The Operator Read online

  There was a cool week in which we were taught how to fight fires and what the different classes of fires are. Total Navy stuff, but I loved it. I was always big into Navy traditions. I still call people “Shipmate” … Love that word. I think I’m going to open a bar and call it “Shipmate’s.” I’ll require all of the bouncers to end every sentence with that word. I can imagine them kicking a drunk out, “Get the hell out of Shipmate’s … shipmate!”

  But mostly we folded, and when we weren’t learning how to fold, we were learning how to march. It turns out that it takes weeks to teach people how to walk. And walking was about the only exercise we got. They didn’t let us work out at all. Here I’d spent six months getting in shape for the SEAL test, and now we were eating this unhealthy food and sitting around all day folding shit. “We’re going to get fat,” I’d tell anyone who’d listen. “We’re going to get out of shape. We’re not running. We’re not doing anything. And everything we eat is covered in fucking gravy.”

  I was desperate to take the SEAL screening test before I turned into a 298-pound weakling. The tests happened on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I signed up for the first possible test. A bad mistake. It happened to be the day after we got all our immunizations. The Navy is famous for giving you a shit ton of shots. I woke up the next morning feeling sick as hell, bumps and bruises all over my body, my tongue twice its normal size and covered in felt. I forced myself out of my bunk and discovered I was barely strong enough to stand. I doubted I could do a single pull-up much less the eight you needed to pass.

  Brushing my teeth that morning was a challenge. The test seemed somewhere north of impossible: Swim twenty lengths (five hundred yards), rest ten minutes; pump forty-two push-ups, rest two minutes; break off fifty sit-ups, rest two minutes; do those dreaded eight pull-ups, rest ten minutes; run 1.5 miles in eleven and a half minutes. In boots.

  I dragged myself out to the Olympic-size indoor pool where a set of bleachers had been set up. A huge SEAL flag hung on a wall. The SEAL insignia is an eagle (representing our ability to fight from the air) perched on an anchor (representing our naval heritage) grasping Neptune’s barbed trident in one talon (testifying to our ability to kick ass on the ocean) and a flintlock pistol (reminding people that we can also kick ass on land) in the other. It’s one kick-ass eagle.

  I stumbled up high into the bleachers and sat down facing the pool. A SEAL came out to look over the new lot. He was wearing blue trunks with the “SEAL Team Three” logo on them and nothing else. The only thing more obvious than my horrible decision to join the Navy was this man’s eight-pack abs. He proceeded to walk the length of the bleachers, look us each in the eye, strut to the high dive, climb majestically, knock out a dive that Greg Louganis would have admired for more than one reason, and knife into the water like a thin blade. With almost unworldly powerful strokes he swam away, vaulted over the edge of the pool, and walked into the dressing room without a backward glance, as if he knew that not one of us deserved a second look.

  I considered the five hundred bald recruit heads descending in rows before me. They turned as one to a second SEAL on the near side of the pool giving test instructions. I suddenly felt foolish. Every one of these five hundred wannabe heroes thought he could become a SEAL, along with every other guy who joins the Navy. What made me stand out?

  The one non-lame move I made when I enlisted—and only because my Marine friend urged me to do it—was to insist that the recruiter put in writing that I’d get three attempts to pass the SEAL screening test. I was lucky I did.

  Somehow I passed the swim. But as soon as I started doing the push-ups, which must be form perfect or they don’t count, I knew I wouldn’t be able to make the forty-two minimum. I was the failure I feared. I had nothing.

  Except … I did have that signed guarantee of two more attempts.

  By Thursday, whatever poison they’d shot into my veins the previous Monday had drained away, and I felt like a different man up in those poolside bleachers. I was once again the guy who’d spent six months preparing for this very moment. As it turned out, I was one of the few who had been. This would be my first glimpse of the truth that would be pounded into me in years to come: Preparation is everything.

  We did the five-hundred-yard swim in heats. Of the five hundred recruits, I was one of only ten to pass.

  We had a ten-minute break to change back into our uniforms, then went back out to do the push-ups. Two more fell away. All the survivors passed the sit-ups. The final leg of the test—each of the exercises for some reason is called an “evolution”—was the 1.5-mile run in boots. The minimum time was eleven and a half minutes. We lost four more.

  Five hundred men who’d all convinced themselves they had what it took to become SEALs were now down to four. And this was just to qualify to attempt, and most likely fail, the twenty-eight-week SEAL tryout—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL, which makes the screening test look like slurping piña coladas while swinging on a shady hammock.

  But I was elated. Now I knew I’d be going to BUD/S for sure. Just the thought of it excited me: I’d get to go to Coronado—a naval base that shares an island on San Diego Bay with what travel brochures call “a quaint, affluent resort city.” So. Beaches, babes, beer—and I’d get to actually wear the green uniform of SEAL trainees.

  *

  AFTER I ENLISTED, I’D WATCHED all kinds of SEAL movies and read every book that I could find. I finally learned that SEAL does not refer to the aquatic mammal, but to Sea, Air, and Land. Clearly, someone wanted to reference the sleek and speedy animals, because they grabbed the “E” they needed from the second letter of “Sea.” By rights, the correct acronym ought to be the SAL, but where’s the fun in that?

  SEAL teams evolved from units of Navy frogmen in World War II, who were specially trained in underwater survey and demolition. They were counted on to map approaches to beach landing sites and destroy obstacles in the path of an invading force. In the Korean War, these UDTs—Underwater Demolition Teams—were so stealthy and effective that their role expanded to include land combat operations aimed at destroying enemy railroad tunnels and bridges. As one of the UDT officers, Lt. Ted Fielding, famously explained, this expansion of duties came about because, “We were ready to do what nobody else could do, and what nobody else wanted to do.”

  It was for just that reason that in 1961, recognizing the changing nature of warfare, the Navy decided to turn the UDT forces into guerilla and counter-guerilla units, not limited to operating in the water and on beaches. That’s where the SEa, Air, and Land came in. The first two SEAL teams were formed in 1962. Team One was stationed in Coronado and Team Two in Virginia Beach. SEALs have played a particularly dramatic role in every war and American military action since.

  “Know your history, gents!” is a common phrase we use: Know from where you came. I recall being at a SEAL reunion in Virginia Beach some years ago and running into a frogman wearing a WWII veteran ball cap. He looked pretty good for being ninety-something. Trying to be smart, I asked him, “When did you go through Hell Week?”

  “June 6, 1944,” he said.

  I replied, “There was no BUD/S in 1944,” thinking I was smart.

  “There was on Omaha Beach, son. Know your heritage.”

  Now I was going to be a part of it.

  *

  OR AT LEAST I WOULD be if I didn’t screw up retaking the BUD/S test over and over. I’d noticed something the first time I took it: There were phones in the pool area, and with all the personnel concentrating on the test-takers, I could slip away and call home—a rare opportunity in boot camp. I also wanted to stay in as good shape as I could to prepare for Coronado, and folding and marching wasn’t going to cut it. So retaking the test was also my best chance to work out.

  Every Tuesday and Thursday I’d go down to the pool and go through it all again, get in my reps, and call home. It was a sweet deal, except that if I slipped up, had a bad day, and failed even one of the evolutions on the test, my trip to th
e beach at Coronado would be canceled.

  I must have taken the test ten times, and, fortunately, my scores just kept improving.

  One of my closest friends in boot camp was Matthew Parris. I met him the very first day in the makeshift barracks where we were divided into divisions of about seventy recruits each. Matthew and I were in the same division. I instantly looked up to him because he seemed to have his military bearing down. He was so Army that he had the Drill Sergeant “This We’ll Defend” badge tattooed on his chest. Not surprising, since he’d been an Army Drill Sergeant who decided to start over from the bottom in the Navy because … you guessed it, he wanted to be a SEAL. When his enlistment in the Army was up, he walked into the Navy recruiting office dressed all in black with shined combat boots, trying to look tough, bandanna and all, and said to the recruiter: “Make me a SEAL.” The recruiter regarded him with a steely-eyed squint. “Not looking like that,” he said.

  Matthew liked to brag, but he loved humor more, even when the joke was on him.

  Matthew failed the BUD/S qualifying test the first time he took it, the day I passed. I was back out there taking the test as a workout the next week and this time we both passed. Despite the big talk, only about a half dozen guys in our division even took the test, and only the two of us passed it. We celebrated Matthew’s success together and immediately became tight friends, going so far as to work out after lights went out and the Recruit Division Commanders were gone. We’d do pull-ups in the stalls in the head, sit-ups on the floor, and dips using two sinks. There were times where we’d see if we could sneak in a thousand push-ups over the course of a day.

  When basic ended, we put our bald heads together and decided to choose the Aircrew Survival Equipmentman school in Millington, Tennessee, for our required post–boot camp training. You wouldn’t know it from its fancy name, but the school taught those who attended how to rig parachutes, which involves sewing. A bona fide graduate of this training earns the right to be called a “stitch bitch” by his shipmates. Matthew and I didn’t join the Navy to be stitch bitches. We joined to be SEALs. But we took the course because it was the shortest in duration. This would get us to Coronado the fastest and we didn’t give a damn what we were called.

  It turned out, anyway, that Aircrew Survival Equipmentman school was pretty cool. I had a new rack (“bed” to you non-swabbies), a bigger closet, and a pool close by that Matthew and I used every day.

  And I really did learn to sew. An African-American Marine staff sergeant who was a mountain of a man taught me. Huge. I thought he quite possibly could be the toughest man on Earth. This school would be my first experience with the US Marine Corps, and this guy should have been on a poster. His cammie top had sleeves that were perfectly rolled to the middle of his huge biceps. To this day I have no idea how he fit into that. His pants were perfectly bloused into mirror-shined boots. “Eat barbed-wire and shit napalm” would have described him. His trap muscles were so big it almost looked like he had no neck and I am positive he was afraid of nothing. One time Matthew referred to him as “Sergeant,” something that’s acceptable in the Army. Not in the Marine Corps. It’s Staff Sergeant. “Oh, my God, you’re so fucked,” one of our Marine classmates whispered when he heard that. Matthew was genuinely scared shitless as the Staff Sergeant clenched his mighty jaws, nostrils flaring, staring him down. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The man was a beast!

  I’ll never forget him teaching me how to wind a bobbin, something my grandma might have done.

  On our first weekend pass, Matthew and I took a road trip to Memphis where we split a hotel room and proceeded to hit Beale Street. I remember coming to on a bench near a few restaurants, so drunk. We had been pounding shots. Matthew was sitting next to me with his head in his hands. A couple of waiters on break from a nearby restaurant were standing nearby, laughing about how shit-faced we were.

  I heard one guy say to the other, “… and they’re just sitting there.”

  Matthew took that as his cue to puke up a little in his mouth, hold it for a second, then spit it on his shoes.

  Waiter No. 2: “Oh, that was nice.”

  We cleaned up Matthew’s footwear, beat it back to Millington, and knocked out the school in just under three weeks. I invited Matthew to fly to Butte with me for a bit of leave and then we could drive my truck to Coronado. I had a great experience on the flight home: For the first time someone recognized my service. A gentleman, probably a vet, noticed that Matthew and I were in the Navy. He bought us each two beers. I thought that was very cool for two reasons: 1) I was recognized as a sailor (even though I hadn’t done anything yet); and 2) beer is seven dollars on a plane.

  Matthew met my family and a bunch of my friends and managed to keep his shoes dry. It was such a pleasure to be away from the Navy for a week. I didn’t realize how homesick I was and how much I loved Butte. I missed getting together with my friends. I missed my sister and basketball. I missed Club 13, where you didn’t need an ID to drink. I missed “The Animal House,” a huge green house that my brother and a bunch of friends rented and turned into a perpetual party. I missed the bar next door called the Chaparral where we’d go to sing karaoke. I missed Wop Chops from The Freeway; regular chops at John’s Pork Chops; a Welsh meat pie covered in gravy that was the specialty of Joe’s Pasty Shop; and a garbage omelet served at the M&M, an old miner’s bar/diner that hadn’t locked its doors in more than a hundred years—seriously. I was still just a child myself, so leaving again was hard. I had no idea what I was getting into, and was scared shitless of BUD/S. But Matthew and I got in my truck and drove. On the way out of town we made one last stop, my sister Kris’s apartment. I wanted to say goodbye to her and my nephew, Kolton. He was only two so he didn’t know what was going on. I remember picking him up and hugging him and saying goodbye with tears in my eyes. I didn’t know that the hardest goodbyes would come years later. I can’t pick up Kolton now, either. He’s bigger than I am.

  *

  FAREWELLS IN OUR REARVIEW MIRROR, we headed south on I-15 through Salt Lake City and didn’t stop until we hit Las Vegas. We stayed in the Circus Circus hotel, but I wasn’t able to do anything fun; I was still only twenty. Yes, I’d managed to get served alcohol prior to this, but that had been on airplanes and in Butte. In a pinch, I’d always used my brother, Tom’s, ID. It was expired, and we look nothing alike. So I wisely decided not to try such weak shit in a place like Circus Circus. I didn’t want to wake up with a horse’s head in my bed.

  We got McDonald’s for breakfast and hit the road early. I’d been reading Rogue Warrior by Richard Marcinko the entire time when it wasn’t my turn to drive. Marcinko was the SEAL who’d been assigned in 1979 to create an elite special operations force specifically designed to respond to terrorism and provide a way to use surgical military force when the threats come not from a foreign government, but from small, mobile networks of terrorists who can blend almost seamlessly into civilian populations. The lack of that capability had become painfully apparent earlier that year during the Iranian hostage crisis, when more than sixty Americans were held hostage for 444 days in Tehran by supporters of the Islamist revolution, only to be released at the whim of Iran’s leader. An early attempt to send US commandos to free the hostages ended in disaster. The mission had been poorly conceived, prepared, and executed, and it had to be aborted due to helicopter failures before the commandos even reached their target. On retreat, one of the still operational choppers crashed into a transport plane loaded with jet fuel, igniting a huge explosion that killed eight servicemen.

  Marcinko, who’d won a trunkful of medals for his valor and success in Vietnam combat actions, conceived of an elite strike force that would be like a regular SEAL team on steroids: cohesive, highly mobile, superbly equipped, and obsessively prepared. It would also be highly secret. At the time, the only two SEAL teams were One and Two, so Marcinko and the other planners settled on the name SEAL Team **** to confuse the Soviets and make them wonder where Tea
ms Three, Four, and Five were.

  Marcinko fulfilled his orders, and then some. To be maximally effective, the new force would have to stomp all over those customs and courtesies the Navy was so fond of. SEAL Team **** would be a brotherhood of equals called “operators,” each fully involved and fully informed, and having an equal voice in the design and execution of missions, as well as maximum latitude in behavior and comportment. In practice, this created a cadre of fighters who looked more like the blue-faced warriors in Braveheart than anyone’s idea of regular Navy. I read a great anecdote in a New York Times story that really captured it: A Team **** officer was showing an admiral around during a hostage rescue simulation on a cruise ship. After hours, he took the admiral down to one of the bars where the operators were hanging out. The officer told the Times, “When we opened the door, it reminded me of Pirates of the Caribbean.” It wasn’t an after-action analysis, it was a riot. The rowdy behavior, long hair, bushy beards, earrings, and regulation-be-damned uniforms hit the admiral like the shock wave from a concussion grenade. He kept saying, “These guys are in my Navy?”

  After Marcinko retired in 1989, he became a private consultant. The next year he was charged with government contract fraud, convicted, and sent to prison for fifteen months. He claimed his prosecution was bogus, payback for the embarrassment he’d caused security officials with his ******** activities. He’d have the last laugh, though: He sold a ton of books and earned big fees as a motivational speaker.

  I can’t judge the things Marcinko did that got him sent to prison—I wasn’t around—but I think his heart and mind were both in the right place. At the end of the day his primary focus was his mission and his men.