Honor and Betrayal : The Untold Story of the Navy Seals Who Captured the "Butcher of Fallujah"-and the Shameful Ordeal They Later Endured (9780306823091) (8 page)

And yet another section of the SEAL creed he knew so well stood starkly before him:

My loyalty to Country and Team is beyond reproach. I humbly serve as a guardian to my fellow Americans always ready to defend those who are unable to defend themselves. I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions. I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of my profession, placing the welfare and security of others before my own.

I serve with honor on and off the battlefield. The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstances, sets me apart from other men.

Uncompromising integrity is my standard. My character and honor are steadfast. My word is my bond.

No SEAL in all the forty-five years of the Teams was ever more deeply moved by those shining words than Matthew Vernon McCabe.
Meanwhile Jon was slogging his way through all of the above, six months behind his future buddy. The long list of skills, which is compulsory learning for all BUD students, contrives to make every member of every Team a composite jack-of-all-trades. This is essential because even SEAL commanders cannot accurately predict battlefield losses, and at any moment, on any mission, a new man may need to take over.

The comms operator goes down ... the Team cannot just be out of communication, either with their teammates or home base command. Someone must take over. The “breacher” goes down
—
someone needs to grab the sledgehammer and the demolition charges
.

The point man goes down, and someone must run forward to take over, and he better be expert in navigating the way to the objective. The SEAL paramedic, the guy with the medical supplies, goes down; he must have a deputy who knows precisely what he's doing
.

The number-one sniper goes down; there must be someone just as good or the mission may be doomed. Worse yet, the leader goes down; there must be a number two right there on station, and he needs to know every aspect of the operation
.

The simple truth is that every SEAL needs to know everything, and the watchword of both Coronado and Virginia Beach is
preparation
. No Team of a dozen SEALs on any mission sets foot outside that base until every specialist has at least a two-man backup. By design, the position of Team leader is designated on a rotating roster.

No other system works. Any SEAL has the tools to lead any mission. Picking a man and grooming him as a leader to serve on many successive operations is not at all useful. What happens if he gets shot or blown up and no one else has led a mission for months? That's simply hopeless. And certainly not the way of the Teams. They say they are a brotherhood, but what they really are is Knights of the Round Table—equal men who, in the words of their own Creed, “do not seek recognition for their work.”

They are forever one for all and all for one. As armed jacks-of-all-trades, as they say, God help the enemy. Because when the bugle sounds, these guys come out fighting, and each man can do it all.

During these long hard months Jon finally returned to his own holy ground, the wide, dusty shooting range at Camp Pendleton, where almost ten years previously he had stood in the distance with the Devil Pups. He'd never forgotten those moments, especially the one with the instructor, when he'd promised himself he would one day return, this time wearing a Trident. He wasn't quite there yet, but, by God, he was closing in.

Like Matt, Jon fought his way through Hell Week and completed BUD/S. Right after that he too made his way around the SEAL training schools. Aside from his remarkable skills in the pool, he could shoot dead straight, and on the mountains his great strength permitted him to overcome the handicap of his powerful physique. He was a fearless parachutist despite traveling downward at what felt like an especially high speed.

In Beach Assault his strength was a definite plus. Under full gear and weapons he came thundering out of that surf, over and over, up the beach and into the hides, hitting the sand as gently as a lotus blossom. Well...almost. But at least the entire shoreline did not shudder, as a couple of instructors had feared. Like many big, athletic men, Jon was deceptively light on his feet. That's on land. In the water he was peerless.

Fourteen months after he entered Coronado, he had become the highly trained, skilled war-fighter the SEAL instructors had hoped he would become. They wished everyone the best and, indeed, took pride in training men to be as good as they were themselves. But Jon was an especially popular guy at Coronado, and at the parade ground ceremony, when they finally pinned his Trident on his dress whites, there was not a man in SPECWARCOM who did not wish him all the good fortune in the world.

It was late in the year 2007 when this happened, and these were serious times. The conflict in Iraq appeared not to be improving, and the weekly reports of American deaths were beginning to irritate Americans
back home. Most people understood the place had to be squared away, and the Iraqis trained both to govern and to protect themselves without lapsing into some kind of tribal warfare. But American parents were becoming less and less cool about having their sons and daughters killed in some far-off desert for what they believed was someone else's problem.

There was general disquiet about the wars against the tribesmen all over the United States. And for SEALS there was something else disquieting: there was a feeling that the US military Rules of Engagement were tying their hands, that even the special operators were being hamstrung by red tape.

This was especially true of the rules that insisted US armed forces were not permitted to open fire on known al-Qaeda killers until they themselves were fired upon. The SEALs had a wry interpretation of this: “You mean I'm not allowed to kill him until after he's killed me?”

On top of this, 2007 had bestowed a special sadness on all the Teams when one of the top serving combat petty officers, Clark Schwedler of SEAL Team 4, was killed by enemy fire as he and his platoon laid siege to an al-Qaeda stronghold in Anbar Province.

Trapped in the house were the terrorists the SEALs knew had recently downed a coalition helicopter. But they were heavily armed, and the vanguard of the SEAL assault came under attack as they moved forward. Team Leader Clark Schwedler went down in a hail of gunfire, mortally wounded. His SEAL teammate, Special Operations Chief (SOC) Doug Day was hit fifteen times, his rifle shot from his grasp. Doug drew his pistol and shot three of the enemy as he fell to the ground. Another SEAL, who had also been shot, administered life-saving aid to SOC Day after the firefight was won.

The death of SO
₂
Clark Schwedler was one of those tragedies that affected everyone who had known him. SEALs on the far coast from Team 4's HQ in Virginia Beach attended a special service for the ex-Michigan State oarsman, who had served four years as a SEAL.

The son of a US judge, C. Joseph Schwedler, Clark was one of the SEALs' very best battlefield operators, specially selected as combat adviser to the Iraqi Army Second Brigade. Assigned to Special Warfare
Task Unit Fallujah, he took part in 108 combat missions and was credited with being the driving force in the unit's many successes.

Clark's devotion to the SEALs was timeless. He swore by the core values of the Navy:
honor, courage, and commitment
. And now he was gone, aged only twenty-seven. And very few of his friends in the Teams were able to stand by that Special Forces tradition of showing no emotion even under the worst circumstances. Clark's death cast a very long shadow of sadness over the entire brotherhood of SPECWARCOM.

In time they would construct a new building in Team 4's home at Little Creek, Virginia, and name it for Clark. The SEALs' desert base near Fallujah would also be named for him: Camp Schwedler. And no young US warriors, arriving there in the ensuing years, would ever need to inquire about the identity of the fallen SEAL commemorated with such honor. Everyone knew about Clark.

And that would include Matt McCabe and Jon Keefe when they too were posted to these war-torn, cruel, and ancient lands.

But for the moment their paths were diverse. Matt was assigned to SEAL Team 10, the newest of the Teams but one that already enjoyed a fearsome reputation as combat warriors. Team 10 was constantly in the hot spots of the war on terror. Always valorous, they returned from each deployment with fewer warriors than when they embarked. Men talked about the curse of Team 10, and the shocking loss of Echo Platoon in the fatal helicopter attempt to rescue Marcus Luttrell and the Red Wings in the Afghanistan mountains, in June 2005, only escalated this talk.

By the time he reached Virginia Beach, the Team was already deployed, and Matt was immediately posted to Germany for a couple of months. When he returned to Virginia he dug himself into an intense regime of hard training, and in January 2008 Jon arrived, having received his Trident and was assigned to the same Echo Platoon, Team 10.

The commanders took one look at his mighty physique and acquainted him with the SEALs' favorite weapon, the Mark-48 heavy machine gun, which weighed thirty pounds without the big ammunition
belts, which the gun depletes by two hundred rounds a minute. When SEALs open fire with this baby, it unleashes shells so fast that its barrel starts to glow red-hot.

Put your head above the parapet when a SEAL master gunner is behind the breach of this thing, and you cannot live. Most of the platoons feel only half-dressed without it, although someone has to carry it on almost every mission. Step forward, Big Jon.

But early days in the Teams are critical times for new men. Everyone wants to impress, and everyone steps up his regime, relentless swimming, weights in the gym, workouts, running, and the countless sets of push-ups, one hundred a time—not much different from BUD/S ...
“PUSH 'EM OUT!”

In the company of iron men excelling is hard, but everyone tries. No exceptions. You would not be here if you were not that type of man. And already that ethos of self-starting begins to work its way deep into every man's psyche.

“What happens if the guy is unfit and can't lift Jon?” says Matt. “I'll tell you what—I have to go and carry him myself. For a few moments we're in disarray. And disarray is not good where we work. You're coming with us? Get fit, and stay fit. Fat bastards need not apply, because a half-fit guy on ops may be fatal.”

The upshot of these unwritten rules means that all SEALs are hair-trigger sensitive to their own reputations and how their teammates perceive their character. The same question is asked of them all: What can you bring to the fight?

Thus, every SEAL is judged by his appearance, and every one of them wants to be seen and admired, as a guy who will “get someone's back” when the chips are down. Every SEAL wants to be looked up to, which is why they are, almost without exception, big, powerful, hard-trained warriors, the very frontline of US military muscle.

Jon “rogered” all of that. And although he never expected to become Inter-Service 100-meter-sprint champion or even make the mountaineering team, he brought an immense competitive edge with him from Coronado. He also knew that his road to true excellence rested in his enormous strength.

And he really saw himself out there in front, smashing his way into the enemy's inner sanctums, battering his way forward with the platoon right behind him, ready to seize their objective.

Big Jon had decided to become a “breacher,” the guy who breaks down doors. And although this may sound like a perfect spot for your pet gorilla, in fact, it is no such thing. It is a highly specialized task that an expert must carry out.

When a Team goes in for an assault on the enemy, they may not yet know what kind of a barricade stands before them. And they may not need to know. Because this is the problem of the breacher, and the SEALs have a special school, an extensive course, to train these men.

The standard tool of their trade is a sledgehammer, with a retractable handle in case they need to make high speed over the ground; a long hammer handle would impede progress. But once that handle is fully extended, a skilled SEAL breacher could cannon open almost any door with one enormous swing of this thing.

Failing that, the breacher carries what SEALs call a “hooly” (short for hooligan—God knows why), which is a long crowbar that will rip the hinges off any door and allow the big man up front to kick it straight in. Tucked into the breacher's harness belt is the inevitable set of bolt cutters plus a heat torch for cutting through steel.

The Teams never know what will face them in terms of security, and the breacher must solve the initial entry, which is always violent. And of course, his last resort is, without exception, C-4 explosive. And because they do not wish to knock the entire building down, that high explosive must be carefully designed.

Thus, the breacher makes his own singular bombs—demolition charges, specially shaped, to blast the doors but not to collapse the house. This stuff never comes prepacked, and an expert needs to prepare it because the SEAL is going to carry in the explosive himself.

Take, for instance, that some reconnaissance pictures have suggested a heavy mud wall to go through. Thus, the breacher may find himself walking through the moonlit desert with a big bomb in his rucksack and upon whom everyone is dependent for entry into the ops area.

The problem is that no imagery can ever reveal precisely how many doors need to be breached for the Team to break in. There may be three, for example, each one more difficult and secure than the last. The breacher cannot possibly say, “Sorry, guys. I don't have any more charges. I guess we better go home.”