Chapter 37
He did. Thinking Ryan was trying to be a jerk, the chief grabbed him by the throat and tossed him to the ground.
That only encouraged us. Ryan had to show the face a lot. Every time, he'd go and get his a.s.s beat. Finally, we had him do it to one of our officers-a huge guy, definitely not someone to be messed with, even by another SEAL.
"Go do it to him," one of us said.
"Oh G.o.d, no," he protested.
"If you don't do it right now, we're going to choke you out," I warned.
"Can you please just choke me out right now?"
"Go do it," we all said.
He went and did it to the officer. He reacted about how you would expect. After a little while, Ryan tried to tap out.
"There's no tapping out," he snarled, continuing his pounding.
Ryan survived, but that was the last time we made him do the face.
Everybody got hazed when they joined the platoon. We were equal-opportunity ballbusters-officers got it just as bad as enlisted men.
At the time, new guys didn't receive their Tridents-and thus weren't really SEALs-until after they had pa.s.sed a series of tests with the team. We had our own little ritual that involved a mock boxing match against their whole platoon. Each new guy had to get through three rounds-once you're knocked down, that's a round-before being formally pinned and welcomed to the brotherhood.
I was Ryan's safety officer, making sure he didn't get too busted up. He had a head guard and everyone wore boxing gloves, but the hazing can get kind of enthusiastic, and the safety officer is there to make sure it doesn't get out of hand.
Ryan wasn't satisfied with three rounds. He wanted more. I think he thought if he fought long enough, he'd beat them all.
Not that he lasted too much longer. I had warned him that I was his safety and whatever he did, he was not to hit me. In the confusion of his head being bounced off the platoon's gloves, he swung and hit me.
I did what I had to do.
MARC LEE
With our deployment rapidly approaching, our platoon was beefed up. Command brought a young SEAL named Marc Lee over from another unit to help round us out. He immediately fit in.
Marc was an athletic guy, in some ways exactly the sort of tough physical specimen you expect to be a SEAL. Before joining the Navy, he had played soccer well enough to be given a tryout with a professional team, and may very well have been a pro if a leg injury hadn't cut short his career.
But there was a lot more to Marc than just physical prowess. He'd studied for the ministry, and while he left because of what he saw as hypocrisy among the seminary students, he was still very religious. Later on during our deployment, he led a small group in prayer before every op. As
Not that he was a saint, or even above the horseplay that is part of being a SEAL.
Soon after he joined us, we went on a training mission in Nevada. At the end of the day, a group of us piled into a four-door truck and headed back to the base to get to bed. Marc was in the back with me and a SEAL we'll call Bob. For some reason, Bob and I started talking about being choked out.
With new-guy enthusiasm-and maybe naivete-Marc said, "I've never been choked out."
" 'Scuse me?" I said, leaning over to get a good look at this virgin. Being choked out is a mandatory SEAL occupation.
Marc looked at me. I looked at him.
"Bring it on," he said.
As Bob leaned over, I dove and choked Marc out. My work completed, I leaned back.
"You mother," said Bob, straightening. "I wanted to do it."
"I thought you were leaning over to let me get him," I told him.
"h.e.l.l no. I was just handing my watch up front so it wouldn't get broken."
"Well, okay," I said. "He'll wake up, then you get him."
He did. I think half the platoon had a shot at him before the night was out. Marc took it well. Of course, as a new guy, he had no choice.
COMMAND
I loved our new CO. He was outstanding, aggressive, and stayed out of our hair. He not only knew each one of us by name and face, he knew our wives and girlfriends. He took it personally when he lost people, and yet was able to stay aggressive at the same time. He never held us back in training, and, in fact, approved extra training for snipers.
My command master chief, whom I'll call Primo, was another top-notch commander. He didn't give a flying f.u.c.k about promotions, about looking good, or covering his b.u.t.t: he was all about successful missions and getting the job done. And he was a Texan-as you can tell, I'm a little partial-which meant he was a bad-a.s.s.
His briefs always started the same way: "What are you sons of b.i.t.c.hes doing?" he'd snarl. "Are you gonna get out there and kick some a.s.s?"
Primo was all about getting into battle. He knew what SEALs are supposed to do, and he wanted us to do it.
He was also a good ol' boy off the battlefield.
You always have team guys getting in trouble during off-time and training. Bar fights are a big problem. I remember him pulling us aside when he came on.
"Listen, I know you're going to get into fights," he told us. "So here's what you do. You hit fast, you hit hard, and you run. If you don't get caught, I don't care. Because when you get caught is when I have to get involved."
I took that advice to heart, though it wasn't always possible to follow.
Maybe because he was from Texas, or maybe because he had the soul of a brawler himself, he took a liking to me and another Texan, whom we called Pepper. We became his golden boys; he'd cover our a.s.ses when we got in trouble. There were times when I may have told off an officer or two; Chief Primo took care of it. He might chew me out himself, but he always smoothed the way with head shed. On the other side of things, he knew he could count on Pepper and me to get a job done if it needed doing.
TATS
While I was home, I had a pair of new tattoos added to my arm. One was a Trident. Now that I felt like a real SEAL, I felt I had earned it. I had it put on the inside of my arm where not everyone would see, but I knew it was there. I didn't want it to be out there bragging.
On the front of my arm, I had a crusader cross inked in. I wanted everyone to know I was a Christian. I had it put in in red, for blood. I hated the d.a.m.n savages I'd been fighting. I always will. They've taken so much from me.
Even the tattoos became a cause for stress between my wife and myself. She didn't like tattoos in general, and the way I got these-staying out late one evening when she was expecting me home, surprising her with them-added to our friction.
Taya saw it as one more sign that I was changing, becoming somebody she didn't know.
I didn't think of it that way at all, though I admit I knew she wouldn't like it. But it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission.