by Rorke Denver
And then there was me. You can’t say Tracy didn’t know she was marrying a warrior. If anything, that was part of what drew her to me. I always believed she was attracted to me because of who I am, this job I hold, this culture I am part of. She understood it from the start, including the stresses and the absences and the notion of me not coming home. She wanted to be with someone who believed in the things that I believed in, who was passionate about something to the point of being willing to die for it. A huge burden goes with that. But together, we had to figure out how to make it work. We’ve never found the perfect answer. But we always found a way.
One issue was phone calls. Whenever I was away, Tracy and I spoke on Sundays. That was our day. If I was on a mission or somewhere I couldn’t get to a phone on Sunday, we would skip the call. I wouldn’t call on Monday or Tuesday. We would roll it to the following week. That way, she wasn’t sitting by the phone every day, wondering, Is today the day he’s going to call? It takes a strong woman with a lot of faith not to be overwhelmed by fear, to wait an entire week to find out why I couldn’t call. That might not be right for everyone. But that’s what worked for us.
I had junior team members who called their wives or girlfriends every night. They’d Skype. Or use a mobile phone. Or at the very least, they’d email. That seemed to me like a terrible idea. I told them: “You know, we’re gonna get called up to do things. You won’t be able to call home for three or four nights in a row. If you set a rhythm of talking every night and then you break it, people are going to start flipping out.”
And that happened. Frequently. We’d come in from a mission. Guys would be bolting for the computer or the phone. They’d established that pattern. Their women were having meltdowns. Even one night away was a problem for them.
Tracy and I didn’t have children yet. That would have made being away from home even tougher. I have monumental respect for all those warrior families with children. Whatever the latest communications techniques, none of them is remotely the equal of cheering at a Little League game, attending a school play, or tucking the little ones into bed at night. No one’s figured out yet how to Skype a hug.
The absences for SEAL families go on and on. There are months and years of training, and most of it can’t be done in your own backyard. You’re running off to Stennis, Mississippi, for Jungle Warfare Training or to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for Land Warfare Training or to San Clemente, California, for Maritime Training or up to Kodiak Island, Alaska, for Winter Warfare Training. Even at home, the calls are relentless: “Can you come back in?” which is never really a request. It is an order. And once you’re in a tactical unit—well, my deployments were eleven months, eight months, six months, numbers like that. They add up to a whole lot of neglected family, however diligent you try to be.
When I was heading off on a deployment, Tracy and I never said good-bye to each other with the other families at the airport or the pier. We did it at home, just the two of us. Saying good-bye that way felt more personal. Tracy wanted to keep it together as I was leaving. Once the door closed, that’s when she would lose it.
She would cry as much as she wanted to. She would feel whatever she felt. But I never saw that.
Every couple and every family has its own rituals. They give little gifts to each other. They share a special meal. They have some magic words or special phrases that they exchange. They have some routine that for them makes the leaving just a little easier. What Tracy and I found was that saying good-bye was so intense, we didn’t want to make that experience last one second longer.
When I was being deployed to the Mediterranean, it looked at the last minute like our departure might be delayed a day or two. Tracy and I had already said our good-byes, and I’d checked in at the ship. I decided immediately I wasn’t going back home. I would stay on board and say nothing. I would see Tracy when I returned. I couldn’t imagine doing our good-byes all over again. They are that difficult. When I told her about that later, she said: “Absolutely. That was totally the right call.”
When I came home from any extended time away, we had our rituals for that as well. All the families would be waiting in the airport terminal or at the pier, waving signs and flags. They’d be hugging and kissing and welcoming their SEAL men home. It’s a beautiful scene. But it wasn’t for us. Tracy would stay at the house and wait for me there. That reunion was just for us. We wanted to preserve some separation for ourselves. Our welcome-home reunions were our special time.
As hard as the separation was for both of us, we loved those amazing little honeymoons. She’d make the same welcome-home meal: chicken cacciatore, broccoli-and-cheese casserole, and an amazing pecan pie. We’d spend some quiet time together.
The wives of SEALs have a powerful outreach network. Most of the wives are part of that. They share family outings, offer emotional support, and lend a hand with child care. No SEAL wife ever needs to be alone. But there are also disadvantages to being so plugged in.
When Mark was killed, word of his death spread immediately among the SEAL wives, days before it was officially confirmed. The same with Mikey when he jumped on the grenade. But the reports spread haltingly, before all the details were confirmed. Forty wives from SEAL Team Three knew that a SEAL team husband had been killed in western Iraq that week. Agonizingly, they waited days to find out who.
The worst example was the “lone survivor” attack, which Marcus survived. Word got passed back home that a bunch of SEALs had been killed. None of the names came back immediately, and the early rumors said everyone was dead. Marcus’s family thought he’d been killed. Then word came that he might be alive, but no one could say with any certainty. Finally, the good news arrived. Marcus had been the lone survivor of this horrific attack. But there was still bad news for some families and a real roller-coaster ride for others.
Maintaining operational secrecy is tough today when communication is so instant and accessible. But a family shouldn’t ever learn from the wives’ network that their loved one isn’t coming home, any more than they should learn it from Fox, MSNBC, or CNN.
I’m lucky that Tracy is so strong. I always say, “The toughest person in our house isn’t the SEAL.”
She’s physically tough. One time when we were snowboarding, she fell and her wrist snapped.
All I saw was her fall. I went rushing over. She looked okay.
“I think I just broke my wrist,” she said with absolute calm.
“You broke your wrist?” I asked.
She wasn’t screaming or crying. A wrist break is excruciatingly painful. I was pretty sure she hadn’t broken her wrist. But when we got to the emergency room, the doctor ordered X-rays.
“Yeah,” he told her, “you broke your wrist clear through.”
Still, she hadn’t shed a tear.
She delivered both our children with no drugs, no doctors, just a midwife, her, and me. I helped deliver our second one. Being able to do that meant something to her. Generations of powerful women have brought children into the world without medical intervention. She wanted the experience.
Much in the same way I sought out the extremes of male warrior interaction, Tracy’s personality was just as strong. She wanted the absolute most extreme female experience of childbirth, doing it the way it was meant to be done. And she got it.
But the thing that really displays Tracy’s toughness is how she deals with the emotional demands of this warrior life. She accepts that I need to go off and do these things for the country, for the team, and for our family. She’s allowed me to do that without the burden of wondering if the house is taken care of or the lingering concern that she is emotionally spent. There are, I’m sure, hundreds of things I don’t know about that she suffered and dealt with on her own. It’s a gift I don’t know I’ll ever be able to fully thank her for.
I love her attitude. I love her independence. I think she is a complete and utter knockout. I love her walk. She has a walk that drives me crazy. It is so effortless, unintentional, and
just off-the-charts sexy. I might be the only one who sees that. Isn’t that great? It taps into some very deep part of who I am.
Once we had children, we had a new scenario to consider. If I died, I wouldn’t be leaving just Tracy. I’d be leaving two young daughters behind. Our time together had barely started. There was so much yet to do. We had only begun to guide the girls through life.
Some soldiers write death letters to those they love, putting down on paper as clearly as they can the feelings held most deeply in their hearts. They ask a trusted buddy to hold that letter in confidence, then pass it along to the parents or the wife or the children should the worst ever occur.
I had never written a death letter.
I felt almost superstitious about the whole idea, that writing with my premature demise in mind could somehow become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And frankly, I never felt the need.
My family leaves almost nothing unsaid. I tell my brother I love him every time we’re about to get off the phone. My mom, my dad—I say the same to both of them. We share our hopes. We share our problems. Deep emotional repression just isn’t the Denver way.
And when I got married, it was the same thing. Tracy and I don’t keep many secrets. But now that I have small children, I think I’ll write that letter if I ever go to war again. If I died, I’d still want to guide them. If I couldn’t talk to them, maybe my words still could. There’s so much I want to tell them that they aren’t yet old enough to hear. There are so many things I might not have the chance to pass along.
I know Tracy would do a lot of that on my behalf. She knows me so well, she would know so much of what I considered important and share that with the girls. But some things I’d still want to say directly to them, things large and small that their warrior-father has learned over the years.
Laugh a lot.
If you want to live a life free of pain, think of others first.
Crunchy peanut better is better than smooth. That is a fact.
Read. You can always talk with another reader.
Tell the truth. You won’t regret it. The truth saves an awful lot of time.
Push yourself. Get uncomfortable. Do things that challenge you. That’s where the growth is.
Search out mentors. Cultivate as many as you can. They will open your eyes to new ideas. They will challenge your thinking.
When you get a blister on your foot, slap a big dollop of Vaseline on it. Pull your sock and shoe back on. Keep doing what you’re doing. Pa taught me that one. It is gold.
Seek good company and friends. There is no discomfort too harsh that good friends can’t ease and make almost enjoyable. There is no great moment that can’t be ruined in the company of fools.
Take time to create balance in your life. Recognize what is important. Have lofty goals and ambitions but not at the expense of your friends, your loved ones, and your enjoyment of life.
Find what you are passionate about, no matter where that leads. Don’t be bound by what others expect of you. Your passions are your own.
Stuff newspaper into wet shoes or boots if you need them dry by the morning.
Treat everyone with kindness and equality until they give you a reason not to.
Recognize in others the difference between errors in judgment and errors in character. You can suffer and forgive the first. Keep well clear of the second.
If you ever find a water fountain with strong pressure and cold water, mark its location. That is one of life’s simple pleasures.
Own your mistakes. Do not run from them. Accountability is a dying concept today. Hold yourself to standards especially when you err.
Don’t ever settle in love. The great man you deserve is out there. He will be the lucky one. Make sure he is willing to fight for you.
Family is everything. Always keep faith with your family. I hope you will maintain that and pass it along, keeping it strong and true for future generations.
As sisters, take care of each other. You will not find a better friend in the world. I am so much stronger because my brother is in my life. Take care of that. It’s a gift that will last forever.
When you turn eighteen, have your mom get you a pair of shoes with red soles. Tell her Papa said so. I don’t know what they’re called. But every woman on earth does. And you’ll want a pair.
A great love affair began the day you were born. There are photos that prove it—the midwife handing over our firstborn to your mother, me handing over our second. Find those pictures. Look at your mother’s face. You will see what I mean.
I could go on for hours. I have so much to say. Once I got started, I wouldn’t know where to stop.
But when I finally got to the end, I would quote from one of my very favorite poems. It is written by Chief Tecumseh of the Shawnee Nation. He was one of the most impressive warriors to ever walk this land. His words have helped to guide me.
“Live your life,” Tecumseh said, “that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion. Respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people…. Show respect to all people and grovel to none…. When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”
I hope that death is a long way off for all of us.
But we’ll be ready. I know we will.
15
TWO OPS
I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go in harm’s way.
—JOHN PAUL JONES
* * *
Of all the mission profiles SEALs are capable of, nothing quite matches the magic of a rescue. Convoys, overwatches, foot patrols, raids. They have their special challenges and rewards. But extracting a civilian from the clutches of hostage-takers or extracting a cornered comrade from a firefight—the urgent call of commando duty gets no purer than that.
We can all imagine ourselves needing to be rescued. Everyone knows how tragically those dramas can end. Often, the assault team is someone’s last, best hope for survival. And if the SEALs can also capture or kill the bad guys, that’s a double win.
Don’t believe the movies and television. Assault team rescue missions are exceedingly rare. But when the call comes, it always comes in desperation. The stakes are almost always life-or-death. There isn’t a SEAL on any team anywhere who doesn’t dream of missions like that.
How strong is the draw? A veteran master chief in one of the teams put it to me like this:
“Here’s the scenario,” he said. “I have a rescue mission, two helicopters, and not enough room on board for all the guys. We all know for certain that one of those helicopters will crash on the way in.”
And?
“I’d be worried that I wouldn’t have enough SEALs for the mission—after the brawl they fought with each other for a chance to volunteer.”
* * *
Now this was teamwork: three SEAL snipers, lying on the swaying fantail of the USS Bainbridge, looking through the scopes of long-barreled SR-25 Mk 11 Mod 0 semiautomatics, waiting for three Somali pirates to step into view at once.
“Green … green … red,” the snipers said in rapid succession.
“Green … red … green.”
Each shooter had an individual target. The armed pirates and their hostage, an American cargo ship captain, were inside the cabin of a five-ton covered lifeboat being towed behind the U.S. Navy warship. The sight lines were ridiculous. A bouncing lifeboat. A moving ship. A long towrope between them. From the stern of the Bainbridge, there was no telling how long it might take for all three pirates to line up perfectly.
“Red … red … green.”
As the SEAL snipers waited to shoot, the whole worl
d was trans fixed by this life-or-death drama at sea. A new American president was still finding his international footing. President Obama hadn’t been tested in a crisis like this. If the snipers got it done, the SEALs would earn a whole new level of credibility and acclaim and pave the way to even bigger missions in the future. If the snipers shot the captain or missed the pirates or botched the mission in some other way, the result would be human tragedy and international embarrassment. Either way, everyone would know. A whole lot was riding on a few swift shots.
This was just the kind of high-pressure, technically complex mission that their SEAL training had prepared these men for. From the team-building small-boat races in Hell Week to the moving-target shooting courses in Kentucky to the whole refuse-to-fail mentality of the SEAL brotherhood—they were ready.
Calmly distinguish between the good guys and the bad guys.
Don’t rush the shot.
Stay in total synch with your fellow operators.
This could have been the final test at the Trident boards.
They were 240 miles off the Horn of Africa. The Indian Ocean was choppy. The wind was picking up. Armed thugs had attacked six vessels in a week, demanding tens of millions of dollars in ransom. Four days earlier, four pirates had stormed aboard the MV Maersk Alabama, the first successful seizure of an American-flagged cargo ship since the nineteenth century. But after failing to gain engine control, the pirates forced Captain Richard Phillips onto a lifeboat and motored away.
With guidance from the FBI, Bainbridge Commander Frank Castellano had been trying to negotiate for the Maersk captain’s release. At one point, the pirates agreed to be towed by the Bainbridge. But as the talks ground on and the weather deteriorated, the Navy commander was given the authority to do more than talk. If the captain’s life was in imminent danger, the orders from the White House said, Castellano could green-light a more aggressive approach.