SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper

by Stephen Templin

  My internal clock hadn’t adjusted from Africa to Germany, then back to the United States. With time on my hands, it became easy to take a two- or three-hour nap, which kept me awake at night.

  Pain and depression didn’t help matters either. Bone pain. As long as those screws stayed in my leg, I’d have pain. It’s understandable how people can become addicted to pain pills, but I despised the pills—they just made me numb. To some small degree, I wanted to feel pain, guilty that I had survived while a lot of good guys, special ones like Dan Busch, lay dead. I thought maybe I was strange for feeling this way. Suck it up, take the pain.

  Out of the SEAL Team Six loop and with no Team guys around, I suffered the withdrawal symptoms of being cut off from the camaraderie. I was in culture shock, too. People around town could talk to me about their lives, but I couldn’t talk to them about mine. I couldn’t joke with them about my Hell Week death leap to kill a rack of trays that I thought was a deer. Or laugh with them about the hospital in Germany where I gave the Ranger buddy my painkiller injections. People around town didn’t understand. I learned to shut up about those experiences. Now it occurred to me how different I had become from most people. Away from my Teammates, I felt forgotten, too. With no real-world missions, I had gone cold turkey from adrenaline. Now I couldn’t even walk. In the SEAL culture, where it pays to be a winner, I was the biggest loser. I was angry at the world in general and at God in particular. Why did this have to happen to me?

  In retrospect, I see that God was letting me know I was only human, and that being a SEAL was just a job. Howard, you were too hardheaded to listen to Me after you were shot once. You didn’t listen to Me after the second shot. Here, big boy, let Me give you your third bullet hole. Now, do I have your attention? You are not Superman. You are God’s gift to special operations only for as long as I allow it to be. You are where you are because of Me. Not because of you. This is My way of getting your attention. Now that I’ve got it, let Me mold you further. You are not the finished product. He humbled me and brought me back down to earth. Made me become a father to my children. At the time, no one could’ve convinced me of all that, but looking back, getting shot in the leg was the best thing that ever happened to me.

  * * *

  One day, a buddy of mine called me. On his ranch, he had a special hybrid of deer that he bred with American whitetail deer.

  “Come over and let’s hunt a little.”

  “Yes. Yes! Let me get out of this house! Anything!”

  He picked me up in his pickup truck, took me out to the field, and set me down in my wheelchair on the ground. He pushed me nearly 30 yards through light underbrush, then stopped. He pointed to a spot about 150 yards away. “Over there is where the deer usually come out.”

  My personal hunting rifle was a 7 mm Magnum with a nice scope. I was so happy—waiting there for nearly an hour and a half.

  A huge buck came out. Sitting in my wheelchair, I brought my rifle to my shoulder, pulled the trigger, and the deer went down. Perfect shot. After laying my rifle on the ground, I wheeled my chair over to the animal. Pushing my wheelchair along a dirt road took me a while.

  I parked my chair next to the deer. The beautiful buck looked up at me. It snorted, then laid its head back down. It made a last gasp, as if all the air had been sucked out of its lungs. Hearing it die, I thought, I’d have been just as happy to come out and watch you, instead of taking your life. I’ve seen enough things die.

  I took the buck and had the head mounted. In South Georgia, hunting is big. The boys head out before the crack of dawn and sit in their tree stands waiting for their prey during the season. I was still willing to kill someone to save myself or save another person—willing to kill in the line of duty—but I never hunted again.

  * * *

  The rehab people treated me like a celebrity. At that time, I was the only combat-wounded veteran in their hospital. Every time I went in, five or ten people would show up to talk to me.

  After six or seven weeks, my niece brought me a device that slipped over the pins in my legs, creating a rubber seal, so I could shower. I stood on one leg in the shower and lathered up my hair. It felt like the best gift I’d ever received.

  In early December, two months after the longest day in my life, my hometown of Screven, Georgia, threw me a hero’s welcome as part of the Christmas parade, with yellow ribbons everywhere. A big sign in the restaurant covered the front window: WELCOME BACK HOWARD, THE HOMETOWN HERO. Nearly all nine hundred of the townspeople must’ve signed it. People from Wayne County came out to line the streets, see me, and wish me well. They had no idea about the physical pain, the mental anguish, the loss, or the dark hole of depression that tormented me—before they honored me that way. They had no idea how much their welcome meant to me, appreciating me as part of the community. I didn’t feel like such a loser.

  * * *

  Mike Durant, the pilot of Super Six Four, the second Black Hawk to crash in Mogadishu, had broken his leg and back. Aidid’s propaganda minister, Abdullahi “Firimbi” Hassan, held him prisoner for eleven days until Mike and a captured Nigerian soldier were driven by their captors to a checkpoint at the UN compound. One of Durant’s captors pulled out UN credentials hanging on a chain around his neck and showed them to the guard. They waved him in. The checkpoint guard didn’t even realize Mike sat in the car. Nobody knew until he was already on the runway. His captors turned him over to the Red Cross. The United Nations showed enough unity with the enemy, but I didn’t feel like they showed enough unity with us. I never felt they could be trusted for operational security. You can only trust the people you train and fight with. I had trained with foreign counterterrorism units, and I trusted them. The UN checkpoint guard’s coziness with Durant’s captor, and the fact that his captor carried UN credentials, confirmed my distrust for the UN.

  Mike Durant and I had just gotten to where we could walk unassisted. Our first meeting since Somalia was at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, Washington, to learn advanced Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. Although SERE schools like the one at the Naval Air Station in Brunswick, Maine, simulated being hunted, imprisoned, and tortured, this school took place in a classroom with ten to twelve students mainly learning the psychological aspects of captivity. With our experience in Mogadishu, Mike and I quickly became guest speakers for that particular class. The instructors called us to the front of the room, where we talked about our experiences and fielded questions from students and instructors.

  * * *

  The Navy flew Casanova, Little Big Man, Sourpuss, Captain Olson, and me to the Pentagon to award us the Silver Star. In Mogadishu, Captain Olson left headquarters to participate in rescuing men still pinned down. At our award ceremony, video cameras rolled and still cameras flashed. My citation read:

  The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star medal to Hull Maintenance Technician First Class Howard E. Wasdin, United States Navy, for service set forth in the following citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against a hostile force during operation UNOSOM II in Mogadishu, Somalia on 3 & 4 October 1993. Petty Officer Wasdin was the member of a security team in support of an assault force that conducted an air assault raid into an enemy compound and successfully apprehended two key militia officials and twenty-two others. Upon receiving enemy small arms fire from numerous alleys, Petty Officer Wasdin took up a firing position and returned fire. As he assaulted down the alley with members of his unit, he was wounded in the calf. Upon receiving combat field condition medical attention, he resumed his duties and continued to suppress enemy fire. As his convoy exfiltrated the area with detainees, his element came under withering enemy fire. Petty Officer Wasdin, along with the security team, stopped to suppress enemy fire which had pinned down the Ranger blocking force. Although twice wounded, he continued to pull security and engage a superior enemy force from his vehicle. Later, while attempting to suppress enemy fire, during an attempted link-up
for evacuation of the helicopter crash site, Petty Officer Wasdin was wounded a third time. His gallant efforts inspired his team members as well as the entire force. By his superb initiative, courageous action, and complete dedication to duty, Petty Officer Wasdin reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest tradition of the United States Naval Force.

  It was signed for the president by John Dalton, the new secretary of the navy. Casanova and I walked into the secretary of defense’s office and shook his hand. Upon exiting, Casanova said, “That man’s got the softest hands I’ve ever felt.” Later, I also received a whack on the pee-pee for disobeying a direct order and helping the teenaged Somali boy who’d stepped on a land mine—my most successful op in Somalia.

  * * *

  Casanova and I sat chewing Copenhagen dip in Red Team’s ready room. It was a huge informal room, mostly neutral in color. Mission briefs, real-world intel, and other briefings were done in a special room. Pictures of Red Team exploits decorated one wall. An ornate totem pole and an authentic Indian headdress stood as Team symbols. In the largest part of the room were four big tables with eight to ten chairs that could sit a boat crew at each table. Carpeting covered the floor. The FNGs were responsible for cleanliness and keeping the two refrigerators stocked with various brands of beer. The Team chief and Team leader shared one office adjoining the Team room. Also adjoining the Team room was a computer room for general use. Just outside the Team room were the individual cages where we kept our gear.

  Casanova and I sat at a table. Little Big Man arrived with an envelope from the Randall knife company. He had offered to send his knife, tell his story, and sponsor their company—SEAL Team Six sniper saved by Randall knife.

  “How much they going to pay you?” Casanova asked.

  Little Big Man opened the letter and read, “Thank you for sharing your story with us. We’ll give you ten percent off if you want to buy another knife.”

  “Dumb-asses,” Little Big Man said.

  Casanova laughed loudly and boisterously. I laughed so hard, I almost swallowed my chewing tobacco.

  * * *

  I recovered rapidly and returned to the Team. My first contact with Lieutenant Commander Buttwipe was when he took over command of Red Team as senior officer, Red Team leader. Buttwipe lived for appearances more than getting the job done, which ruffled a lot of operators’ feathers. A number of people left Red Team to go to Blue and Gold Teams because of him. He had a fake chuckle, especially in the presence of senior officers. When he laughed with us, it felt like he was really thinking about something else. Because he was part Japanese, we made jokes behind his back about losing World War II. Short in stature, he cut his hair short, too, in a flattop style.

  He must’ve loved the smell of my gluteus maximus, because he rode it constantly. Maybe Buttwipe felt self-conscious that he lacked talent. Although he ran and swam well, he brought up the rear during CQB shooting drills, and he lacked good timely tactical decisions. Maybe he resented never seeing combat, or not earning a Silver Star. Regardless of his reason, somehow Buttwipe found out that Delta wanted me. The Delta operators at the hospital in Germany encouraged me to join them. A Delta colonel told me at the Andrews Air Force Base hospital how I could laterally transfer out of the SEALs and into Delta. In retrospect, Delta probably would’ve understood and respected me more—I know of no stronger bond than the bond with people I’d been in combat with. My relationship with Casanova, Little Big Man, the Delta operators, the CCTs, and the PJs was stronger than my relationship with other Teammates.

  “I’ll support you if you stay here,” Buttwipe said, “but if you try to leave, I’ll be your worst nightmare.”

  Buttwipe’s actions gave me more motivation to transfer to Delta. Yet his words said he didn’t want me to leave. He made no sense. I remained because I trained to be a SEAL, was still a SEAL, and wanted to continue being a SEAL. It’s what I did best.

  In the sum of things, Buttwipe didn’t support me. He even gave me a hard time about showing up at the Delta memorial unshaven in civilian clothes. I really couldn’t understand his argument—I’d almost died of staph infection while making the trip to the ceremony. Surviving day to day took nearly all the energy I had. Shaving was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I despised his incompetence as much as I despised the incompetence of Clinton. Buttwipe should’ve been a politician instead of an operator. Just remembering him now makes me want to kick him in the face.

  Laura and I divorced. The baby she was pregnant with wasn’t mine—wasn’t even the same race. It happened while I was gone. That’s all I’m going to say about that. I’d been unfaithful, too. Rachel and Blake went to live with their mom because I wouldn’t be able to take care of them when I had to be away for work. I hadn’t spent enough time with Rachel, and now I’d be spending even less time with her. Her mother let her do most of the things she wanted, but I didn’t. When Rachel became old enough to choose, she chose to live with her mom. Later, when Rachel was a senior in high school, her mother let her move in with her boyfriend—something I would never allow. My relationship with Rachel would deteriorate. Even though I was stricter with Blake than with Rachel, he chose to live with me when he turned thirteen. Although I should’ve known that family ties are stronger than job ties, I’d sacrificed my family for the Teams.

  In spite of my sacrifices for the Teams, I could never return to being 100 percent of the sniper I used to be. My thinking became darker. One day, I held my SIG SAUER P-226 pistol in my hand. How bad would it be if I took this P-226 and ended everything with one 9 mm bullet? There are worse things than death. I convinced myself that everyone would be better off. They could collect on my life insurance.

  Blake was visiting me. “Dad.”

  That one word snapped me out of it. Ending my life would’ve been selfish. If I don’t have anything else to live for, at least I have my children. I never had those dark thoughts again.

  Although it had looked initially like I’d lose my leg, I didn’t. I walked on crutches before I was supposed to, used a cane before I was supposed to, walked unassisted before I was supposed to, and started swimming before I was supposed to. Although people thought I would never walk without a limp, I did. Even though many thought I’d never run again, I did. After returning to the Team, I hit the gym every morning and did PT with them. I couldn’t always keep up, but I consistently worked hard at it.

  15.

  Ambassador Death Threats

  Although still experiencing daily pain and sleepless nights from my injuries, I recovered to the point that I could receive an assignment to protect Ambassador to the Philippines John Negroponte, who had received some death threats. A Yale graduate, he dropped out of Harvard Law School to become a diplomat. Of Greek descent, he spoke English, French, Greek, Spanish, and Vietnamese.

  With me from Team Six came Johnny. He had been stationed in the Philippines before, possibly on a deployment with SEAL Team One, and had a lot of friends—many of them female. He had volunteered for the assignment to have some fun.

  Johnny always had a lighthearted attitude. We were living in a condo on the tenth floor of a building in Makati, an upscale neighborhood in Manila. One evening, an earthquake hit. It woke us up, along with our maid, Lucy. Johnny and I both came out of our rooms, he in his boxer shorts and I in my birthday suit. Outside the window, buildings swayed side to side. I could feel our building sway, too. “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  Johnny had that big smile on his face. “Nothing we can do. Just sort it out when we hit the ground.”

  We laughed it off and went back to bed.

  Our job included training Philippine nationals, some from the Philippine National Police force, to protect the ambassador. We showed the Filipinos how to do diplomatic advances, run a three-vehicle motorcade, walk a detail diamond (one agent walking point, one on each side of the principal, and one bringing up the rear), and more. We took them out to shoot with their Uzis. Uzis are poor weapons for accuracy, and th
e Philippine nationals were poor marksmen with any weapon. The ambassador was fortunate they didn’t have to shoot anyone to protect his life. Our recommendation to the assistant regional security officer was to let Filipinos carry shotguns instead of Uzis, so they had a better chance of hitting something. The change wasn’t made.

  Sitting down with the commandant and assistant regional security officer, and drawing on my experiences running a CIA safe house in Somalia, we came up with an improved defense and E&E plan for the embassy. Also, we took the Marine embassy guards out to the range for shooting practice. “Hey, we’re marines. We know how to shoot.” After spending a few days on the range with Johnny and me, the marines’ eyes opened up. “Good stuff!”

  Ambassador Negroponte never seemed to stop, always meeting with people, and he played tennis well. He treated us like we were part of the family. I felt close to his children, whom we also protected. His British wife was polite and sweet. They invited Johnny and me to Thanksgiving dinner at the American Residence in Baguio, a mansion complete with chandeliers and oil paintings.

  One day, Johnny and I did an advance for the ambassador’s visit to a chiropractor. I wore my Oakley sunglasses. We walked up to the front desk and introduced ourselves. The receptionist invited us in. As we searched rooms for bad guys, we interrupted the chiropractor during her lunch. We apologized and continued on.

  Later, we received a call from the ambassador, asking us to see him. We left our condo in Makati and met with him. He politely told us, “Next time you go to the chiropractor’s office, don’t go all roughshod. That chiropractor also happens to be a friend.” This was before 9/11, so security was less of a priority, but we had done our advance the way we were trained. He explained, “I have a shoulder injury from tennis, and if she doesn’t realign my spine, I’m in pain.”