No Hero: The Evolution of a Navy SEAL

by Mark Owen

  “Gerry knows everything about me,” I said. “And I know everything about him. We’re good.”

  “OK,” she said, taking out her pen and starting on some forms.

  For most of the thirty minutes she asked us questions about how we were handling stress and if we had any PTSD symptoms. I can remember her handing us a sheet of paper with a list of symptoms on it. I took a second and quickly read down the list. The symptoms included trouble sleeping, avoiding crowds, and keeping your back to the wall in a restaurant.

  I chuckled to myself as I finished.

  “Holy shit, I think I have every single one of these,” I thought.

  I didn’t live my life differently, but I definitely felt the effects of just about every single symptom.

  I smiled at the doctor and didn’t say a word.

  When Gerry was done, it was my turn to ask some questions.

  “Why are we not more fucked up?” I asked. “Why are we not more messed up from the shit that we’ve seen? You talk about PTSD. Gerry and I have been trained to deal with just about every combat or tactical situation that can be thrown at us, but we’ve never had one second of training to deal with the emotional side of things.”

  She nodded.

  “The best way I can describe it is BUD/S,” she said.

  The mental fortitude, the determination and drive you learn in BUD/S, also helps in combat. We’re pushed beyond our mental and physical limits in BUD/S. I learned that I could perform well beyond what I thought were my limits. Because of this, the doctor said we were stronger than the average person.

  “So the mental toughness I learned and used to get through BUD/S training is the same I use to overcome combat stress?” I said.

  The psychologist smiled.

  “It isn’t that simple,” she said. “But BUD/S does help because most of the training is based on mental toughness. It doesn’t hurt that SEALs are all like-minded individuals. Each and every one of you volunteered time and time again to be in combat situations.”

  She was right. I had known early on in my career that I wanted to be in the line of fire. I accepted the risk, but I also knew it was a challenge I wanted to meet head-on. Would I be able to face the stress of combat and not just curl up in a ball? I guess in a way I knew that being able to push yourself beyond your limits was not only a key to being a SEAL, but a key to a successful life.

  “So are you saying BUD/S made me stronger? Or BUD/S just weeded out the weak?” I asked.

  I stumped her with that one. Before she could answer, Gerry jumped in.

  “I think we’re just mentally stronger than everyone else on the planet,” he said with a smile.

  He was obviously fucking around.

  Looking back, he was showing the doctor how we dealt with the stress with humor. When the going gets rough, we were always really good at changing the subject. We blocked things out or made light of it and moved on. There was no way that we could comprehend all that we’d seen and done. It was easier to just make a joke and ignore it.

  We left the doctor’s office after our thirty minutes and never said another word about it. We had checked the box off our list and could now go on leave. Of course, we would get only about two weeks off until it was time to jump back on the speeding train and begin training and deploying all over again.

  Over time, I started to sleep better, and there was some comfort knowing I was strong enough to compartmentalize the traumatic experiences I’d had overseas. I still have the list that the doctor gave me. From time to time, I read over it, and I still have every single symptom on the list. From the helicopter crash on the ............... raid to that small malnourished Iraqi cat licking the pool of blood from the fighter’s head, each experience had its own compartment. The symptoms didn’t go away even after I got out of the Navy. I just choose to block them out.

  We all deal with the stress of combat in different ways. The way that I’ve dealt with it isn’t perfect and certainly isn’t for everyone. Being a SEAL is a tough life and career. The sacrifices go far beyond what I’d ever imagined, but if asked whether I would do it all over again, my answer, without hesitation, would be simple.

  Yes.

  EPILOGUE

  Last Stop on the Speeding Train

  On my last day in the Navy, I made the rounds at the command, making sure all my paperwork was complete.

  It was a beautiful spring day and I’d already cleaned out my cage and said goodbye to my troop. For the past couple of months, I’d been stressing about the decision. I’d been going hard for thirteen straight combat deployments with no breaks. For the first time in my career, I admitted that I was tired, even exhausted. The pace of constant deployment, training, deployment, and more training had started to take its toll. I always figured I’d make it twenty years in the SEALs or die trying. Getting out was a massive decision and couldn’t be made in a vacuum.

  I made the decision the same way I would make a choice in combat. I hit up my swim buddies first to test the water. To a man, they all thought I was crazy. I had fourteen years in the Navy and I needed only six more to earn my pension. But my enlistment was up and I had to make a decision. I could either sign up for four more years with one more deployment and then get moved to an administrative job, or get out and take a shot at some sort of regular civilian life.

  I’d almost completed my team leader time, which is arguably the best job at the command. The only thing I had to look forward to beyond this position was becoming troop chief. But I’d have to endure at least two years in a training job until then. The war in Afghanistan was dying down, and with the new rules of engagement, we knew that any “good operating” with just the guys on your team was almost completely gone. Deployments were starting to drag on, with little action. I had joined to fight, not sit around.

  The command master chief pulled me into his office. He’d heard about my decision to not reenlist and wanted to discuss it with me. He was a great leader with a no-bullshit attitude. He was well respected in the command and I owed him an explanation for why I was leaving.

  “So I hear you’re done,” he said as I sat down.

  I nodded.

  “I’m cooked,” I said. “I feel like if I don’t make a move now, I’ll be stuck in the Navy with another four-year commitment, and I’m not sure this job is still what I signed up to do.”

  “I understand,” the master chief said. “I’ve got over twenty years in and even thought about getting out myself on several occasions before my twenty years. You’ve only got six years left, though, and you’re a huge asset to the team. We’d hate to lose you.”

  I thanked the master chief for the kind words, but I’d made my decision. There wasn’t really anything he could say to change my mind.

  “I understand what I am leaving,” I said. “But this job has never been about the paycheck. It’s never been about the shitty pension I’d get if I made it to twenty years either. I love this job more than anything in the world and have made it my number one priority for almost fourteen years.”

  He nodded, fully understanding the sacrifices because he had made them as well.

  “The war is slowing down, I’d be moved out of my operational squadron after this next deployment, and all the fun would be over,” I continued. “I honestly feel like it’s time to move on and figure out the next steps in my life. The idea of a vacation and actually being able to choose my own schedule sounds amazing.”

  We’d all been running hard for years, but the master chief wasn’t going to let me out of his office unless I had a plan.

  “Do you have some shit set up on the outside? I don’t want you to become a bum,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not going to give you some bullshit pitch to get you to stay in the teams. I understand where you’re coming from and want you to be happy. You’ve done your fair share of the fighting. Now, get the fuck out of my office a
nd best of luck.”

  My next stop was with my former squadron commander. He was the first person to welcome us home from our last deployment. He came running onto the plane after we landed and started shaking our hands. After the mission, he became the acting commander.

  Getting called to the third deck, where the officers roam, meant I had to change into my uniform and blouse my boots. I changed out of my shorts and T-shirt and used water to smooth my hair out. I then walked upstairs to meet with the commander.

  When he saw me, the commander ushered me into his office. As I sat in the chair across from his desk, I took in the massive mahogany furniture and the walls filled with plaques and other memorabilia. I also saw a blue sleeping mattress tucked in one corner of his office.

  “What can we do to keep you?” the commander said. “You’re one of the leaders in the community. You’re going to run this place someday.”

  I was honored, but I shook my head no.

  “It’s time for me to move on,” I said. “Like I told the master chief. I’m cooked.”

  The commander didn’t want to hear it. He wasn’t going to let me get away without a pep talk. He was doing the sales pitch.

  “Look,” he said. “This is your life. You’re like me. I sleep in the office. I’m a warrior monk.”

  He wasn’t kidding. He didn’t take vacations or time off. He ground out each day in an attempt to show how hard he was and how dedicated to the mission. I understood where he was coming from, but I’d just done almost fourteen years of that same type of commitment. I just didn’t have a nice office to sleep in. Shit, everyone at the command had done that or more.

  “Sir, trust me, to some degree I feel like I’m quitting something for the first time in my life,” I said.

  He didn’t reply. I got the feeling he knew I was gone. There wasn’t anything that he could do to get me to stay in the command.

  “I’ve lived a long time by my gut feeling, and right now, my gut is telling me I need to get off this speeding train,” I continued.

  “OK, well, if we can’t change your mind, I understand, and best of luck in the future,” the commander said. He was done trying to convince me to stay. To him, I was just another guy who got off the train.

  I stood up, shook his hand, and walked back to the cage area. I ran across a handful of my teammates. We’d already talked about my decision, and like the true brothers that they were, they understood and just wanted me to be happy. But I was also an ex-teammate the minute I decided to not reenlist.

  “Hey, fucker, shouldn’t you be working behind a desk already?” one of my teammates said.

  “Yeah, hey, fatty, good luck with those TPS reports,” another added.

  Their visions of my dismal civilian existence were colored by Office Space, a movie that we had watched no less than a thousand times while on deployment. They already had me in a cubicle in a shirt and tie. In the days leading up to my last visit, I was given a plaque with my name misspelled commemorating my service to the squadron and the SEALs.

  All of it felt somewhat hollow.

  It wasn’t my teammates’ fault. They were happy for me, but I also knew they were really focused on the next mission or training trip. For more than a decade I’d been honing my skills to be the best SEAL I could be. But that journey was behind me as I walked out of the gate one final time.

  I think of it like a surgeon who, after years of training and working in the operating room, became one of the top two hundred and fifty surgeons in the country. Then, with just under fourteen years in practice, he decides to step away and start all over. He just turned in the keys to the operating room after locking it behind him, and started anew.

  As I climbed into my truck to drive home, I felt something I’d trained years to control: fear. I was scared. All the questions I left unanswered started to roll around in my head.

  What do I do with the rest of my life?

  How do I reinvent myself?

  What do I fall back on?

  Holy shit, what did I just do?

  My decision to get out of the Navy was the toughest I’ve ever made. All my friends were still in the command. They would continue to deploy and make the sacrifice that comes with the job. I felt like I was quitting, and we were taught never to quit. I felt like I was letting my teammates down. As hard as that was, in the back of my mind, I knew I had made the right decision. The hard part was going to be remembering it.

  I was worn-out.

  I’d put the SEALs and service to my country above all else, including relationships, family, vacations, free time, and a normal life. I hadn’t been on a real vacation in years. There were huge gaps in my pop culture knowledge. I couldn’t tell you who won the Super Bowl that year or how many comebacks Britney Spears has had.

  But, I could tell you the best tactics for taking down a Taliban stronghold. I was extremely good at skydiving, shooting guns, and plenty of other SEAL skills, but few of those skills are in great demand in the civilian world. I had no idea how my skill set would translate outside of the speeding train of the SEAL teams. I’d just walked away from my purpose in life, and now all the skills I needed to survive as a SEAL were obsolete. I had to redefine my life and goals all over again. In a way, I was back in Alaska, but this time I didn’t have a dream to guide me.

  The book No Easy Day was my first step toward a new purpose.

  One of the first things my co-writer, Kevin Maurer, and I talked about when we started working on No Easy Day was the book Men in Green Faces by former SEAL Gene Wentz. The novel inspired me to become a SEAL. I considered the book and many like it to be an essential tool in my quest to become a SEAL. The books were better than a commercial or recruiting poster because they allowed me to experience a SEAL’s world firsthand. The same was true for most of my buddies at work. We had all read books about SEALs when we were young.

  Phil, one of my mentors and best friends, read the book Delta Force: The Army’s Elite Counterterrorist Unit by Colonel Charlie Beckwith, the unit’s first commander. When he was done, he wrote Beckwith a letter telling him about his dream of joining Delta.

  Several months later, Phil got a reply. The handwritten note encouraged him to always dream big and told Phil he could achieve anything. It was that letter that encouraged Phil to pursue his dream. Beckwith’s encouragement put Phil on the path to an amazing career of service.

  I wrote No Easy Day to encourage young people and share with the world the sacrifices that our servicemen and women face on a daily basis. I wanted people to understand the community, which is made up of people who go into harm’s way daily. I wanted to show the human side of the SEALs after months of hero worship from the politicians.

  Sitting in my home office, decorated with mementos from my years as a SEAL, under a picture of my BUD/S training class hanging on the wall, I worked on the book until I felt it captured the raid and the culture of the SEAL community perfectly. I wrote the book the same way I was trained, by enlisting the help of friends, family, and swim buddies. My closest friends gave me a lot of advice when I told them I was writing a book. They urged me to do it “right,” and not write another navel-gazing battle memoir that focused on me.

  “Don’t be the douche bag who thinks he’s a superhero,” one friend told me. “Make sure it’s about the team.”

  Another just laughed at me when I told him.

  “Hey, buddy, if the SEAL community can fully back an action-packed Hollywood blockbuster like Act of Valor, I’m sure you’ll be fine with a book that pays respect back to the community,” he said.

  I did my very best to write No Easy Day about the team and for the men and women I served with for more than a dozen years. When it was done, I waited for the publisher to announce it. I was the new guy on the team again and I trusted the experts to help me navigate the book launch. When word of the book came out in August 2012, the coverage s
hocked me. I don’t think I realized the storm I was walking into. The demand for the book far exceeded my expectations, but so did the backlash.

  I was standing on the tarmac preparing to do a charity skydiving event in San Diego when I got the call. I was doing tandem skydives with folks willing to donate money to the SEAL Foundation for the chance to skydive with a SEAL.

  I’ve been in some stressful situations, but hearing that my name had leaked was in the top ten for sure. For a split second, the stress consumed me. I guess in hindsight I was naïve to think I could maintain my privacy, but I never seriously considered it.

  “Well, shit,” I thought.

  I retreated from the crowd getting ready to jump and took a second to regroup. My training kicked in and I started to make a list of priorities. Skills that I figured were long gone suddenly mattered again. It was like when the instructors pulled off the hood during the hooded box drill. I was back in the box dealing with the situation. Soon, I started to come up with a list of things I needed to do. After the jump, I would start acting on the list.

  What could I affect? My name had just leaked. There was no way I could affect anything in the press. I couldn’t stuff the words back into the producer’s mouth, although I would have loved to meet the Fox News producer and make an attempt with my foot.

  First, I had to make sure my parents moved to a safe location away from the prying eyes of the media. Next, I had to limit my personal profile. I was surprised how much information was out there and could be found online. Finally, I stopped worrying about leaks. They were beyond my three-foot world. I had to focus on the things I could change.

  One of the organizers of the charity jump waved me over. The plane was ready. I still had to jump. I’d made a commitment to the charity and wasn’t about to leave them hanging. I took the stress of the book and the current media situation and put it away, walling it off from what I had to do on the jump. The issues surrounding the book would be waiting for me when I landed.