives hang on their decisions, and neither wants to make a fatal error due to lack of information.

During my time on the wards I was reminded that medicine is not an exact science but rather a skillful art form based on knowledge, which is why it’s called the
practice
of medicine. Likewise, good intelligence is also derived from the similar melding of information tempered by knowledge, logic, and experience. However, in both situations deduced theory can become eclipsed by passion unless every member of the team applies an honest evaluation of the circumstances, and of himself or herself, for that matter. Bullfrog knew this and demanded every one one of his crew take a brutally honest approach to everything. Intellectual honesty is the hallmark of the best officers and extremely difficult to maintain, so his expectation of brutal honesty resonated with me, in more ways than one.

For years I’d been mentally burying the effects of combat, for the sake of
driving on.
Deep down, I knew when I was brutally honest with myself it always had a positive net result, even though it could be painful getting there. As a teen, I had to face the cruel realities of home and accept the harsh realities of our family dynamic. The decision to enlist in the military took me away from friends and family but kept me off the streets. As a young marine, I lied to myself about my swimming ability, or lack thereof, and nearly died because of it. Admitting the weakness to myself led to swim lessons and countless hours of training to even become skilled enough to apply for special operations. Later, as a Recon Marine, I was drawn to medicine, and only when I was brutally honest about switching to the navy did I find my calling. The pattern continued as I entered the SEAL Teams; I fought like hell to make it through the toughest training on earth, yet my soul felt a calling to become a physician assistant. Acknowledging that internally, I went on to … Just then it struck me.

The captain was very clever when he delivered his rationale about brutal honesty when I checked on board. It emphasized the need for an objective approach regarding intelligence reporting, but it also accomplished so much more. It inspired me to confront my internal demons in an honest, check-your-pride-at-the-door way. I’d taken the first steps by meeting with psychologists at Portsmouth and later NNMC, and was strong enough to take a hard look at myself and see the ugly truth. I was slowly learning how to live with the stressors caused by combat and not suffer from them.

25

A COMMON BOND

From day one, I’ve told [my troops] that killing is not wrong if it’s for a purpose. If it’s to keep your nation free or protect your buddy.

—M
AJ
. D
OUGLAS
A
LEXANDER
Z
EMBIEC
, USMC

On most days I pulled double duty, first as training officer, where I’d write training plans, draft instructions, and horse-trade school billets for our guys. I’d then flip into medical officer mode and schedule appointments for the troops who needed specialty care such as orthopedics or mental health. Mike Wade was on my priority list for the latter. Mike was an extremely competent and respected intel specialist whose skills were needed for the protection of our country, but more importantly he was a teammate and my friend.

We could relate to one another in a number of ways, and I enjoyed his company while I waded through D.C. traffic. As the medical officer, I would often drive him to his appointments, and we’d take the time to catch up on much-needed conversation. Mike and I discussed everything from our family situations to combat stress. I started off with my plans for Korrina’s return early next month and her new assignment as the command representative to a Special Operation Command initiative that provides advocacy to the wounded, ill, and injured of the community; he told me how comfortable he was working with his psychiatrist, which is always a very good thing considering there’s little choice on which doctor you receive when you schedule your appointment.

The idea of being randomly assigned to a provider based on availability was always a bit unsettling when it came to something as personal as mental health, but it was the reality of military medicine and the main reason I sought out Doc Garsha. Unfortunately, with both of us traveling for work, our schedules rarely matched up. With the closest Special Warfare psychologist hours away, based on Mike’s comments, I decided to book an appointment for myself.

Special Warfare’s psychologists and Doc G had a direct, nonemotional approach to therapy, and I was comfortable with it. However, the mental health specialist I had been scheduled to meet with that day turned out to be the complete opposite: a hyperemotional provider who spoke in a soft voice and seemed to be constantly on the verge of tears. She was the epitome of a touchy-feely therapist, and the more I spoke with her, the more I resented being there. It wasn’t because she was a woman; in fact, I specifically asked for a female provider, trying to avoid some egomaniac medical officer who would see the SEAL device on my chest and medical insignia on my collar and start telling blustery stories about all of the high-speed training he’d attended. It happens more than I’d like to admit. What I wanted was someone with a businesslike approach and a good-natured bedside manner.

I know she was well intentioned, but it was hard for me to discuss such personal experiences with someone who
I felt
reacted as if I’d been abused. Last time I checked, SEALs were an all-volunteer force drawn from an all-volunteer navy. No one forced me into those situations. I wanted to be there. I felt I had to be there. It was my calling! I tried to explain how the battles themselves weren’t difficult for me; rather, my problem was the loss of close friends and teammates, heightened by the continual exposure of extreme levels of stress related to years of sustained combat. “It’s not the killing, it’s the death,” I said, referring to the men who died as I was trying to save them. The taking of someone’s life is not a natural impulse, but in combat it is an expected one. I have no regrets over killing men who were trying to kill my teammates or me. My actions were intended to be an instantaneous execution of violence, and when I was given the opportunity that’s exactly what my enemy received. What haunted me then, and still does to some extent, was having to fight my way to a wounded man who’d entrusted his life to my hands only to have him die as I worked on him. Combat is a chaotic engine of death driven by a series of choices; I just wasn’t sure if I’d made the right ones.

One of the pillars of the special operations community is an unwavering commitment toward one another, so the loss of any teammate weighs heavy on the heart of everyone in the community. Being the medic only deepened the pain. It was my job to preserve life and not let it slip away, but we were in combat and death happened. It wasn’t about
what
I saw or heard, it was about
who
I lost, and as a medic there’s no more painful memory.

I tried in vain to connect with her, and she with me, but we were clearly at an impasse, so I patiently waited until the end of the appointment. I reflected on how much progress I’d made since accepting I had a problem dealing with what I’d experienced, although I knew I wasn’t anywhere near being done.

FOR WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION

Mike’s appointment ran much longer than mine, so I grabbed a coffee and set up camp in a coffee shop in the hospital lobby, my table facing out to the main atrium. As I sipped the joe and meditated on the meeting I’d just left, I caught sight of a large bronze sculpture of a corpsman pulling a marine to safety. It was a fitting tribute to the bravery of corpsmen and a nice touch in the hospital lobby. Having been both a marine and a corpsman, I was deeply moved by the artist’s rendition of the bond between warrior and medic, and I wondered how many other war veterans felt the same when they looked upon this statue.

I then noticed an older couple clad in purple regalia, struggling to cart large boxes into the lobby. I walked over and offered a hand, and they gratefully accepted. When we were finished, the elderly man looked at me and offered a firm handshake.