Unbreakable: A Navy SEAL’s Way of Life

by Thom Shea

  Snowman replied, “I would rather call a stripper to suck the stinger out. I think one stung me on my cock.”

  Carnie said, “Still think I will call your mom for that, you pussy.”

  Somehow the whole scene of bullets flying everywhere, bees being burned, talk of strippers and moms, and cock stings made perfect sense to us. Probably not to any of you, but it did to us.

  Strangely, the enemy fire and bees died down at the same time. A moment of no noise and no movement made us all nervous. “Holy shit, what just happened?” I asked Carnie. I stood back from my firing position to look around. Everyone was either looking through their scopes or sitting against the wall, looking at me. I shrugged my shoulders, smiled, and said, “Maybe they are all changing their magazines at the same time?”

  Snowman moved slowly over to Ground Launch, then they both aimed their weapons and lifted their heads … a bit too much, apparently. Two rounds cracked over their heads. I felt the spin of a bullet and the air of its passing. They immediately ducked. Ground Launch yelled, “You missed me, motherfucker!” Snowman looked at Ground Launch and said, “Do you think it is personal? I think it’s personal. I don’t think that guy likes you too much.” Then, Snowman handed Ground Launch a 40 mm grenade, which he loaded without saying anything. He lifted his launcher to his shoulder, aiming right at the place the round had come from. Then he fired. Before the round landed 200 yards away, he had shot two more grenades. When the first one hit, an enemy ran from his position. We had all anticipated this—nothing like one year of training together. Before the second round hit, Carnie and I had put four rounds in the enemy. As he tumbled, the second round hit at his feet, blowing him up into the air. When he landed from that flip, the third round bounced him up again.

  I put my hand on Carnie’s shoulder and said, “Nice, brother.”

  Lawyer yelled, “Fast movers, two minutes out. Give me bearing and distance.”

  I yelled down to him, “Ninety-eight yards, thirty-five degrees. Have him spot the tree then the wall leading away from our compound. He should find some dudes at the first tree line. Drop a 500 pounder ASAP.”

  “Roger, Chief.” He cut himself off, and I watched him talking into his radio, tracing the lines on the map as he spoke. After a bit, he looked up and said, “Two minutes out, Chief.”

  I turned to Carnie, Snowman, and Ground Launch, “Gents, this is going to be dangerously close. A 500 pounder is dropping right on that tree line. Carnie, shoot a burst of rounds on the left side so the enemy run back to the right.” Carnie shot a couple of bursts and ducked, just as the 500 pounder landed. Wow! The walls shook and the blast wave traveled right over our heads. “Damn,” I muttered softly.

  I realized I should check in with all the men and reconnect their efforts with the fact we were doing well and staying alive through another round of dealing with the devil. My feet and knees again hurt as I walked around the compound. I guess stress causes endorphins to kick in, and they were now wearing off.

  I climbed up the ladder leading to Nike, Jake, and All Around’s position. When I popped my head up, I noticed twenty or more .300 Winchester Magnum shell casings on the ground. “Nicely done, gents. How many did you get?”

  Nike replied, “I have no idea, but I shot three magazines.”

  Mister All Around added, “I got one at 500 yards. I think he is still praying, because he is lying facing Mecca.” I crawled up and used my binos to check it out.

  He was, lying with his AK-47 still in his right hand.

  “Ok, what do you all need … water, food, bullets, what?” I queried.

  Nike said, “Yes, yes, and yes.”

  I told them, “Jesus, I shot a dude right when he was pulling the trigger on an RPG. Did you hear that thing go right over your heads?”

  Jake laughed and said, “Yeah, the thing hit right over in the middle of that marijuana field. Too bad it isn’t burning; it’d be nice to take the edge off.”

  “Yeah, that is all we need to get piss tested right when we get off the helo. I am sure someone in particular would love to see me fall,” I said, laughing.

  I went to get rounds, water, and food for the men. After years of following and leading, I have found when someone asks for something, the best thing is to immediately get it for him. Get him exactly what he is asking for, in a hurry. When I tossed the filled bag up to them, they all grinned down at me. Those smiles were worth every bad thing I had ever gone through in my life—everything.

  After supporting the men and checking in with LT, I was sure we had air support and the men were restocked. I was also very aware I was exhausted once again from staying up twenty-four hours prior to the mission and the long, complicated clearance of the target area. Now around 3:00 p.m. on the first day, I found a quiet place, lay my body down, turned off my brain, and allowed myself to totally check out and dream. I know the thought of relaxing after a heavy firefight seems absurd, but in reality, that is the best time to let go—at least it always has been for me.

  I put my helmet over my head and was transported somewhere, anywhere other than this hell. The air was cold and snow was falling down. As my brain settled in the dream, I realized I was elk hunting in Colorado. I recall smiling and laughing to myself, saying, “Great choice of dream. At least in this dream I arrived after that sick hike up the steep cliff.” I laughed again. But when I looked down, I wasn’t carrying my HH375, but instead had my .300 Winchester Magnum. “Nice! Another good choice,” I chuckled, again.

  I found the herd I had been following for a day and a half uphill from me. I couldn’t see the bull, but I used my binoculars to find the lead cow. When hunting elk, make sure you find the lead cow … she runs the herd. The bull doesn’t do anything but piss her off and annoy all the other cows. This cow was relaxed, unaware I was present. In my dream, I recall that this point in the hunt was a battle of wills between me and the elements, and me and the herd. I knew I couldn’t stay there in the ten-below-zero cold as long as the elk could, but I also knew I could make them move in a predictable way. I would only have maybe thirty seconds to get the bull, though, once I made the action.

  I think everything boils down to a battle of wills—or maybe a battle of self. The biggest battle is always with yourself, trying to connect with something outside of what we call the self.

  The key to this battle was to first get parallel with the wind and the elk, so when I made a sound, they would at least send some of the herd toward the sound. The rest might push downhill just a bit to smell the wind. The move was risky, but most animals need to investigate with more than one sense before they all run uphill. My prediction was they would run uphill toward the closest tree line. This would take the herd out into the open once they broke the crest of the ridge. On the far ridge was a cliff. I predicted they would then all lay out in front of me at about 300 yards, running past until they could find the way down the other side.

  I got out my coyote call knowing that would make them listen; I also got a branch to set down where I could break it. The plan was to make the coyote sound, break the stick, then watch them move. If they took the bait, they would move uphill slightly toward the cliff. If they did, I would run as fast as I could, at the same elevation, about 100 yards, then pop out on the clearing.

  I made the sound, broke the branch, and got my binos up to watch. In the real hunt, it actually went perfectly. For some reason, the dream didn’t go as planned. I immediately saw the bull right in the middle of the herd. I sat and watched instead of getting my gun up. He was too far and moving too fast to worry about at this point. I grabbed all my gear and ran like I was being chased until I was overlooking the opening and far ridge. I set my rifle scope to 320 yards, threw my pack on the ground, and got stable just in time to see the first cow trot slowly through my scope. Thirty were in the herd, and I counted ten; then I saw the bull. He was now walking, looking back toward the rest of the herd, bellowing. I took a breath, relaxed the cross hairs on a patch of hair where his heart
would be, and …

  I jumped up from my sleep because rounds were hitting the wall next to where I had been so comfortably resting. My helmet was spinning on the ground like a top, and my MK17 was in my hands. I immediately press checked my chamber to ensure a bullet was in there, then looked at my magazine. All my senses came rushing to full alert as I crawled toward the door. I thought, Oh, we’re in another firefight in hell, cool.

  Carnie and Snowman were in position. KM and Texas were working their position. Lawyer was working the air piece. Nike, Jake, and All Around were shooting at something. I recall sitting down next to Lawyer, asking, “Well, I may have slept through the first part of this firefight. How is it going?”

  Lawyer replied, “Ridge boss, fuck, I don’t know. They woke me up.”

  We both snickered a quiet, shoulders raised chuckle, saying this really isn’t funny, but you still laugh.

  We had an F-18 and his wingman immediately check on and drop bombs on those silly enemy. Eight of the silly bastards had moved in to grab one of their dead friends, and must have gotten pissed at us for some reason. They decided to rush us from 400 yards away across an open field. As I watched Nike shooting, the strangest thing happened. Two enemy were left, and Nike shot the furthest one. Then he literally stood up and yelled, “Stop!”

  I looked up at him and frowned. Then he said, “Oh, you aren’t gonna stop, are you?” and lifted his .300 Winchester Magnum and shot so fast I didn’t have time to get my binos up to see the impact down-range. When I finally did get a look, the enemy was falling, dropping the grenade he had in his hand, and Nike was lowering his rifle.

  He looked down at me and said, “I tried to tell him to stop, but I fear he doesn’t speak English, does he? Maybe next time I should say something in his native tongue?” Just as he said tongue, the grenade the enemy had been holding went off, about 100 yards away from us.

  I said, “Nike, you and I need to talk about your delivery. If you are going to run for office some day, you really need to learn your manners. Next time, before you kill someone, say something about his sister or mom.”

  An hour later, we had calmed down, and so had the enemy fighters. The sun was getting really low on the horizon and that night was going to be a no-moon night, meaning really dark. We were coordinating a linkup with some nearby Army Special Forces guys, and a movement on our part to flex forward into the killing zone, checking the dead and clearing the remaining buildings they had been using as a safe haven.

  After five hours of night-time movement and clearing an additional eight buildings, we returned to our main compound. We didn’t find one dead enemy, nor anyone in the buildings. The C-130 circling above us also hadn’t seen any enemy get their dead or leave. My feeling of being safe with the C-130 up there really died for me that night. At dusk fifteen were visibly dead. Within an hour, they all were gone. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? A false sense of security is no security at all.

  The next day was hot. The temperature on the rooftop was 120 degrees. In the shade was 120 degrees. Water was 120 degrees. The food was 120 degrees. I think my brain was 120 degrees.

  I decided to walk over to the other platoon’s compound to check in with their platoon chief. When I arrived, he pulled me aside, “Thom, we have a big problem, and it is getting worse. All my guys are sick, and I am getting sick, too.”

  “What do you mean sick?” I asked.

  He didn’t have to explain. He simply puked all over my left leg. I took a step back and noticed two of his men with their pants down around their ankles, spraying, not actually pooping. I immediately called over the radio for LT to come to Echo platoon’s position ASAP. Within five minutes, LT arrived, and we were surveying the surreal scene.

  “Chief, we are in trouble if we stay. These men aren’t even looking for the enemy any longer, and we cannot spare any men to cover their watch,” he said. LT wasn’t smiling.

  He went on, “Boss, time to make the call and request immediate extract of the entire troop. If not, I can guarantee we’ll have some dead SEALs to report. Either we stay here and lose one of them due to dehydration and heat stroke, or, lose one because this platoon cannot even post security.” He wasn’t smiling, either.

  The request went out for any helo crew willing to pick up mid-day in a hostile environment, with immediate movement to the closest hospital. Within thirty minutes, an Australian CH-47 crew said they would arrive within the hour.

  As great as that sounded, grabbing all the freely puking and shitting brothers, then carrying or pushing them a mile to the extract point was a total nightmare. But, hey, that was the fun part! The not-so-fun part was we would be walking in daylight, straight toward the enemy. Oh, the memories of combat.

  We grabbed all our gear and rushed to the other platoon to help the walking poopers. I was in the lead element of seven guys, and we pushed 100 yards ahead of the main body. When I looked back, I had to laugh. Ten guys were walking with pants down, spraying what looked like brown water all over the ground, but carrying their rifles like nothing was the matter.

  When the Aussies arrived, the crew was laughing so hard it made us all laugh again, harder. Only in combat. Only between friends, only between brothers, could this be funny.

  An 11-mile hike just to pick a fight.

  Silver Star.

  Kandahar.

  Do not get in front of this thing. Trust me.

  A relaxing smoke.

  A 1,100-yard shot to rescue an SF Army team.

  The “Hell Hole.”

  A day at the desk in my office.

  No M4 for me. The 5.56 mm doesn’t kill anyone.

  120 degrees at 11,000 feet. You have got to be kidding me.

  Too exhausted to duck.

  PART THREE

  YOUR ORGANS

  SECTION EIGHT

  INSATIABLE

  “When the student is ready, the Master appears.”

  —Buddhist Proverb

  “Honey, we survived another brutal operation,” I told Stacy over the webcam chat. She was sitting in our kitchen, preparing lunch for our kids. She looked gorgeous, inviting, and completely hot.

  “I cannot believe how many times you have gone out and all come back unbroken. I keep worrying your deployment will be like that Ramadi deployment with all those dead SEALs,” Stacy said. I could tell she had more than just the words, but she couldn’t muster up enough courage to say them. I truly think she was a Spartan woman in a past life: committed, deeply in love with her husband and family, and unwilling to waiver and say anything that would show fear.

  “No deployment is the same. We all face different circumstances and have different men and leaders. I didn’t come here to fuck around, nor did I come here to make rank. I came here because I want to be here, and the men want me here. Maybe that makes all the difference. I don’t know … maybe,” I replied, knowing my reply sounded odd.

  “Well, whatever the reason, we love you and need you to do what you need to, to make it back to us. I can’t wait to feel you next to me, to feel your skin again. I dream of us every night,” Stacy said with that certain brightness in her eyes. “Thom, I have been talking a lot to Jerry about what you are going through with our men and combat. He tells me stories about how what you all are doing is so uniquely tied to both your genes and your need to endure. I am going to send you some of the emails where he talks about how some men have developed over the past 10,000 years to be able to thrive in the hell you are going through. I know you need this in your bones, and I like that about you. Please read it, and maybe that knowledge will make you stronger.”

  “Wow, sounds like this guy has some experience with crazy times, having grown up running carnivals. I never knew anyone could make millions in that line of work. Wonder why he and Tammy have connected so easily to you?” I said, sort of not understanding why Stacy had brought this up. Part of me was jealous some other man was talking to my wife. Actually, most of me was. The other small part wondered what point anyone could make th
at would affect our performance here in hell.

  “His understanding of what makes men tick comes from fifty years of making things work at a carnival, as well as making other businesses work across the globe. Apparently, he was the sole distributor of shotguns to Russia, but I think having a mentor who was separate from the military who could give you insight to what makes men who they are would be wise, don’t you think?” Stacy stood still, looking into the camera, her hands on her hips like a Spartan Wife.

  “Damn, OK. How can I refuse that?” I said. “Send whatever correspondence he has had with you, and I’ll read it after chow.”

  I talked a little longer with Stacy about things I will not write here. The Internet is a great way to connect, to be sure. A great woman makes a great man, and vice versa, a great man makes a great woman. Pay close attention to that. Intimacy, connection, encouragement, fun, and ultimately, words from a great woman are priceless.

  “A great woman makes a great man.

  A great man makes a great woman.”

  I was late to chow, and no one in my platoon was around. Several Special Forces shooters were sitting around watching TV and talking amongst themselves. After getting my plate, I sat alone and thought about the boys of Bravo platoon. I thought about how they had come through the various training programs back in the States. I thought about how quickly we adapted from thinking we were going to deploy to one place, then a month before deployment, were shifted to this hellhole. I thought about all the patriotic Americans living a life of liberty and wanting so desperately to help in any way they could.

  As I ate, I thought about my sons growing up free from this massive Islamic surge. Their anger toward us surely seems almost genetically bred. I truly felt sorry for the poor children who are raised with such a complete lie about how white Americans are so different from them. I will be able to visualize the hatred they have for us in their eyes for the rest of my life. Negotiating is not possible with a hatred so patient and so extreme. I laughed to myself, and the SF guys looked at me like I was crazy. I smiled back and said, “I think I need a beer.” They cackled and agreed.