* * *
“When you get to shore, Donald, just drop down in the push-up position with the others,” Instructor Richardson’s voice bellowed from one of the safety boats trailing the swimmers. I had zoned out for the majority of the swim but was still focused on the objective, a tactic that we would all have to perfect if we expected to graduate. If you can’t put discomfort and monotony out of your mind and concentrate on the particulars at hand, you really don’t stand a chance. Fortunately, there is ample opportunity to learn the technique during the multitude of must-pass events going on during each week of training. Those that get it right develop an ability to find a certain nirvana during the most stressful times. That doesn’t always equate to success but definitely prevents pressure from being a cause of mission failure. I still recall how one of my classmates looked as if he had fallen asleep during underwater knot tying. Imagine having to hold your breath at the bottom of the combat swimmer training tank, tying one knot after another on a line that transverses the bottom of the pool. Most people would panic and bolt to the surface once they started to run out of oxygen, but the majority of the remaining students were well versed in controlling their senses and compartmentalizing anxiety, and the ones that weren’t either failed or “rang out.” (A SEAL who chooses to quit BUD/S voluntarily can do so without prejudice by ringing the brass bell in the quadrangle three times.)
I got to shore, took off my fins, turned in my swim time, and joined the rest of the class alternating between push-ups and flutter kicks in the surf zone. It may not sound like much, but facing waves in a foot of water as they surge up from underneath you or crash over your face while you’re breathing heavily from exercise creates a water boarding effect. Add in the saltwater and the sand chafing every fold of skin imaginable while the cold water steals your heat away, and you’ll begin to understand the effectiveness this training has in building mental stamina. The continual employment of the surf zone as a means of punishment eventually sweeps away any fear of drowning, leaving the navy with one hell of a resilient amphibian.
From the push-up position I looked down the line of my classmates and wondered which of the remaining eighty-four would be my swim buddy. Fifteen of them either dropped out or were rolled back into another class by the time we finished the four weeks of pretraining, and that was just the beginning. Just days earlier we had our head-shaving party and, with a little assistance from a few bottles of loudmouth, began convincing ourselves that we could be the second class in the history of BUD/S to have everyone graduate Hell Week. Of course, the instructors who supervised our celebration reminded us that we might just be like the class that had zero graduates. The class that never was was infamous among trainees, and for a period of time a statue sat on the quarterdeck memorializing their lack of fortitude. When I heard about that particular class, I promised myself then and there I would never quit. I might be dropped for failing to complete a task, but I wasn’t quitting. I would rather die in training than ring the bell. It may sound a bit extreme, but not for me. I looked at it more as an extension of the oath I had taken for medicine and the promise I had made to the good Lord.
The Hippocratic Oath is an ethical promise that all medical providers must take when graduating from student to provider. There are various versions, some based on the educational level—doctor versus medic is a prime example—and some were interpretations of the original text, but one thing that rings clear among all the versions is the notion “to do no harm.” I simply added on a personal pledge that I believe is the essence of a frontline medic: “and allow no harm to be done, even at the sacrifice of my own life.” From the moment I took on the proud and honored title of navy corpsman I knew that despite my status as care provider, I would still be issued a weapon and be expected to use it. Since the dawn of time a small portion of enemy forces has always sought out the medic. Take out the man that can save the life of another soldier and possibly return him to battle and you’ll have a far greater effect on a unit’s effectiveness and morale than if you target a rifleman. It takes a sick mind to think that way, but firsthand stories from corpsmen and marines from Iwo Jima to today have told me there were plenty of them. Through history some countries have honored the Geneva Conventions, which offer protection to medics, while others simply have not, including our current adversaries in the War on Terror. I accepted the fact that I would both fight and heal and adopted “Trained to fight, but called to serve” as my new motto for the battlefield.
BUD/S has one of the top medical departments in the navy. Yet even with all its expertise and ability a good many of the students were avoiding it at all cost. They were concerned their attendance at sick call would send the wrong message to the instructors and their classmates alike. Dr. Pollard and Dr. Castellano, stationed at the clinic, knew this and had arranged for all the corpsmen waiting on their class to convene to work at the clinic. Despite that this was a relatively short period of time, the docs were able to build a rapport with each of us. They’d use our knowledge of our classmates’ injuries as another means of monitoring the students they were entrusted to protect. If the docs felt a corpsman knew his limitations, they’d issue a small medical kit or aid bag to provide follow-up care back at the barracks. This policy not only extended their reach, but also allowed me to build a rapport with students from other classes.
As long as I kept them apprised of which trainees I treated, how severe their injuries were, and what I did for them, everything was good. So when the workday was done, I’d restock my aid bag with the necessary items for treating blisters, chafing, and other common aches and pains related to BUD/S. I’d start making my rounds in the barracks trying to patch up friction burns on macerated skin and icing joints, earning me the title of “Mom” from our First Phase proctor Phil Jannuzzi. I never cared for that nickname but made sure no one knew. Otherwise it would have been permanent; thankfully, “Mom” ended with the First Phase, along with over 70 percent of our original class.
Every few years the navy invests more time and money trying to improve the number of graduates from SEAL training. Over the years I’ve watched class sizes fluctuate from under a hundred students to well over two hundred. I’ve seen the Naval Special Warfare Center try to double the number of classes per year and make continual changes regarding the length and location of pretraining regimes. Yet the number of SEALs produced per year never changed. Don’t get me wrong. These are all appropriate measures, and at the very least, they physically prepare candidates far better than in my day and prevent folks from receiving orders to training that shouldn’t be there. Nevertheless, after spending nearly a quarter of a century in and around Naval Special Warfare as both a SEAL and a medical officer, I find it hard to believe that any of these actions are ever going to improve the numbers. The number of SEALs isn’t based on the percentage of candidates that attend BUD/S but on the percentage of a specific type of man that exists in relation to our country’s overall population.
During the first week of pretraining, also known as Fourth Phase, intentionally placed ahead of First Phase so not to disturb the historic numbering of each phase of training, each of us went through a psychological screening process. Back then the navy tried to find a way to identify candidates who displayed all the right attributes and had those qualities at the level necessary to graduate training, but I believe it’s impossible to measure the amount of fire in a man through a written test or series of interviews. In fact, I no longer believe the navy makes SEALs at all. In my mind the navy can only assist in identifying the right candidates through recruiting and, once established, provide them with a means to prove themselves to serve among the nation’s best.
SEALs are a unique blend of physical strength, academic intelligence, mental tenacity, and unwavering commitment. Their dedication to the mission and their teammates is unimaginable to most Americans. Despite the navy going to great lengths to continually educate these men on everything from the art of war to moral responsibility, their ethical
and patriotic foundation was laid long before the navy had anything to do with it. Their family, friends, neighbors, teachers, coaches, and others close to them throughout their youth played a greater role in instilling these characteristics than the navy ever could during the short period of time it had them at boot camp or Officer Candidate School. It’s not a matter of possessing the right traits but, rather, the degree to which those traits exist within the man. There’s only one way to find out: BUD/S. It is the navy’s litmus test for commitment. Therefore, it’s my belief that BUD/S doesn’t make SEALs; it only validates a man’s dedication to joining them.
7
BREAKOUT
We do not rise to the level of our expectations.
We fall to the level of our training.
—SOMETIMES ATTRIBUTED TO ARCHILOCHUS
It would start in a matter of hours: the noise, chaos, confusion, and pain of Hell Week. The tension was thick in the barracks, and the base was secured around the SEAL training area; except for a few patrons at the gas station and our coveted minimart, there wasn’t a soul around. Soon the class would be completely cut off from the outside world. We could see the tourists on Coronado’s pristine beaches and the motorists driving along on the Silver Strand, but that didn’t seem to matter too much. We all knew what was coming; we would soon be in hell for five and a half days, and the outside world would cease to exist. We welcomed it, albeit with reluctance and a healthy dose of anxiety. The majority of the class joined the navy specifically for the opportunity to become a SEAL, and that meant passing Hell Week. We had worked hard for months to get to that point, and although Hell Week was the biggest obstacle we would face over this twenty-four weeks of basic training, most of us just wanted to get started.
Our class proctor, Phil Jannuzzi, came into the SEAL Teams post-Vietnam but was trained by the men who had cut their teeth in the Mekong Delta. They knew the costs of war and had instilled this knowledge in him through intense training that demanded complete focus and 100 percent dedication. Needless to say, Phil would go on to live a storied career in the teams, protecting our country in ways the vast majority of Americans will never read about. Like many teams guys before him, he had returned to his roots to serve as “Instructor Jannuzzi,” and Instructor Jannuzzi wasn’t about to let standards drop.
Like all the other instructors, he had his own quirks, and his was to bellow to the class during the most difficult training times, “The Chinaman doesn’t care, boys, he just doesn’t care.” At first no one really understood what that meant. I thought perhaps it was his way of reminiscing about his training days, going through BUD/S with instructors that battled against China’s support to the North Vietnamese, but it was just a guess that seemed like a good enough explanation at the time. All we really knew was, when we heard those words training intensity would pick up tenfold, and by the end of the evolution at least one more student would ring out.
Over time we figured out the statement’s meaning and how clearly it defined the BUD/S mission, so we couldn’t help but adopt it as our class mantra. I once had to explain the meaning to my mother when the phrase slipped out of my mouth during a conversation. Growing up facing racial and sexual prejudice as a Mexican woman, she really didn’t like the sound of it, so I tried to explain. “Mom, it means the enemies we’re going to face won’t care if we have to travel thousands of miles in just a few hours. They won’t care that we’ll be inserted by physically exhausting methods so as not to be detected, or that we’ll be carrying a load that would make a pack mule cringe. They won’t care if we’re cold, wet, haven’t slept or eaten for days. They’ll only care about one thing—sending us home in flag-covered caskets, and we can’t let any of those circumstances affect us. Our resolve to accomplish the mission must be stronger than theirs.” She understood it but liked it even less after hearing my explanation. So I made sure never again to let the Chinaman leave my lips anywhere near my mother.
Decades later I, too, found out how much the Chinaman, or, as I came to know him, al Qaeda, didn’t care, but neither did we—nor do the SEALs who are still out there defending us today. For any terrorists wishing to do harm to America, I want you to know it means you can run, you can hide, you can even build up your defenses, but no matter how long it takes or what extremes we must endure to get to you, if we are called upon to take you out there’s not much you can do to stop it. It means pain and discomfort are recognized as just being part of the job and neither will hinder or prevent American special operations from completing its mission.
Instructor Jannuzzi knew the physical difficulties of operating all too well and reminded us that whatever we faced during Hell Week would be minor compared to what we would endure defending our country. He also knew it was the responsibility of the BUD/S instructors to weed out those who lacked the ability to overcome adversity, and he wasn’t about to let the community down. From our first day of training to the last Friday before Hell Week he conducted mandatory end-of-day remedial training sessions, which we affectionately called “circuses.” At first everyone dreaded ending the day with an additional twenty to sixty minutes of intense exercise, but over time, and as the class began to thin out, it became more of a source of pride than a punishment, kind of like Class 159’s own special routine. Circuses taught us that no matter how well things went, at the end of the day bad things were coming, so we needn’t spend time worrying about what we couldn’t control. We were better off mentally preparing for the eventual collision, “bracing for shock,” as they say in the navy. I don’t know if it made any difference physically preparing us for Hell Week, but it definitely built our mental tenacity and forged the attitude of the class.
This take-it-as-it-comes approach was clearly evident as we gathered for morning muster. Despite being on the precipice of BUD/S training, no one seemed to act any different. I’m not saying the class was free of worry; I just can’t remember anxiety being the dominant emotion among the group. We all knew not everyone was going to make it, and by the end of the week it would all be decided, so no need to concern ourselves with the inevitable punishment or wondering about who might or might not be standing when the sand settled. We had work to do.
After a quick roll call, our class leader, Ensign Houck, briefed us about the day’s activities. Then Drexler, our leading petty officer, separated us into our boat crews so we could begin final preparations. Although we were all busy working on our boats, stories about holiday adventures began to permeate through the ranks, and it didn’t take long before some of the more colorful classmates had us on the floor laughing about their exploits. I think to an outsider it would seem an unusual way of mentally preparing for arguably the hardest week on earth, but we took it in stride. Christmas and New Year’s fractured our training schedule at the worst possible time, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. When we first received 159’s training calendar, everyone winced seeing where the holiday leave period fell. I remember feeling as if a sick joke had been played upon us, but it was nothing more than dumb luck. Every few years a class gets screwed over by the holidays, and this time it was our turn.
Unfortunately, we would receive our obligatory vacation just before the start of Hell Week and return only one day prior to Breakout, the simulated combat situation that kicks it off. So ensued the dilemma. Take leave and spend Christmas with Mom and Dad to refresh and recharge the batteries but risk losing focus, or stay on the island to train and spend it among classmates at the local pub, which might be far worse. For some it was a hard decision, often switching back and forth depending on how severe the circus was that day. For me it was simple. I knew if I went home to Albuquerque I would return the size of the house. Nothing’s more appealing to me than traditional New Mexico cooking founded on the two most essential food groups, fat and salt. Worse yet, my Mexican mother would feel compelled to get everything for “mijo,” her little boy, which meant I’d never leave the couch or risk breaking her heart. Nope, I’m staying! Actually, in the end
it didn’t matter too much what choice we made. Despite the fact that we all kept working out like madmen, no student alive could avoid partaking in the wondrous amounts of food, freedom, and merriment that come with the holidays after being beaten up for months on end. Without any formalized group training program, it would take one mentally strong class to be able to go from zero to a thousand miles an hour with only little more than a day between the two. Suddenly the genius of having the circuses became apparent.
After hearing a few comical stories, our attention went back to our individual boat stations and we started checking the essential components on our boats. An Inflatable Boat Small, or IBS, as it’s commonly referred to around the compound, is basically a small rubber flat-bottom boat with round edges that was designed over half a century ago to allow frogmen to effectively lock in and out of submarine escape trunks. Needless to say, with the advent of newer submarines it had become an obsolete piece of gear, and it would have disappeared from navy inventory altogether if BUD/S hadn’t implemented it in its training program as one of the primary means of punishment and team building.
Everyone on the Smurf boat crew—a derogatory yet affectionate term used to describe a boat crew comprised of a class’s shortest members—which I was a part of, had fallen into a love/hate relationship with this black piece of head-chafing rubber. Due to the shape of the boat and our weight, we had the advantage at sea and rarely lost any of the waterborne boat races, but on land our stature almost guaranteed last place. Heck, we had to run just to keep up with the brisk walk of most of the other crews, and running with a 300-pound rubber hat bouncing up and down on your head isn’t good for either the crew member or the boat. Like all other seagoing vessels, ours was quite moody and very high maintenance. If we didn’t spend the time working on valves, patching small holes, or just keeping her clean whether she needed it or not, she’d have a blowout at the most inopportune time just to remind us that we had misplaced our priorities and not to let that happen again.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 6
