American Sniper

by Chris Kyle

  Everybody did, I’m sure. Urine was about the only warm thing available at that point. If you happen to look out on the surf during a BUD/S class and see a bunch of guys huddled together, it’s because somebody out there is pissing and everybody is taking advantage of it.

  If that bell was a little closer, I might have stood up and gone and rung it, gotten my warm coffee and doughnut. But I didn’t.

  Either I was too stubborn to quit, or just too lazy to get up. Take your pick.

  I HAD ALL SORTS OF MOTIVATION TO KEEP ME GOING. I REMEMBERED every person who told me I’d flunk out of BUD/S. Sticking in was the same as sticking it to them. And seeing all the ships out off the coast was another incentive: I asked myself if I wanted to wind up out there.

  Hell no.

  Hell Week started on Sunday night. Come about Wednesday, I started feeling I was going to make it. By that point, my main goal was mostly to stay awake. (I got about two hours of sleep that whole time, and they weren’t together.) A lot of the beating had gone away and it was more a mental challenge than anything else. Many instructors say Hell Week is 90 percent mental, and they’re right. You need to show that you have the mental toughness to continue on with a mission even when you’re exhausted. That’s really what the idea is behind the test.

  It’s definitely an effective way of weeding out guys. I didn’t see it at the time, to be honest. In combat, though, I understood. You can’t just walk over and ring a bell to go home when you’re being fired at. There’s no saying, “Give me that cup of coffee and the doughnut you promised.” If you quit, you die and some of your boys die.

  My instructors in BUD/S were always saying things like, “You think this is bad? It’s going to suck more once you get to the Teams. You’ll be colder and more tired once you get there.”

  Lying in the surf, I thought they were full of shit. Little did I know that in a few years, I’d think Hell Week was a cakewalk.

  BEING COLD BECAME MY NIGHTMARE.

  I mean that literally. After Hell Week, I would wake up shivering all the time. I could be under all sorts of blankets and still be cold, because I was going through it all again in my mind.

  So many books and videos have been done on Hell Week that I won’t waste more of your time describing it. I will say one thing: going through it is far worse than reading about it.

  ROLLED BACK

  THE WEEK AFTER HELL WEEK IS A BRIEF RECOVERY PHASE called walk week. By then they’ve beaten you so bad your body feels permanently bruised and swollen. You wear tennis shoes and don’t run—you just fast-walk everywhere. It’s a concession that doesn’t last for very long; after a few days, they start beating the hell out of you again.

  “Okay, suck it up,” the instructors yell. “You’re over it.”

  They tell you when you’re hurt and when you’re not.

  Having survived Hell Week, I thought I was home free. I traded my white shirt for brown and began part two of BUD/S, the dive phase. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I’d gotten an infection. Not long after second phase started, I was in a dive tower, a special training apparatus that simulates a dive. In this particular exercise, I had to practice with a dive bell, making what is called a buoyant ascent while keeping the pressure in my inner and outer ears equalized. There are a few methods for doing that; one common one is to close your mouth, pinch your nostrils closed, and gently blow through your nose. If you don’t or can’t clear properly, there will be trouble . . .

  I’d been told this, but because of the infection I couldn’t seem to get it. Since I was in BUD/S and inexperienced, I decided to just suck it up and take a shot. That was the wrong thing to do: I went on down and ended up perforating my eardrum. I had blood coming out of my ears, nose, and eyes when I surfaced.

  They gave me medical attention on the spot and then sent me to have my ears treated. Because of the medical problems, I was rolled back—assigned to join a later class once I healed.

  When you’re rolled back, you’re in a sort of limbo. Since I had already made it through Hell Week, I didn’t have to go all the way back to the start—there’s no repeating Hell Week, thank God. I couldn’t just lie on my butt until the next class caught up, though. As soon as I was able, I helped the instructors, did daily PT, and ran with a class of white shirts (first phase) as they got their asses busted.

  ONE THING TO KNOW ABOUT ME IS THAT I LOVE DIPPING TOBACCO.

  I have since I was a teen. My father caught me with chewing tobacco when I was in high school. He was opposed to it, and decided he’d break me of the habit once and for all. So he made me eat an entire can of wintergreen mint–flavored tobacco. To this day, I can’t even use wintergreen toothpaste.

  Other kinds of chew are a different story. These days, Copenhagen is my brand of choice.

  You’re not allowed to have tobacco as a candidate in BUD/S. But being a rollback, I guess I thought I could get away with it. One day I put some Copenhagen in my mouth and joined the formation for a run. I was deep enough in the pack that no one would be paying attention. Or so I thought.

  Wouldn’t you know, but one of the instructors came back and started talking to me. As soon as I answered, he saw I had some dip in my mouth.

  “Drop!”

  I fell out of formation and assumed the push-up position.

  “Where’s your can?” he demanded.

  “In my sock.”

  “Get it.”

  I, of course, had to stay in my push-up position while I did that, so I reached back with one hand and took it out. He opened the can and put it down in front of me. “Eat it.”

  Every time I came down from a push-up, I had to take a big bite of Copenhagen and swallow it. I had been dipping from the time I was fifteen, and I already regularly swallowed my tobacco when I was done, so it wasn’t as bad as you might think. It certainly wasn’t as bad as my instructor wanted. Maybe if it had been wintergreen, it would have been a different story. It pissed him off that I wasn’t throwing up. So he worked me for several hours with all these exercises and such. I did almost puke—not from the Copenhagen but exhaustion.

  Finally, he let me be. After that, we got along pretty well. It turned out he was a dipper himself. He and another instructor from Texas took a liking to me toward the end of BUD/S, and I learned a ton from both men as the course went on.

  A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE SURPRISED TO HEAR THAT INJURIES don’t necessarily disqualify you from becoming a SEAL, unless they are so serious that they end your Navy career. It makes sense, though, since being a SEAL is more about mental toughness than physical prowess—if you have the psychological fortitude to come back from an injury and complete the program, you stand a decent chance of being a good SEAL. I personally know a SEAL who broke his hip so badly during training that it had to be replaced. He had to sit out for a year and a half, but he made it through BUD/S.

  You hear guys talking about getting kicked out of BUD/S because they got into a fight with the instructor and beat the crap out of him. They’re lying sacks of shit. No one fights with the instructors. You just don’t. Believe me, if you did, they’d come together and whip your ass so fast you wouldn’t ever walk again.

  MARCUS

  YOU GET CLOSE TO THE PEOPLE IN BUD/S, BUT YOU TRY NOT to get too close until after Hell Week. That’s where the heaviest attrition is. We graduated two dozen guys out of our class; less than ten percent the number that started.

  I was one of them. I’d started in class 231, but the rollback meant I graduated with 233.

  After BUD/S, SEALs go to advance training—officially known as SQT or SEAL Qualifying Training. While I was there, I was reunited with a friend of mine I’d met while at BUD/S—Marcus Luttrell.

  Marcus and I got along right away. It was only natural: we were a couple of Texas boys.

  I don’t suppose you’ll understand that if you’re not from Texas. There seems to be a special bond between people from the state. I don’t know if it’s shared experiences, or maybe it’s something in t
he water—or maybe the beer. Texans tend to get on pretty well with each other, and in this case we formed an instant friendship. Maybe it’s not that much of a mystery; after all, we had a lot of experiences in common, from growing up with a love of hunting to joining the Navy to toughing out BUD/S.

  Marcus had graduated from BUD/S prior to me, then went off to do special advanced training before returning to SQT. Trained as a corpsman, he happened to check me over when I got my first O2 hit while diving. (In layman’s terms, an “O2 hit” occurs when too much oxygen enters your bloodstream during a dive. It can be caused by a number of different factors and can be extremely serious. My case was very minor.)

  Diving again. I always say I’m an “ . . . L,” not a SEAL. I’m a land guy; you can keep air and sea for someone else.

  The day my incident occurred, I was swimming with a lieutenant, and we were determined to get the day’s golden fin—an award for the best shit-hot dive of the day. The exercise involved swimming under a ship and planting limpet mines. (A limpet mine is a special charge that is placed against the hull of a ship. Generally, it will have a timed charge.)

  We were doing extremely well when suddenly, while I was underneath the hull of the ship, I experienced vertigo and my brain turned into a vegetable. I managed to grab hold of a pylon and hug it. The lieutenant tried handing me a mine, then tried signaling to me when I wouldn’t take it. I stared blankly into the ocean. Finally, my head cleared, and I was able to get out and continue.

  No golden fin for us that day. By the time I got back to the surface, I was all right, and both Marcus and the instructors cleared me.

  Though we ended up in different Teams, Marcus and I kept in touch as the years went by. It seemed like every time I was coming back from a combat deployment, he was coming in to relieve me. We’d have lunch together and trade informal intel back and forth.

  TOWARD THE END OF SQT, WE GOT ORDERS TELLING US WHICH SEAL Team we were about to join. Even though we had graduated BUD/S, we didn’t consider ourselves real SEALs yet; it was only when we joined a Team that we would get our Tridents—and even then we’d have to prove ourselves first. (The SEAL Tridents—also known as a Budweiser—is a metal “device” or badge worn by SEALs. Besides Neptune’s trident, the symbol includes an eagle and an anchor.) At the time, there were six Teams, meaning three choices on each coast, East and West; my top pick was Seal Team 3, which was based out of Coronado, California. I chose it because that team had seen action in the Middle East and was likely to return. I wanted to get into the heat if I could. I think all of us did.

  My next two choices were for Teams based on the East Coast, because I’d been in Virginia, where they are headquartered. I’m not a big fan of Virginia, but I liked it a lot better than California. San Diego—the city near Coronado—has beautiful weather, but Southern California is the land of nuts. I wanted to live somewhere with a little more sanity.

  I’d been told by the detailer I worked for that he would make sure I got my top choice. I wasn’t 100 percent sure that was going to happen, but at that point I would have accepted whatever assignment I got—obviously, since I had no real say in the matter.

  Getting the actual assignment was the opposite of dramatic. They brought us into a big classroom and handed out paper with our orders. I got my top choice: Team 3.

  LOVE

  SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENED TO ME THAT SPRING THAT HAD an enormous impact not just on my military career, but on my life.

  I fell in love.

  I don’t know if you believe in love at first sight; I don’t think I did before the night in April of 2001 when I saw Taya standing at a bar in a San Diego club, talking with one of my friends. She had a way of making black leather pants look smokin’ hot and classy. The combination suited me fine.

  I’d just joined Team 3. We hadn’t started training yet, and I was enjoying what amounted to a week of vacation before getting down to the serious business of becoming a SEAL and earning my place on a Team.

  Taya was working for a pharmaceutical company as a drug rep when we met. Originally from Oregon, she’d gone to college in Wisconsin and moved out to the coast a couple years before we met. My first impression was that she was beautiful, even if she looked pissed off about something. When we started talking, I also found out she was smart, and had a good sense of humor. I sensed right away she was someone who could keep up with me.

  But maybe she should tell the story; her version sounds better than mine:

  TAYA:

  I remember the night we met—some of it, at least. I wasn’t going to go out. This was all during a low spot in my life. My days were spent in a job I didn’t like. I was fairly new in town and still looking for some solid female friendships. And I was casually dating guys, with not much success. Over the years I’d had some decent relationships and a couple of bad ones, with a few dates in between. I remember literally praying to God before I met Chris to just send me a nice guy. Nothing else mattered, I thought. I just prayed for someone who was inherently good and nice.

  A girlfriend called and wanted to go down to San Diego. I was living in Long Beach at the time, about ninety miles away. I wasn’t going to go but somehow she talked me into it.

  We were walking around that night and we passed a bar named Maloney’s. They were blaring “Land Down Under” by Men at Work. My friend wanted to go in but they had an outrageous cover charge, something like ten or fifteen bucks.

  “I’m not doing that,” I told her. “Not for a bar that’s playing Men at Work.”

  “Oh, shut up,” my girlfriend said. She paid the cover and in we went.

  We were at the bar. I was drinking and irritable. This tall, good-looking guy came over and started talking to me. I’d been talking to one of his friends, who seemed like a jerk. My mood was still pretty bad, though he had a certain air about him. He told me his name—Chris—and I told him mine.

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  “I drive an ice cream truck.”

  “You’re full of shit,” I told him. “Obviously you’re military.”

  “No, no,” he protested. He told me a bunch of other things. SEALs almost never admit to strangers what they really do, and Chris had some of the best BS stories ever. One of the better ones was dolphin waxer: he claimed that dolphins in captivity need to be waxed so their skin didn’t disintegrate. It’s a pretty convincing story—if you’re a young, naive, and tipsy girl.

  Fortunately, he didn’t try that particular one on me—I hope because he could tell I wouldn’t fall for it. He’s also convinced girls that he mans an ATM machine, sitting inside and doling out money when people put their cards in. I wasn’t anywhere near that naive, or drunk, for him to try that story.

  One look at him and I could have told he was military. He was ripped and had short hair, and had an accent that said “not from here.”

  Finally, he admitted he was in the service.

  “So what do you do in the military?” I asked.

  He said a bunch of other things and finally I got the truth: “I just graduated from BUD/S.”

  I was like, okay, so you’re a SEAL.

  “Yeah.”

  “I know all about you guys,” I told him. You see, my sister had just divorced her husband. My brother-in-law had wanted to be a SEAL—he’d gone through some of the training—and so I knew (or thought I did) what SEALs were all about.

  So I told Chris.

  “You’re arrogant, self-centered, and glory-seeking,” I said. “You lie and think you can do whatever you want.”

  Yes, I was at my charming best.

  What was intriguing was how he responded. He didn’t smirk or get clever or even act offended. He seemed truly . . . puzzled.

  “Why would you say that?” he asked, very innocently and genuine.

  I told him about my brother-in-law.

  “I would lay down my life for my country,” he answered. “How is that self-centered? That’s the opposite.”

  He was so id
ealistic and romantic about things like patriotism and serving the country that I couldn’t help but believe him.

  We talked for a while more, then my friend came over and I turned my attention to her. Chris said something like he was going to go home.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well, you were saying about how you never would date a SEAL or go out with one.”

  “Oh no, I said I would never marry one. I didn’t say I wouldn’t go out with one.”

  His face lit up.

  “In that case,” he said, with that sly little smile he has, “I guess I’ll get your phone number.”

  He hung around. I hung around. We were still there at last call. As I got up with the crowd to go, I was pushed against him. He was all hard and muscle-y and smelled good, so I gave him a little kiss on his neck. We went out and he walked us to the parking lot . . . and I started puking my brains out from all the Scotch on the rocks I’d been drinking.

  How can you not love a girl who loses it the first time you meet? I knew from the start that this was someone I wanted to spend a lot of time with. But at first, it was impossible to do that. I called her the morning after we met to make sure she was okay. We talked and laughed a bit. After that, I’d call her and leave messages. She didn’t call back.

  The other guys on the Team started ribbing me about it. They were betting about whether she’d ever call me on her own. You see, we talked a few times, when she would actually answer the phone—maybe thinking it was someone else. After a while, it was obvious even to me that she never initiated.

  Then, something changed. I remember the first time she called me. We were on the East Coast, training.

  When we were done talking, I ran inside and started jumping on my teammates’ beds. I took the call as a sign she was really interested. I was happy to share that fact with all the naysayers.