by Thom Shea
“I would rather go out doing this than dying of cancer or from AIDS,” he laughed.
“You trying to tell me something, Nike?” I tipped my head up. He knew I was just trying to bring levity to this hellhole.
Just then Lawyer called out, “Thirty seconds to tally.”
Up high we heard the engines of the C-130. Then the first round fired with a distant, hollow boom. It was immediately followed by a light, then a very loud explosion on the wall. The artillery barrage continued for ten rounds. Without wind, we’d need another ten minutes before we could see what damage had been done. We all immediately laughed in unison. The rounds had knocked down the wall, but directly behind it stood another wall.
I simply turned and walked back to my room—my place to check out—and went to sleep.
In my dreams, I was playing tag with my family. Autumn was chasing Chance. Garrett was screaming, trying to get away from me. Stacy was laughing. I yelled for everyone to stop, because for some reason, I was wearing my radio headset, and Carnie was asking for cover fire. I am sure some will think that was nuts, but it all made perfect sense to me at the time. My family needed me to provide for their safety, and Carnie and I were doing just that.
When I awoke, my snipers were in another firefight. Game on again.
The initial morning fun only lasted thirty minutes. No one was frazzled. I think we were all jaded by then.
We had to take the offense now. LT and I decided to take half the platoon and move east into the rubble of the buildings to get a better vantage point beyond the walls and buildings obscuring our view. The plan made tactical sense. However, we were all so entirely exhausted, nothing made any human sense.
After lunch we headed out. After arriving at our position, it became clear to me: not only were we, as the maneuver element, going to be awake the remainder of the day, but the base element we left behind was also going to be awake all day with no relief.
Due to the nature of the buildings, we had to knock a hole along the east-facing wall, low to the ground, to give my snipers the steadiest position. We used some blankets and linen to stretch over the heads of the snipers, affording them some sort of shade. But at 125 degrees, our aggressive choice was like asking them to sit in an oven.
Each sniper could only last forty-five minutes in that position before he felt like he would pass out. I went out and poured water over their heads and bodies every fifteen minutes. I think my doing so kept them alive.
We were about to call it quits when we started taking enemy fire. I immediately called back to KM to fire at the enemy who was working in on our position on the south side of the road.
Once he opened up, all hell broke loose. Enemy machine gun fire hammered our position. Tracers flew over our heads everywhere. The sound of the .50 caliber machine gun rounds soaring by the south side was even scarier. You could feel the round, and the vibration in the walls was truly freaky. At some point, we couldn’t tell if the bullets were the enemy shooting at us, or the .50 caliber shooting at the enemy. After five long minutes, everyone ceased firing, and we all took a long deep breath.
I walked over to LT, “Jesus, what was that? Was it the .50 or was it the enemy?”
LT replied, “No idea, Chief. Let’s get an ammo, water, and food count, OK?”
I answered, “Sure, we have an hour left before dusk. I suggest we prep to leave. We are all done, and so are the men we left behind.”
After dark, we made an immediate movement back to the compound. As soon as we arrived, I could tell I had made a mistake. Thank God it was not a grave one. We all rehydrated and soon got radio traffic from the mission boss that we were all going to extract at 2330 hours. We had two hours to check all of our gear, get it prepped to leave, and finally—Oh my God, finally—we had to blow up and destroy all our excess ordnance, which was too heavy to carry.
Half of the platoon began the task of picking up and carrying outside all the stuff we needed to blow up. EOD grabbed his “blow shit up gear,” and put charges on top of everything.
Another SF element met us at our compound and waited with us to load onto the helo. As the rest of the platoon and the army guys moved out to meet the helos, EOD and I stayed back. We were to detonate the explosives, then run to the helo. After igniting the fuse, we’d have thirty minutes until a big boom happened.
I have to admit I am not perfect. I know you all know this already, but I truly have to say nothing comes close to getting on that extract bird and leaving combat. I’m not saying I don’t like combat, but leaving is better than sex. Maybe because leaving combat and coming home allows you to have sex!
I was in a new state of awareness, or maybe of life. The men were, too. We had no hope, and we didn’t hold belief in anything. We had passed through the human condition of non-action and mental drama that leads to inaction and arrived in a place of an odd, new power. Flying back to base, I reflected on how powerful it is to actually live through what other people deem hell.
Performing well in hell, or in other difficult life situations, is uniquely linked to your Internal Dialogue. I have been wrestling with how to explain what I have learned because it is vitally important … especially since I have the distinct impression I will not return from this.
Sitting on the helo, surrounded by my men, I realized that although we were exhausted, we were also powerful beyond measure. We had not only survived five days in hell, but had taken the fight to the devil. None of us had been injured. I had become uniquely aware of my own Internal Dialogue—how what I said about myself or my men or the situation impacted the physical world. I clearly saw the power of words. When others talked openly or under their breath, disconnecting things about themselves, others, or the events of the day, it would immediately slow down everyone’s physical and mental abilities.
Everywhere are men and women who do not get it. You will notice them in your life. They will often make you feel uncomfortable, and even more so, they make your Internal Dialogue very loud. And, since they don’t have access to performance in their own lives, they will make your Internal Dialogue differ from what you say externally. The reason I am sharing this experience is so you will know, when you have these people in your life, be clear and commit to your own Internal Dialogue first. If and when this doesn’t work out for you and your efforts, push those people away; get away from them, isolate them.
They will cause damage to you, to your efforts, and to themselves.
I learned something from this last week in hell I hadn’t anticipated. Internal Dialogue not only shapes your own performance, but the ill-willed Internal Dialogue of others can and will have horrible effects on everyone’s efforts. The past few days, most of my energy was wasted on overcoming the disconnected, noncombat, non-human-related demeanor of one of our troop’s senior leaders. I felt sorry for him. My men were embarrassed for him, and he was dangerous to have around in combat. An Internal Dialogue saying, “I hate this man,” or, “This man is stupid,” or, “I wish this man would buy a bullet,” tends to rob us all of energy and of being available to whatever the moment brings. Obviously, in combat, being 100 percent present counts. I am sure you will find these experiences throughout your life.
Be patient with mastering your own words about people and yourself—it will make all the difference later in life.
SECTION SIX
PAIN
CHIEF AUPUMUT (Mohican)
“When it comes time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.”
Sleep. Finally, sleep with no one shooting at us. Finally, the hum of air-conditioning, with someone else guarding and protecting. Most importantly, sleep on my Tempur-Pedic mattress. Aaahhh …
The first of many dreams was truly the most confusing. I expected, maybe even anticipated, fitful sleep. Since I had been an adventure racer, I
learned that sleep was always shitty after you pushed the body and mind well beyond capabilities—past what the mind and body really wanted to do. So it was no surprise I felt like I was in hell while sleeping.
In my dream, I was on my first hunt with my father in Llano, Texas. We went to one of those managed deer hunts, where they drive you to the deer stand, and corn feeders kicked on every three hours. I grew bored with sitting in the stand, so dad said it was OK to play in the back of the stand. I vividly recall building a little play fort with broken sticks. A foolish thing for a kid to be doing, but youth is never foolish, just always busy.
In my dream, and in reality, I recall looking down the field when the feeder sounded. Through the trees, I could clearly see a four-point buck walk out of the woods, and I heard the distinct click of dad’s safety resetting to fire. I froze and waited. Waiting was always hard for me, even though some people would now say, “Shea could wait for days without moving.”
Then, all of the sudden, I jumped at the loud sound of dad’s 30.06 firing. At the sound of the gun, I dropped and immediately crawled toward the sound of gunfire. I was in combat, it was hot, and tracers were flying everywhere. Then, as quickly as the dream had shifted before, I was back in Texas, and dad was crawling out of the stand. “Tommy, did you see that buck?”
“Yes, dad,” I said. My heart pounded; the smells of the wind, trees, and dirt were so vivid. I began to walk toward where the deer had been standing when dad stopped me.
“Son, when you shoot at something, best not to pursue it. Let the bullet, and the damage it has done, work on the animal. Sometimes, a wounded thing is more dangerous when it is near dying. Sit with me a bit, and let the animal die alone.”
After a while, we walked to where the buck had been hit. Wow, there was a lot of blood. We followed it. The thrill of tracking an animal is electrifying for me still. We could see where the animal stopped, and I wondered what it was thinking or going through at that time. I imagined where it was trying to run.
Dad grabbed me and softly said, “There it is. Don’t move!” With that, I was back in combat with Carnie. (That’s the beauty of a dream: you never know where it’ll take you.) We were watching a man walk slowly through the trees. I softly said to Carnie, “Go ahead, it is your first.” Carnie pulled the trigger.
Suddenly, I was back with dad in Texas. He had taken the kill shot. As I watched the deer kicking and dying, dad put a hand on my shoulder, “Crying is OK.” I looked at him and asked, “Are you going to cry?”
“No, Son,” he replied.
We went forward, and I touched the deer. I lifted its hooves and watched them drop. I saw the long tongue protrude from its mouth, and I recall smelling the ferric smell of the iron in the blood. I helped dad turn the buck over, and as dad was preparing to gut the animal, I danced, holding two hooves in my hand. Dad looked up and didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if it was wrong in his mind, but dancing seemed to be the thing to do … for me, anyway.
I woke up, covered in sweat in my combat room around lunchtime. I had been asleep for two hours and was exhausted. Maybe a shower was what I needed. The shower felt good; water always feels good. At least it washed away the dream’s lingering sweat.
Lunch was tasteless. None of us talked about the week of combat. Combat was over, and we had already moved past it—maybe because of our years and years of training through tough scenarios. Or, maybe it was the simple fact that we had survived, or we had nothing left to discuss. Either way, we seemed to have moved on.
The afternoon briefing was short. SF command was still figuring out the aftermath of the last operation. Nothing big or small was being planned. After eight years, everyone had learned to not demand anything from operators after a large battle.
Once back in my room, I nervously opened my computer to see if Stacy had read my email. What the fuck is up with emails? Seven hours had passed since I arrived back in camp and sent the email. Nothing.
I went down the hall to check in with the men. No one else had Internet connectivity. Nike was lying on his bed reading some novel. He looked up and said, “Chief, too bad the rest of the platoon is in Iraq and missed that operation. It would have been nice to have them here.”
I agreed. “They were sorely missed. You did good, Nike. I am glad you didn’t get out after last platoon. I know your last leaders left a bad taste in your mouth. They sure did in mine.”
Nike replied, “I don’t know how we survived those five days in hell. Thank God we all did Hell Week in BUDS. At least the stress was the same. My body wanted to quit after the first day.”
I added, “I am glad we spent all those extra hours shooting our sniper weapons. I know nothing in sniper training helped here, but Hell Week and LRTI at least taught us all to engage multiple targets from fucked-up positions.”
Nike agreed, and continued, “Carnie and Texas rocked, didn’t they? Could you imagine if this was the first deployment? Kinda like fucking a porn star on your first go: makes all other women less.”
“Unless you marry a porn star who devotes herself to you and your family. Never settle, Nike … ever,” I said. Then I shook his hand and left.
I headed back to my room for another bout of twisted dreams. Maybe I would dream of a great fishing trip somewhere? Since it is my dream, I should get a choice—right?
I put my iPod earbuds in and lay back. For a moment I concentrated on my body, starting with my toes, then my feet: stretch, flex, rotate, and relax. Then my calves and thighs. Flex, extend, and relax. Then my belly and back …
My hands held a paddle. I was in Canada, paddling a canoe across a serene lake. Each paddle stroke surged the canoe forward. The sun was low on the horizon; the wind was at my back. I looked up in the sky at a bald eagle flying overhead. His head tilted, and I looked into his eye. As he flew away toward the end of the lake, a fish jumped, undoubtedly chasing or being chased.
As I continued paddling, I recognized the lake. I had spent a year up there working for an outfitter in my youth. The wilderness was truly untamed and remote. Maybe the last one in North America. No guns, no motors, nothing—just pristine everything.
At the end of the lake, I knew the portage was long and would lead into Agnes Lake and the lower falls of Lake Louisa. The fact I was dreaming also occurred to me, and I recalled asking my family to place my ashes in Louisa Falls if I were to die. I sat awhile thinking maybe if I made this portage, it would mean I was going to die. I stood up and slid the boat forward, walked around a bit looking at the portage, and glanced back at the lake in the direction I had come. I sat down on a stump and laughed.
Here I am, dreaming of what carrying me to my final resting place would be like for my family. All of a sudden, a long-dead friend of my family walked toward me from the portage. Captain Pat said, “Thom, don’t be afraid. It makes you weak.” He turned and walked back down the portage trail.
I walked to the canoe and lifted out my pack onto my back, then put the canoe on my shoulders and started walking. The first section was always a pain in the ass. Tons of head-sized rocks … and uphill all the way. As I picked my way up through the portage trail, I heard a gunshot. I knew this was a dream, so I let the sound die without reacting. Once at the top of the hill, I put the canoe down and rested a bit. I looked down the trail toward Agnes, and heard gunfire and saw tracer rounds. I could see Captain Pat ahead of me, smiling.
He finally walked back to me and sat down. “You cannot avoid death by running from life. Death will come when it wants to. Walk forward and live. Sit here, or go back and die the miserable life of fear.” He stood up, smiled, and ran toward the sound of the battle. He looked back and added, “Now, this is life. Let’s do this thing.”
“Thom, Thom. Let’s do this thing,” LT was shaking me awake.
“Christ, LT, did I miss something?” I snapped. He laughed and said, “No. The men want to go hit golf balls into the lake. Let’s join them.”
We all put on flashy golf shirts and drove o
ver to a pond we called the lake. After an hour of hitting balls and laughing our asses off, we returned to camp for dinner.
With dinner finished, all the leaders filed into the combat intel center for the nightly brief. Again, no big missions were being planned, and I think none of us were actively pursuing new intel. However, a new concept was put on the table by our boss. “Gents, I think we have earned some needed respect from Army Headquarters. I am interested in pursuing our own targeting line and mission set for the remainder of our time here. What say you? Also, we just received brand new heavy weapons. I expect them to be up and running by tomorrow.”
I chimed in. “Our resources and intel shop is more robust than the headquarters’ is. Let’s look at going after the enemy where they sleep and feel safe. Sorta break up their ease of living and moving. Keep them on their toes.”
It wasn’t my idea, exactly. We all talked about hitting them hard at home instead of waiting for some big important man or mission to show up. We all agreed, and that was that. Period.
Now was the time to get the men back into the game. Time to get the weapons out and go to the range to ensure all were working. SEALs like to shoot, and it would serve to get us all back into the proper mindset.
Passing Nike in the hall, I said, “Nike, we are going to the range in forty-five minutes. All weapons—including rockets and mortars.”
Nike went to it, telling the men of Bravo it was time to get the guns out and sight them all back in. I went to my room and loaded my .300 Winchester Magnum, my M4 with all the trimmings, and my new SCAR heavy. On my way to the vehicles, I stopped in the armory and loaded all my magazines full of goodness.
I hope you kids will all learn to shoot. I truly enjoy shooting, and I am sad I haven’t spent any time teaching you this passion of mine. More sorry when I thought I might not be around to teach you all I know about weapons and shooting.