Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic

by Mark L. Donald

  I listened intently to everything he said and even asked a question or two to clarify a few points, but by the time he finished there was absolutely no doubt he lived and breathed physical, mental, and operational readiness, and expected me to do the same.

  “One last thing,” skipper said before dismissing me.

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t think making it through BUD/S proves anything to anyone. All my men have done the same thing. You haven’t demonstrated anything, yet. If you stay hungry you’ll earn your spot here among my warriors. Ease off and you might find yourself leaving for the fleet.” His calm, steady tone reinforced the strength of his words.

  “Yes, sir, I know what’s required of me, and I won’t let the team down.”

  Skipper then stood up, firmly gripped my hand, and shook it. “That’s the spirit, Doc. Welcome aboard.”

  Next stop was the command master chief ’s office. He was the senior ranking enlisted member, and he knew everything that happened within the team, and then some. Master Chief Ponson was a lean and fit SEAL with a slight French accent, decades of experience, and an obsession with skydiving. He welcomed me in his office, then promptly told me I was the only FNG, or “f***ing new guy,” from my class assigned to the team. He explained how the navy purposely spreads new graduates across the force to keep the number of FNGs at each team fairly low. This maintains a high median experience level while allowing for one-on-one mentoring by the team’s senior members, a key training element in the SEAL Teams. Master Chief launched into an oral history of Naval Special Warfare and the teams, then drilled down on the storied past of SEAL Team Two. I listened intently and took mental notes in case I was quizzed later. In just under two hours I had learned what the CO expected of me as a member of his crew and what the community expected from me now that I had officially become a member of the frog family.

  “Donald, don’t worry about the rest of the check-in process today. I want you to go find a place to live right now. That’s your top priority. I don’t care if you’re staying with another SEAL, if you rent an apartment or buy a home. I want you out of the bachelor quarters by the end of the day, if at all possible.” Master Chief went on to explain how life in the barracks can lead to trouble, and that certain segments of the military challenged “the SEAL” to fill a void in their manhood that was created by their lacking the courage to try to become one themselves. He went on, “There’s plenty of opportunities for fighting, but the type you’ll find in town is not the type you need to be doing.”

  Having always lived in a crowded home, the idea of having a place of my own was music to my ears. After speaking with Tony and a few of his teammates, I knew exactly where to look.

  As I rose to leave, Master Chief gave me the plans for the following days’ events. “Doc, Quarters is at 0700 every morning immediately followed by two hours of PT. Since you don’t have your gear issue, it’s probably best you just wear your dress whites again. I’ll meet you on the quarterdeck at 0645 and introduce you to the boys then. Welcome aboard. It’s great to have another corpsman. It’s one of our biggest shortfalls in the teams.”

  “Thank you, Master Chief, I look forward to meeting everyone then,” I said before hustling out the door.

  * * *

  The next morning I met Master Chief on the quarterdeck as instructed and followed him outside for morning muster. The team was gathered in the compound, ready for another fine navy day. I was the lone FNG walking among a herd of barrel-chested “been there, done that” frogmen. Master Chief had me stand off to the side where I couldn’t hear his comments to the executive officer, but I certainly heard the laughter coming from the seasoned SEALs as we waited for Quarters to begin.

  The leading petty officer called the team to attention. I looked over at Mater Chief Ponson, to see if he wanted me to stay put or jump into formation with the rest of them, but he kept staring straight ahead. Then I started to hear voices softly saying “meeeeeat, meeeeeeat,” referring to my being the new meat on the team.

  “Alright, that’s enough, get into formation,” Master Chief said to the crowd. The platoon chiefs immediately reacted to his orders and instantly turned the gaggle of team guys into a military formation. “Attention,” Master Chief barked as the CO walked out to join his crew.

  “At ease,” said the skipper as he made his way to the center of the formation. The CO’s message was quick and to the point, just like the day before when I’d met with him. This time, however, his speech was followed by an inauguration ritual.

  “Skipper,” Master Chief said, trying to conceal his smile under his mustache. “Remember, sir, we have a new man to introduce to the crew.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Master Chief,” he replied, acting as if he’d forgotten, although he certainly hadn’t. “Carry on.”

  “Petty Officer Donald front and center,” Master Chief said firmly.

  Not knowing how formally Quarters was run in the SEAL Teams, I decided not to chance it, so I marched up to the elevated walkway, making sure I did proper facing movements along the way.

  “Relax, Donald,” the CO said under his breath before addressing the troops. “Petty Officer Donald is a BUD/S graduate and one of our new corpsmen.”

  “Wow, was it hard?” one of the voices yelled from the back, followed by “Hey Doc, why does it burn when I pee?”

  Unfazed, the CO continued on. “Interestingly enough, Petty Officer Donald was a marine before he joined the navy.” He hadn’t even finished his sentence before jarhead jokes started among the group. I was beginning to feel like the skipper was waving a twenty-four-ounce steak in front of a pack of rabid dogs that hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “Calm down … calm down,” Master Chief said, laughing under his breath. It took a few seconds, but eventually everyone quieted down. We all stood there silent for a few moments. Master Chief then looked at me and said, “Well?”

  “What, Master Chief?” I stammered, looking back at him. A voice from the crew yelled, “Tell us about yourself!” I glanced at Master Chief, unsure how to proceed.

  “Well, Donald, are you going to tell us about yourself or not?” Master Chief asked.

  “Uh, alright, Master Chief,” I answered, trying to think about what to say. Apparently I wasn’t thinking loud enough to hold off the comments coming in from the peanut gallery.

  “It’s not rocket science, meat, tell us about yourself.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Do you enjoy long walks on the beach?”

  “Pipe up! We can’t hear you in the back!”

  Completely confused, I attempted to answer. “Well, I’m originally from…” was as far as I got before the whole crowd erupted with team guy shouts.

  “Shut up!”

  “No one wants to hear you, meat!”

  And the more polite “Close your mouth, Donald!”

  “Quiet down and let him speak,” Master Chief answered back to the men while I stood there shocked, not sure which way to go.

  “Please continue,” Master Chief said with a nod.

  I tried again, only the second I opened my mouth a virtual tidal wave of taunts and insults rolled over me like a tsunami.

  “Shut the hell up, meat!”

  This continued for a few more times, until I received the message loud and clear: As an FNG, I’d better keep my mouth shut and listen to what the salty team guys say—the SEAL equivalent of “Do not speak until spoken to.”

  Even the skipper enjoyed watching my attempts to be heard, and I’m sure he probably would’ve let it continue if it hadn’t been cutting into PT time.

  “Attention,” Master Chief called out, bringing everyone back to the reality of the military so he could officially end Quarters. “Carry on,” the skipper said before he entered the building with his officers in tow.

  That wasn’t too bad, I thought. A little bit of yelling to reinforce my naïveté within the community and …

  Thud! I was suddenly on the deck and
being stretched as if I were on some medieval torture rack while a few of my teammates taped my ankles and knees together. They then flipped me over to secure my hands behind my back as if I were wearing handcuffs. I knew where I was going, straight into the drink. At BUD/S every SEAL is taught how to survive in the water with our hands tightly bound behind our back and our feet strapped together. We call it “drownproofing,” and successive repetitions of this drill and many others relieve any fear a student might have of water. This was just going to be the “same old, same old,” only this time I was in my dress white uniform.

  They finished the tape job and hoisted me overhead and carried me to the bay as if I were some rock star who’d dived from the stage into the crowd. Everyone seemed so happy with the idea of having me take an ocean swim, I couldn’t help but laugh along, wondering if I’d ever find my shoes again.

  “Welcome overboard, mate!” was the last thing I heard before my right side hit the cold Chesapeake Bay. Of course, with a uniform on I immediately began to sink to the bottom, but training kicked in. I bobbed right up like I had been taught at BUD/S. I then started dolphin swimming toward the boat ramp as my new friends looked on. It took several minutes to get there and then another five to worm my way onto the dry area of the ramp.

  I was lying there catching my breath when one of the team guys came over to look at me.

  “Glad to have you as part of the team, Doc,” he said while he cut me free.

  “Damn glad to be here,” I answered back as I got to my feet and shook his hand. For the rest of the week, I endured nonstop teasing, taunting, and relentless pranks that often ended up with me in the bay fully dressed, but it was all part of being a team guy. I’d earned the chance to join a platoon by finishing BUD/S. To earn the trust and respect of my teammates, I had to embrace the initiation period and drive on with good humor, even when dripping wet in a dress uniform. More importantly, I had to perform as a warrior and medical provider and prove my worth by my actions and dedication to the mission and the team. I was up for the challenge and jumped in with both feet.

  MY FIRST PLATOON

  SEAL Teams are broken up into smaller operational platoons, and I had been assigned to one shortly after arriving in Virginia due to the shortage of SEAL-qualified corpsmen. My new platoon had just returned from a long deployment that took them across Europe and parts of Africa. There, they helped bolster the defense forces of our undeveloped allies, with hopes they would defend themselves against threats to their governments, thereby preventing the need for a U.S. military presence there in the future. They also spent time working with the renowned British Special Boat Service, or SBS, and other allied frogmen, concentrating on improving “interaction and coordination” between our countries. This would prove essential as America headed into the First Gulf War.

  It didn’t take long to realize their combined experience and knowledge was extraordinary. Later, I would be awed by their ability to remain tactically sound while navigating the politically sensitive waters of international relations. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out where their maturity and sound judgment came from. Like the rest of the SEAL Teams, my platoon ranged in age from their midtwenties to midthirties, each man possessing a strong intellect and a high level of education. The officers graduated from some of the top engineering and science institutions in the country, and over a third of the enlisted crew had a college degree, making me one of the least-educated members among them. They were also fiercely loyal to one another, a tight-knit tribe that did nearly everything together, including the mentoring of one young SEAL corpsman.

  * * *

  Thad was a formable college wrestler and a natural teacher who happened to have a bachelor’s degree in history. Despite qualifying for an officer’s commission, he purposely joined the enlisted ranks as the most direct route to fulfilling his life’s desire, to be a Navy SEAL. It was his calling in life, and he wasn’t interested in delaying the opportunity by waiting for an officer billet. In the military that would have been quite unusual, but not in the teams. Enlisted SEALs operate and kick doors for their entire career, while an officer’s time as a shooter is limited. Eventually rank will push an officer out of the team room and into an office. It may be an office in the middle of a jungle or on a forward operating base in a barren desert, but it’s still an office. Officer candidates realize this, so when it comes time to apply for a commission many opt for the enlisted route instead. The officers that do enter the teams often opt for extended operational time versus a promotion in rank. My SEAL Team was no different from the rest of the force. Our guys had degrees ranging from philosophy to engineering to history. We even had foreign language majors that used their skills to seamlessly blend in with the local populace when needed. This broad range of skills, education, and experience was the foundation of plenty of spirited discussions on world affairs, sports rivalries, and, of course, practical jokes.

  * * *

  The months began to fly by when we started our workup, the training period used to prepare SEALs for an overseas deployment. During that time I worked hard to absorb everything I could as both a SEAL and a medic. Lucky for me I had a senior corpsman to teach me the ropes. I can’t imagine trying to get acclimated to special operations medicine without his guidance. I remember the frustration I felt when I received my first aid bag. It was haphazardly stuffed with lifesaving equipment and common medications that had no place in a first aid bag. Some of the trauma gear was basic, and I had mastered its use in Hospital Corps school, but other items were way beyond my abilities, and it made me wonder why I was issued these things in the first place. I was unsure what I needed to carry or even where to place it inside the bag, so I laid everything out on a table in front of me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Scott, my senior corpsman, as he walked into the medical department.

  “I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to need. SOT didn’t teach me about any of this,” I said dumbfounded as I lifted a thoracostomy tube and Heimlich chest drain. SOT stood for Special Operations Technician Course, an intense diving medicine course that all SEAL corpsmen attended after BUD/S. It was a good course, and I learned a great deal, but it only concentrated on the diagnosis and treatment of dive-related injuries and not the field trauma that special operations medics encounter during training or on the battlefield.

  “Don’t worry about any of that, you’ll get introduced to it later. Just keep it simple for now. Stick with ABC’s, but not necessarily in that order,” he said as he laughed at the mess I had made. I knew he was alluding to the importance of controlling hemorrhage from a conversation we’d had the day before.

  I picked up a couple of ancient battle dressings and tossed them to him as I sarcastically said, “What, these things?”

  “Yep,” he replied, not reacting to my mockery of the bag’s contents.

  “These bandages look like remnants from Iwo Jima. Four linen ties sewn to the back of a cotton bandage. Now, I get the whole ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ thing, but come on … you’d think by now someone would have developed a better bandage.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. All I’m saying is stop your bitching and get your shit ready, otherwise you’ll be here all day. Besides, these battle dressings aren’t that bad. You can get them on fairly quickly, and they’ll control some pretty heavy bleeding—but not the way you have them now. You need to prep the right way and place them in the bag where you can get to them within seconds,” he said, demonstrating what I needed to do.

  Scott stayed with me for nearly three hours helping to prep and pack my aid bag. We’d stop every few minutes so he could explain or demonstrate the proper use of an item, or justify why we were throwing it out.

  “These Vietnam-era tourniquets are useless,” Scott said. “Now, go over there and grab some extra cravats and I’ll show you how to make a device that’ll hold both in and out of the water.”

  Scott was right; I tried using one of the navy-i
ssued Vietnam-era tourniquets to hold my dive med kit to the backboard when I was on the support boat during SOT. It worked at first, but once it got wet it failed miserably. I knew then there was no way this tourniquet would ever stay tight enough to control a major bleed, especially if we had to extract through the water, and that’s exactly what we’re taught to do. The water is our home, and while others look at it as an obstacle, we view it as an ally. If our equipment can’t handle the extremes of sand and saltwater, carrying it is more trouble than it’s worth.

  Scott continued showing me the tricks of the trade, and I couldn’t have been more appreciative. Back then, unlike our army counterparts, we didn’t have a formal “combat trauma” training program, so the principles of battlefield medicine were passed down from SEAL corpsman to SEAL corpsman. Over the course of the workup, I spent a lot of time with him going over everything from trauma to snotology, a term I picked up for describing the branch of medicine that deals with the common cold and other low-level complaints. I knew at some point our platoon would be split in two and half of the men were going to be relying solely on me for care, so I took every available opportunity to see patients both with Scott and at the medical clinic in the middle of the compound.