Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (7 page)

Over the first twenty years of my life, I was either in a fight or training for one. In the streets of Albuquerque, I fought on the playground to defend my honor or protect my lunch money. Later, as a teen, I fought to defend my friends—and, on a couple of occasions, my life. Then came the Marine Corps, an adrenaline-charged community whose main purpose in life is vanquishing the enemy. Now, at Balboa, I was learning how to save lives and live by a Hippocratic Oath. I assisted with the delivery of babies, treated victims of drunk driving, and sat with veterans from past wars while they awaited their next dose of chemotherapy. I was beginning to understand the fragility of life and appreciate the talents of health care professionals in all the fields of medicine. From the emergency room to the radiology suite, everyone had the same goal: to save and preserve life. Just as Mom had prophesied, it wasn’t
my
career choice; I was called by a higher power. Still, I did have a say on
who
I wanted to serve. Once again, fate and ambition had stepped in, and my calling was about to take on a whole new meaning.

6

BUD/S—JUST THE BASICS

Given enough time, any man may master the physical. With enough knowledge, any man may become wise. It is the true warrior who can master both … and surpass the result.

—T
IEN
T’
AI
S
CHOOL
OF
B
UDDHISM

I stepped onto the beach ready for our class’s first timed swim. This would be one of the few timed events in First Phase that didn’t come with a must-pass requirement. We sounded off with a full head count to the instructors. They lined us up side by side and started inspecting our gear, first to ensure everything was operational, next to see if we were familiar with how to use it, and finally to find if anything was improperly rigged. Of course, something was always improper or fell short of BUD/S standards, and we as a class would pay for it with a short but intense preswim warm-up. That morning was no exception. Our “remedial activity,” which was actually punishment for a student’s inadequately sharpened dive knife, consisted of an exercise the students referred to as surf-torture, which meant locking arms, walking out into the surf zone, then facing toward shore and falling back into a reclining position. This was followed by calisthenics in the sand just to make sure the granules were in all the wrong places under our wetsuits before we started the swim. These sessions usually went until the instructors grew tired of watching or they began to impinge on the day’s schedule. Generally, the latter was the deciding factor. After half an hour of “warm-up” we gathered around Instructor Kress and received our brief, each and every one of us resembling a human sugar cookie.

Instructor Kress informed us our swim times would determine our swim buddy, the classmate who would remain no more than one arm’s length away from this day forward. The concept is a simple one: No student was ever to move alone or be found alone on the compound again. Being left alone can mean being left out, being uninformed, or, worse, left behind, and that simply doesn’t happen in an organization that has the word “team” in its name. That was fine for all of us. With a few rare exceptions, it was an individual journey getting orders to the renowned Naval Special Warfare Center, and the thought of having a partner made us feel like we were already a member of “the teams.”

The swim was designed to pair us with someone of near or equal speed. It wasn’t based on military rank, experience, friendship, or any other factor. It was solely based on a need to break us into two-man teams of comparable ability so no one student held another back. Rather, the competitiveness between two equally matched BUD/S candidates would motivate the pair to push one another harder. So it came as no surprise when our highest-ranking officer was paired with our lowest-ranking enlisted sailor. I believe this is where the strong officer-and-enlisted relationship found in the SEAL Teams all starts. If you were a fly on the wall and heard a SEAL officer and SEAL enlisted carrying on a conversation in the platoon hut, you’d have a difficult time discerning who’s who. Sure, when they’re in uniform at a navy function they’ll follow the same military protocols that rank and tradition require; we are professionals, after all. What the world doesn’t see is how they interact with one another in the team area, where only team guys are allowed access. It’s not unusual for them to address one another by first name rather than by rank and last name, the tradition nearly everywhere else in the military. They discuss personal matters as if they were speaking to their own brothers. This is not a sign of disrespect. On the contrary, speaking to one another in this relaxed fashion is a sign of the greatest respect. They speak as family, as teammates … as SEALs, and it all stems from a personal bond that is forged when men face adversity as one.

As a former marine I often wondered why the Special Warfare device, also known as the “Trident” or “Budweiser,” was gold for both officer and enlisted. Everywhere else in the navy, officers wear gold and enlisted wear silver, but not in Special Warfare. Over time I learned that unlike the rest of the navy, Special Warfare officers and enlisted go through the same six-month qualification process at BUD/S, which has essentially remained unchanged since its inception. After graduation from BUD/S the few remaining students in the class attend SEAL Qualification Training (SQT), an additional half-year advanced training program that instills the skills necessary to qualify as a modern-day SEAL. Although I cannot be certain, I believe this to be the only training pipeline in the U.S. military in which both officer and enlisted share the exact same qualification standard for their military occupation. This equality in earning the title is what allows the enlisted member to wear the gold Trident following graduation from SQT. Every SEAL and their UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) predecessors before them have endured the same twenty-four weeks of SEAL basic training. This combat-proven and time-tested pipeline is the foundation for an undying unity that exists among all members of the community regardless of their rank, experience, or generation.

There I stood at the gateway to the frog family with absolutely no idea it all started with that first swim.

Unlike distance running, ocean swims require constant diligence; you must maintain a constant state of awareness of your position in the water if you expect to stay on course. Otherwise you might find yourself swimming hundreds of extra, unintentional meters. Like runners, though, distance swimmers find a rhythm and then lose themselves in thought, some focusing on a personal mantra or visualizing a future event, like graduation from BUD/S. I had my own unique method for ocean swims: find a tempo and let the mind wander, usually to something in the past. As I made my way through the water I thought about graduating from Hospital Corps School a couple of months earlier and how it was the beginning of my journey to fulfilling a personal calling to medicine. The differences I encountered between the United States Marine Corps and the Navy Hospital Corps were extreme. The marines base effectiveness on military discipline and practice it in everything they do. Perfect appearance in uniform and execution of close order drill are indicative of their lifestyle. Navy medicine was equally professional but far more relaxed. The hardened look and crisp “yes, sir” and “no, sir” of the Corps were replaced with a smiling face and “sure, let me see what I can do.” Both were effective methods, but they were dramatically different. One was for operating on the battlefield and the other on the hospital wards after the fight. Then there was BUD/S, which was all business. No babysitting here; sailors who needed it were weeded out of the system long before receiving orders to Coronado, California. At BUD/S the class is told one time where to be, when to be there, and what to have ready. If an individual can’t figure it out, he has no business being there.

I was no stranger to Coronado. I was stationed there as a young marine but never bothered to cross the base into “SEAL country.” I was focused on marine training but had no reason to bother the SEALs, and the SEALs certainly didn’t want me there. Back in those days, I never imagined I would one day train on their sacred ground with the ambition of making that ground mine.

SEALs are a particular breed. From a distance they seem like a cross between an easygoing soldier with relaxed uniform standards and an intense prizefighter looking for his next opponent. Constantly training and never satisfied with their performance, they carry themselves with an attitude that can be interpreted as an inflated ego. Spend a few moments speaking to a team guy, though, and you’ll find him humble, especially when it comes to warfare, well read, and fiercely dedicated to the community to which he belongs. Outsiders often buy into the team mystique, mesmerized by our stories and commitment to one another—but don’t ask too many questions or overstay your welcome, or you risk alienating yourself from the group. It’s not that we purposely try to push folks away; far from it. SEALs enjoy diversity in conversation and opinion but are intensely private when it comes to team business. It’s simply in their DNA. SEALs are warriors in every sense of the word: men who actually go into combat on missions that bring them eye to eye with their enemy, up close and personal. Even their methods of insertion are extremely dangerous; parachute jumps, submarine launches, and ocean swims in treacherous seas are very serious business. I guess that’s why I find it hard to accept how our society tosses around the word “warrior” when describing an athlete, businessman, or even a politician. To me the term “warrior” is a sacred one characterizing a lifestyle of personal sacrifice. A warrior’s training is continuous in order to maintain a constant state of readiness, often taking him away from the ones he loves and those he’s sworn to protect. A warrior does this not for reward but for a chance to join his brothers on a high-risk mission. It doesn’t sound like any civilian occupation I know of.

*   *   *

“When you get to shore, Donald, just drop down in the push-up position with the others,” Instructor Richardson’s voice bellowed from one of the safety boats trailing the swimmers. I had zoned out for the majority of the swim but was still focused on the objective, a tactic that we would all have to perfect if we expected to graduate. If you can’t put discomfort and monotony out of your mind and concentrate on the particulars at hand, you really don’t stand a chance. Fortunately, there is ample opportunity to learn the technique during the multitude of must-pass events going on during each week of training. Those that get it right develop an ability to find a certain nirvana during the most stressful times. That doesn’t always equate to success but definitely prevents pressure from being a cause of mission failure. I still recall how one of my classmates looked as if he had fallen asleep during underwater knot tying. Imagine having to hold your breath at the bottom of the combat swimmer training tank, tying one knot after another on a line that transverses the bottom of the pool. Most people would panic and bolt to the surface once they started to run out of oxygen, but the majority of the remaining students were well versed in controlling their senses and compartmentalizing anxiety, and the ones that weren’t either failed or “rang out.” (A SEAL who chooses to quit BUD/S voluntarily can do so without prejudice by ringing the brass bell in the quadrangle three times.)

I got to shore, took off my fins, turned in my swim time, and joined the rest of the class alternating between push-ups and flutter kicks in the surf zone. It may not sound like much, but facing waves in a foot of water as they surge up from underneath you or crash over your face while you’re breathing heavily from exercise creates a water boarding effect. Add in the saltwater and the sand chafing every fold of skin imaginable while the cold water steals your heat away, and you’ll begin to understand the effectiveness this training has in building mental stamina. The continual employment of the surf zone as a means of punishment eventually sweeps away any fear of drowning, leaving the navy with one hell of a resilient amphibian.

From the push-up position I looked down the line of my classmates and wondered which of the remaining eighty-four would be my swim buddy. Fifteen of them either dropped out or were rolled back into another class by the time we finished the four weeks of pretraining, and that was just the beginning. Just days earlier we had our head-shaving party and, with a little assistance from a few bottles of loudmouth, began convincing ourselves that we could be the second class in the history of BUD/S to have everyone graduate Hell Week. Of course, the instructors who supervised our celebration reminded us that we might just be like the class that had zero graduates.
The class that never was
was infamous among trainees, and for a period of time a statue sat on the quarterdeck memorializing their lack of fortitude. When I heard about that particular class, I promised myself then and there I would never quit. I might be dropped for failing to complete a task, but I wasn’t quitting. I would rather die in training than ring the bell. It may sound a bit extreme, but not for me. I looked at it more as an extension of the oath I had taken for medicine and the promise I had made to the good Lord.

The Hippocratic Oath is an ethical promise that all medical providers must take when graduating from student to provider. There are various versions, some based on the educational level—doctor versus medic is a prime example—and some were interpretations of the original text, but one thing that rings clear among all the versions is the notion “to do no harm.” I simply added on a personal pledge that I believe is the essence of a frontline medic: “and allow no harm to be done, even at the sacrifice of my own life.” From the moment I took on the proud and honored title of navy corpsman I knew that despite my status as care provider, I would still be issued a weapon and be expected to use it. Since the dawn of time a small portion of enemy forces has always sought out the medic. Take out the man that can save the life of another soldier and possibly return him to battle and you’ll have a far greater effect on a unit’s effectiveness and morale than if you target a rifleman. It takes a sick mind to think that way, but firsthand stories from corpsmen and marines from Iwo Jima to today have told me there were plenty of them. Through history some countries have honored the Geneva Conventions, which offer protection to medics, while others simply have not, including our current adversaries in the War on Terror. I accepted the fact that I would both fight and heal and adopted “Trained to fight, but called to serve” as my new motto for the battlefield.