Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (6 page)

When I arrived at the San Diego International Airport it was the same as it was two and a half years earlier, empty. Unsure of a direction, I followed the herd of the long-hair “regular” recruits arriving from across the country and boarded the bus for the Naval Training Center. Once there, I tried to speak with the staff and the CC (company commander, the navy’s version of a drill instructor) about the OSVET program, but it was to no avail. No one seemed to know anything about it, so I decided to keep following the line on the floor that processed everyone into the system.

It didn’t take long before I realized that I was entering basic training all over again, rather than the OSVET program, and that I was either going to have to get along or move along. Suddenly all I could think about was what Top had told me. This was a one-way trip, and the last thing I needed was to be thrown out. Nervous and confused, I did what any young marine would do and just followed orders. I guess I thought things would eventually get worked out, and since the navy’s boot camp wasn’t anything like the marines’ I had no problem waiting. Besides, this gave me plenty of time to familiarize myself with the nuances of the navy, and there were plenty of differences. One of the biggest, barring the physical aspects, of course, was the significance the Marine Corps placed on knowing the battle history of the Corps, as well as its traditions. That may not sound like much, but I can tell you that from an infantryman’s perspective it means everything. Once you hear of the deeds of your predecessors and realize how revered they are for their bravery, any thoughts of retreat are instantly erased.

However, where the Marine Corps emphasized a physical and mental toughness, I felt the navy concentrated on understanding the reason for each action. What a fundamental difference. Every bit of training I received from the Corps, from boot camp to Amphibious Reconnaissance School, had the same mantra, “Nobody ever drowned from sweat.” The navy’s perspective was more along the lines of “Work smarter, not harder,” and I welcomed the challenges of learning the “navy way.” Both services had their strengths and their reasons for doing things a particular way, but neither had a weakness in developing its force.

Toward the end of the first week, the company commander gave us a schedule of the upcoming events, which annotated any clothing, books, or equipment that was required. When I looked at the next morning’s agenda it simply read “Training Tank,” but there was no requirement for swim trunks, which seemed a little odd. While the company readied for lights-out, Petty Officer Dieter, one of the CCs who had served on a gator freighter (a fleet term used to describe ships that transport marines), called me into the office. He was aware of my prior service as a Recon Marine but, like the others, knew nothing of my supposed assignment to OSVET. Away from the eyes and ears of the other recruits, he addressed me by my first name.

“Mark, tomorrow the dive motivator will be speaking with the class. I know you want to return to Recon as a corpsman, but I think you should consider screening for BUD/S.” He was referring, of course, to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. I had always been curious about how hard the training really could be, but this wasn’t in the plan.

“Thanks, Petty Officer Dieter. I appreciate the advice, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself, shipmate, but I’m going to speak to them about you anyway. You shouldn’t limit options.”

Walking back toward my rack, I thought about what he said about the differences between the SEAL Teams and Marine Recon. Back then the Marine Corps hadn’t embraced Reconnaissance with the same fervor as the navy did its SEALs. Like everyone else in the Corps, we made do with what we had, but the SEALs had backing from the fleet, and even from a distance it showed. Marines had Quonset huts and old converted buildings; SEALs had a large compound that straddled the Coronado shoreline. Recon Marines did everything themselves with little personnel support. Thanks to the foresight of SEAL Commander Tom Hawkins, a veteran frogman from the Vietnam era, the teams had fleet sailors to help carry the load in support positions. I continued to think on the SEALs until we arrived at the pool the next day.

The CCs marched us into a large classroom and introduced us to a first-class petty officer brandishing a gold Trident and impressive fruit salad above the left breast pocket of his uniform—military slang for the SEAL qualification badge and ribbons, respectively. He was incredibly fit with swimmer’s shoulders, a small waist, and forearms that would make Popeye jealous. BM1 O’Connor was a SEAL who spoke like a business executive as he moved around the room. There was no macho posturing or tough-guy talk; he didn’t need it. He carried a quiet authority that instantly captured the class’s attention. Even the company commanders treated him differently.

Over a period of twenty minutes he told the class about the diving programs the navy had to offer, speaking well of each one of them but saving the SEAL Teams for last. I was completely impressed and immediately understood why the navy held them in such high regard. Then he showed something that I will never forget. During the last ten minutes, he played a short movie called “Be Someone Special.” Personally, I found it to be the cheesiest recruiting film I have ever seen, but apparently I was the only one.

By the time it ended, everyone wanted to be a SEAL, just not me. However, as recruits eagerly signed up for the screening test the following week, I was summoned to the back of the room by one of the CCs. “Seaman Recruit Donald, this is Boatswain’s Mate First Class Harry O’Connor,” he said, introducing me to the SEAL who had just spoken to us.

“Donald, they tell me you were a Recon Marine,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I answered crisply. Then came the typical string of questions special operations ask one another to verify the person they’re talking with is actually who he claims to be. I could see my company commander out of the corner of my eye as we spoke and couldn’t help but notice a sigh of relief when BM1 O’Connor had concluded I was who I claimed to be. I explained how I came to be there and how I just wanted to return to the Corps. However, it didn’t take long for an experienced SEAL to read this former lance corporal and react in a way that would psychologically control him.

“I respect your decision, and I must say I’m impressed with your ability to accept your limitations,” he said in a way that both sounded professional and poked at my ego. Then he went on, “We’ve had quite a few marines wash out of training.”

“Those weren’t Recon Marines,” I said in a questioning tone, nearly interrupting him.

“No, I believe they all were,” he answered back. Needless to say, over the course of our conversation he successfully reverted me back to an egotistical Hispanic kid that had no choice but go to BUD/S to prove to the world he can make it.

Nearly four weeks had passed since my arrival at Recruit Training Command, and everything was going along just fine. I had passed the BUD/S screening test, developed a friendship with Harry O’Connor, as much as the circumstances would allow, and given up on trying to explain what my recruiter had told me. Top was right; navy administration screws marines. I was a sailor now, though, and to be honest I was pleased with how things were panning out. That is, until I was called back into the company commander’s office to make a decision with a senior chief petty officer I had never met before.

Turns out that once I passed the screening test for BUD/S they had to take another look at my orders. “Donald,” he said—which after weeks of boot camp sounded strange to hear without having “Seaman Recruit” before it—“it looks as if someone may have made a mistake.”
Wow,
I thought to myself,
what a great way to start the conversation
. Even so, I listened intently as he proceeded to tell me that although I qualified for OSVET and should have been placed into the program, somehow I foolishly waived the option and the processing command had cut my current set of orders. Unbeknownst to me, passing the screening test for BUD/S was akin to accepting orders, and BUD/S superseded everything else in the navy.

He continued explaining my options. I could be pulled from training, have my rank and pay restored, and enter the next OSVET class, which started a couple of months out. I would then continue on to corpsman school. Or I could stay, graduate with my class, and have a guaranteed shot at BUD/S but not a specific job in the navy. If I took OSVET, I would lose the opportunity to attend BUD/S before having to go to the fleet for at least two years of service, which he assumed would be with Recon, although he couldn’t guarantee that either. If I stayed in boot camp, the navy couldn’t guarantee me Hospital Corps School, but more than likely I would end up as a corpsman because the job was undermanned, especially in the SEAL Teams. He also mentioned that he had spoken with the SEAL motivator, who said that he would make a couple of calls to help me get to Hospital Corps School before I started BUD/S. They gave me a couple of days to think about it, but it only took a few minutes. These men had no reason to help make things right other than being a good shipmate. Instantly it reminded me of how the marines came together to get me here in the first place. I knew medicine was my calling and God would get me there, so I was keeping my promise to Harry and going off to BUD/S even if it killed me.

We graduated boot camp on Friday, and I can’t explain how good it felt putting a SCUBA badge and parachute wings back on my uniform the night before. I had grown close to the men in my company the same way I did at marine boot camp, but neither the fleet Marine Corps nor the navy offered the same level of camaraderie I felt within special operations. Up until that point I never recognized how important that degree of brotherhood was to me, but having been away from it for over two months, there was no use denying it.

I looked forward to going home to visit my mom, my platoon, and a certain navy recruiter, but it would have to wait. I had one more stop before my triumphant return home.

HOSPITAL CORPS SCHOOL

United States Navy Corpsman “A” School, in those days, was a ninety-six-calendar-day course held at the Naval School of Health Sciences. The schoolhouse was built on the grounds of Naval Medical Center San Diego, but due to its location within the city the vast compound was more commonly known throughout the fleet as Balboa.

I checked into corpsman school on a Monday morning, and the process was relatively smooth except for one small bump in the road. I arrived in my navy dress blues, known to the world as “Cracker Jacks,” which were meticulously pressed and, frankly, immaculate thanks to my marine training. While I was filling out paperwork, a navy nurse, rank of commander, walked through the reception area and did a double take when she saw the scuba bubble, jump wings, and marksman badge on my navy uniform. She immediately called me into her office and gave me the third degree about the “unauthorized” badges on my chest. I calmly explained my background, and she made a few phone calls to confirm it. Half an hour later, she gave me a red-faced apology and sent me back to processing.

Academically the coursework was on par with the first semesters of an associate’s nursing degree, but the hands-on training conducted at the hospital was wholly dependent on which staff member a student received as daily supervisor.

Generally speaking, the senior enlisted corpsmen and the commissioned nurses, who were once corpsmen themselves, were top-notch instructors, but occasionally we would get someone on the opposite end of the teaching spectrum. I always felt like it was a bit of a crapshoot when I walked onto the ward. Would I leave trying to remember all the things I learned? Or would I try to forget the nurse who spent hours pointing out how much I
didn’t
know? Thankfully, we had a great officer assigned to oversee our instruction and get us past any personality shortfalls that hindered our education.

Lieutenant Marty was a dark-haired, slightly bug-eyed officer with a boyish face and comedic charm, and folks instantly loved him. He was both a nurse version of Patch Adams and a highly proficient naval officer, making him the best mentor on the instructor staff. Teaching wasn’t his only duty; he spent plenty of time ensuring we learned the material and had a good time in the process.

As class leader I usually sat toward the back with my assistant and good friend Eric Sine so we could watch the flock, so to speak. So it wasn’t unusual for Lieutenant Marty to pop into the classroom or catch us on a hospital rotation to speak with us and gauge our progress. If we made a mistake during a training evolution, he’d make it right, and then he’d make a few jokes about it to enlighten the class on how trivial some of our complaints actually were. In addition to LT (pronounced “el tee,” a nickname given to all lieutenants in the navy), there were two hospital corpsmen assigned to the class to act as our primary instructors. Unfortunately, they weren’t both of the same caliber. It was almost a Jekyll and Hyde team that would have certainly driven us insane if it weren’t for the humor of LT and Sine.

HM1 Kleinfelter was laid-back, helpful, and well versed in medicine, while his counterpart’s challenging personality traits exposed envy of his partner to even the most naive members of the class. Neither man had spent time with the marines, but both were experienced with first aid and had mastered improvised methods of care necessary for shipboard medicine. I had received basic medical training in the Marine Corps, but that was nothing like what I learned in corpsman school. The first part of their classroom instruction was always by the book, but Eric and I would wake everyone for the second half, which at times was genius. Years of caring for sailors at sea had taught these two how to treat and move men in the most confined spaces imagined. I quickly learned that transporting patients was as much an art form as it was a skill, and for the first time in my life I truly felt I was in my element. In the classroom everything was so easy to absorb that I often found myself reading ahead. During our practicals the minutiae that slipped past my classmates jumped out at me as if it were saying, “Attention to detail, attention to detail!” A paradigm shift began inside me, and I felt like a new man.