Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic

by Mark L. Donald

  * * *

  I met Jay at the hotel, and we walked downstairs to the reception table to check in. I had business at the Pentagon earlier that morning that required a uniform, so I was still dressed in my khaki uniform with ribbons, while Jason was decked out in his dress blues. They escorted us in and placed us at one of the front tables, just off center and directly ahead of where most of the reporters were seated. I couldn’t help but turn around to see how many people were attending, and I spotted “Sgt. Shaft,” a military columnist for The Washington Times. His real name was John Fales, and he was a former Devil Dog (marine) who had served in Beirut before losing his sight in Vietnam. Sgt. Shaft’s column provided advice to service members, veterans, and their families regarding some of their greatest concerns, so I had no choice but to go over and shake his hand.

  “What was that all about?” Jay asked when I got back to the table.

  “That’s Sgt. Shaft. He’s—”

  “I got that. You told me before you went over. What’s with the other guy asking so many questions?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he just wanted to know how a medical officer had a Trident. Anyway, Sgt. Shaft gave me his business card and invited me to lunch at Ben’s Chili Bowl,” I said as I held up a red, white, and blue nail file with his contact information stamped into it.

  “Interesting. You think he ever gets mixed up and hands out a regular nail file by mistake?” Jay asked in jest. We shared a laugh while I sat down to listen to our keynote speaker deliver his speech.

  * * *

  “Where the hell are you?” was all I heard John say when I answered my phone on my way into work.

  “I’m in my car. It’s only seven thirty. I’ll be at the morning meeting on time. Why?”

  “The SECNAV’s office has left three messages for you, all saying to head straight to the deputy under’s office.”

  “Well, I better turn around, because I just passed the five-sided genius factory a few minutes ago.”

  “Damn right, and when you get done, how about sharing the truth about what you did to get the SECNAV’s office to call, Lieutenant? It’s got to be a great story.”

  “I have no idea!”

  “Yeah, right, that’s what all you SEALs say.”

  I hung up the phone and thought over every piece of intel production, taskings, meetings, and general conversations I had been involved with over the last few months that could have warranted a summons to the secretary of the navy. “No use killing yourself over it, Mark. You’ll find out soon enough,” I said as I pulled into one of the many oversized parking lots servicing the building.

  After checking in with the undersecretary’s office, I learned an inquisitive journalist, perhaps the one at the table with Sgt. Shaft, had reported on a number of cases regarding stolen valor, including a naval medical officer who falsely claimed to have been awarded a Silver Star, a Special Forces Tab, and numerous other valorous awards and decorations five years earlier. So when he saw a SEAL Trident, Navy Cross, and Medical Service Corps device he immediately thought he was dealing with a similar situation. There was no name tag on my uniform, so he placed a call to the secretary of the navy’s office. Much to his surprise the reporter was informed that I did indeed exist. The Navy Times ran an article titled “Lt. Earned a Navy Cross He Can’t Wear,” highlighting the peculiarity of the situation. Thankfully, the secretary’s office was understanding about the comments that started flowing across the Internet following its release.

  I was able to stay somewhat underground a little while longer, but they eventually discovered my name. Being the highest decorated Medical Service Corps officer in the history of the navy and the first medical officer of any corps (physicians, service corps, and nurses) to receive a Navy Cross since Vietnam, it was bound to come out. My first concern was for the safety of my family, which was the whole reason for keeping everything quiet, but after a conversation with Bullfrog I realized it was foolish to try to hide in the open, and it might be better to face this head-on. Whatever concerns we had years before had faded, and keeping things hidden inside was what caused my pain to escalate in the first place. This would be just another step in my lifelong therapy about my relationship with the real heroes of those battles. I just needed to find the right folks to talk to.

  * * *

  Nathaniel Helms had been an army door gunner in Vietnam and was an accomplished writer and reporter for Newsmax magazine. I was given his name by a lawyer of a friend of mine whom I met at the Army and Navy Club. I first met Nat over the phone, but it only took a few minutes before I could trust him enough to answer a few of his questions. I felt a little more comfortable with the situation after speaking with Nat and decided it was time to meet with Navy Times reporter Andrew Scutro, who wrote the first article, and put the rumors to rest.

  29

  TIME TO SAY GOOD-BYE

  As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

  —JOHN F. KENNEDY

  Career military men and women, those who serve for twenty years or more, base their decisions to retire on several factors: desire to move on, potential benefits on the outside, job satisfaction or lack thereof, and so forth. None of those influenced my decision. For me there was nothing more important than spending time with my family. Arguably I could have done that by staying in the navy, so I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt I had to retire. I just knew it was time to say good-bye, but apparently I seemed to be the only one. Despite dropping my retirement papers I was still selected for promotion, something that almost never occurs. At first I thought I might be making a big mistake and needed to reconsider, but there was no use denying the voice inside of me telling me it was time to start over, the same voice that took me away from home nearly a quarter century ago and eventually guided me into medicine. Just as the Trident Program would be commissioned as the Kennedy Irregular Warfare Center and begin its naval “career,” I would be retiring and ending mine.

  I had thought about fading away quietly, but then I remembered how Dave educated me on how valor awards are more for those men and women who are still serving than for the recipient. It was the military’s method of letting America know that no service member’s willingness to sacrifice for others will be forgotten. The more I contemplated separating from service, the more I began to see the retirement ceremony in the same light. It would seem the ceremony would benefit the retiree, but actually it’s the family who gets the most out of it. The ceremony validates the reasons they shared their husband, father, and child with the country. It acknowledges their sacrifice and offers an opportunity for friends and colleagues to thank them for their service. It is the closure that brings the family together by openly recognizing the end of the family’s military service.

  Once I understood the significance this would have for my family, I knew I had to have a ceremony. Now all I needed to do was identify a location that reflected the essence of my career, which turned out to be harder than I expected. I started as a marine and had served in a multitude of jobs in the navy, each one filled with friends and teammates who had helped me through the toughest times in my life, so it wasn’t too surprising when each corps offered to host the ceremony. I contemplated the SEAL Teams, the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, and the Office of Naval Intelligence, but I couldn’t help feeling taking one over the other might diminish the impact the others had on my life. Rather than choosing a location myself, I turned to the ones the ceremony would benefit the most, my family.

  CEREMONY

  It was a beautiful fall day in the nation’s capital, and I was blessed that I would be ending my career surrounded by so many family members and friends. The proceedings were held at the Navy Memorial in Washington, D.C., neutral ground befitting the retirement of a Navy SEAL medical officer assigned to an intelligence command. Dina, the commanding officer’s right hand, Dana, and a couple of lieutenants I’d grown close to planned the ceremony down
to the last detail, but all of ONI and my friends at the Pentagon pitched in to make sure everything went off without a hitch.

  Admiral Cullison, who’d been promoted from commander of all of navy medicine on the East Coast to deputy surgeon general of the navy, agreed to join the deputy chaplain of the Marine Corps and my close friend John, also a former Recon Marine turned Navy SEAL, to be part of the official party. Tim, Chris, and Dave, who made up half of the SEAL physician assistants in the navy, came in from across the country, as did Jim, one of the good Samaritans who worked so diligently with the other three to pull me through my tough times at PA school. Marshall Billingslea, who’d just finished his term as the Navy’s deputy undersecretary, and some of his former staff joined Bullfrog, TJ, Dave, and the rest of their crew in the auditorium as well. Except for the skeleton crew needed for ongoing operations in Iraq and Afghanistan, the CO, Commander Whitworth, had all the officers and crew from Kennedy in attendance.

  The auditorium was full, and I was moved by how many faces were there from the past. Some I’d lost touch with over the years; others sent their regards from the war zone, and I prayed for their safe return. TJ and Dave surprised me by presenting me with a paddle, a symbol of honor within the nautical arm of special operations, just before I moved to the podium to deliver my final words as a naval officer.

  I started by letting everyone know the scars I received from service paled next to the gifts I’d been given from their friendship, and I tried to convey the feeling I had opening a letter from my daughter that explained an enclosed group of items she felt brought her luck and how she wanted me to carry them to keep me safe on the battlefield. I told how Cody’s vigilance regarding his mother and sister gave me peace of mind while I was away. I thanked my mother for raising me and never giving up on my faith even when I had done so myself, and I praised my wife for loving me when I hated being alive.

  I spoke about learning that even the worst of times are survivable if you reach for help and apologized for hiding my weaknesses for so long. I openly admitted that I was not without fear and only took the risks I did because I knew my friends and family were there to right the ship when I began to list. I spoke of a revelation I had a few days earlier that my career would not be judged by my achievements but by the accomplishments of those I mentored. I reminded my listeners they should not be fooled into thinking that a moment in time defines the essence of an operator or medical provider; instead it is the totality of our work. The medals I wear, I wear for others, but I was a good SEAL and medical provider; I might not have been great at either but never stopped trying to be the best. I wanted the navy to understand I was equally proud of serving in the special operations, medical, and intelligence communities, and deep down I knew all those I’d worked with had mastered each craft better than I ever did. “I’d like to believe part of it was because I gave every bit of knowledge I had to give, but for those who feel differently, I apologize and ask your forgiveness,” I said. I closed with the message to avoid battle at all costs, but when you must fight, fight for others and not yourself—and as my good friend and mentor Pete Wikul always said, when called upon, fight to win.

  * * *

  At the end of the ceremony we moved outside, where my wife and kids joined me in the receiving line. It was a wonderful event, and seeing how much it touched my family I was thankful for having it.

  “So what are you going to do now?” Chris asked as we shook hands.

  “You’ll find out soon, but it’ll have to do with serving our veterans and their families while keeping me close to mine. I know people want to help; we just need to show them how.”

  30

  THE ASSOCIATION

  Help your brother’s boat across, and your own will reach the shore.

  —HINDU PROVERB

  My time spent among combat veterans from the Purple Heart taught me that the mental wounds from battle are rarely cured. Rather it’s a constant healing process, and emotional scars will reopen if circumstances allow. There are the obvious occasions when this might occur—anniversaries of battles, attending funerals of the fallen, and so forth—but there are also times when emotions can overtake a veteran for no apparent reason. The first few times this happened to me, I was able to handle things myself, having developed the skill set through training and later therapy to be self-sufficient. However, as life piled on one trouble after another in a condensed period of time, as it often does, circumstances started to overwhelm me once again. When I would feel this way in D.C., I would meet with fellow veterans whom I knew I could confide in, so rather than face it alone I met with a friend and fellow SEAL war veteran, Mike Day.

  Mike had recently retired from the navy and begun work as a wounded advocate for the SOF community under the same umbrella as Korrina. His time on the battlefield and ability to survive over two dozen enemy rounds gave him the credibility necessary to connect with even the most headstrong veterans, such as myself. In a series of early morning conversations, Mike was able to remind me how to get past the problems that ailed me. During our discussions I also realized that over time the emotional weight of any mental condition would increase as the mind and body weaken from age. It seemed to me the best way to keep such conditions in remission was to reach out to—or, as it was in my case, remain active with—organizations that provided the camaraderie and support necessary to tackle difficult times.

  For SEALs it is our UDT-SEAL Association that facilitates that bond. Despite my disinterest in the association early in my career, as I matured as a frogman I began to realize its importance in preserving our heritage and friendships among those who served, as well as its ongoing efforts to support the SEAL community—but was it enough?

  The public has rallied behind our troops, providing assistance to various foundations, including our own, supporting America’s service members. However, “today’s warfighter is tomorrow’s veteran,” and if we learned anything from the drawdown of previous conflicts it’s that the needs of the American veteran won’t fully be known until years after these men and women leave military service. Although the government is the mainstay of support, there is plenty that veterans, citizens, and businesses can do in partnership with one another to expand each of our capabilities and strengthen our country’s commitment to the American veteran.

  War, after all, is a societal decision. Regardless of how one may feel about politics, it is the vote of the people that decides who will represent our intentions; therefore war and its consequences are also a societal responsibility. Rather than sit and wonder about what needed to be done, I wanted to be a part of helping make things happen. Truth be told, these conversations actually started while I was still in the service when I met with my mentor and good friend Wade Ishimoto. “Ish” was one of the original members of the special operations community and had a storied past that most men could only dream of living. So when he asked me if I would be willing to consider helping a nonprofit that assists the veterans of the spec ops community, I couldn’t refuse. Over coffee Ish told me that a group of former Special Forces veterans had formed an organization known as the OASIS Group, whose structure was specifically designed to work with each of the military services’ fraternal associations in order to provide VA assistance for all spec ops veterans. It sounded like a great idea, utilizing existing infrastructure to reach those in need and then supplying the expertise to help them make it happen. Later, as I navigated through the retirement waters, I grew to understand the need, appreciated their guidance, and looked forward to bringing their assistance to the SEAL veteran community. However, as an association we were just beginning to understand that VA advocacy was only a small portion of the support our veterans might need.

  Although we had an implicit veteran program based on the brotherhood of service, it primarily benefited those who lived near the SEAL community, most notably Virginia Beach and Coronado. Now we needed to formalize our intentions. The association had worked with other veteran organizations in the past,
but in a closed community many of our members were still reluctant to ask outside organizations for help. What we needed was something from within, something that could team with existing programs to meet the needs of our members, a communication and coordination channel. This became more evident with the passing of one of my BUD/S instructors.

  * * *

  I walked into the office to meet with Jacky and hear more about a call she’d received. As the family support coordinator for the active-duty SEALs on the East Coast, it was her job to meet with the ombudsman from each team and spouses and family members to assist them with any problems they might be facing related to a husband’s or father’s service. The program, an extension of the ombudsman’s outreach, had proven a striking success, but unfortunately her hands were tied when it came to veterans.

  “Mark, I received a call from Lynn Bukowski. Her husband just passed away,” she said as I pulled a chair closer to her desk.

  I knew of Steve from my days at BUD/S, but I didn’t really get to know him until we bumped into one another at the East Coast compound. Steve was a top-flight operator and leader, so the news of his passing was upsetting to everyone in the community.

  “Hopefully it was painless,” I said as I sat down while she continued.

  “Lynn is having a terrible time trying to figure out what needs to get done, and there’s only so much we can do.”

  Steve and Lynn had adopted a special-needs child years earlier and moved out to the country just prior to his retirement, which only complicated the sudden loss of her husband. She was left confused and feeling alone during an extremely trying time.