by Chris Kyle
As a SEAL, I used Nightforce scopes. They have very clear glass, and they’re extremely durable under terrible conditions. They always held their zero for me. On deployments, I used a Leica range finder to determine how far I was from a target.
Most of the stocks on my guns used adjustable cheek-pieces. Sometimes called a comb (technically, the comb is the top piece of the stock, but the terms are sometimes interchanged), the extension let me keep my eye in position when sighting through the scope. On older weapons, we would adapt a piece of hard-packed foam and raise the stock to the right height. (As scope rings have gotten larger and more varied in size, the ability to change the stock height has become more important.)
I used a two-pound trigger on my rifles. That’s a fairly light pull. I want the trigger to surprise me every time; I don’t want to jerk the gun as I fire. I want no resistance:
Get set, get ready, put my finger and gently start squeezing, and it goes off.
AS A HUNTER, I KNEW HOW TO SHOOT, HOW TO MAKE THE BULLET go from point A to point B. Sniper school taught me the science behind it all. One of the more interesting facts is that the barrel of a rifle cannot touch any part of the stock: they need to be free-floating to increase accuracy. (The barrel will “float” in the stock, due to the way the stock is cut out. It attaches only to the main body of the rifle.) When you shoot a round, a vibration comes through the barrel, known as barrel whip. Anything touching the barrel will affect that vibration, and, in turn, affect the accuracy. Then there are things like the Coriolis effect, which has to do with the rotation of the earth and the effect it has on a rifle bullet. (This comes into play only at extremely long distances.)
You live all of this technical data in sniper school. You learn about how far to lead someone when they’re moving—if they’re walking, if they’re running, depending on the distance. You keep doing it until the understanding is embedded not just in your brain but in your arms and hands and fingers.
IN MOST SHOOTING SITUATIONS, I ADJUST FOR ELEVATION, BUT not for windage. (Simply put, adjusting for elevation means adjusting my aim to compensate for the drop of my bullet over the distance it travels; windage means compensating for the effect of the wind.) The wind is constantly changing. So about the time I adjust for wind, the wind changes. Elevation is a different story—though if you’re in a combat situation, a lot of times you don’t have the luxury of making a fine adjustment. You have to shoot or be shot.
TESTED
I WAS NOT THE BEST SNIPER IN MY CLASS. IN FACT, I FAILED THE practice test. That meant potentially washing out of the class.
Unlike the Marines, in the field we don’t work with spotters. The SEAL philosophy is, basically, if you have a fellow warrior with you, he ought to be shooting, not watching. That said, we did use spotters in training.
After I failed the test, the instructor went through everything with me and my spotter, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. My scope was perfect, my dope was set, there was nothing mechanically wrong with the rifle . . .
Suddenly, he looked up at me.
“Dip?” he said, more a statement than a question.
“Oh . . .”
I hadn’t put any chewing tobacco in my mouth during the test. It was the only thing I’d done differently . . . and it turned out to be the key. I passed the exam with flying colors—and a wad of tobacco in my cheek
SNIPERS AS A BREED TEND TO BE SUPERSTITIOUS. WE’RE LIKE baseball players with our little rituals and must-dos. Watch a baseball game, and you’ll see a batter always does the same thing as he steps to the plate—he’ll make the sign of the cross, kick the dirt, wave the bat. Snipers are the same way.
During training and even afterward, I kept my guns a certain way, wore the same clothes, had everything arranged precisely the same. It’s all a matter of controlling everything on my end. I know the gun is going to do its job. I need to make sure I do mine.
THERE’S A LOT MORE TO BEING A SEAL SNIPER THAN SHOOTING. As training progressed, I was taught to study the terrain and the surroundings. I learned to see things with a sniper’s eye.
If I were trying to kill me, where would I set up?
That roof. I could take the whole squad from there.
Once I identified those spots, I’d spend more time looking at them. I had excellent vision going into the course, but it wasn’t so much seeing as learning to perceive—knowing what sort of movement should get your attention, discerning subtle shapes that can tip off a waiting ambush.
I had to practice to stay sharp. Observation is hard work. I’d go outside and just train myself to spot things in the distance. I always tried to hone my craft, even on leave. On a ranch in Texas, you see animals, birds—you learn to look in the distance and spot movement, shapes, little inconsistencies in the landscape.
For a while, it seemed like everything I did helped train me, even video games. I had a little handheld mahjongg game that a friend of mine had given us as a wedding present. I don’t know if it was exactly appropriate as a wedding present—it’s a handheld, one-person game—but as a training tool it was invaluable. In mahjongg, you scan different tiles, looking for matches. I would play timed sessions against the computer, working to sharpen my observation skills.
I SAID IT BEFORE AND I’LL KEEP SAYING IT: I’M NOT THE BEST shot in the world. There were plenty of guys better than me, even in that class. I only graduated about middle of the pack.
As it happened, the guy who was the honor man or best in our class was part of our platoon. He never had as many kills as I did, though, at least partly because he was sent to the Philippines for a few months while I spent my time in Iraq. You need skill to be a sniper, but you also need opportunity. And luck.
BEATEN BY DOLPHINS, EATEN BY SHARKS
AFTER SPENDING THE ENTIRE SUMMER AT SNIPER SCHOOL, I RETURNED to my platoon and got busy with the rest of our workup, going through the different training sessions as we prepared to deploy in a year. As usual, I had some of my hardest times in the water.
EVERYONE GETS ALL WARM AND FUZZY ABOUT MARINE ANIMALS, but I’ve had close and personal encounters that were anything but.
While the Navy was testing a program using dolphins for harbor defense, they used us as targets, in a few cases without warning. The dolphins would come out and beat the shit out of us. They were trained to hit in the sides, and they could crack ribs. And if you hadn’t been warned in advance of the exercise, you didn’t know what was going on—your first reaction, or at least mine, was to think you were being attacked by sharks.
One time we were out and the dolphins were taking it to us. Getting beaten bad, I headed toward shore to dodge the bastards. Spotting some piers, I ducked underneath—I knew they wouldn’t follow me.
Safe.
All of a sudden, something clamped hard on my leg. Hard.
It was a sea lion. They were being trained to guard the piers.
I went back out into open water. I’d rather be beaten by a dolphin than eaten by a sea lion.
BUT SHARKS WERE, BY FAR, THE WORST.
One evening, we were supposed to swim across the bay off San Diego, in the dark, and plant a limpet mine on a particular ship. Simple, standard SEAL operation.
Not every SEAL hates the water like I do. In fact, a lot of them like it so much they’ll swim around and play tricks on the others in the exercise. You might have a guy plant his mine, then sink to the bottom and wait for the next guy to come over with his. There’s usually enough light from above that the second diver is silhouetted and easy to see. So when the victim—I mean, diver—comes to plant his mine, the first diver comes up, grabs his fin, and jerks it.
That scares the shit out of the second diver. Usually he thinks there’s a shark in the water and screws up the rest of the exercise. And his gear may need a special cleaning.
On this particular day, I was beneath the ship and had just planted my mine when something grabbed my fin.
SHARK!!!
Then I put my heart back
in my chest, remembering all the stories and warnings about my brethren SEALs.
Just one of the guys messing with my head, I told myself. I turned around to flip him off.
And found myself giving the finger to a shark who’d taken a particular liking to my flipper. He had it in his jaw.
He wasn’t a huge shark, but what he lacked in size he made up for in pure orneriness. I grabbed my knife and cut off my fin—no sense keeping it now that it was all chewed up, right?
While he was munching on what remained of it, I swam up to the surface and flagged down the security boat. I grabbed onto the side and explained that they were taking me in RIGHT NOW!! because there was a SHARK!! out here, and he was one hungry mother.
DURING ANOTHER TRAINING EXERCISE—THIS ONE WAS BEFORE my first deployment—four of us were inserted on the California coast from a submarine. We came ashore in two Zodiacs, built a hide, and did some reconnaissance. When the time came, we all got in our Zodiacs and headed back out to meet the sub and go home.
Unfortunately, my officer had given the submarine the wrong grid coordinates for the rendezvous. In fact, they were so far off that there was an island between us and the sub.
Of course, we didn’t know that at the time. We just circled around, trying to make radio coms with a vessel that was too far away to hear us. At some point, either our radio got wet or the battery drained, and all hope of connection was lost.
We spent just about the entire night out on the water in the Zodiacs. Finally, as dawn approached, our fuel was nearly gone. My raft was starting to go flat. We all decided we’d just go back ashore and wait. At least we would get some sleep.
As we were coming in, a sea lion swam up, all friendly-like. Being from Texas, I had never really had much of a chance to look at sea lions, so naturally I was curious and started watching this one. He was a pretty interesting, if ugly, critter.
All of a sudden—splop—he disappeared below the surface.
The next thing I knew, he—and we—were surrounded by large, pointy fins. Apparently, a number of sharks had decided to make breakfast of him.
Sea lions are big, but there were way too many sharks to be satisfied with just him. They started circling closer and closer to the sides of my raft, which looked increasingly thin and perilously close to the water.
I glanced toward shore. It was very far off.
Holy shit, I thought. I’m going to get eaten.
My companion in the raft was a rather round fellow, at least for a SEAL.
“If we go down,” I warned him, “I’m shooting you. You’ll be something for the sharks to munch on while I swim to shore.”
He just cursed at me. I think he thought I was kidding.
I wasn’t.
TATS
WE DID FINALLY MAKE SHORE WITHOUT GETTING EATEN. BUT meanwhile, the entire Navy was looking for us. The news media started carrying the story: FOUR SEALS LOST AT SEA.
Not exactly what we wanted to be famous for.
It took a while, but a patrol plane finally spotted us and an Mk-V was dispatched to pick us up. The commander of the assault boat took care of us and got us home.
THAT WAS ONE OF THE FEW TIMES WHEN I WAS REALLY GLAD to get aboard a boat or ship. Generally, when I’ve been out at sea I’ve been bored. Worrying about being assigned to sea duty was a big motivator during BUD/S.
Submarines are the worst. Even the largest feel cramped. The last time I was aboard one, we weren’t even allowed to work out. The gym was located on the other side of the nuclear reactor from our quarters, and we weren’t authorized to pass through the reactor area to get there.
Aircraft carriers are a hell of a lot larger, but they can be just as boring. At least they have lounges where you can play video games and there are no restrictions on getting to the gym to blow off steam.
In fact, on one occasion, we were specifically requested to go to the gym by the CO.
We were on the Kitty Hawk when they were having a problem with gangs. Apparently, some punk sailors who were gang members were causing quite a discipline problem aboard ship. The CO of the boat pulled us over and told us when the gang used the gym.
So we went down to work out, locked the door behind us, and fixed the gang problem.
DURING THIS WORKUP, I MISSED A DIVE SESSION BECAUSE I got sick. It was as if a light went off in my head. From that point on, just about every time diving turned up on our practice schedule, I came down with a very bad disease. Or I found a sniper-training trip that just had to be taken at that point.
The rest of the guys teased me that I had better ninja smoke than anybody.
And who am I to argue?
I ALSO GOT MY FIRST TATTOO AROUND THIS TIME. I WANTED to honor the SEALs, and yet I didn’t feel as if I’d earned a Trident tattoo. (The official SEAL emblem had an eagle perched in an overwatch position on a trident that forms the crossbar of an anchor; a flintlock pistol sits in front of it. The insignia is known as the trident or, unofficially, a “Budweiser,” the reference being to BUD/S . . . or the beer, depending on who you ask.)
So, instead, I got a “frog bone,” a tattoo that looks like a frog skeleton. This, too, is a traditional SEAL and UDT symbol—in this case, honoring our dead comrades. I have the tattoo on my back, peeking over my shoulder—as if those who came before me were looking after me, offering some protection.
BIRTH
BESIDES BEING A SEAL, I WAS ALSO A HUSBAND. AND AFTER I came home, Taya and I decided to try and start a family.
Things went pretty well. She got pregnant about the first time we kissed without protection. And her pregnancy was near-perfect. It was the childbirth that got complicated.
For some reason, my wife had a problem with a low platelet count. Unfortunately, the problem wasn’t discovered until too late, and because of that she couldn’t get an epidural or other painkiller when it came time to give birth. So, she had to give birth naturally, without any training or preparation.
Our son was eight pounds, not a particularly small kid.
You learn a lot about a woman when she’s under duress. I got bitched to high heaven. (She claims she didn’t, but I know better. And who are you going to believe, a SEAL? Or a SEAL’s wife?)
Taya was in labor for sixteen hours. Toward the end, they decided they could give her laughing gas to ease the pain. But before they did, they warned me of everything that could happen to my son, no matter how distant the possibility.
I didn’t feel I had much of a choice. She was in tremendous pain. She needed relief. I told them to go ahead, though in the back of my mind I was worried that my boy would come out messed up.
Then the doctor told me my son was so big, he couldn’t quite squeeze through the birth canal. They wanted to put a suction thing on his head to help him get out. Meanwhile, Taya was passing out cold between contractions.
“Okay,” I said, not really understanding.
The doctor looked at me. “He may come out like a Conehead.”
Oh great, I thought. My child is not only going to be fucked up from the gas but he’s going to be a Conehead.
“Goddamnit, just get him out of there,” I told him. “You’re killing my wife. Do it!”
My boy came out just fine. But I have to say, I was a case the whole time. It was the most hopeless feeling in the world, seeing my wife in excruciating pain, without anything I could do.
I was a hell of a lot more nervous watching her give birth than I ever was in combat.
TAYA:
It was a very emotional time, with tremendous highs and lows. Both of our families were in town for the birth. We were all very happy, and yet, at the same time, we knew Chris would be leaving soon for Iraq.
That part sucked.
Chris had trouble handling the baby’s crying at first, and that stressed me as well—you can handle war but you can’t handle a few days of crying?
Most people don’t deal too well with that. Chris certainly wasn’t one of the exceptions.
I k
new taking care of our son was all going to be on me for the next several months while he was away. More importantly, I knew that all the newness and magic was also going to be with me. I was nervous about how I would handle it, and sad that all the memories of our beautiful son would be mine alone as opposed to shared memories we could look back on together.
At the same time, I was angry he was leaving and terrified he wouldn’t make it back. I also loved him like crazy.
NAV SCHOOL
BESIDES SNIPER SCHOOL, I HAD BEEN “VOLUNTEERED” FOR nav school by my chief. I went reluctantly.
Navigating is an important skill in combat—without a navigator, you don’t know how to get to the battle, let alone how to get away when you’re done. In a DA (direct action) scenario, the navigator figures out the best way to the target, comes up with alternatives, and guides the fire team to safety when you’re done.
The problem is, SEAL navigators often don’t get a chance to actually fight in the DA they navigate to. The way we set things up, the navigator is usually assigned to stay in the vehicle while the rest of the unit breaks into the house or whatever. That’s so he can be ready in case we need to get out fast.
Sitting in the passenger seat plugging numbers into a computer was not exactly where I wanted to be. But my chief wanted someone he could count on planning the routes, and when your chief asks you to do something, you do it.
I spent the whole first week of nav school frowning at a desk in front of a Toughbook laptop computer, learning the computer’s functions, how to hook up to a GPS and manipulate the satellite imagery and maps. I also learned how to take the images and paste them onto PowerPoint for briefings and the like.
Yes, even SEALs use PowerPoint.
The second week was a little more interesting. We drove around the city—we were in San Diego—plotting and following different routes. I’m not pretending it was cool, though—important, yes, but not very exciting.