Unbreakable: A Navy SEAL’s Way of Life

by Thom Shea

  Within a minute, Carnie was next to me, and I had him briefed up on the killing field. I felt much better having him with me. He was a hunter, and I knew he would be looking into the dark places for the enemy.

  Nothing happened during our watch, and the men were again rested and ready.

  Next, I went over to the hellhole and checked in with KM and EOD. They had cleaned the area up and were laughing and joking about something not related to combat. We all shared a dip of Copenhagen and some water—true warrior rations. EOD and I stood up and walked toward the door. He was old, like me, and I knew his point of view would be a good one. I stood silently … waiting.

  He replied, “Ridge Boss, thanks for picking me to come with you guys. I have never been with a platoon who wants to be in combat like you all. Makes it easy. We will survive this, don’t you worry.”

  Before I could answer, KM started firing the .50 caliber.

  I grabbed EOD and told him to come with me to get the mortar rolling because we didn’t have any helos or aircraft on station. We needed to keep the enemy at bay for twenty minutes.

  Running toward the mortar pit, rounds cracked over our heads, and the snipers were putting rounds on target. With EOD getting the mortar ready, I climbed the ladder and yelled at Nike, “Give me bearing and distance to where the enemy is.”

  After a moment, he yelled down to us with the bearing and distance. I was shocked: “400 yards, 50 degree magnetic.” I grabbed my compass, laid in on the ground next to the tube and said, “Warrant, give me 400 yards at 50 degrees.” I prepped three rounds and waited.

  “Ready.”

  “Nike, shot out,” I yelled as I dropped the mortar down the tube.

  EOD and I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, Nike yelled back down, “Good hit, fire for effect.” I dropped four rounds as fast as I could. After the impact of the fourth round, all the enemy fire stopped, and LT came over saying, “Stop firing. We have two F-18s inbound. Good job on first mortar rounds.”

  With the F-18s on station, we took time to eat, drink, and resupply our rounds.

  Nike came down and we shook hands as he said, “War isn’t all that bad. I just wish it wasn’t so fucking hot. My balls are turning to scrambled eggs.”

  Over the remainder of the day, the enemy showed up two more times, but they were not coordinated, and I actually felt bad for them. They were using a motorcycle to carry fighters with machine guns and RPGs across a flat section, from the cover of one building to another one 200 yards away. Albeit, it was 700 yards away from our position—a sniper’s dream. I climbed up to Nike and Jake’s position, and we worked through the ballistics we needed to engage. After watching this bike carry the enemy four times, we knew they clearly felt comfortable.

  “Next time across Nike, you lead three minutes, and Jake, you lead two and a half minutes,” I calmly said.

  The motorcycle appeared with driver and passenger carrying a RPG. I said, “Stand by … 3, 2, 1, execute.” The guns erupted and the bike reacted as if hitting a wall, exploding up into the air and launching driver and passenger. After the dust settled, we waited. Someone ran out and grabbed the driver and passenger but, wisely, left the RPG laying where it was.

  “Nicely done, gents,” I said. “I will buy you a coffee back on base.” I smiled.

  With nightfall came the C-130 gunship and new resupply parabundles. This time, only four chutes landed, so gathering the bundles was much easier. We had called back to our support crews on base and explained how we wanted the bundles packed. The whole resupply only took two hours this time. All the other positions sent their men to our compound to pick up supplies, and at 0200 hours, all was quiet, so we were able to rest.

  The sleep I had the second night was without dreams; it was also without thoughts of combat. However, we did get attacked by a swarm of bugs that literally made Ground Launch’s mouth and lips swell as if filled with air.

  I thought that was funny until he said, “Damn. I am having a hard time breathing.”

  We were close to having him evacuated, but he gave himself two shots of Benadryl and drifted off to sleep. His face deflated back to normal.

  Before he fell asleep, he grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t send me back; I have to stay here. If I leave, I think I will never see you all again.”

  LT and I looked at each other, and I replied, “Don’t worry, brother. We need you here, too.”

  On day three, I awoke at 0300 hours so I could take watch the first two hours before dawn and relieve the men in the sniper positions. But when I attempted to sit up, I realized I was actually forty-one years old. My arm had fallen asleep, and my mouth was filled with bugs. My family laughs, because they know I sleep with my mouth open. My back seemed to have frozen and didn’t want to bend. And, finally, my fingers, especially my trigger finger, had become swollen and could hardly bend due to the amount of mosquito bites. Getting old ain’t for sissies!

  After a miserable attempt at what I call “disturbed yoga,” I made my way to the ladder to the primary sniper position. Jake and Texas were sitting up, talking softly and looking out into the past and future killing fields. The night was moonless, and even though we all had night vision, we didn’t see much. Above us, in the sky, a C-130 could be heard flying a big circle, with eyes on every single position.

  I called out to them, “Hey, gents! I will stay up here. You all can just get some sleep.” But instead of going down the ladder, they both just lay back, took off their helmets, and within three seconds were asleep.

  Only I remained. I scanned the surroundings, recalling all the bullets and bombs that had hit our position over the past two days. With much effort, I crawled around the position checking the sandbags; all had holes in them. I grabbed several new sandbags to rebuild the position. A cold beer would have been nice, because temps were already 100 degrees with no wind at all, and gangs of mosquitoes were working their magic on my neck, face, and hands. Too bad we don’t fight in cooler climates. I mean, really.

  Two hours passed, and the rest of the men were stirring and getting ready for another day in hell. Lawyer was checking in with the Lead JTAC, who just happened to be Snowman. I heard KM and EOD checking, clearing, and reloading the .50 caliber. That sound immediately made the compound hum. If the past two days were any indication for the future, we had forty-five minutes until the enemy began their newly-designed assault.

  With everyone in place, hydrated, fed, loaded, and ready, I climbed down the ladder and moved over to LT. “Boss, why don’t we just call contact now and forego the wait to get air on station. Have the birds loiter five miles out, talk them onto our position, and clear them hot. Let’s catch the enemy unprepared,” I said with a straight face.

  To my surprise, LT replied, “Already done. Two AH-64s checked on five minutes ago and are ready. Wanna make a bet as to where and how many enemy show up?”

  “Hell, yes. They are coming from behind building four. Approximately eight enemy. They do the same thing every morning. However, wait for me to get two at the break in the wall. I have taken five over the past two days; same time, same bad channel,” I replied.

  I moved to my happy spot on the wall of shame and dialed my scope to 280 yards. Then I watched. At 0725 hours, two men with RPGs slowly made their way down the wall, stopping frequently to look at another position where several Army SF soldiers were camped out. I guess the word didn’t get passed from the other five guys who died before. As they broke cover between walls and stopped at the tree in between, I fired. The turds were standing side by side, and the round went through one head and the others dude’s midsection. He then fell out of my sight picture. I turned around—Texas was shaking his head.

  I gloated, “My work is done. I am here all week.” It is not cold to have banter in combat because the other side of that cold exterior is probably the knowledge that someone else’s life simply ended.

  Just then, the enemy returned fire from behind building four. I heard the JTACs working the probl
em with the AH-64s, and heard the pilot respond with his Gatling guns followed by several rockets. As the second pilot passed over, I heard him say, “Six KIAs.”

  The majority of the day, we experienced only small, half-hearted attacks across the battlefield in other positions. I heard the medevac bird being called. Some SF soldier had taken a round to the neck, and Snowman had personally effected his rescue. I decided all four of us needed to take a walk into the interior of the target area, check in on Snowman, and see why we had all come to this Godforsaken place.

  At noon, I gathered several of my men and told LT where we were going, why, and to expect us back in ninety minutes. Moving outside the semi-protected compound is a funny thing. We absolutely did not trust that every building was cleared, so we cleared our way back through the buildings, looking for Snowman.

  After clearing through several buildings, we realized this place was the enemy’s version of a strip mall. Each building had something unique to offer, and we felt as if we had gone back in time to the 1900s. One shop made us all stop and smile—it was filled with fresh grapes. Let me tell you, cold grapes in a cooler will bring a smile to the face of the most bitter of men. And we were bitter—and smiling and laughing. I was stuffed when we closed that door behind us.

  Once in the center of the capital, we checked in with all the EODs and DEA men who were prepping charges and beginning to burn and destroy all the drugs, bombs, bullets, and guns they had found. Apparently, they had captured over three billion dollars’ worth of black tar opium, 800 RPG warheads, and 10,000 bullets. I lost count of all the bags of opium sitting in front of every single store.

  I turned to Nike, “Wow, can’t buy this in America.”

  When we stopped to talk to our SF brothers, Nike grabbed my arm and said, “Come with me.” He led me over to the arm pump of a well and said, “Shower time, Ridge Boss. And you are first, you smelly animal.”

  I took off my gear and shirt, got down on my knees, and said, “Pump me, big daddy.” Holy shit, that water was cold. It took my breath away, and for a moment, I was transported to some other place.

  After all of us took a “hell” shower, we found Snowman. The scene didn’t register for a bit. Blood was smeared all over the wall and Snowman. He looked like he had aged ten years. We didn’t know what to say; we all hugged him. He was in the middle of talking to twelve aircraft, trying to push the ones who were ready to other JTACs and communicate to the newly arriving ones who was doing what and when. We all dropped several Gatorade bottles and three bags of MREs so he at least knew we cared.

  Nike said, “Jesus, that is fucked up. He is the only JTAC up here.”

  As we pushed back toward our platoon, we noticed a door that had not been opened and was still locked from the outside. We all looked at each other, then I said, “Nike, Texas, cut the lock. Let’s clear that building.”

  Texas produced a set of bolt cutters, opened the lock, turned the door handle, and pushed the door open. I waited a second after the two of them went in, then I entered slowly. While Nike and Texas silently cleared the room, I noticed a leg sticking out from under a blanket in the corner. “Hold,” I said softly. When I moved toward the blanket, Nike pushed in, grabbed the foot, and pulled—a bit harder than I would have, but it was effective. An old man went flying across the room in front of me, about three feet off the ground, and hit the wall on the other side of the room.

  Apparently, he was barely alive. After clearing the rest of the room, we picked him up and carried him to our compound. This way, we could get some fluid in him to revive him enough to be put back on the alive list. When the interpreter arrived, we found out he was ninety-eight years old, and had not eaten or had water in three days. These people are tough, I have to admit. In America, this man would have died in twelve hours. Most Americans don’t live to ninety-eight either. This guy ate shit, drank diseased water, and out-lived all the diet zealots who die at fifty-eight from the stress of hating who they are and what they look like. This guy was worth saving because he was hard to the bone and laughed at death. He truly had no fear of dying or of us shooting him. He even said, “Thank you,” and hugged several of us.

  Once things had settled a bit, LT and I talked about what we needed to do to take the fight to the enemy, rather than sitting here waiting for him to shoot first. We had noticed a building about 300 yards away which obscured our view of the road. If we pushed south a bit toward the canal, we could see the entire length of the road. Therefore, off we went, Carnie, Nike, LT, and I, to shake the boredom off.

  The idea seemed straightforward and easy. LT and Carnie moved to the far side of the road. Nike lay on the near side with his sniper rifle, and I got out my binos and looked down the road. Holy shit! What I saw looked like ants moving their nest across the road. Five enemy walked nonchalantly across, arms full of guns and RPGs. Without saying a thing, Nike opened up with the rifle and Carnie engaged with the machine gun. Due to bullets flying eight inches above the ground, within twenty seconds, we could no longer see anything. Once the dust settled, we saw three enemy lay on the road. Nice, I thought.

  I don’t know what to call this, maybe a sixth sense, but all of the sudden the hair on my head and neck stood straight up. Something was wrong. I looked south a bit instead of straight down the road and saw two enemy running through the trees about 200 yards away from us. I unleashed my M14, though my barrel was three inches above Nike’s head when I fired. And I fired like I was about to die. The enemy was at full sprint. I had to fire seven rounds to hit the first one; the second only took six because he stopped at a tree. I think he was tired.

  We were taking heavy fire, and were terribly exposed on the open road. The scariest thing was hearing the .50 caliber machine gun open up and the rounds whiz past us just to the left … maybe thirty feet away. When a round hit next to Nike’s elbow, he and I jumped into the canal. OK—time to get back to the compound. We crawled and sprinted until we were next to the wall, and the room housing the .50 caliber. Getting the .50 caliber to stop firing was scarier than the bullets hitting the wall next to us. Finally, we got KM’s attention. He tipped the barrel up, and we ran into the safety of the compound. Once we were in, the .50 caliber continued firing. I thought, Good luck with that, Mr. Taliban.

  Just that little forty-yard sprint took it out of me. I was thoroughly exhausted. I think we all were, except LT. He is a genetically-freakish athlete; I think he’d have worked out if he had a weight set or bike trainer in the compound.

  All of us were truly strung out. The heat, sustained combat, fear of dying, and lack of rest and good food was taking its toll. You may not understand this, but someone always needs to say, “Stop!” or “Enough!” SEALs have a hard time stopping, but I knew I had to keep my wits about me. A bad decision might result in someone getting killed. A lesson I learned in adventure racing is that with exhaustion comes cloudy judgment. I just didn’t know how to apply the lesson here. We really couldn’t stop, and we had no place to go.

  With night came a long, fitful sleep. My dreams were of my family and of not ever seeing them again … of watching them attend my funeral … of Stacy crying, shutting down, and losing heart. I woke up at midnight and walked around the compound, noticing others were talking in their sleep, or they were coughing and restless.

  EOD was standing in the corner, so I walked over next to him. He turned and said, “Thom, I don’t know how much more of this we can take. Everyone is completely fried. How are you doing?”

  “Well, except for just dreaming of my death and watching my family go to my funeral … I am right as rain,” I replied.

  “Just one more day. We have to keep everyone active tomorrow, fighting and concentrated on this. Whatever the hell this is,” he added.

  I replied, “I agree, Warrant. We need to rebuild all the sandbags, whether we want to or not. We need to clean the compound just to stay busy. Gonna have the men gather all their gear and check it, then place it all in a row, ready for extract. Need t
o play some sorta game, too, to get us all laughing. I am going to get some shut-eye. I suggest you do the same.”

  My bones ached. A part of me—I cannot really explain what part—was coming unhinged. Part of me no longer gave a shit whether I lived or died, and the other part hung on desperately, looking forward to making it out of here and going home to my family. Just as I was beginning to nod off, LT and Lawyer came in and kicked me awake.

  “Chief, we are going to call a fire mission on the wall east of here to knock it down, so we can see beyond it and deny the enemy that position for a fourth day,” LT suggested.

  I sat up, not fully awake, and said, “Sure, why not? When do we expect this to go down?”

  Lawyer said, “Oh, how about in three minutes?”

  I got up, straining to stand upright as the tendons stretched in my back and neck. My body armor was molded to my skin by then and most surely smelled like rotted flesh.

  Outside, we readied for the fireworks. I walked over to Nike and handed him a can of Copenhagen. I said, “This ought to be funny. The C-130 at 10,000 feet, shooting straight down, trying to hit a three-foot-wide wall with a 105 mm round that may be seven inches wide.”

  Nike took the Copenhagen, opened it slowly, and scooped the remainder into his lip. “Who gives a fuck? This is getting boring, anyway. Same thing day after day, after fucking day. Don’t get me wrong: killing is fun, but we are pushing our luck. A stray round could easily hit any one of us tomorrow morning. Earlier today, a round went through the sand bag and right into Jake’s mouth, breaking his two front teeth. He spit the damn thing out into his hand and laughed.”

  “Yeah, he showed me. I am not giving him a Purple Heart for that.” We both laughed an eerie laugh. “Nike, you know what occurs to me now after all this sustained, in your face, combat? If your time is up, you can’t do a damn thing about it.” He nodded in agreement.