Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic

by Mark L. Donald

  However, this day was different from most, as all the crews were out working on their boats at the same time, and I couldn’t help eavesdropping on the other crews as they reminisced about the first months of training. What I found was that somewhere around week three or four everyone in the class had come to the same epiphany about BUD/S. There really isn’t a level or scale to the misery. Sure, at first doing anything when you’re warm and dry is much better than doing it when you’re cold, wet, and sandy, but after a while, and as you learn to ignore the bleeding and chafing occurring at your armpits, nipples, and groin, the days more or less become equally unpleasant. After a while the only variable you notice is the length of time spent participating in whatever torturous event you need to pass in order to continue on, so best to just get through it the first time. I’m sure this awakening of sorts that all BUD/S students go through helped establish the well-known and often overused infamous saying, “The only easy day was yesterday.”

  After we finished our boats we had until noon to make personal calls and kiss visiting wives or girlfriends and, for a few students, their kids good-bye. Our class had steadily dwindled down to approximately half our original size since our head-shaving party, and although we knew we would lose some more this week we certainly felt that every one of the fifty-five that remained had earned his place. I can’t speak for the others, but the Smurf crew never doubted any of our eight members’ ability or determination to make it through. In our minds we were all going to be standing there when the instructors secured Hell Week that Friday. Of course, the instructors felt differently, and in a matter of hours and days they would be proven right.

  We all had heard rumors from previous classes about the chaos of Breakout and how having our personal gear organized and keeping good communication among the class could make a world of difference. Being a bit of an organizational freak, which I attribute to my time in the Marine Corps, I carefully positioned my gear in an arrangement that would allow me to easily find anything I needed at a moment’s notice. Once I felt content with my final prep work, I sat back and forced myself to snack on one of the two tasteless box lunches the galley had made for us, one for now and the other for dinner. I knew I needed the energy, but it took nearly everything I had to consume the day-old bread, moistened by a slice of green tomato and condensation from the sandwich’s mystery meat, all covered by melted government cheese and wilted lettuce. Umm-umm, good. The rest of the box wasn’t any better. This box lunch would make any school tray in America seem like a gourmet meal. All the condiments in the world wouldn’t stand a chance of bringing a palatable taste to this masterpiece. It had to be a BUD/S instructor special order just for the occasion—as if we weren’t going to suffer enough? Thankfully, no one would need to eat the second box, since our class proctor graciously arranged for everyone to enjoy a dinner of warm soda and pizza during our final pre–Hell Week briefing.

  We were ordered to remain in the barracks, so we sat in our four-man rooms while the minutes turned into hours, giving more than enough time for anxiety to set in if we let it. I was lucky. Tony, our class musician, was one of the classmates I shared my room with, and before long he started to pass the time playing his harmonica, which the instructors required him to carry to all training evolutions after they found a plethora of instruments stuffed into his locker. The solid concrete floor and cinder-block walls made the room sound like an amphitheater, and as some of the other students from nearby rooms gathered to listen, I started on my barracks walkabout. I did last-minute checks on classmates—chafing, blisters, and ailments—although in reality at this point in the game it didn’t matter what I did. Not one piece of moleskin or tape was going to last more than an hour, let alone a week.

  Not long after that, we were summoned to the compound. As we entered one of the large classrooms next to the First Phase office, we caught a glimpse of the instructors sitting next door going over the week’s events. We’d been there plenty of times before, but I think this was the first time everyone was in a clean and dry uniform, which should’ve been our first omen that there was more to this goodwill gesture than meets the eye. As we approached, our mouths began to water from the wonderful smell of delivery pizza emanating from the room. The sheer sight of it on the tables hypnotized each of us into grabbing a few pieces as we walked over to our seats. It seemed reasonable: Eat it now before the entourage of instructors arrived and we found ourselves enjoying our last meal in the surf zone. Something about soggy pizza with a good helping of sand, saltwater, and seaweed didn’t sit well with anyone. We gorged ourselves on the hot greasy ’za, and despite being full on just a few slices everyone kept going back for more. We knew we were being fattened up for the kill, but it was far better than our alternate dining choice—and how bad could it be, anyway? It wasn’t dark for at least an hour, so we had plenty of time for our meal to settle … or so we thought.

  Just as we finished off the last box of pepperoni, one of the officer instructors, Lieutenant Zinke, strolled into the room. Everyone jumped to attention and gave the traditional greeting, “Lieutenant Zinke.” “Hooyah, Lieutenant Zinke.” It didn’t faze him. He just looked around as if to see if we had taken the bait and then left. A few moments later he returned with the rest of the Hell Week instructor staff and calmly went through the safety brief. After a short question and answer period, which was filled with silence, they exited the room and left us with our proctor.

  Instructor Jannuzzi was an experienced, respected, and dedicated SEAL who took everything he did to the extreme, which included his love for football. Needless to say, he focused his motivational preparation for the class around the sport, showing a movie based on the 1986 New York Giants championship football team as part of his “gut through it” speech, but by now temporary motivation wasn’t going to help. You either had it inside or you didn’t.

  * * *

  The grenade simulator rolled into the hallway hours before anyone ever expected it. Just when we realized what was happening it exploded with a loud concussive bang. Instructors began pouring into the building from every point of entry as if the ocean were filling the hull of a sinking ship. Within seconds the noise from weapons being fired and devices going off made it impossible to hear your own voice, let alone the commands being yelled by our class leader. What was once a sanctuary filled with music and First Phase sea stories had now become a chaotic hall thronged with BUD/S students desperately searching for their swim buddy and the closest exit. Even with our familiarity with the layout of the building this wasn’t an easy task. Smoke and fog had become so thick it prevented me from seeing more than a few feet in front of me. Coupled with the ringing in my ears and the smell of gunpowder, it produced utter confusion. Breakout was on its way to being a complete success.

  Knowing we had to stick together, we ran to the door and tried to make our way through the building and find our swim buddies. All the while instructors’ hands were coming out of nowhere, grabbing one or two guys and separating them from the others. They gave them specific instructions, which they had to follow, designed to segregate the class into smaller pockets of mismatched boat crews. The information—or gouge, as we say around the watercooler—that we received from the classes ahead of us was right on the money. Communication was key, but at this point all the yelling and hand waving we were doing wasn’t making a damn bit of difference. We were no longer a class of strong-willed sailors. Within a matter of minutes the cadre had turned us into a sparse gaggle of confused students desperately trying to return some form of structure to our class. For those of us who would go on to graduate, this was just the beginning of a long indoctrination process into the combat environment, but what we all took away that day to the benefit of the navy was realizing the amount of bewilderment that can occur on the battlefield if you’re not ready for it.

  Just then I heard Drexler’s voice through a break in the gunfire yell out, “Swim fins! Swim fins!” That was all I could make out before the next burst. W
ere we supposed to link up with our swim buddy and head to the beach, or gather the crews at the boats and take to the water? I figured I would find out along the way and ran back into the barracks to collect my gear from wherever it now lay. Once in the room I tore off my kapok and green fatigue top, threw on my inflatable UDT vest, and jumped to the floor, searching for my fins, which I was sure were under some of the overturned furniture. I thought I saw one of the heavy black fins and was reaching for it when one of the instructors grabbed me and told me to start low-crawling out of the barracks to the center of the compound.

  While under the blanket of smoke that filled the whole compound, I was able to make out the silhouettes of some of the others. Some were wearing fins on their boots, another had on his UDT shorts (frogman swim trunks) pulled over his pants, and one person looked as if he had every piece of uniform he was ever issued layered one on top of the other. My classmates were running, crawling, and moving in every direction both in small groups and individually. One thing for sure, we were all moving with a purpose; unfortunately, no one was really going anywhere.

  Suddenly a smile broke on my face, and then I couldn’t stop laughing. Here I was, a soaking wet, shivering, half-naked student adorned with various pieces of equipment all improperly secured to my body, crawling along the paved area we used for PT, half choking from the high-pressured water being shot in my face while I called out for my swim buddy; hilarious. As ridiculous as I looked, I wasn’t as bad as some of my classmates, and I realized I was right in line with the rest of the class, learning to survive the worst of times with a sense of humor. BUD/S has a great way of doing that, breaking the ice during the most intense training times with comic relief. For those who wonder how and why SEALs can function when everything else is falling apart around them, this is why. It all starts here: a professional introduction into the world of chaos with a grounding in what’s truly important and lessons on how not to let the worst get the best of you during the most dire of circumstances.

  Needless to say, the night went on with more of the same befuddlement among the students caused by an ever-changing and continual shock-and-awe attack by the instructors. By now the physical exhaustion from lack of sleep and nonstop strenuous activity coupled with the frigid arms of King Neptune and the cold breath of Mother Nature had started to wear on some of the class. More and more students started to ring out, and although I didn’t agree with it I understood their reasons. During Camp Surf, I was so cold that as I lay locked arm in arm with what remained of the class in the surf zone, waves throwing us around like rag dolls, I couldn’t help but look up to the heavens and begin to make peace with the idea of leaving this earth. Still, despite feeling as if I were on the edge of life, I wasn’t about to quit on my boat crew, my class, my family, or my country, and I wasn’t alone.

  At the end of day five, sixteen of us finally secured from Hell Week and limped over to medical to be evaluated for release. Laughing, I started to tell the story about how delusional I had become. Much to my surprise I found it was a common theme among the other fifteen, especially with Kent Hayes from our Smurf crew, who was carted off to the hospital that same night. Kent was now spending a week on the wards recovering from severe pneumonia, and while we were being released to waiting family and friends he was being cared for by many of the providers I had come to know from my short time in Hospital Corps. Needless to say, Kent had plenty of visitors that weekend, and although he was happy to know the instructors graduated him from Hell Week, it was hard on all of us to assemble the following Monday without him.

  There is a side of me that would relish the opportunity to describe what goes on during SEAL training just to see the expressions on your faces, but the other side of me takes great pride in knowing that only those with the dedication to serve our country in the greatest navy the world has ever known and the spunk to take up the BUD/S challenge will ever possess the knowledge of what actually occurs there. Now, I know some of you are scrambling to do a comparison of your mental fortitude based on your athletic accomplishments and what your imagination has conjured up about SEAL training. I can attest that you are nowhere close to understanding the level of commitment it takes to earn the Trident, so I’ll give you a bit more insight in hopes of identifying a future warrior.

  Everyone who arrives at BUD/S comes from an athletic background. They have all committed countless hours to building and strengthening their body and mind. Their coaches and trainers have motivated them to push beyond their perceived limits, but therein lies the key. All of those limits are set at attainable levels. No teacher or trainer ever sets someone up for failure, except at BUD/S. There, physical abilities are something that are built upon, not utilized as a determinant. Mental tenacity reigns supreme. It depends on an individual’s ability to survive the continual stress from daily pass-or-fail events that go on for months on end, all intended to take away each student’s strengths. If you’re a good runner, you won’t be one there. The instructors will find your nemesis, be it running in the sand, the surf, or some other equalizer. If you’re a strong swimmer or someone who possesses great strength or stamina, you won’t be one there. I cannot tell you what will happen, only that all your best attributes will be stripped away and that you will find yourself facing challenges in ways you never imagined.

  I don’t know the formula for finding out who will successfully make it, but neither does anyone else. What I have found is that the star athlete for whom everything comes easy, the man who could excel in any sport due to his natural abilities, generally doesn’t stand a chance. Rather, I place my bet on the kid who despite not being in the starting lineup not only never missed a practice but was never late to one either. The teammate that never complained about how long practices were because he just wanted to be among his friends during the good times and bad. The one that despite never setting foot in the limelight never stopped giving 100 percent. The one whose family, coaches, and teammates talk more about his commitment than his abilities. That’s the candidate I think has the best chance at becoming a SEAL: the man who lives in adversity each and every day, who has dealt with the stress of “will I make it,” who despite the odds being against him keeps fighting. Physical fitness can be achieved, and no matter how fit you are when you get there it’s never enough. BUD/S exposes every weakness on the way to transforming the strong athlete into a great warrior. It’s the mindset that is most important! Life in the SEAL Teams is one sudden-death overtime period after another. A never-ending calling of internal fortitude to continue when there is nothing left to give, yet somehow finding it inside yourself to make it happen.

  8

  THE TEAMS

  The test of a good teacher is not how many questions he can ask his pupils that they will answer readily, but how many questions he inspires them to ask him which he finds it hard to answer.

  —ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS

  My orders were to Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek in Hampton Roads, Virginia, now called the Joint Expeditionary Base. Little Creek, as it’s known colloquially, is a medium-sized installation that sits on the Chesapeake Bay, just a few miles southeast of the world’s largest naval base in Norfolk, Virginia, and roughly ten miles north of Virginia Beach’s resort area. It was established in the early 1940s as a training station; its primary mission was to train naval forces on how to put a substantial number of troops on the beach while facing enemy gunfire. Ships specifically designed for this task, dubbed “amphibs” or “gator freighters,” continually trained offshore with landing crafts perfecting these procedures. As the Second World War came to a close, the base’s central location on the eastern seaboard and its proximity to Naval Base Norfolk’s support facilities made it an ideal berthing for the Atlantic Fleet’s amphibs. As time passed, Little Creek would become the home to a number of operational commands including Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the navy’s Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit, and eventually, the Navy SEALs.

  I had orders to SEAL Team Two, one of the t
wo original Sea-Air-Land Teams established by President John F. Kennedy in 1962. SEAL Team Two would be my home port for the foreseeable future, and I was eager to finally get started on real-world operations. I remember arriving in Virginia Beach on a rainy Thursday night, a few days earlier than expected. The next day I tried to make use of the time by getting some personal items squared away, but just like in the Corps, I had to be officially checked on board a command, so I had time to kill. I called Tony, a classmate who had already checked on board his team. We met for beers at a local team guy bar, and I tried to pump him for intel. All I got was a sly smile and “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. It’s loads of fun.”

  On Monday morning, I arrived at the team an hour early in a perfectly pressed dress white uniform and found out the Administration Department had already scheduled a 1000 meeting with my commanding officer. I didn’t have time to do anything before then, so I sat in the office watching the clock until precisely two minutes till, then walked up to the CO’s hatch (a nautical term for the doorway), knocked on the frame three times, and requested permission to enter. The skipper called me in, placed me at the position of attention in front of his desk, and proceeded to flip through my ridiculously thin military record. After several minutes, he put me “at ease” and began explaining the team’s mission and his commander’s intent. His tone was calm and measured, ensuring I clearly understood his objectives and how the officers and senior enlisted would execute their assignments. This never happened in the Corps; young marines followed orders, rarely expecting or receiving explanations about their leaders’ objectives. From the moment I arrived on base, though, I could tell things were going to be vastly different from anything I ever knew in the past. The skipper continued describing how the SEAL Teams operate on the premise that America will be at war by the end of the day and we will be fighting it. It doesn’t matter if peace reigns throughout the world; in the SEAL’s mind it only takes a few critical minutes to harm America, as evidenced at Pearl Harbor in 1941. To SEALs this means much more than being ready to deploy at a moment’s notice; it means the CO expects his crew to think and act independently to accomplish the mission. This was a dramatic departure from the highly structured world of the Marine Corps. In the teams, our ability to think and act as individuals was not only valued but expected, as long as it supported the team’s mission.