by Brandon Webb
So let’s put the record straight on this one, right here and now: I don’t apologize for a single word. In fact, I plan to keep writing. It’s been highly therapeutic, my own PTSD drug of choice. And I’ll take the side effects of writing over prescription drugs any day. I also think that those of us who have served have a perspective to offer that people won’t get any other way. Special Operations is not Fight Club—it’s an element of the United States Department of Defense. I think it’s useful to give society a glimpse behind the Spec Ops curtain, not to disclose secrets but to convey a sense of who these sheepdogs are who give their lives protecting good citizens from the wolves of the world. And I think it’s important that of all the books written about war and the Spec Ops community, at least a few are written by the people who have actually been there.
Of all the first-person SEAL accounts of the last few years, Marcus Luttrell’s has by far been the most visible. What most people in the reading public don’t realize is that Marcus has taken a lot of shit for writing Lone Survivor. What even fewer know—in fact, even most people in the Spec Ops community, including 99 percent of his critics, don’t know this—is that writing the damn thing in the first place was not Marcus’s idea at all. The U.S. Navy asked him to write up his experiences into a book. He told me that, in fact, he was talked into it.
It’s not hard to see why. For one thing, it’s an incredible story, and it probably gave him much-needed closure to put it to paper. What’s more, it’s an even greater recruiting tool for the next generation of an all-volunteer active military. As I said, JT Tumilson’s decision to become a SEAL came at age fifteen, when he read Rogue Warrior. Reading that same book was what solidified my own decision. For Dave Scott it was seeing the flick Navy SEALs at sixteen. How many kids are in the Special Operations pipeline right now because they were inspired by Marcus’s story?
For me, the impulse to write The Red Circle came from watching Randy Pausch’s “Last Lecture” video on YouTube and later reading his amazing book. I was moved by Professor Pausch’s dedication to his family and the fact that he would pour so many of his precious last hours on earth into leaving a written record of what he’d learned about life for his three children. I had three children, too. Reading Pausch’s book, I realized that I wanted them to know what their dad had gone through during those early years, what he was doing all that time he wasn’t home with them, and why the sacrifices we all made mattered.
For Chris Kyle the situation was much as it was for Marcus: He had an amazing story that was begging to be told. At first, Chris told me, he was very resistant to the idea, but eventually he relented. “It got to the point where it was obvious somebody was going to write the damn thing,” he told me. “I figured it might as well be me. Otherwise they’d probably just screw it up.”
When his book American Sniper came out in January 2012, it became an instant sensation and has remained on the New York Times bestseller list ever since.
I saw him the following January at the 2013 SHOT Show in Vegas, where I introduced him to my good friend and fellow aviator Billy Tosheff. When I went up to Chris at the shooting range he gave me a big man-hug. I still have a picture of the two of us standing there together, that big goofy Texas grin on his face. You can see in the picture just how tall he is. I am not a short guy (five-ten), but standing next to Chris I look like a midget. As always, it was a blast to get together and spend a little time with him.
We never saw each other again.
Less than three weeks later I was standing slack against a high school gymnasium wall, gripping my iPhone and trying to grasp the news that Chris was gone, slain by a suffering vet he was trying to help. I tried to wrap my mind around that. I’m still trying.
Chris Kyle: another hero, another name etched onto my soul.
There is the unimaginable tragedy of those who never return from their service, men like Matt Axelson, Chris Campbell, Heath Robinson, and JT Tumilson, and the mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, and children they leave behind.
Then there is the complicated toll it takes on those who do return.
For someone who’s been in combat, everyday life in America, the life most of us take for granted as “normal,” is a very strange world to come back to. The adrenaline of living on the edge becomes the new norm, and the men you serve with become your new adopted family. It’s a hard thing to describe, but well portrayed by the Jeremy Renner character in the 2008 movie The Hurt Locker and his constant craving to be back in the zone.
I’ve been fortunate; in my case the transition to civilian life was not too difficult. I’ve been spared some of the uglier demons that can suck guys down the dark rabbit hole. I’ve seen the hell of addiction and how it can destroy good people, even on active duty. In my teens, when I was living on my own on the docks of southern California, I saw how easy it would be to turn to drugs, like some guys I ran with. By the time I was seventeen I knew I had to get out of there, which was in part what led me to the Navy. As I said, I was fortunate: That particular downward spiral never tugged at me too hard, not while on active duty or even after getting out of the service, something I probably owe in large part to having a circle of solid friends, my kids to anchor me, and mentors I could always talk to.
Still, I’m not the same person I was before I deployed to the Middle East in 2000 (USS Cole), Afghanistan in 2001 (SEAL Team Three Echo Platoon), and as a paramilitary contractor to Iraq in 2006.
None of us are.
The other day I was shopping at a little grocery store and noticed a guy cut rudely in front of an elderly lady as she stepped into the checkout line. I walked right up to him and said, “Hey, asshole, show a little courtesy.” The other shoppers gaped at me, slack-jawed, and I could see them thinking, Whoa, who is this guy? and probably wondering whether maybe I was dangerous. I grant you, his was a minor offense, but I just don’t have the patience for that kind of carelessness and lack of consideration. In Special Ops we’re trained to have acute situational awareness at all times, which includes paying complete attention to whatever effect we might be having on those around us at every second. We can’t turn that off. I know men who, rather than simply saying something to that rude line jumper, might have been tempted to grab him and yank him out of that line. Or worse.
I’ve said it twice now, but it’s worth saying once more in conclusion: We are well into the longest continuous stretch of war in our nation’s history. In 2012 we lost more guys to suicide than to combat. When you go to war for more than a decade, it has consequences. A lot of families have paid a terrible price for those consequences.
• • •
I took a deep breath and checked myself as I listened to the hum and buzz of the budding teen basketball stars on the other side of the wall. Tried to process what I’d just heard. I didn’t know the details. All I knew was that Chris and a friend had both been found shot dead at a rifle range in Texas. The news hadn’t hit the media yet, and nobody else in that locker room had any idea what had happened. They were all counting on me to go in there and give those young men an inspiring talk. So what now? What would Glen or any of my other fallen brothers want me to do?
I took another breath, opened the door, and walked into the locker room.
I don’t remember exactly what I said. I know I talked about teamwork and sacrifice, and the fact that no matter who you are or how good you are at what you do, you can’t accomplish anything truly worthwhile on your own. That any great achievement is always at its core a debt you owe to your teammates who hold you up and support you through the good times and bad.
And I talked about winning.
“We have a saying in the SEALs: ‘It pays to be a winner.’ I know you guys are all serious about being winners and being part of a winning team. So I’m not going to blow smoke about what that really means. Because winning is hard, and it takes more courage than most people know. Winning isn’t about being lu
cky, or fortune smiling on you from above, or being graced with special talents. Winning is something you decide on, something that comes from the inside.
“You may have heard it said that winning is about refusing to accept defeat. Not true. That’s just denial.
“You can’t avoid failing. You’re going to fail. The question is, How will you deal with failure? Because what you do next will make the difference between ultimate failure or success in the long term. Sometimes losing is what helps motivate you to win.
“The truth is, winners are the ones who understand loss, who understand adversity and hard work and don’t run from any of it. One individual can affect the whole team with how he chooses to deal with a tough break.” (Or heartbreak, I thought but didn’t say.) “Winners play full-out and refuse to give in, no matter what. Loss hurts, and it’s part of the game. Accept it, embrace it, use it as your teacher. ‘I will never quit,’ the Navy SEAL creed says. ‘I persevere and thrive on adversity. If knocked down, I will get back up, every time.’”
At least, that’s what I think I said. My fellow SEAL teammate Mark Donald was there and spoke some great words of his own. Tony told me afterward it was the best talk we gave all day. I was just glad I made it through.
• • •
Three months later, on Mother’s Day 2013, Donna Axelson’s phone rang. It was Ben Foster, the actor who was playing her son, Matt, in the forthcoming film version of Lone Survivor.
Donna and her husband, Corky, had spent quite a bit of time with Ben as he prepared for the role, talking with him about Matt. So had Cindy, Matt’s widow. Marcus put in probably the most time of all, making sure Ben had a complete understanding of who Matt was. Which is probably a big part of the reason Foster does such an amazing job. When I first saw the finished film, I could have sworn I was watching actual footage of Matthew. It’s uncanny.
Most Hollywood films about SEALs aren’t worth the price of the popcorn. Lone Survivor is a rare exception to that rule. First time I saw the trailer, I was stunned and wept silent tears. My date was with me and asked me what was wrong. “Give me a moment here,” I said, and let the tears fall, realizing how fortunate I was to still be here and be able to hug my kids at night. Peter Berg, the director, did an excellent and respectful job. So did the actors, who put in days and days at a range with live ammo, being schooled by active-duty frogmen in how to handle their weapons correctly and get it all right. They had a strong incentive to get it all right: Marcus met with the film’s key creative team in a boardroom, early on in the process, and told them, “If you fuck this up, I’ll kill you all.” Of course, they knew he was kidding. (Right, Marcus?)
By May 2013, though, all this was in the past, and shooting for the film had long since wrapped. So why was Foster calling Donna now?
Just to call and talk.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Donna,” he said. “I just wanted to call to tell you what a great mother you are.”
The following month, on Matt’s birthday, he called her again. Just to talk.
What I love so much about this story is that what Foster was doing, and what Peter Berg and his team have accomplished, serves to keep Matt Axelson alive. Most of us don’t have at our disposal the multimillion-dollar storytelling resources of a Hollywood studio to give these memories flesh and breath. The best we can do is just to keep telling one another the stories.
My generation of SEALs has seen at least fifty of its members killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, more than any other generation of frogmen before us. I still struggle to explain how this has affected me and those of us who knew them. Over the decade I was part of the SEAL teams I made some of the closest friends I’ve ever had. Think about half a dozen of your closest friends—and then imagine that a year or two from now they are all suddenly gone.
“For the first year after losing Dave,” Jack Scott said recently, “we didn’t go a minute without thinking about him. It was like having a hole broken in a pane of glass—a hole in your reality that you can’t even get close enough to touch without being cut by its sharp edges. Those edges are gradually worn a little smoother by the passage of time; more than a decade later, we don’t get cut so easily. But it’s still a hole, and it always will be.”
I’ve written this book in part to help soften those razor edges, both for myself and for the Scotts, the Beardens, the Axelsons, the Zinns, the Dohertys, and all the other family members who have had their sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers taken away.
In larger part, though, my goal in telling these stories is to celebrate the value of what’s been added to our lives, to my life, by passing on the lessons these men have left behind.
After reviewing this manuscript, Glen’s brother, Greg, e-mailed us. “I’m grateful to hear the stories,” he wrote. “Hearing his voice really brings him back.” That’s exactly why I often find myself rereading saved e-mails from these men. Greg put it perfectly: Hearing their voices brings them back. They are voices I don’t want to forget, because they still have so much to say.
Mike Bearden showed me what it means to devote yourself with all your heart to the safety and well-being of others. He was a watchful, protective big brother to everyone who knew him. I will never forget him.
Dave Scott made me laugh one minute and gasp in amazement the next. His mind traveled faster and farther than anyone else’s I’ve known. Rapier-tongued and kindhearted, he pushed every envelope he could find and showed me that your only limitations are those you choose to accept for yourself. I will never forget him.
Matt Axelson inspired everyone with whom he came into contact with his unshakable dedication to excellence and his stoic nature. He saw only the best in others, and was fiercely committed to only the best in himself. I will never forget him.
John Zinn showed me how to pull something that doesn’t exist yet out of the ether of imagination and make it into reality. He also showed me that it is possible to pursue outstanding professional achievement and have a fulfilling, consistent family life at the same time. I will never forget him.
Chris Campbell taught me that life is what you make of it, regardless of how terrible the situation gets; that we are the ones who control our own environment, and not vice versa. I can still see his big shit-eating grin beaming at me as we sit frozen, up to our necks in ice-cold water, in that damn rinse tank. I will never forget him.
Heath Robinson’s enthusiasm for life, quest for achievement, and deep love of America made me a better person for knowing him. He made the world a safer place for those I love. I will never forget him.
JT Tumilson showed me that becoming the best of the best doesn’t mean setting aside your humanity—that it is, in fact, an expression of that humanity. I will never forget him.
Glen Doherty showed me what it means to love life and live it full-out, to spend every moment in a sense of exhilaration at the privilege of simply being here on this planet. His unfailing dedication to an ever-expanding sphere of close friends was an inspiration to me, as it was to the thousands who knew him. I am a better friend, son, and father because of him. I will never forget him.
Chris Kyle was a warrior in the best and noblest sense, a bare-knuckle Texan and champion of the no-bullshit truth who had no hesitation putting his life on the line for his brothers, and I will never forget him.
“Don’t worry about me; I’m doing great here,” JT Tumilson told his mom, Kathy, shortly after arriving in Afghanistan in the summer of 2011. “Listen,” he added, “if I die, at least I die doing something I love.”
Every one of these heroes felt exactly the same way.
“They weren’t heroes to themselves,” says Kathy. “They were just doing what needed to be done, because they loved people and wanted to keep them safe.” To me, that’s what makes them heroes.
I will never forget any of them—and I hope you don’t either.
Share their stories with your friends,
your family, the people you love. Keep their memories alive and learn from them, as I have and continue to do. If you want to honor them, emulate them. As I told my kids when they were heartbroken over Glen’s death: “That’s the best way to honor Uncle Glen. Do your best to live the way he did.”
Knowing these men has made my life immeasurably richer. I hope it does the same for you.
AFTERWORD
THE RED CIRCLE FOUNDATION
One way to honor the memories of our fallen heroes is to help their families, who are often afflicted with grievous financial burdens along with their grief.
“I still remember getting that phone call,” says Jackie Zinn, John Zinn’s widow. “They told me my husband was dead. And the second thing they told me was that it was going to cost me twenty thousand dollars to get his body back home.”
When my friend Glen died in the September 11, 2012, attack in Benghazi, his name was in the news for weeks, along with the names of Ty Woods, Chris Stevens, and Sean Smith. Their memories were evoked and paraded across the stage in political speech after political speech. Then over time the inevitable appetite of that hungry monster, the news cycle, needed fresh feeding, and their names slowly slipped out of sight. And then what?
As of this writing, more than a year later, Glen’s family still has not received a penny of death benefit or assistance from the government. We’re not talking about some big payoff here; we’re talking about the basic costs of burying someone properly and holding a memorial service for those who gathered to honor him. Hasn’t happened. After Glen’s nearly two decades of service to his country, his family was left not only to bury their dead, but to do so out of their own pockets. The Dohertys’ experience is far from unique.
This is what those of us who have served in the military call UNSAT: decidedly, emphatically unsatisfactory.
Fortunately there is a wide range of military charities and other private nonprofit organizations that pick up some of the slack. This is one of the great things about America: Say what you will about the problems in our country, we do have a powerful ethic of taking care of our own.