by Chris Kyle
I tried my best to keep up with the news and hoped the reports were wrong. There were reminders all around, including a bottle of whiskey we’d opened but would never finish together. When I opened the freezer to get ice cubes, I saw the two cans of Copenhagen that Chris had left in case he ran out the next time he was down—he didn’t like my Skoal.
Besides being one of the most lethal military individuals in history, Chris was probably one of the most compassionate and respectful men I’ve ever met. He never failed to thank a former military man or woman for their service. He treated all veterans as equals and was genuinely interested in hearing their stories more than telling them his own.
Chris may be gone, but those of us who got to know him will never forget him. Being a businessman, I found it hard at first to believe that he gave away all of the money from his book; after spending time with him, I believed it. His big black Ford truck looked pretty cool, but it also had around 150,000 miles and he could not afford to replace it. He was a true American hero.
RICH EMBERLIN
DALLAS POLICE DEPARTMENT, FRIEND
Rich Emberlin checks the flank as he follows Chris through a training exercise. At war and at peace, Chris was always ready to lead.
I have a lot of stories about Chris—almost all of them are not what most people would expect about the person they have read about or seen on television.
There was the time a guy ran his mouth at Chris outside of a restroom at a really nice hotel bar in Texas—we’ll withhold the name to protect the guilty. We had been at the SWAT range all day and we were tired, dirty, banged up, and just trying to relax. I guess this particular guy didn’t think that the BDUs (battle dress uniforms) we were wearing were the appropriate dress for this particular fancy place and voiced his opinion rather obnoxiously.
In a flash, Chris put the guy up against the wall and was about two seconds from choking him out. Fortunately, he stopped at the last moment, realizing the guy wasn’t a real threat. So he took it easy on him.
“You’re gone when I come out,” Chris growled. Then he gave him a gentle squeeze and went inside to do his business.
The guy made it across the street before the restroom door even closed.
I got on Chris about the confrontation. We got into a discussion about what could and couldn’t be done now that he was back from the big “sandbox.” Like a lot of other SEALs, Chris didn’t tolerate a lot of BS from guys like this and occasionally he would choke these types of people out, usually though not always in jest. The guy we’d just dealt with would have been a prime candidate, he suggested.
I told him that back home, the ROEs—“rules of engagement”—precluded choking people out.
“It’s assault,” I told him.
“Assault? No bro, that was just a little warning.” He gave me one of his innocent looks. He was being sincere. For Chris, a choke-out was the equivalent of a big wet kiss on the forehead.
“Look, I’m a cop, and what you just did is assault,” I told him.
Well, he wouldn’t let me hear the end of that. Weeks later, he and I ran into a chaplain who’d been in the Marines and had a mature outlook on life. Chris decided to put the matter to him.
“Is choking someone out assault?” he asked the chaplain.
I rolled my eyes in the background as he recounted the situation. The chaplain considered it carefully.
“It is assault,” he said finally. “It’s assault with the intent to educate. So you’re good to go.”
I just shook my head while Chris grinned at me.
Chris could be such a jokester, just a big kid. Then suddenly, if the occasion called for it, he’d be very serious, completely different. He’d be all business. He was the guy you wanted on your team, whether it was a dignitary protection job or playing touch football. He had one speed—full.
And that was the way he took on friendship. As a friend, there were no questions asked: if you called him up in the middle of the night and asked for a change of clothing, five hundred bucks, and a car, you’d get them all.
He was wise beyond his years in some ways, and still a little kid in others. He was the only guy I know who could sit in a room with you for two hours, not say anything, and yet cure whatever had been ailing you when you came in.
I want people to know what a good and nice man he was. What a great husband, father, and friend he was. I want people to know that he never, ever acted like a celebrity—I’m not sure he knew he was one. I want people to know he was a hell of a practical joker. I want people to know he was a true friend and the one true friend of everyone who ever got close to him. I really miss him.
SARAH AND ELLYSE DYER
FRIENDS
After we learned the terrible news of Chris’s death, my four-year-old daughter Ellyse wrote the following prayer:
Dear God,
Thank you for Mr. Chris and for making him better and that he’s with you now. Thank you that he got to play with me a lot and for being with him at that very moment.
You see, Elly didn’t know her “Mr. Chris” as an American hero—she knew him as one of her heroes. She knew him as a friend’s daddy who had an inviting smile, twinkly eyes, a huge heart, and wide-open arms. Chris’s large presence demanded attention, but his fun-loving and gentle spirit invited laughter and playfulness. Every soccer or basketball practice and game, Elly sought Chris out, knowing he would welcome her up in that big ol’ lap of his.
The morning of Chris’s death, we were all at the kids’ basketball game. We were getting the boys ready to go home to play for the afternoon and we couldn’t find Elly anywhere. I looked up at my husband and said, “I don’t see Chris, what do you want to bet that she’s still in the gym on his lap?” Sure enough, that’s where she was, and where she had been for the previous hour and a half—laughing and giggling and playing. If that doesn’t tell you about the endless patience and heart of Chris Kyle, I don’t know a story that would.
Nearly four months later, Elly’s prayers still include the words, “Please be with my friends and Mrs. Taya and give them peace and be with their hearts.” She may not understand everything there is to understand about death and heaven, but she understands the void that Chris’s death leaves. She knows that Mr. Chris was a hero to his kids and to his wife, and she understands that their hearts all need the comfort only God can provide.
To say that Chris loved kids is an understatement. The fact that he happened to love mine is a bonus that gives his status of “legend” an even greater meaning to us. I would never want to downplay Chris’s military achievements, but the legacy that he leaves is so much more than his brilliant and amazing military records. The records would stand on their own, but how much more amazing to have the depth of love and compassion for others that Chris had.
SCOTT BROWN
MUSICIAN, MARINE, FRIEND
Scott “Scooter” Brown and Chris share a laugh during a hunting trip. Their friendship was a song— literally—as they collaborated on a tune Scooter included on a recent album.
I met Chris for the first time at Base Camp 40—Warriors in the Wild, an organization that takes combat veterans on elk hunts in western Colorado. A mutual friend, Base Camp 40 director Paul Bristol, introduced us on the mountain. Our first conversation went like this:
“Scott Brown? I heard there was some jarhead up here that thinks he can sing,” said Chris.
“Yup. I heard there was some squid up here that thought he could write books. I hope you brought some in case we need to start a fire.”
“I think we’re gonna be friends,” said Chris, laughing.
I am a U.S. Marine. I served in Iraq in 2003. Now I’m the lead singer of the Scooter Brown Band. When I met Chris, we discovered that we had a lot in common besides serving the country we love. We talked family, kids, music, baseball, rodeo, and hunting. When we met, I hadn’t read his book and honestly didn’t really know much about him. After reading American Sniper, I realized we were in Nasiriyah, Iraq, arou
nd the same time in 2003.
Two nights in a row the weekend we were at Base Camp 40, we came down from the mountain to hang out at a little bar in Grand Junction. Both nights we somehow found ourselves in some minor scraps. It seemed like guys just had something to prove and gravitated toward us.
One guy looked like he was gonna hit us with a beer bottle. Chris looked at him and said, “You always hold a beer bottle like you’re gonna break it over somebody’s head?” While the man was trying to formulate an answer, the bouncer came over to calm things down. He proceeded to tell out antagonists they were trying to start a fight with a Marine and a Navy SEAL, then explained who Chris was. They lost some color in their skin tone and kissed our asses for the rest of the night. It was pretty damn funny to witness.
For some reason, the bar owner thought we were a couple of big shots with lots of money and started talking to us about buying his bar. We’d been putting back some Coors Light, so we entertained the conversation for our own amusement, knowing damn well we couldn’t buy any bar.
I turned to Chris and said, “So, what are we gonna name our bar?” We tossed around a bunch of joke names, coming up with the crudest names we could think of.
Then Chris got quiet. “Valor,” he said. “We should name it valor. To pay respects to everyone who’s fought and sacrificed for our country. No matter if you got a medal for it or not, we all fought with valor.”
It stuck with me.
Back in Texas, we continued our friendship. As a songwriter, the word “valor” kept running through my head. I told Chris I was gonna write a song about it and tossed some ideas around with him. Once the song was finished, Chris said he didn’t want any credit for helping to write it. That was typical Chris Kyle style. I told him to go fly a kite.
I only got to play it for him twice. Once while visiting him and Taya, and once at his memorial service at Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, Texas. It was the most honorable thing I’ve ever been asked to do—and one that I wish I never had to do.
I can honestly say that Chris has had a huge impact on my life. I love everything he stood for, his love for his amazing family, his love for his fellow brothers in arms, and his will to want to give back and help others.
Was Chris a hero to me? Yes. Not just because of his military service but because he was a great father, husband, family man, and friend. It was an honor to call Chris a friend.
Semper fidelis, brother.
SERGEANT VINCE LEE
DALLAS POLICE DEPARTMENT, FRIEND
Vincent and Jennifer Lee at their wedding with Chris and Taya. The couple became fast friends after Chris resettled in Texas.
When you were in Chris’s presence, you couldn’t help but notice his physical stature. He had wide shoulders, big arms, and a strong handshake. But the really impressive thing about the guy was his personality. His energy filled the room when he walked into it.
I met him a few years back. I’d heard of him before, but what I’d heard seemed almost mythological. It was hard to gauge what was real and what was not. Frankly, I expected to meet a gruff, maybe even mean-spirited man. I did not. Oh, his physical bearing and stance were exactly as advertised: he was a bad-ass. But then, as I watched him interact with the people around him, I saw that he was amazingly humble and kindhearted. He even seemed a little naive: he saw good things in everyone.
I was honored when he selected me to work security for him during his book tour—although I found it ironic and even humorous that I’d be providing security for a guy who could easily kick my ass. I felt a deep sense of pride as I traveled the country with a man I truly respected and admired.
I remember his very first book signing in Dallas. I arrived at the Barnes & Noble bookstore hours early to conduct a site advance. There was a crowd of two hundred people. I called back to the detail and told them the numbers. We all braced for what would be the beginning of an incredible journey.
Over eight hundred people showed up to get books signed and shake hands with “The Legend” that night. After it was over, we all knew that Chris Kyle was now a rock star. Yet he remained a humble soul. Later on the book tour, we found ourselves booked into a fleabag hotel. We all laughed because we knew no one had bothered to research the hotel: Why on earth would they put Chris Kyle in such a dump? It wasn’t until weeks later that I found out Chris had a suite at the finest hotel in town but refused to stay there because his security people did not have a room there.
I have a lot of good memories from that tour. No matter where else we were due, Chris was clear that he wasn’t leaving until everyone who wanted to take a photo, get a copy of American Sniper signed, or just talk was satisfied. It didn’t matter how long it took or how little sleep he’d gotten. He would stand there the entire time and thank every veteran for their service. He made sure that every elderly person would not have to stand too long. And through it all, he was more concerned for Taya’s safety than he was for his own.
In my line of work I’ve had an opportunity to meet many great leaders of this nation. I say with no hesitation and absolutely no hyperbole, Chris was as good a man as I’ve ever had the honor to shake hands with. He is the “rough man” George Orwell speaks of. He stood ready in the night to visit violence upon those who would do us harm. I will miss my friend.
JIM DEFELICE
COAUTHOR OF AMERICAN SNIPER
I knew from the start that people would relate to Chris and Taya’s story, but I didn’t understand how successful we had been telling it until the night of the very first book signing in Dallas.
I was up in New York, and had been talking to Chris via text or phone—they seem to blur together these days—earlier in the day. He claimed to need some sort of encouragement. Chris wasn’t a public person and surely didn’t like crowds. I can’t remember what I said exactly, though I’m sure it was something along the lines of Just be yourself.
And: Don’t worry. There’ll only be a hundred people or so there. You’ll be out of there and back home pretty quick.
It didn’t quite go that way. People started lining up in the afternoon. I’ve heard estimates that over eight hundred showed up to sign books and meet Chris. He and Taya were there well past midnight. Chris shook every hand and signed every book. I’m thankful they didn’t stick me with the babysitter’s bill.
In case you don’t know, a hundred people at a book signing is actually a lot. A thousand people is unheard of, unless you’re already a movie star. In fact, I’ve been at book signings for movie stars and their crowds were half what Chris’s was that night.
I joined Chris and Taya a few weeks later as they swung through mid- and eastern Texas for a number of events. The crowds were just as massive. Hundreds of people showed up in small towns in the middle of the day to buy books, have them signed, and most of all, thank Chris for his service. The publication of the book had made him the brother, son, friend, neighbor they hadn’t been able to personally thank for the sacrifices of serving our country.
American Sniper has been translated into seventeen languages since its publication in 2012.
In commercial terms, American Sniper has had undreamed of success. At the date I’m writing this, American Sniper has been translated into sixteen languages. Well over a million copies have been sold in formats ranging from hardcover to audiobook to e-book. It will soon be made into a major motion picture starring one of the country’s biggest box-office attractions. By any measure, the book is in a very unique category.
But I don’t think anyone, and certainly not Chris, really gauged the book’s success in terms of numbers. For Chris, the smiles, the handshakes, and the thank-yous were the true measure of achievement. He was happy for the success, since it meant more money for the families he was helping—Chris didn’t take money for the book—but I strongly suspect he never once looked at a sales tally, let alone a bestseller list.
Chris always gave me a lot of credit for the success of the book, but I think from the beginning to the end he and Taya
are the ones responsible. It’s their story. Their decision to tell everything without feel-good gloss is really the core of the book. It’s what people can relate to on a gut level. I think people meeting them in person realized that Chris was just a regular guy, a young man exactly the same as that son or daughter, friend or neighbor who’d gone and enlisted a few years back. He was a man you could have a beer with. And he was a hero to boot.
I’ve told a lot of stories for the media since Chris died, mostly in an attempt to illustrate that he was a lot more than “just” the highly skilled SEAL that news reports inevitably portray him as. I’ve talked about the hunting trips he took disabled vets on, and tried to get beyond even that. At different times I’ve mentioned the snowball fights with my son (Chris lost); his texting me after Hurricane Sandy to see if he could help; the talks we had about how to coach Little League. I’ve even admitted how completely he whipped my ass at Madden. But none of these stories really get to the totality of who he was. Even alongside the book, they present a limited vision of the complex, generous, and humble human being that was Chris Kyle.
One story I’ve never told happened in New York City, during a short break in one of the early publicity tours. There was a lull one afternoon and I asked Chris what he wanted to do. I was thinking he’d want to take a nap, since he hadn’t had much sleep; I wouldn’t have minded one myself. Instead he said he wanted to visit the site of the World Trade Center. Though he’d never been there, the destruction of the towers had had an immense impact on his life, and he wanted to pay silent homage to the people who had died there.
