American Sniper: The Autobiography Of The Most Lethal Sniper In U.S. Military History Part 6

A lot of people are surprised to hear that injuries don't necessarily disqualify you from becoming a SEAL, unless they are so serious that they end your Navy career. It makes sense, though, since being a SEAL is more about mental toughness than physical prowess-if you have the psychological fort.i.tude to come back from an injury and complete the program, you stand a decent chance of being a good SEAL. I personally know a SEAL who broke his hip so badly during training that it had to be replaced. He had to sit out for a year and a half, but he made it through BUD/S.

You hear guys talking about getting kicked out of BUD/S because they got into a fight with the instructor and beat the c.r.a.p out of him. They're lying sacks of s.h.i.+t. No one fights with the instructors. You just don't. Believe me, if you did, they'd come together and whip your a.s.s so fast you wouldn't ever walk again.

MARCUS

You get close to the people in BUD/S, but you try not to get too close until after h.e.l.l Week. That's where the heaviest attrition is. We graduated two dozen guys out of our cla.s.s; less than ten percent the number that started.

I was one of them. I'd started in cla.s.s 231, but the rollback meant I graduated with 233.

After BUD/S, SEALs go to advance training-officially known as SQT or SEAL Qualifying Training. While I was there, I was reunited with a friend of mine I'd met while at BUD/S-Marcus Luttrell.

Marcus and I got along right away. It was only natural: we were a couple of Texas boys.

I don't suppose you'll understand that if you're not from Texas. There seems to be a special bond between people from the state. I don't know if it's shared experiences, or maybe it's something in the water-or maybe the beer. Texans tend to get on pretty well with each other, and in this case we formed an instant friends.h.i.+p. Maybe it's not that much of a mystery; after all, we had a lot of experiences in common, from growing up with a love of hunting to joining the Navy to toughing out BUD/S.

Marcus had graduated from BUD/S prior to me, then went off to do special advanced training before returning to SQT. Trained as a corpsman, he happened to check me over when I got my first O2 hit while diving. (In layman's terms, an "O2 hit" occurs when too much oxygen enters your bloodstream during a dive. It can be caused by a number of different factors and can be extremely serious. My case was very minor.)

Diving again. I always say I'm an " ... L," not a SEAL. I'm a land guy; you can keep air and sea for someone else.

The day my incident occurred, I was swimming with a lieutenant, and we were determined to get the day's golden fin-an award for the best s.h.i.+t-hot dive of the day. The exercise involved swimming under a s.h.i.+p and planting limpet mines. (A limpet mine is a special charge that is placed against the hull of a s.h.i.+p. Generally, it will have a timed charge.)

We were doing extremely well when suddenly, while I was underneath the hull of the s.h.i.+p, I experienced vertigo and my brain turned into a vegetable. I managed to grab hold of a pylon and hug it. The lieutenant tried handing me a mine, then tried signaling to me when I wouldn't take it. I stared blankly into the ocean. Finally, my head cleared, and I was able to get out and continue.

No golden fin for us that day. By the time I got back to the surface, I was all right, and both Marcus and the instructors cleared me.

Though we ended up in different Teams, Marcus and I kept in touch as the years went by. It seemed like every time I was coming back from a combat deployment, he was coming in to relieve me. We'd have lunch together and trade informal intel back and forth.

Toward the end of SQT, we got orders telling us which SEAL Team we were about to join. Even though we had graduated BUD/S, we didn't consider ourselves real SEALs yet; it was only when we joined a Team that we would get our Tridents-and even then we'd have to prove ourselves first. (The SEAL Tridents-also known as a Budweiser-is a metal "device" or badge worn by SEALs. Besides Neptune's trident, the symbol includes an eagle and an anchor.) At the time, there were six Teams, meaning three choices on each coast, East and West; my top pick was Seal Team 3, which was based out of Coronado, California. I chose it because that team had seen action in the Middle East and was likely to return. I wanted to get into the heat if I could. I think all of us did.

My next two choices were for Teams based on the East Coast, because I'd been in Virginia, where they are headquartered. I'm not a big fan of Virginia, but I liked it a lot better than California. San Diego-the city near Coronado-has beautiful weather, but Southern California is the land of nuts. I wanted to live somewhere with a little more sanity.

I'd been told by the detailer I worked for that he would make sure I got my top choice. I wasn't 100 percent sure that was going to happen, but at that point I would have accepted whatever a.s.signment I got-obviously, since I had no real say in the matter.

Getting the actual a.s.signment was the opposite of dramatic. They brought us into a big cla.s.sroom and handed out paper with our orders. I got my top choice: Team 3.

LOVE

Something else happened to me that spring that had an enormous impact not just on my military career, but on my life.

I fell in love.

I don't know if you believe in love at first sight; I don't think I did before the night in April of 2001 when I saw Taya standing at a bar in a San Diego club, talking with one of my friends. She had a way of making black leather pants look smokin' hot and cla.s.sy. The combination suited me fine.

I'd just joined Team 3. We hadn't started training yet, and I was enjoying what amounted to a week of vacation before getting down to the serious business of becoming a SEAL and earning my place on a Team.

Taya was working for a pharmaceutical company as a drug rep when we met. Originally from Oregon, she'd gone to college in Wisconsin and moved out to the coast a couple years before we met. My first impression was that she was beautiful, even if she looked p.i.s.sed off about something. When we started talking, I also found out she was smart, and had a good sense of humor. I sensed right away she was someone who could keep up with me.

But maybe she should tell the story; her version sounds better than mine:

Taya:

I remember the night we met-some of it, at least. I wasn't going to go out. This was all during a low spot in my life. My days were spent in a job I didn't like. I was fairly new in town and still looking for some solid female friends.h.i.+ps. And I was casually dating guys, with not much success. Over the years I'd had some decent relations.h.i.+ps and a couple of bad ones, with a few dates in between. I remember literally praying to G.o.d before I met Chris to just send me a nice guy. Nothing else mattered, I thought. I just prayed for someone who was inherently good and nice.

A girlfriend called and wanted to go down to San Diego. I was living in Long Beach at the time, about ninety miles away. I wasn't going to go but somehow she talked me into it.

We were walking around that night and we pa.s.sed a bar named Maloney's. They were blaring "Land Down Under" by Men at Work. My friend wanted to go in but they had an outrageous cover charge, something like ten or fifteen bucks.

"I'm not doing that," I told her. "Not for a bar that's playing Men at Work."

"Oh, shut up," my girlfriend said. She paid the cover and in we went.

We were at the bar. I was drinking and irritable. This tall, good-looking guy came over and started talking to me. I'd been talking to one of his friends, who seemed like a jerk. My mood was still pretty bad, though he had a certain air about him. He told me his name-Chris-and I told him mine.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I drive an ice cream truck."

"You're full of s.h.i.+t," I told him. "Obviously you're military."

"No, no," he protested. He told me a bunch of other things. SEALs almost never admit to strangers what they really do, and Chris had some of the best BS stories ever. One of the better ones was dolphin waxer: he claimed that dolphins in captivity need to be waxed so their skin didn't disintegrate. It's a pretty convincing story-if you're a young, naive, and tipsy girl.

Fortunately, he didn't try that particular one on me-I hope because he could tell I wouldn't fall for it. He's also convinced girls that he mans an ATM machine, sitting inside and doling out money when people put their cards in. I wasn't anywhere near that naive, or drunk, for him to try that story.

One look at him and I could have told he was military. He was ripped and had short hair, and had an accent that said "not from here."

Finally, he admitted he was in the service.

"So what do you do in the military?" I asked.

He said a bunch of other things and finally I got the truth: "I just graduated from BUD/S."

I was like, okay, so you're a SEAL.

"Yeah."

"I know all about you guys," I told him. You see, my sister had just divorced her husband. My brother-in-law had wanted to be a SEAL-he'd gone through some of the training-and so I knew (or thought I did) what SEALs were all about.

So I told Chris.

"You're arrogant, self-centered, and glory-seeking," I said. "You lie and think you can do whatever you want."

Yes, I was at my charming best.

What was intriguing was how he responded. He didn't smirk or get clever or even act offended. He seemed truly ... puzzled.

"Why would you say that?" he asked, very innocently and genuine.