The clinic offered new learning opportunities. There I joined with other SEAL corpsmen and a dedicated doctor and learned about orthopedic injuries, allergic reactions, emergency medicine, and, of course, the treatment of hangovers. If the military offers one thing to care providers, it’s variety.
I had two very distinct duties in the teams: The first was to take care of the SEALs and the support personnel as medical provider, the job I was called to do. The second was to train up as a combat-ready shooter. It created a moral paradox that would follow me through my career. Eventually, I would receive the qualifications to prescribe meds, place chest tubes, and perform lab procedures, but I also shot, swam, jumped from planes, and blew things up. I worked hard to become a valuable member of the platoon, and over our workup period I earned the trust of the team guys both as corpsman and warrior. I would soon put that training and trust to good use in the Persian Gulf.
9
DESERT STORM
For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.
—SUN TZU
In August of 1990, Iraqi troops invaded Kuwait, and the United States prepared for war. The UN Security Council brought economic sanctions against Saddam Hussein, and President George H. W. Bush deployed troops to Saudi Arabia under Operation Desert Shield. Saddam was ordered out of Kuwait on a strict timeline, and blockades were initiated to prevent Iraqi ships from ferrying cargo to and from restricted areas. In response Big Navy sent a few carrier battle groups into the region, and my platoon was assigned to one of them. It would be my first deployment, and I was more than ready to implement both the deadly skills I’d learned as a Navy SEAL and the lifesaving procedures I’d been taught as a combat medic. Years of training, conditioning, and mental toughness would soon be tested, and I welcomed it.
* * *
The USS Saratoga had positioned itself off the Arabian coast with orders to prevent unauthorized passage of any ship that dared break the blockade. We were just one of the many options on the table, but since our methods didn’t require sinking or disabling a ship we quickly became the navy’s preferred method of interdiction.
After landing on the “Sara” the platoon immediately began honing skills needed for the mission. Shipboard seizures are perilous at best; if everything goes right the enemy should never see us coming, and we may not have to fire a single shot. However, if just one or two things go awry the risks exponentially increase with each passing minute. Understanding the gravity of the situation, we’d split our time between ready room briefings on potential targets, shooting practice, and the all-important rehearsal. For weeks we practiced each phase of the mission, concentrating most of our time on shipboard movement until we were able to flow through a ship’s infrastructure like a train. Soon everything was instinctual; a head nod, hand gesture, or stance would silently relay the next man’s role as he approached a passageway or hatch. Timing was everything, but in order to take down a ship we had to be both fast and tactically sound, which meant daily rehearsals.
As we were jocking up for one of the training missions, Senior Chief informed us that we only had one bird (helicopter) available, so each squad would be inserting separately before regrouping on the deck to finish the drill. This suited us just fine as long as we had the ability to further refine our timing requirements for inserting onto a nonpermissive vessel. Insertion was one of the most vulnerable components related to shipboard assault, and we knew if the balloon went up (a spec ops euphemism meaning execute the mission), we’d only have a minute or two to get the team on deck before losing any element of surprise.
Much quicker than rappelling, fast-roping is ideal for minimizing the time a helicopter has to maintain its hover, but it’s far more dangerous. First, the pilot has to quickly find the designated insertion point, then maintain a constant distance from the ship while crosswinds push him from his position and waves shift and possibly bob the ship. The SEAL, heavily laden with body armor, weapons, and other equipment, is only attached to the rope by his grip. Once he lands, he has to resist being propelled overboard by the wind generated from the rotor blades while simultaneously readying his weapon, which was previously secured to his back. All with the possibility of receiving incoming enemy fire.
* * *
Today my squad would be going first, so after Mike rigged the helo for fast-rope insertion we crowded into the plane and lifted off the Sara, heading out to sea. The pilot took us out for about five minutes before banking left and roaring the bird back toward the flight deck. Once the helo was in position we kicked the rope out, and in less than a minute everyone was on deck, dispersed with weapons at the ready. Tom, our officer in charge, nodded in approval as the bird landed for his squad’s run. I watched as the squad loaded up, and within a few minutes the bird was back overhead. The ropes dropped to the deck with a thud immediately followed by the signal to exit the aircraft. Hector, the platoon’s fearless Puerto Rican, was the first out the door, followed by Scott. Just as Scott grabbed the rope, the helo bucked and sent him down the line in an awkward position toward the steel deck below. Fast-roping is just that: fast. From the moment he exited the aircraft it didn’t look good, and he had no time to recover. He hit with the full weight of his body sandwiching his ankle against the steel deck, snapping it like a branch of a falling tree. Scott tried to stand but collapsed on the deck and rolled out of the way before the next man on the rope landed on top of him.
Once the last man touched down I tried to rush forward with the shipboard medics and assist them getting Scott to sick bay, where we could better assess his injuries, but that wasn’t my job. I had to remain with the team and finish the training op. In the SEAL Teams emphasis is placed on practicing in the same manner we are expected to perform. If there’s a possibility a mission requires parachuting our boats into an extreme sea state in order to get in undetected, then by damn we’ll be rehearsing in those same conditions. In Scott’s case it was move him to a secure area for the medical evacuation and continue on with the op. Knowing the high possibility of injury or wounding on insertion, we developed contingencies for just such circumstances and had a response team standing by on the ship. They didn’t have to fast-rope from a search-and-rescue bird; they simply ran across the flattop to render aid to Scott. It was their job; that’s why they were standing by as we rehearsed. It was not mine, and despite an instinctual medic’s urge to stay and help my friend, my place was with the squads moving forward. No deviations from SOPs—“practice the way you play!”
* * *
At the end of the training day we were all anxious to learn the extent of Scott’s injuries, so immediately after debrief I headed down to sick bay while the rest of the group restaged our gear, or so I thought. I paid a quick visit to the ship’s physicians in sick bay to get the official diagnosis, but as I walked out of the medical office I saw the platoon huddled around Scott in the treatment area, ribbing him about his fall’s “lack of style points.” They laughed loudly as Hector continually replayed the video from the ship’s closed-circuit TV that had managed to capture the event. “I knew my ankle was fractured. I heard it pop when I hit,” Scott said to the group, and he was right. The X-rays confirmed everyone’s suspicions. His fractures were beyond the capability of the ship’s medical department. Scott would need an orthopedic surgeon if he expected to remain a SEAL.
Just as the likelihood of real-world interdictions seemed eminent, my mentor would be heading home, leaving me as the only medic among the group, at least for the interim. Despite being an unseasoned SEAL and medic, I knew I was ready. As the junior corpsman, I ran all my squad’s medical issues past Scott in order to prevent making a well-intentioned but naive mistake. Although Scott could be very direct, he wasn’t controlling and took pride in his ability to train me in the particulars of battlefield medicine without stifling creativity. Some lessons were obviously necessary for a medic who operates in and around the
ocean, like how to waterproof medical gear well enough to exit a submarine while at depth, or how to transport a casualty long distances through the brush, over the beach, and eventually out to sea. Others were more obscure but equally important, such as knowing how to balance the ethical and tactical requirements of being a special operations medic.
Most of these lessons couldn’t be found in textbooks or explained on a chalkboard; they needed to be demonstrated to be understood and then practiced to acquire the craft. Combat trauma medicine is a triad of skill, art, and knowledge that requires being able to combine speed, dexterity, and ingenuity in a calm fashion that can only be gained through practical application, and I had received plenty. The same could be said regarding my operational capabilities. My platoon was loaded with experienced frogmen with every qualification in the book, each one of them willing to pass on his knowledge, and over the course of the workup I, like my fellow FNGs in the platoon, absorbed as much as I could. I knew the level of responsibility that lay on my shoulders and wasn’t about to let any of them down.
* * *
As the United States continued lobbying the world for support, Iraqi-flagged vessels slowly positioned themselves outside of the notional “do not cross” line in the sea. With only days remaining before the UN vote on Resolution 678, giving coalition forces the authority to militarily take back Kuwait, they pulled up anchor and ran the blockade. Scramble Alpha was transmitted over the ships 1MC (the main circuit public address system), sending us into action. In less than fifteen minutes we were geared up and test-firing our weapons on our way to the flight deck.
The rules of engagement were extremely strict: Do not fire unless fired upon! There was no way to “positively” know who or what was on those ships, and America couldn’t risk wrecking its newly formed alliance. We may have been designed to be killing machines, but unlike the ancient boarding parties who’d lay waste to both crew and passenger, SEALs are trained to be the most precise and discriminating weapon system in the navy’s inventory, and we weren’t about to let the country down.
I knew this wasn’t going to be some simple search-and-seizure operation. If that were the case they would have sent sailors from one of the neighboring ships. The Iraqi captain had already shown complete disregard for authority by failing to yield to any of the countermeasures the navy was obligated to try on renegade vessels. Make no mistake about it; we would be facing a belligerent crew.
As wheels lifted off we officially received the word “go” and quickly moved into holding pattern until the last bird cleared the flight deck and indicated it was ready for the assault. The helos fell into formation as they approached the target and then descended one by one to a height just above the water’s edge. The low and fast approach prevented the ship’s crew or radar from detecting our assault until it was too late.
“Two minutes,” the door gunner mouthed over the engine noise while holding up his fingers to emphasize his point. Simultaneously the air-crew chief slid the side door open and our cast master positioned the coiled rope next to the door’s edge. As the cold wind started swirling through the airframe, I quickly rechecked every piece of my gear and made sure everything was still in place. This would be my first experience facing a hostile force, and I didn’t want to take any chances. “Thirty seconds!” Through the open door I could see a sniper bird and the other squad’s helo cutting away as we exchanged positions.
“Go!” My hands gripped the rope and I focused on the landing area below. When I hit the deck, I saw the other squad had set security and was waiting on us to start our movement forward. As the last man touched down and drew his weapon, the train began moving toward the bridge. Within minutes we secured the wheelhouse and started sweeping through the rest of the ship. Everything was going according to plan. Although some of the Iraqi crew heard us coming, they had little time to effectively react before finding themselves hogtied and huddled in a holding area. The hard part was done; we had stopped the vessel dead in her tracks. Now all we needed to do was bring on the marines to provide enough manpower to finish searching the vessel.
I think every fighting man yearns to be in a position to impact the outcome of a battle or the history of his nation. I know I did, but I can only speculate whether it was Saddam’s intention to goad America’s navy into sinking a vessel or unnecessarily harming a crew member in hopes of gaining sympathy for his cause and a “no” vote on the UN resolution. That being said, I unequivocally believe that had we, or our SEAL brothers operating in the Persian Gulf, wounded or killed someone the Arab world perceived to be “innocent,” the outcome of the Security Council’s vote would have been different.
History tells us a single shot by a lunatic can be the flashpoint for starting a war, but what I discovered those days at sea was that the discretion of a professional warrior might avert battle altogether. Unfortunately, Saddam never could reciprocate this sensibility, and by mid-January America’s Shield turned into a Storm.
It took less than forty-five days for American forces and our allies to overwhelm the Iraqi army. Our special operations brothers on land found the Iraqis to be largely compliant and apathetic about the fight. As for my fellow warriors, we felt somewhat disappointed. After years of training, months of buildup, and flawless execution, the enemy simply folded like a cheap card table, limiting my platoon’s involvement to interdiction operations. Vietnam was twenty years in the past, and I had very little frame of reference for how war should look and feel. To me, war seemed easy; America had gone up against the third-largest army in the world and soundly defeated it. It would take nearly a decade before I found out how wrong I was.
* * *
I ended up spending a little over four years at SEAL Team Two, where I felt I had earned a master’s degree in special operations warfighting from some of the world’s best operators. I would take this expertise on to my next command and a whole new set of teammates. There, other skills would be added and refined, but not before a yearlong stop with the army at the renowned Special Forces Qualification Course—18D.
18 DELTA
Prior to attending 18 Delta the intricacies of battlefield medicine were passed down from one SEAL corpsman to the next, just as Scott had done with me. Although OJT (on-the-job training) was effective, it took an indeterminate amount of time to develop a corpsman and did not guarantee equal proficiency across the force. The army certainly didn’t have this problem; Special Forces had developed the world’s finest combat medical training program and continually updated it to stay in step with modern medicine. Not wanting to reinvent the wheel, Naval Special Warfare Command started negotiations to send all of its SEAL corpsmen through the program. Fortunately, by the time it was my turn to rotate from Team Two all the logistical details had been worked out, so I packed my bags for San Antonio, Texas, and a short tour with the army.
* * *
The medic course was broken into three segments. The first portion was held at Fort Sam Houston and included six months of painstaking didactic instruction covering everything from anatomy and physiology to zoonotic disorders. This was followed by two months of clinical training at some of the country’s most remote medical treatment facilities. Each of these was carefully selected based on the medical staff ’s dedication to teaching the 18 Delta and its geographic location. The more isolated the hospital, the more credible a site. Being near the top of the class I had an early pick, so I chose one of the most removed areas in the Southwest run by one of the best medical providers in all of special operations.
Dr. Warner “Butch” Anderson started his career as a Special Forces medic before becoming a physician assistant and later MD. He’d held nearly every medical position in Special Forces, but you’d never know it. His humility and knack for conveying expertise without arrogance made him a favorite among medics and physician interns alike. Yet in spite of his calm demeanor, action always seemed to follow Butch, making him the preferred preceptor for students eager to put their newfound skills to work.
It took all of five minutes before I was engulfed in his medical mojo.
It was my first day in the emergency room at the Gallup Indian Hospital, and Butch had just sat me down at the doctors’ station to tell me that not everything I’d see or do would be exciting. “I’ve heard the rumors and I don’t want you to think that every five minutes an emergency is going to burst through that door.” He’d barely finished his sentence when a call came over the radio from the local ambulance company. They were bringing in a man who in a drunken stupor managed to tear his chest open by stepping in front of a moving train. With little time to prepare, I immediately threw on some surgical gloves and readied myself for the inevitable mess.
Minutes later the glass doors slid open and in rolled a man with a partial amputation of his upper and lower limbs, a lacerated chest exposing his lung, and a heart that was barely beating. Butch immediately grabbed my forearm and thrust my hand into the patient’s chest. “Compressions” was all he said as he placed my hand on the heart. “Doc, I guess we’ll finish the conversation about how mundane this place is a little later,” I said as I tried to mimic the heart’s contractions. Butch smiled, then went about directing the rest of the team and paramedics. Despite our best efforts we ended up losing the patient in OR, but what I learned was that even the most traumatic situations could be managed if a competent leader was at the helm, directing, not doing.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 9