by Chris Kyle
Chris was one of those guys who immediately got it. I admired his contributions as a member of the military, but it wasn’t the military side of him that I saw. It was more a warm, giving side. He was one of those guys who flat give you the shirt off their back—then ask if you want another one.
My daughter had been gone for a few years at that point. I think Chris and I formed a connection in some way because of the grief that I had gone through and the things he had to endure in war. He had a sensitivity about him that touched me deeply.
Then came that terrible day when he died. It’s hard to get my head around it even now. But suffering through my daughter’s death taught me something very important. I used to spend my time asking God, Why did you take her? It was as if I was living in a very bad dream, each day hoping to wake up to a different reality but never quite getting there.
Then one day I realized I had my thinking backward. Rather than asking why God had taken her, I should instead be telling other people why God gave her to us. Her life was a gift to make us appreciate generosity and hope, what people can do when they are full of life and potential.
I feel exactly that way about Chris, and I’ll be telling people about him for the rest of my life. His good works live on through dozens of organizations and hundreds of people, who are all taking his example and making the world a better place.
LEANNE LITTLEFIELD
FRIEND, NEIGHBOR
The Littlefield family with Chris during the airing of Stars Earn Stripes.
My husband Chad and I met the Kyle family through soccer. Our daughters were on the same team. I met Taya first; we hit it off immediately. We have been close friends since that first encounter, and now have a bond that is only shared between her and me, one that can never be broken.
Chad and Chris met later on, and they soon developed a close friendship as well. I was in the same grade as Chris’s brother Jeff, so I knew of him, but I didn’t know much about his military service, and certainly nothing about the SEALs. We knew Chris as an ordinary dad. What we all did together, whether it was watching the kids play soccer, celebrating a birthday, or just hanging out, was ordinary stuff. Most Americans know Chris as a sniper and a hero; to me, he was a neighbor, a friend, a dad. Chad and Chris were such good friends because they had those things in common. They were dads, husbands, normal guys just doing what needed to be done to support their families.
Not knowing much about SEALs, I asked Chris once if what they did was anything like that movie G.I. Jane. Being a small-town country girl, I had no idea what Navy SEALs did, much less what snipers were, so that was the only thing I could relate to.
The look he gave me! That became a joke between us.
It’s hard to single out one memory from the times we all spent together. There’s not any one big event that stands out. But that was the way he wanted it—he wanted to be a normal dad, and do normal family things. He succeeded.
Chad and Chris really bonded. They worked out together as well. They held each other accountable and started out most days with a 5 A.M. workout. Though Chad had never served in the military, they had a lot of things in common. Sports, for example—they were both big Texas Ranger and Dallas Cowboy fans. They’d watch a game together and if things weren’t going too well, Taya and I would slip away to the kitchen, giving them their space.
They were together at the end. It means they went to heaven together, not alone. I find great comfort in that. I picture them rising together, entering heaven’s gates arm in arm, a bond shared between.
In the days that followed their deaths, one of Chad’s coworkers sent me a picture of two doves that sat on Chad’s office window all day long. Two sheep were randomly sitting in my yard just a couple of days after the boys died.
Coincidences?
I laughed then and I laugh now, because I picture Chad and Chris having a discussion that goes something like this:
Chris: Hey, man, let’s go sit in your yard as some random animal.
Chad: That would be awesome! We just can’t be cattle or something that would tear up my yard, though.
I know they are at peace with their Savior in heaven. They are heroes to my daughter and me, but daddies always are.
MARC MYERS
BUSINESSMAN, RANCH OWNER, FRIEND
In addition to opening their ranch to our family for relaxation, Marc and Jan Myers built a range for Chris to use in raising money for the Elizabeth Toon Foundation. The Myers also generously allowed us to use their ranch during the writing of American Sniper as well as during the filming of Lester Holt’s interviews with Chris in 2012 and Taya in 2013.
A few years ago, my friend Larry Toon was hoping to raise money for the Elizabeth Toon Charities by hosting a weapons demonstration, and I volunteered my ranch. The idea of the event was simple: People would come to the ranch and get an advanced shooting lesson. In exchange, they would pay a fee, which would be donated to the charity. It was a great idea. The only problem was, I didn’t have a proper rifle range for the event. I decided to build one, but naturally needed an expert to help lay it out.
Somehow, Chris Kyle got involved and came out to take a look and see what could be done. I knew a little bit about his background as a SEAL and a sniper, but whatever I expected was quickly contradicted. Here was the easiest-going, most casual guy ever. He was so easy to be around. Our ages were different—I am a year or two older, let’s say—but he was instantly likable and we just got along very well. He came out to plan the rifle range and ended up being a good friend.
I remember watching him during the event. I thought it would start out with a half hour of lecture from him, all very technical and dry instruction. Not at all. He laid out his weapons on the bench, gave a few quick pointers on safety, and told everyone to have at it. He kept a watchful eye on everyone and helped people who weren’t too familiar with the guns, but he was so casual about it that no one knew he was instructing them. He was adept and confident in a way that inspired other people to be confident.
That was Chris—an easygoing, regular guy. The Christmas before he died, he and Taya, the kids, and Taya’s folks came out to the ranch to stay with us for a few days. Most of the time when I have company like that I can get a little nervous—you’re always worried as a host about pleasing people, meeting their expectations, even if they’re friends.
Not with Chris. He was just easy as easy could be. We did a little hunting, but mostly we just hung out. He never stressed, and neither did we.
To me, Chris was a John Wayne of the twenty-first century. He was a national hero. And yet was the easiest guy in the world to get along with. It’s still hard to imagine he’s gone.
MATHEW BULLINGER
FELLOW LITTLE LEAGUE COACH, FRIEND
Chris and I met because our children were friends from school. I didn’t find out that he used to be a Navy SEAL sniper until much later. I got to know him as a family man, an amazing husband, dedicated father, and loyal friend. Besides baseball, we shared a passion for hunting and the outdoors. We could talk about those things for hours.
Chris and I coached together in Little League baseball, one season of T-ball and one of coach-pitch. He loved the game of baseball and was already signed up to coach another season when he was tragically taken from us. He was great coaching the kids. The boys didn’t know of his military service or how many confirmed kills he had as a sniper. They looked up to him for being there and for his strict work ethic. Looking back, Chris always seemed drawn to the boys who were a little smaller or couldn’t throw as far because he was always ready to help anyone in need. He would take the extra time and work individually with them to build up their confidence and baseball skills.
This season has been bittersweet. The boys are really developing into good ball players and I know he would have loved coaching them at this level.
On the way to one of our baseball games the other day, my five-year-old son told me that he missed Chris and that he cried because he was so sad that
he won’t ever see him again. He remembers Chris as the guy who he got to climb on like a jungle gym, who let him play games on his iPhone, and who always made him laugh by tickling him and lifting him up on his shoulders.
I consider myself lucky to have gotten to know the hometown dad and Little League coach. Hearing his SEAL brothers speak at his memorial service about the man, the myth, the legend, was an eye-opening experience for me and my wife. After his memorial service at Cowboys Stadium, my wife Jennifer wrote, “Today will be a day I will never forget. Such honor, truth, beauty, sadness, pain, rejoicing, tears, smiles, and respect. He wasn’t Chris Kyle to my family. He was just Chris. Watching the tears fall down my young daughter’s face said it all. He was her Mr. Chris. The man that hugged her, loved her, and always made her smile. Thank you for touching all our lives. We love you and miss you!”
Chris Kyle was a true warrior and an American hero. His legacy will live on through his family, his SEAL brothers, and all of us who were lucky enough to know him. Rest in peace, Chris.
OMAR AVILA
WOUNDED WARRIOR, FRIEND
Omar Avila and Chris share a smile. A long hour of conversation at a ranch retreat led to a close friendship.
I met Chris in 2010. It was a down time in my life. I’d been badly injured in Iraq three years before when our Humvee was hit by a massive IED. I stayed in the truck to provide cover fire with the .50-cal as the convoy regrouped, but stayed a bit too long—the fire started cooking off our spare grenades. I managed to get out, but ended up with burns over 75 percent of my body. The worst were fourth-degree burns, where the muscle kind of melts. Besides that, my legs were broken, my hands deformed, and my foot was so badly mangled I needed to get it amputated.
I was twenty-one.
That was 2007. Three years later, I was doing better physically, but mentally I was in a bad place. A hole. One day I was invited to a gathering at a ranch to spend a weekend hunting and hanging out with other disabled vets. I wasn’t going to go. What was the sense? But then the idea of hunting tickled something. Hunting had been important to me before the war, and maybe the vague hope that I might do it again got me out.
I didn’t end up doing much hunting that weekend. What I did do a lot of, starting from that first night, was talking to Chris. I’d never met him, and I had no idea who he was—this was before the book came out. We just started talking, ex-Army guy to former SEAL.
“So how are you doing?” he asked me after I told him about my injuries.
“I’m doing fine,” I said. I thought the question was the kind of blow-off question people ask to be polite.
“No, no. How are you doing?” Chris insisted. He really wanted to know how I was mentally.
From that moment, I knew this was a person I could talk to. I opened up about survivor guilt—my best friend, a guy with a wife and a kid, had died on the mission. Chris knew exactly what I was talking about.
We talked for hours that weekend. Again and again, he told me I had to get my feelings out. “Write them down,” he said. “If you can’t share them with someone, at least write them down.”
So I started to. I also started talking with him regularly, and hanging out. He kind of took me in, him and Taya and the kids. They made me feel like I was part of the extended family. He was there during my darkest days.
For a while there, I was drinking, smoking, not taking care of myself. Finally I caught myself and turned it around. Chris doesn’t get all the credit—I have a strong family, and they were all there for me, along with some strong and important friends—but Chris Kyle was a big part of it. He made me come out of that negativity shell.
Today I’m paying it all back. I mentor other wounded warriors, talking to them, helping them any way I can. People call me at all hours. I share my testimony. Working as the Texas coordinator of Feherty’s Troops First Foundation, I’ve been blessed with a lot of opportunities to help people. I’ve talked people off the ledge. I’ve just listened, and seen how powerful that is.
And I’ve discovered that my wounds aren’t the sum total of me. I’ve skydived, learned to play golf, even honed my sense of humor over my injuries: my nickname these days is “Crispy.” You have to push everything to the limit. Everything.
Recently I wrote a poem about Chris:
Driving
my truck today
I thought of something funny,
so I picked up
my phone to call you.
As I entered your name
it hit me that
you are no longer here,
my friend.
As tears started running down
my eyes,
all I could do was smile
as I felt you next to me.
I heard you say it’s okay.
I’m here.
Keep my memory alive.
Now wipe that tear,
have no fear,
and toast to the ones
that couldn’t be here!
Hooyah, Chris Kyle!
RANDY CUPP
BUSINESSMAN, FRIEND
Blayne Cupp, Chris, and Randy Cupp during a charity event for veterans. Chris’s friendship inspired Randy to become even more active in veterans’ issues.
I first met Chris Kyle at a Boot Campaign fund-raiser for veterans that I helped to sponsor in May of 2012.
We spent the day shooting sporting clays and seemed to hit it off real well. He told me and my son Blayne that he had never killed a big white-tailed deer. We invited him to our ranch for the upcoming hunting season and told him to bring a couple of friends along.
We stayed in touch, and it seemed like he was on TV all summer long. When the time for our hunting expedition came, the first weekend in November, he arrived with two wounded veterans, Lance Burt and Steve Land. We had several volunteers to guide, clean, cook, and otherwise keep Chris and his friends entertained. Chef Jon Bonnell of Bonnell’s Restaurant in Fort Worth cooked a dinner that included elk tenderloin, bison tenderloin, stone crab claws, and grilled quail. Coors Distributing of Fort Worth sent twenty cases of Coors Light, Chris’s favorite brew.
Lance joked that he was a bullet catcher. He’d “caught” two bullets in Panama during the Noriega incident. He recovered from that and then caught five more bullets in Mogadishu, Somalia, in the operation made famous by the movie Black Hawk Down. It just so happened it was the nineteenth anniversary of the event.
Steve Land was a twenty-seven-year-old double leg amputee. He lost his legs to an IED in Afghanistan. He was the lone survivor when an IED hit his Humvee; six others were killed. Steve was the only soldier in the Humvee who was not a parent and suffers from something I have heard called survivor’s remorse.
We sat on my porch on Friday afternoon and had a few beers before the evening hunt. Chris told us a couple of stories that I would be nervous to put down in print.
Steve got a scimitar-horned oryx the next morning. Chris and my son Blayne bow hunted but did not get a buck. I had several friends and area ranchers out for a BBQ lunch. Chris entertained the crowd by telling funny stories and demonstrating how to choke a person out. He also referred to my friend’s .338 Lapua as a nice midrange rifle.
Lance got a big seven-point management buck Saturday evening. Chris and Blayne were still waiting to get a big whitetail within bow range and did not have any luck.
We took our veteran friends out to dinner at Mary’s Cafe in Strawn, Texas, which happened to be one of Chris’s favorite places to eat when he was at Tarleton College. While we were eating, I had a call from Allan Meyer of the Mingus Lake Ranch inviting the guys out for an evening to try to empty his bar. The guys accepted, and off we went on another adventure! I mainly sipped water and let the boys have fun. When the hosts were worn down, it took me about forty-five minutes to round my crew up and get them back to the ranch so they could hunt the next morning. Needless to say, I now know what it must be like to herd cats.
Chris and Blayne tried bow hunting again on Sunda
y morning but had no luck. Maybe deer hate the smell of whiskey, tequila, and cigars . . .
Everyone started packing up around noon Sunday, and by 1 p.m. it was just me and Chris at the ranch. We decided that maybe it would be best if he used his rifle to take another crack at getting his deer. We sat in the blind for quite a while that afternoon and talked about our kids, our life goals, and things that we could do together and separately to help our returning veterans. Chris talked a lot about PTSD and how it is mostly overlooked in society. He explained to me that it was a ticking time bomb. We discussed how to include Chris in some of the charity benefits that I am involved in, combining some of our fund-raising efforts.
I remember a couple of my friends asking Chris if he had considered politics. He told them that in order to be involved in politics, his children would be photographed and their names published. He wanted his children to remain shielded from the public and never mentioned their names in the book for that reason. Chris was very devoted to his family. You could see it in his eyes when he talked about them.
A short time later, a mature eleven-point buck came walking out of the brush in front of us. Chris touched off his .308 rifle and the old buck went down. It was a great day for both of us. Chris had killed his biggest white-tailed deer and I was his guide.
While taking pictures of Chris and the buck, I glanced off the side of the hill we were on and saw a few scimitar oryx feeding in a field. Twenty minutes later, we had stalked up on the herd. Chris selected a big one and got his second trophy for the day.
On Saturday, February 2, 2013, I was out at my ranch by myself. I’d been at one of my blinds taking photos of some of my deer and had left my phone at the ranch house. At sunset, I went up to the house and made dinner. I kept hearing my phone vibrate, but didn’t bother checking it. When I did pick it up, I was shocked by all the missed calls and text messages on the screen. Before I had even checked a message, it dawned on me that there was only one common thread between all the names that I was looking at. I knew that something had happened to Chris.