by Mike Ritland
Brett said he believed that was the moment when he and Chopper came to truly understand one another. “I think of it this way,” he said. “My daddy raised me to fear and respect him, and I did. But with how you conducted the training, Chopper obeyed me because he got the idea that it was the right thing to do and not because he was afraid of me.” Brett paused, then said, “Never in my life would I have thought a dog could communicate so much with just a look and his posture.”
“It doesn’t always happen,” I said, “but when it does, it almost defies explanation.”
“Hard work and love,” Brett added, summing it up pretty nicely, I thought. “Hey, Bud,” he said gently to the dog. Chopper turned to look at Brett, his eyes and ears alert. Brett smiled and said, “Good boy.”
* * *
Brett reached into a wooden planter on the picnic table and pulled out a tennis ball. Then he let out a soft whistle. Chopper stood and assumed the position, his ears tilting forward and pointing heavenward, his expression intent. Brett reared back and fired the tennis ball over the enclosure’s fence and into the lot beyond. I watched the ball as it arced and then bounced wildly, and then I followed Brett’s gaze from the ball’s landing zone to the dog, who no longer sat obscured in shadow but was in the warm glow of the setting sun.
“Okay,” Brett said at last.
Like a tightly pulled bow and arrow finally being released, Chopper sprang out across the lot, kicking up dust. At the fence he didn’t hesitate but easily bounded over the top rail, looking like a champion horse at a jumping contest. I had to laugh as, in his eagerness, when Chopper stooped to clamp down on the ball his front legs splayed out while his rear ones kept churning, and he nearly tumbled over.
His prize captured, Chopper trotted back, munching on the ball, his mouth twisted into a kind of silly, giddy grin. He hopped the fence again and came onto the deck to show us what he’d managed to capture. He sat at Brett’s feet, then lowered himself into a relaxed, paws-crossed lie-down, still working on the tennis ball.
Brett looked at me half embarrassed, half pleased. “That’s one thing I let him do now,” he said.
I nodded. I knew as well as anyone that, in training, Chopper would have been told to drop the ball fairly quickly at his handler’s feet. He wouldn’t get the reward of gnawing on it. Brett stroked Chopper’s head, working his fingers around the backs of his ears as Chopper cocked his head in pleasure.
Finally, Brett said, “Los,” and Chopper released the ball. Brett picked it up and offered it to me. I took one look at the spit-frothed ball and declined.
Laughing, I said to Brett, as he stood to throw another one for Chopper, “Wilson. U.S. Open Hard Court. You’ve got expensive tastes.”
Settling back into his seat after letting Chopper go bounding off, Brett grinned with satisfaction and said, “Nothing but the best for my boy. He deserves it.”
I couldn’t agree more.
2
A LIFELONG LOVE OF DOGS
I had a pretty typical suburban childhood growing up in Waterloo, Iowa. I have two older brothers, Joe and Jake, and a younger sister, Lindsey. We were close as kids, but we also pursued our own interests and went our separate ways a lot of the time. In one thing, though, we were completely united. We pestered our parents, George and Sandy, nonstop, about getting a dog.
Ever since I could remember, I couldn’t get enough of hanging out with other people’s dogs. As a result, I got to see dogs that were pets and dogs that were working animals and some dogs that were both. At this point, all I knew was that I was a kid that liked being around dogs. I had no idea that this was the beginning of my education about canine behavior and my first glimpses at the unique bonds humans form with dogs. I had no idea, either, that one day I would have a career that revolved about dogs and that very bond.
We had friends and neighbors who had dogs, mostly bird dogs that retrieved the birds their owners hunted. I joined our friends’ duck and pheasant hunts and was fascinated by the dogs’ amazing athletic abilities and their desire to seek out and retrieve a kill. I marveled at their willingness to endure harsh temperatures, thick undergrowth, and other obstacles to get the job done. I wondered what motivated them and could not have been more impressed by their drive and desire.
I also got to spend a fair bit of time with farm dogs, since Waterloo is pretty close to rural farm country. My dad’s side of the family had a farm on the outskirts of town, and I’d go and ride tractors, pick vegetables, and check out the various farm dogs. They weren’t working dogs, strictly speaking, but they weren’t typical house pets either. They basically had to survive out on the farm on their own, and they did a good job of it. From watching them and the bird dogs, I developed the idea that dogs should be useful and that they were often happiest when they had some kind of job to do—whether it was retrieving for a hunter or taking down a critter for themselves.
I can still picture some of those farm dogs, trotting along, their noses in the air scenting for prey. They’d stop and go stock-still and then pounce into two feet of snow and come up with a field mouse or something else. The way they carried themselves as they proudly bore away their prize said something about what was going on inside them. Of course, on a farm, that kind of prey drive had to be discouraged sometimes. I spent a lot of time dogproofing the chicken coop and keeping dogs away from it and the hens inside. I learned, early on, that dogs are genetically designed to be very good at tracking things and using their noses as a guide.
* * *
When I was in the sixth grade, my parents finally came home one day with a black Labrador retriever puppy we gave the not-so-original name of Bud. From the time Bud was old enough to walk a few hundred yards to the time I left for the navy at the age of seventeen, I loved walking with him. Sometimes it was just a few hundred yards, and sometimes it was hours-long walks through the streets and also in the fields, where I walked with Bud while he was out hunting with my dad.
Bud was, well, he was my boy. I’d come home from school every day and there he was, waiting for me, eager as all get-out to go outside with me. I wasn’t a complete loner, but I also wasn’t the most outgoing kid around, so Bud and I spent a lot of time together, and I talked with him a lot, especially when I was younger. I loved sports but was a bit of a runt; I didn’t develop fully until after most everybody else my age had and was somewhat self-conscious about it. Bud didn’t ever mind, though, and he never let me down, and all that just made him an even better companion.
That’s not to say that Bud lacked the qualities of those good hunting dogs our neighbors and friends had. Just like with them, I was blown away by Bud’s ability to detect different scents. I would be out walking with him, and he’d do his usual nose-to-the-ground thing, occasionally rising up to sniff the air, and then all of a sudden he’d switch from going in one direction to moving in another. His entire demeanor would change, and he’d run over to some area and start digging through layers of snow and ice until he uncovered some fast-food hamburger wrapper that had been buried there for who knows how long. The power of a dog’s sense of smell always fascinated me.
With Bud I also saw a dog’s intelligence at work all the time, but especially as it pertained to my Grandma Bev. Whenever she came by the house, Bud would grab something—a sock, a kitchen towel, the TV remote—and bring it to her. Why? Because she always rewarded him with a treat. Bud knew who the easy marks were, and he took full advantage of them. Actually, it was hard to know who was happier with the whole thing, Bud or Grandma Bev. Even as a kid, I sensed that if you gave a dog some of what he wanted—in this case, a treat—you could get a whole lot of what you wanted from a dog, such as companionship.
That’s not to say that Bud’s companionship didn’t come without its glitches. I remember the night when my dad came home late and was limping pretty badly. He had wrestled quite a bit in his younger days and now had bad knees and hips as a result of too many double-leg takedowns. On this particular day, Dad had been out wi
th Bud at a local golf course, and Bud had come charging at him with great exuberance. He had accidentally clipped my dad and sent him sprawling into the snow. My father lay there, flat on his back, in pretty serious pain for quite a while.
I remember being at home, wondering where he and Bud had gone. When my dad came home and explained what had happened, he told me that after Bud knocked him down, the dog knew that something wasn’t right. So he came and stood right by my dad, offering whatever consolation and comfort he could. That was the part of the story I liked—it was yet another example of the 100 percent loyalty you get from a dog when you two form a bond.
3
A DESIRE TO SERVE AND DEFEND
Both my grandfathers served in World War II, one in the army and one in the navy. They didn’t talk much about their war experiences, but I was eager to hear about them and listened avidly to anything they shared about their time in the military. I can’t say exactly why I was so interested, but I was, more so than most other members of my family.
I became fascinated—“obsessed” might be a better word—with the idea of becoming a U.S. Navy SEAL team member after reading an article about them in Popular Mechanics magazine. The movie Navy SEALs inspired me as well. I later found out that this film was an unintentional but effective recruiting tool that helped not only me but a number of other guys on my team decide to enlist.
Because of my grandfathers and also because of my father’s influence, I was raised to believe that you should be proud to be an American and that you can do a lot more than just express that pride verbally. My response to those stories I heard and the words I read and the images I saw was to want to go out into the world and do something active for my country.
I also had a highly refined sense of right and wrong instilled in me. On one day in particular—January 6, 1992, to be exact—that sense came sharply into play. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was a freshman in high school. I was a new member of the swim team, and as part of an initiation ritual I was required to wear my Speedo swimsuit over my jeans. The goal was to see if “newbies” could handle the inevitable snickering and wisecracks, but things escalated way beyond that.
I was walking to class, just after having lunch with my brother Jake, when I ran into a gauntlet of students, all of whom happened to be black. Obviously my hazing attire made me stand out from the crowd and could have led to why I was selected for what happened next. I can’t say for sure if what did happen was a racially motivated attack, but I do know that racial tensions across the country had been high ever since a black man named Rodney King had been severely beaten by white members of the Los Angeles police force nearly a year before. My racially mixed high school, Waterloo West, was not exempt from the tension. We could all feel it rise up at times. In fact, a Cultural Enrichment Club meeting had recently been canceled because some white students had allegedly been promising to show up and cause problems.
I guess, simply put, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was beaten up pretty badly, though, and I hated the feeling of powerlessness I experienced in those moments when I was punched, kicked, and slammed into the walls. Absolutely no action was taken against the guys who did it. So I took some action. I told myself that I would never again experience that kind of helplessness.
I joined a local dojo, a school for practicing martial arts, led by an excellent sensei, or teacher. My sensei’s mentor had served in Vietnam as a Force Reconnaissance Marine, and I was naturally very interested in his combat experiences. I committed myself to learning how to defend myself in a more disciplined and learned way than just some street-fighting moves. While I couldn’t have connected all these dots back then, that desire to protect myself against future attacks from bullies dovetailed with what I would come to see as the role of the United States: to protect and defend the country and other people against aggressors.
Add all of those influences up, and throw in a best friend named Matt who shared a similar interest and work ethic, and I was fully committed to joining the navy and the SEALs as my ultimate aspiration.
The Navy SEALs are the elite of the elite. They conduct top-secret operations behind enemy lines. SEAL stands for Sea, Air, and Land, and a Navy SEAL team will use one or any combination of the three approaches to reach their mission location.
* * *
At this point, however, I wasn’t exactly the model physical specimen that a SEAL team member needs to be. As I mentioned earlier, I was the typical late bloomer physically. However, I was drawn to fitness and the mental and spiritual discipline required by the martial arts.
If I did possess one trait out of the box, so to speak, that made me a prime candidate to be a SEAL team member, it was this: I was ultracompetitive. I hated to lose, and as much as I felt helpless during that attack by virtue of being so outnumbered, I also had the idea in my mind that I should have been able to overcome those odds. In my fantasy, after I had been jumped I would have been able to fight my way out of it, breaking jaws and knocking out teeth along the way.
One trait that successful SEAL team candidates have in common is that they can’t stand to lose—and they won’t quit. Ever.
* * *
Since I knew before I joined the navy that I wanted to be a SEAL, I let the recruiters know that was the case. Not that my desire mattered much, but when it came time for me to take the preliminary screening test, I was well ahead of the game. Because I was so highly motivated, I’d been working out twice a day, six days a week for a long time before reporting to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. In fact, I thought that basic training was a detriment rather than a benefit for someone like me. The physical training was less intense than what I was used to doing, so much so that I felt like it was hurting my fitness level.
Two weeks into basic training, I took the Navy SEAL fitness test. It consists of a 500-yard swim, the maximum number of sit-ups and push-ups you can do in two minutes for each, six dead-hang pull-ups, and a 1.5-mile run. I easily outdid the minimum numbers. Fortunately, that allowed me to do additional workouts and have access to the fitness facilities.
Had I not passed that test—and I was the only one of the eight or nine in my division who attempted it—I wouldn’t have been bounced out of the navy, but I would have felt like I had been.
I had been accepted into the SEAL program, but my training for that did not begin right away. First, like everyone else in the navy, I had to complete the eight weeks of basic training. Then I went through four months of training as an intelligence specialist, and then my BUD/S training to be a Navy SEAL began. BUD/S stands for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL. I had gone from having a black Labrador and best friend named Bud to being in BUD/S. At this point I had no idea that my love of dogs and desire to serve my country would someday have a much tighter, more life-changing connection than that.
4
COMBINING PASSIONS
Iraq, April 2003
The ground war was still in its early stages, and my SEAL team platoon was working alongside the 1st Marine Division. We had arrived in Baghdad and shortly afterward were tasked with taking the key city of Tikrit to the northwest. Our convoy consisted of my sixteen-member platoon and twenty-five thousand Marines. We stretched out about 30 miles long as we made our way along the 112-mile route between the two cities.
Before we arrived at Tikrit, we stopped with the convoy to review the final stages of our entry into the city. In an instant we found ourselves under attack from insurgents. A fierce firefight broke out, with antitank, antiaircraft rounds going off, the whip-whip sound of returned gunfire whizzing over our heads, and 84 mm rockets being launched into a field just outside the city. We successfully fought off the ambush and continued on our way, on high alert.
We joined a coordinated approach to the city that included the 2nd Battalion, Light Armored Reconnaissance, and Light Armored Vehicles. When we entered Tikrit we did so from all directions. It was one of those moments when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Th
e streets were deserted. There was no sign of activity anywhere, but you knew, especially after the ambush on the road, that there were pockets of resistance lurking in the city. Maybe, even as we arrived, insurgents were watching us and waiting for an opportunity.
We arrived at Saddam Hussein’s presidential palace complex, where we met with limited resistance. The building was so massive, it took us more than an hour to clear and secure all the rooms. Hussein had already fled the city and was on the run.
My platoon was in the palace for four days. We spent part of that time on the roof, which was the highest point in the city. From there we could see the Tigris River and beyond to the airfield where hundreds of pounds of cached weapons and munitions had been destroyed by U.S. Air Force bombers with JDAMs and other smart bombs. As we sat on the roof, we watched sympathetic detonations going off all day and all night—explosives accidentally set off by nearby explosions—providing a sound-and-light show to an otherwise still but seething city.
One night, I was on the roof doing my four-hour block between 0200 and 0600 when I saw three little flashes of light go off about 350 yards away. A few seconds later three big explosions followed. The flashes and explosions continued, advancing to within 100 yards of the palace. As I was getting on the radio, I saw an army counterartillery unit fire up across the Tigris. That movement was followed by the noise of heavy weapons fire. In a matter of seconds those flashes of light we’d seen erupted into one massive flash as the army counterartillery unit hit its target. I sat there and wondered what might have happened if those insurgents had not been wiped off the map.
Those “what if” questions are always a part of war, of course, but you don’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about the answers. All I knew was that I was grateful that the army battery had been posted so nearby. A few weeks into our operation, we had another valuable “weapon” at our disposal. Several MWDs arrived to assist the marine forces.