There was a long pause on the other end of the VTC.
“So let me get this straight, Bill,” the President deadpanned. “We could afford a sixty-million-dollar helo, but we couldn’t afford a ten-dollar tape measure?” In the background I could see the President’s staff laughing. I had no comeback and I didn’t need one. The smile on the President’s face said it all. It had been a good night, and just for a moment we could laugh about it.
“Sir, I’ve sent the pictures of bin Laden’s body back to Langley. They are going to do a facial recognition comparison and that should give us a reliable assessment in short order.”
“Okay, Bill, I know you have some things to do before this mission is complete, so I will let you get back to work. Please pass on to all your men and those that supported the mission that this was a historic night and all America will be proud of them.”
I couldn’t help but get a little choked up. “Thank you, sir,” I struggled to say. “I will pass it on.”
Within an hour I was on a plane back to Bagram. I landed, got on a waiting surrey, and immediately headed back to my headquarters building. Entering the two-story plywood structure, I noticed something was missing. It was the wanted poster of bin Laden that had hung in the building for ten years. For the thousands of men and women who had worked in this facility, it had been a daily reminder of why we were there. Now it was gone. I continued up the steps, strangely fixated on the small poster that had meant so much to so many. Opening the door, to where Thomas and Kurilla were working, I asked abruptly, “Who took the poster?”
Kurilla smiled. He lifted the cheap wooden-framed picture from behind his desk and said, “Sir, we thought you ought to have this?” For the second time that evening, I choked up. Tony Thomas and Erik Kurilla, two men who had given more to this long fight than just about anyone else in special operations, shook my hand and said thanks. For a soldier, when you have earned the respect of real warriors, there is no greater feeling in the world. I thanked them for all they had done that evening and then flopped down in the large Afghan chair and took a breather.
The television was muted in the background, but I could see Geraldo Rivera, a look of uncontrolled excitement on his face, as he announced that the President was going to speak in a few minutes. It was unprecedented that a President would come on television so late in the evening. It must be that Mohammar Gadhafi was dead, Rivera speculated. What else could it be?
As the President walked down the hall toward the podium, I pulled my chair closer to listen.
“Good evening. Tonight I can report to the American people, and the world, that the United States has conducted an operation to kill Osama bin Laden, the leader of Al Qaeda and a terrorist who is responsible for the murder of thousands of innocent men, women, and children.”
As the President talked, two Marine MV-22s and a Ranger security detachment, transporting the remains of bin Laden, were flying back into Pakistan and down the air corridor that led to the northern Arabian Gulf. There, waiting at sea, was the aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson. By early the next morning, after an adherence to strict Islamic guidelines, the body of Osama bin Laden slid quietly into the ocean, never to be seen again.
For those who were lost in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania; for those who had given their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan; for those men and women who, due to wounds, internal or external, would never be the same again; for all those around the world who suffered as a result of this man’s evil—justice had been served.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FINAL SALUTE
TAMPA, FLORIDA
August 2014
The color guard marched straight up the aisle, turned, and presented the American flag. Beside me on the stage at the Tampa Convention Center was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and my friend, General Marty Dempsey. Standing at attention, we held our salutes until the singing of the national anthem was over and the posting of the colors was completed. At that moment it struck me. This was my last salute in uniform—my last opportunity to officially pay my respects to the flag for which I had served for the past thirty-seven years, my last day on active duty, my very last day as a Navy SEAL.
In the audience were over seven hundred people, all of whom had come to be part of my military retirement ceremony. As I scanned the faces, the stories of my life returned in a flash. My best man, John Scarpulla, was sitting with my fellow high school runners Mike Morris and Mike Dippo. Beside them was Coach Jerry Turnbow. A row back from them were my SEAL training classmates, Dan’l Steward and Marc Thomas. Spread across the aisles were decades of teammates from the SEALs, Rangers, Green Berets, Night Stalkers, Special Tactics, CIA, DIA, FBI, State Department, NSA, NGA, and an assortment of senior officers from the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps: men and women who had been with me throughout my career. Admiral Eric Olson, now retired, was sitting on the right side of the aisle, waiting to officiate my transfer of the Bull Frog award, as the longest-serving SEAL on active duty. Our dearest friends, Admiral Joe and Kathy Maguire, were close to the front, sitting near my sisters, Nan and Marianna.
As I stepped before the podium to make my farewell remarks, I glanced down at Georgeann in the front row and could see that she was holding back the tears. Beside her, my daughter, Kelly, and son John, who had borne the brunt of my life in the military, were trying, unsuccessfully, to remain stoic. Halfway around the world, my son Bill, who was on deployment as an Air Force officer, joined us by video. I missed him dearly, but, as always, I was proud of his service. His wife, Brandy, sat with the family.
Grabbing the sides of the podium, I looked down at my speech and took a deep breath.
I began:
My senior year in college, I was the ranking midshipman in the Naval ROTC program. One day, the NROTC executive officer, a crusty old Navy commander named Rummelhart, called me into his office. I stood at attention as he addressed me.
“Bill,” he said. “Your mother called and she is worried that you are dating two women. She and I both think that is a bad idea.”
I was stunned. “My mother called!” I said, completely embarrassed.
“Yes,” Rummelhart replied. “Your mother called.”
“My mother called?” I said again, hoping I had misheard the commander.
“Yes,” he said, repeating it again. “Your mother called.”
I dropped my head. What in the world was she thinking? Mothers!
But… it was true. I was, in fact, dating two women. Something I knew was dangerous. The first woman I had met on a midshipman cruise the year before. It was a long-distance relationship, she on the West Coast and I in Austin, but we had become quite serious. Then in the spring of 1977, I met Georgeann at school and everything changed…
As I looked down from the stage, Georgeann appeared mortified that I was telling this story, but to me the story conveyed the single most important moment in my life—a decision that would change everything about my future.
I realized then, I told the audience,
… that the first woman was everything a man of twenty-one could want. But the second woman was everything a man could want for the rest of his life.
Later that year, when I told my father that I had asked Georgeann to marry me, he gave me that look that only a father can and said, “Son, I didn’t think you were that smart.”
Well, it was the smartest decision I ever made. For over forty years, Georgeann has been by my side. She picked me up when I stumbled. She gave me confidence when I was faltering. She nursed me when I was injured. She shouldered the burden of my constant deployments, and for all the times that death was at my doorstep, she hid her fear and gave me hope. Nothing in my life would have been possible without her.
I paused, knowing I couldn’t look at Georgeann or I would lose it. Deep breath again.
I continued on with my remarks, but my mind began to wander.
Forty years, I thought.
It had
been over forty years since I reported for duty at the Naval ROTC unit at the University of Texas. I remembered that first day as clearly as I would remember this last day. It was to be the beginning of a grand adventure. In the next four decades, I would travel the globe, sail the seven seas, jump from airplanes, lock out of submarines, be shot at, IEDed, mortared, and rocketed. I would crash in a helicopter, a boat, and a parachute and live to talk about it. I would meet with presidents and kings, prime ministers and princesses, despots and terrorists. I would experience the highs of international success and the lows of profound loss. I would confront the worst of humanity and the best of mankind. I would experience the hand of God in little moments and big ones alike. I would constantly be inspired by soldiers—awed by their courage, their humility, and their sense of duty. I would raise a wonderful family with the woman I loved and be blessed to serve the greatest country in the world. It was as though I was the main character in some cosmic adventure. And like all adventures, my odyssey had taught me a lot about myself and the world around me.
In my journey, I found that there was always someone better than me: someone smarter, stronger, faster, harder-working, more talented, more driven, more honest, more pious—just better than I was. It was humbling, but at the same time immensely reassuring. There were so many problems in the world that I could not solve, but maybe someone else could.
I learned that life is fragile and that we should take each day as a blessing. A single round from an Al Qaeda sniper, an IED on a road less traveled, a C-130 that never returned, a head-on collision coming home from work, a parachute that never opened, an X-ray that revealed a growing tumor—nothing in life is guaranteed, so make the most of what you have and be thankful.
Many times over I found that my success depended on others. It was the simplest of lessons, one I had been taught in basic SEAL training rowing my little rubber boat. And every success I had from that moment on had been because someone helped me.
I realized that life is actually pretty simple. Help as many people as you can. Make as many friends as you can. Work as hard as you can. And, no matter what happens, never quit!
Along the way, there were moments and people I couldn’t forget. I remember leading the funeral procession for Sergeant “Doc” Peney as soldiers from the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment marched from the church in downtown Savannah to Peney’s favorite pub on River Street. The entire town lined the roads and the streets and the highways, saluting, standing at attention, hats off, heads bowed, and tears flowing. I remembered Ranger Ben Kopp, killed in Afghanistan, whose transplanted heart now beats in the breast of Judy Meikle. I remembered watching the doctors in the combat hospital in Bagram as they tried to save SEALs Jason Freiwald and Johnny Marcum; struck in the chest by multiple large-caliber rounds, both men died on the operating table and I was helpless to do anything about it. I remember the fatal crashes of helicopters Turbine 33 and Extortion 17, call signs that will never be used again and men who will forever be memorialized. I could not forget the sacrifice of a Mike Murphy, Robbie Miller, Ashley White, or the thousands of others, “all who gave some, but some who gave all.” And I will never forget Section 60 at Arlington National Cemetery, the final resting place of so very many young heroes who fought in the wars after September 11. At times the pain and sorrow of the memories overwhelm me, and they often manifest themselves in awkward displays of emotion in large public settings. I grew to be okay with that.
Most of all, I learned that for all his faults, man is worthy of this world. For every reckless belligerent who seeks war, there are thoughtful wise men and women who strive for peace. For all the unbridled hatred that abounds, there is an even greater amount of unconditional love. For every Al Qaeda torture house in Iraq, every Taliban death squad in Afghanistan, every suicide bomber in Somalia, every righteous zealot who kills indiscriminately, there are countless mothers who care for their children and fathers who raise their young sons and daughters to be honest and hardworking. Man’s compassion far exceeds his greed. His caring is greater than his brutality. His courage outshines his cowardice and his sense of hope always prevails.
The audience came back into focus. I was almost finished and ready to be piped over the side. Officially retired.
Just one last story:
There is a great scene in the World War II movie Saving Private Ryan. Ryan, now an old man, returns to the beaches of Normandy, searching for the grave of the officer who saved his life forty years earlier—a man who sacrificed everything so that Ryan could live. Finding the headstone, Ryan, emotionally drained, looks up through weary eyes and asks his wife, “Tell me I’ve led a good life. Tell me I’m a good man.”
I found good men and women wherever I went on my journey through life. I strived to be as good as they were, as good as I could be, so in the end, those that knew me would be proud to call me their friend. All I ever wanted was to be a good man.
I stepped away from the podium, an order was given, and eight soldiers lined up on a short red carpet, ready to render a final salute as I walked off the stage. I thanked General Dempsey, met Georgeann at the foot of the stage, and walked through the honor guard as the words “Admiral. Retired. Departing” were announced. My career was over.
Helen Keller, the wondrous woman who showed us that blindness has a vision all its own, once said, “Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”
Well, it sure has been something!
I can’t wait to see what stories tomorrow will bring.
Adventure was in my DNA. Dad with his Spitfire in North Africa; 1943.
My cousin Paul and me looking cool. Paul drove. Grapeland, Texas; 1963.
Football was a way of life in Texas. With my dad in San Antonio, Texas; 1966.
Anna and Claude McRaven. Two fabulous parents.
A Gravel Gertie ammunition storage facility. Amarillo Globe-News
Coach Jerry Turnbow as an assistant at Roosevelt High School San Antonio, Texas; 1972.
SEAL training with my swim buddy Marc Thomas. Coronado, California; 1977.
Class 95 upon SEAL graduation. I am at the far right with Lt(jg) Dan’l Steward. Coronado, California; February 1978.
Our wedding was the start of a 41-year love story. Dallas, Texas; May 6, 1978.
A SEAL Delivery Vehicle (SDV) landing on a submarine. US Navy via Getty Images
Hanging off the lock-out chamber of the USS Grayback. Philippines; 1979.
Iraqi tanker. RAED QUTEINA/AFP/Getty Images
Fast-roping onto a moving ship. Stocktrek Images via Getty Images
Lieutenant Colonel George Flinn and me on Faylaka Island, Kuwait; February 1991.
Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) in action. U.S. Navy via Getty Images
Saluting Admiral Eric Olson at my Change of Command from Naval Special Warfare Group ONE. Coronado, California; 2001. He saved my career.
Martin and Gracia Burnham were held captive by the terrorist group Abu Sayaf. Philippines; 2001. AFP/Getty Images
I had the honor of working in the Bush 43 White House after 9/11. Washington, DC; 2003.
Dr. Condoleezza Rice promoting me to Rear Admiral. With my daughter Kelly and Georgeann. The White House; June 2003.
The Ace of Spades, Saddam Hussein, after his capture by Army Special Operations forces. Baghdad, Iraq; December 2003. U.S. Army via Getty Images
MH-60 Black Hawks in action. Justin Sullivan/Getty Images
The lifeboat that held Captain Richard Phillips. Indian Ocean; April 2009. Megan E. Sindelar/U.S. Navy via Getty Images
Captain Richard Phillips after the SEAL rescue. Darren McCollester/Getty Images
Osama bin Laden. Universal History Archive/Getty Images
After a mission with Command Sergeant Major Chris Faris and several of my men. Afghanistan; 2009.
After a mission with Command Sergeant Major Chris Faris and several of our allies. Iraq; 2010.
Things didn’t look so good at that moment. The White House; May 1, 201
1. Pete Souza/The White House/MCT via Getty Images
President Obama presenting me with a tape measure. The White House; May 4, 2011. The White House
Briefing President Obama in the Oval Office with Command Sergeant Major Chris Faris. May 4, 2011.
As the SOCOM Commander, I’m sharing a laugh with General Lloyd Austin and King Abdullah II of Jordan. Tampa, Florida; 2013.
My final salute. Tampa, Florida; August 2014.
I have been blessed. John, Kelly, me, Georgeann, and Bill.
After retirement I served as the Chancellor of the University of Texas System. January 2015. Holly Reed
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a memoir is not so much about the craft of writing as it is about the people who shared your life with you. For over forty-one years, my wife, Georgeann, has been at my side loving, encouraging, and inspiring me. Whether mentioned or not, she was part of every story in this book. My three children, Bill, John, and Kelly, are the ones who motivated me to write the book in the first place. They are the ones who had to bear the brunt of all my deployments and they did so with remarkable strength and resilience. I hope by reading this book they will understand why I was gone so often and why I loved what I did. To my sisters, Marianna and Nan, I am your biggest fan. Your own remarkable lives always made me proud to be your little brother.
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