A driver took us over to the chow hall in a van. People helped us get out of the vehicle. As we hobbled into the chow hall, all eyes seemed to be on us. We were the ones who had just made it through “the week.” It had been the coldest week in twenty-three years; hail had actually rained down on us at one point. While eating, I looked over at the tables where the guys who had quit during Hell Week sat. They avoided eye contact.
I had begged one of them not to ring out, but he abandoned Mike and me to carry that boat by ourselves. Could’ve at least waited to quit until after we got that boat back to the barracks. He walked over to my table. “I’m sorry, man. I know I let you guys down, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
I looked up at him. “Get out of my face.”
* * *
Training resumed slowly, starting with a lot of stretching exercises. Then it picked up speed. Time limits tightened. Distances increased. More swims, runs, and obstacle course trials. Academic tests continued. Pre–Hell Week, we had focused on topics such as first aid and boat handling. Now we focused on hydrographic reconnaissance. Enlisted men like me had to score 70 percent or higher. Although we had lost all our officers, officer standards were 80 percent or higher.
A new evolution we had to pass was the 50-meter underwater swim. At the pool, Instructor Stoneclam said, “All of you have to swim fifty meters underwater. You’ll do a somersault into the pool, so no one gets a diving start, and swim twenty-five meters across. Touch the end and swim twenty-five meters back. If you break the surface at any time, you fail. Don’t forget to swim along the bottom. The increased pressure on your lungs will help you hold your breath longer, so you can swim farther.”
I lined up with the second group of four students. We cheered the first group on. “Go for the blackout,” some of us said. It was a new way of thinking that would influence future activities—pushing the body to the edge of unconsciousness.
When it was my turn, I hyperventilated to decrease the carbon dioxide in my body and decrease the drive to breathe. During my somersault into the pool, I lost some breath. I oriented myself and swam as low as I could. After swimming 25 meters, I neared the other side. During my turn, my foot touched the wall, but I didn’t get a great push-off.
My throat began to convulse as my lungs craved oxygen. Go for the blackout. I swam as hard as I could, but my body slowed down. The edges of my vision began to gray until I found myself looking at my destination through a black tunnel. As I felt myself begin to pass out, I actually felt peaceful. If I’d had any lingering thoughts about drowning, they were gone now. I tried to focus on the wall. Finally, my hand touched it. Instructor Stoneclam grabbed me by the waistband of my swim shorts and helped pull me out. I passed. Others were not so lucky. Two failed their second chance and were expelled from training. (NOTE: Do not practice underwater swimming or breath holding at home because it will kill you.)
Another important post–Hell Week evolution was underwater knot tying. Wearing only our UDT shorts, my class climbed the outside stairs to the top of the dive tower and entered. Inside, I lowered myself into the warm water. The depth was 50 feet. I would have to dive down 15 feet and tie five knots: becket bend (sheet bend), bowline, clove hitch, right angle (rolling hitch 1), and square knot. These included some of the knots we would have to use for demolitions. For example, the becket bend and square knot can be used for splicing the end of detonating (det) cord. We had practiced these knots during the few breaks we had, so I experienced no problem tying them, but this was the first time doing the knots at 15 feet underwater.
We could tie one knot for each of five dives, but I thought that five dives would be too tiring. Or one dive with five knots—I didn’t think I had the lungs for that. Or any combination we wanted. I greeted Instructor Stoneclam, who wore scuba gear. “Respectfully request to tie the becket bend, bowline, and clove hitch.” He gave me the thumbs-down, giving me permission to descend. I mirrored his thumbs-down, showing him that I understood. Stoneclam gave me the sign again, and I did my combat descent 15 feet below, where I had to tie into a trunk line secured to the walls. I tied the three knots. Then I gave the instructor the OK sign. He checked the knots and gave me the OK sign. I untied them and gave him the thumbs-up. He acknowledged, pointing his thumb up—giving me permission to ascend.
On my second dive, I tied the last two knots and gave Instructor Stoneclam the OK sign. He didn’t even seem to look at the knots, staring into my eyes. I saw he was going to give me trouble. I gave him the thumbs-up sign to ascend, but he just kept staring. The depth put pressure on my chest, and my body craved air. I knew what he was looking for, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The SEAL instructors had taught me well. I can ascend myself, or you can drag my body to the surface when I pass out. Either way. He smiled and gave me the “up” signal before I even came close to passing out. I wanted to shoot to the top, but I couldn’t show panic, and shooting to the top isn’t tactical. I ascended as slowly as I could. Pass. Not all of my classmates were as lucky, but they would get a second chance.
In Second Phase, Land Warfare, we learned covert infiltrations, sentry removal, handling agents/guides, gathering intelligence, snatching the enemy, performing searches, handling prisoners, shooting, blowing stuff up, etc. As a child, I learned attention to detail—making sure that not one single pecan remained on the ground when my dad came home saved my butt from getting whipped. Now, that same attention to detail would save my butt from getting shot or blown up. Attention to detail is why I would never have a parachute malfunction.
We became the first occupants of the new barracks building, just down the beach from the multimillion-dollar Coronado condos. One Saturday afternoon, I sat in my room shining jungle combat boots with Calisto, one of the two Peruvian officers going through BUD/S with our class. They had our training schedule, complete with days and times. Both of them had been through Peru’s BUD/S, which was a mirror image of our training. Calisto and his buddy had been operating for nearly ten years as SEALs, including real-world ops. We received a lot of intelligence about training from them.
I asked him, “If you’re already a Peruvian SEAL, why are you doing this again?”
“Must come here before become Peru SEAL instructor.”
“I understand you’ll get more respect and all…”
“Not respect. More money.” His family had come with him, and he stayed with them on weekends in an apartment downtown. They bought a lot of blue jeans and sent them home. He explained that the amount of money they would receive would change their lives.
They were the only officers remaining in our class, but because they weren’t American, they couldn’t lead us. Mike H., an E-5, led our class. He and I shared the same rank, but he was senior to me. We didn’t have any cake-eaters (commissioned officers). The enlisted instructors seemed to enjoy it.
* * *
Out at San Clemente Island, I served as a squad leader and once led my squad to assault the wrong target. Calisto led us the next time. He was an excellent land navigator. We assaulted the instructors while they were still sitting around the campfire jacking their jaws. Our squad hit them so fast that they didn’t even have their M-60s set up yet. They were not happy. The instructors changed our exfil route and made us go out through a field of cacti. Later, the corpsman had to come around with pliers to pull the needles out of our legs.
During the debrief, the instructors explained, “Sorry we had to send you out another way, but the exfiltration route was compromised.” The instructors always had the last laugh.
We ran before each meal on even days. On odd days, we did pull-ups before each meal. One day, the number of pull-ups had just changed from nineteen to twenty. I must’ve had a brain fart because I dropped off the bar after nineteen pull-ups.
“Wasdin, what the hell are you doing?” an instructor asked. “That was only nineteen.”
I didn’t understand what he was asking me.
“The pull-up count is twenty. Just to
make sure you know how to count to twenty, drop down and give me twenty.”
I did twenty push-ups.
“Now get back up on the bar and give me my twenty pull-ups.”
That wasn’t happening. He got maybe three or four more out of me before my arms gave out.
“Get your MRE and hit the surf.”
I got to sit down in the chilly ocean and eat a cold Meal, Ready-to-Eat (MRE). Randy Clendening and some others joined me. We were shivering our petunias off.
Randy had a smile on his face.
“What the hell are you smiling about?” I asked. “We’re up to our nipples in freezing water eating cold MREs.”
“Try doing this every other day.” Randy always made the timed sprints but failed the pull-ups. Every other day he sat in the ocean with water up to his chest and ate his cold MRE for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He wanted the program way more than I did.
After that, I risked trouble with the instructors to sneak food into the barracks for him on odd days. Other guys snuck him food, too. I have the greatest respect for guys like Randy who work harder than everyone else and somehow manage to finish BUD/S. More than the gazelles running ahead, more than the fish swimming in front, more than the monkeys swinging through the O-course—these underdogs were hardcore.
One of the most famous of these underdogs was Thomas Norris, BUD/S Class 45. Norris wanted to join the FBI but got drafted instead. He joined the navy to become a pilot, but his eyesight disqualified him. So he volunteered for SEAL training, where he often fell to the rear on runs and swims. The instructors talked about dropping him from the program. Norris didn’t give up and became a SEAL at Team Two.
In Vietnam, in April 1972, a surveillance aircraft went down deep in enemy territory where over thirty thousand NVA (North Vietnamese Army) were preparing for an Easter offensive. Only one crew member survived. This precipitated the most expensive rescue attempt of the Vietnam War, with fourteen people killed, eight aircraft downed, two rescuers captured, and two more rescuers stranded in enemy territory. It was decided that an air rescue was impossible.
Lieutenant Norris led a five-man Vietnamese SEAL patrol and located one of the surveillance aircraft pilots, then returned him to the forward operating base (FOB). The NVA retaliated with a rocket attack on the FOB, killing two of the Vietnamese SEALs and others.
Norris and his three remaining Vietnamese SEALs failed in an attempt to rescue the second pilot. Because of the impossibility of the situation, two of the Vietnamese SEALs wouldn’t volunteer for another rescue attempt. Norris decided to take Vietnamese SEAL Nguyen Van Kiet to make another attempt—and failed.
On April 12, about ten days after the plane had been shot down, Norris got a report of the pilot’s location. He and Kiet disguised themselves as fishermen and paddled their sampan upriver into the foggy night. They located the pilot at dawn on the riverbank hidden under vegetation, helped him into their sampan, and covered him with bamboo and banana leaves. A group of enemy soldiers on land spotted them but couldn’t get through the thick jungle as fast as Norris and his partner could paddle on the water. When the trio arrived near the FOB, an NVA patrol noticed and poured heavy machine-gun fire down on them. Norris called in an air strike to keep the enemy’s heads down and a smoke screen to blind them. Norris and Kiet took the pilot into the FOB, where Norris gave him first aid until he could be evacuated. Lieutenant Thomas Norris received the Medal of Honor. Kiet received the Navy Cross, the highest award the navy can give to a foreign national. That wasn’t the end of Norris’s story, though.
About six months later, he faced the jaws of adversity again. Lieutenant Norris chose Petty Officer Michael Thornton (SEAL Team One) for a mission. Thornton selected two Vietnamese SEALs, Dang and Quon. One shaky Vietnamese officer, Tai, was also assigned to the team. They dressed in black pajamas like the VC and carried AK-47s with lots of bullets. The team rode a South Vietnamese Navy junk (U.S. Navy ships were unavailable) up the South China Sea, launched a rubber boat from the junk, then patrolled on land to gather intelligence. Norris walked the point with Thornton on rear security and the Vietnamese SEALs between them. The junk had inserted them too far north, and during their patrol, they realized they were in North Vietnam. While hiding in their day layup position, the Vietnamese SEAL officer, without consulting Norris or Thornton, ordered the two Vietnamese SEALs to do a poorly planned prisoner snatch on a two-man patrol. The Vietnamese SEALs wrestled with the two enemy.
Thornton rushed in and knocked out one of the enemy with his rifle butt, so he couldn’t alert the nearby village. The other enemy escaped and alerted about sixty North Vietnamese Army troops. Thornton said, “We’ve got trouble.” The SEALs bound the knocked-out enemy, then had Dang interrogate him when he became conscious.
Norris and Dang fired at the approaching enemy. Between shots, Norris used the radio on Dang’s back to call for naval gunfire support: coordinates, positions, types of rounds needed, etc. The navy operator on the other end (his ship under enemy fire in a separate battle) seemed new at his job, unfamiliar with fire support for ground troops. Norris put down the phone to shoot more enemy. When he got back on the radio, his call had been transferred to another ship, which was also under enemy fire—and unable to help. Norris and Dang moved back while firing at the enemy.
Thornton put the Vietnamese lieutenant in the rear while he and Quon defended the flanks. Thornton shot several NVA, took cover, rose in a different position, and shot more. Although Thornton knew the enemy popped up from the same spot each time, they didn’t know where Thornton would pop up from or how many people were with him. While maneuvering back, Thornton shot through the sand dune where the enemy heads had ducked, taking them out.
After about five hours of fighting, Norris connected with a ship that could help: the Newport News.
The enemy threw a Chinese Communist grenade at Thornton. Thornton threw it back. The enemy threw the same grenade back. Thornton returned it. When the grenade came back the next time, Thornton dove for cover. The grenade exploded. Six pieces of shrapnel struck Thornton’s back. He heard Norris call to him, “Mike, buddy, Mike, buddy!” Thornton played dead. Four enemy soldiers ran over Thornton’s position. He shot all four—two fell on top of him, and the other two fell backward. “I’m all right!” Thornton called. “It’s just shrapnel!”
The enemy became quiet. Now they had the 283rd NVA battalion helping them outflank the SEALs.
The SEALs began to leapfrog. Norris laid down cover fire so Thornton, Quon, and Tai could retreat. Then Thornton and his team would do the same while Norris and Dang moved back. Norris had just brought up a Light Antitank Weapon (LAW) to shoot when an NVA’s AK-47 shot him in the face, knocking Norris off a sand dune. Norris tried to get up to return fire but passed out.
Dang ran back to Thornton. Two rounds hit the radio Dang carried on his back.
“Where’s Tommy?” Thornton asked.
“He dead.”
“You sure?”
“He shot in head.”
“Are you sure?”
“See him fall.”
“Stay here. I’m going back for Tommy.”
“No, Mike. He dead. NVA coming.”
“Y’all stay here.” Thornton ran 500 yards to Norris’s position through a hail of enemy fire. Several NVA neared Norris’s body. Thornton gunned them down. When he reached Norris, he saw that the bullet had entered the side of Norris’s head and blown out the front of his forehead. He was dead. Thornton threw the body on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and grabbed Norris’s AK. Thornton had already used up eight grenades and his LAW rockets and was down to one or two magazines of ammo. It looked like the end for him, too.
Suddenly, the first round from the Newport News came in like a mini Volkswagen flying through the air. When it exploded, it threw Thornton down a 30-foot dune. Norris’s body flew over Thornton. He picked himself up and walked over to pick up Norris.
“Mike, buddy,” Norris said.
; “You sonofabitch. You’re alive!”
Thornton felt a new burst of energy as he picked up Norris, put him on his shoulders, and took off running. Dang and Quon gave cover fire.
The Newport News’s artillery round had bought them some time, but that time was now up. Enemy rounds rained down on the SEALs again.
Thornton reached Dang and Quon’s position. “Where’s Tai?”
When Thornton went back to get Norris, the shaky Vietnamese lieutenant had disappeared into the water.
Thornton looked at the two Vietnamese SEALs. “When I yell one, Quon, lay down a base of fire. When I yell two, Dang, lay down a base of fire. Three, I’ll lay down a base of fire. And we’ll leapfrog back to the water.”
Shooting and retreating, as Thornton reached the water’s edge, he fell, not realizing he’d been shot through his left calf. He picked up Norris and carried him under his arm. In the water, he felt a floundering movement—he had Norris’s head under the water. Thornton got his buddy’s head above water. Norris’s life vest was tied to his leg, standard operating procedure for Team Two. So Thornton took off his own vest and put it on Norris, using it to keep both of them afloat.
Quon fluttered in the water, the right side of his hip shot off. Thornton grabbed him, and Quon hung onto Norris’s life preserver. Dang helped as they kicked out to sea. Thornton could see bullets traveling through the water. Thornton prayed, Good Lord, don’t let any of those hit me.
Norris came to. He couldn’t see the Vietnamese officer. “Did we get everybody?” Pushing down on Thornton, immersing him, Norris rose high enough to see the Vietnamese officer, swimming far out to sea. Norris blacked out again.
After swimming well out of the enemy’s range of fire, Thornton and the two Vietnamese SEALs saw the Newport News—then saw it sail away, thinking the SEALs were dead.
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