No Hero: The Evolution of a Navy SEAL

by Mark Owen

  “Doubt it,” I said. “But you can ask.”

  He left and returned about a half hour later. He had a set of sheets in his hands.

  “They have sheets if you want some,” he said. “They had to go around the base and find them. They’re kind of rough.”

  There was no way I was going to ask for sheets. As Harvey’s swim buddy, I probably should have squared him away, but I think I was taken aback by how inconsiderate he was acting. He seemed to think the soldiers were there to cater to us. We were the visitors and should have been content with whatever they gave us. I knew full well that we weren’t going to be living in the Four Seasons. I packed accordingly and didn’t plan on making a fuss. My new swim buddy was already coming across as the ugly American.

  It quickly became clear that the mission was out of Harvey’s comfort zone. This was not what he’d been trained to do. He seemed more interested in being comfortable and didn’t seem too focused on the objective. My goal was to build a relationship with the soldiers so if and when we saw squirters attempting to escape the upcoming bombing campaign, I could leverage that relationship and hopefully they would allow me to go out on the operation with them.

  That night, I joined the soldiers for dinner. We had a chicken stew with flatbread and several platters of fresh vegetables. We sat around a blanket, our shoes off, and ate with our hands. Some of the soldiers spoke English and we spent the dinner talking about the area and how years ago, it had been a beautiful vacation spot. It was now Taliban controlled and no longer safe.

  Harvey was also invited to dinner, but declined and sat in his room eating an MRE. He showed up after dinner looking for some sugar for his coffee. The only sugar we had was raw, which he reluctantly stirred into his cup.

  “I like granulated better. Can you get me some of that type of sugar?” he asked the officer in charge of our guards.

  He wasn’t making many friends, and by the third day, you could see how much the host country’s officers disliked him. If he wasn’t in the makeshift operations center, he was in his room. At night, he used to wear a pair of short running shorts that barely covered his groin and a tank top that exposed his slender, pasty white arms. It was amazing how bad he was at building rapport.

  None of this was rocket science.

  The Army Special Forces get extensive training in dealing with local nationals, but this was all new to me too. Then again, I think my growing up in an Alaskan Eskimo village had something to do with my own attitude. I was comfortable dealing with a foreign culture. It was no different than making friends in school or at work. Just be yourself, be open, and be a good houseguest.

  For a guy who worked for an agency tasked with winning over sources and building rapport with the locals, Harvey didn’t have a clue. At every turn, he offended our hosts. From the sheets to the sugar to the tank top, he damaged every bridge I tried to build.

  Harvey was making it impossible for me to build rapport. Even though I had a good relationship with the soldiers, when Harvey walked into the room the mood changed. The soldiers became stiff and formal. Their body language gave away their disdain for him. He wasn’t accountable at all for his actions. Harvey was thinking about only himself, and not the mission. And by doing that—having that mind-set, which is the antithesis of the SEAL philosophy—he jeopardized the success of the mission. In his community there was very little teamwork, which to me was alien because the team was the bedrock of the SEAL community. At this point in my career, I’d worked only on kick-ass teams. Shit, even when I worked with the Polish GROM during Operation Iraqi Freedom my first deployment, they fit in perfectly with our SEAL platoons. I assumed that everyone was like we were.

  I also knew if my teammates forced any fighters across the border, there was no way they were going to allow me to tag along. At this point I wasn’t even sure I’d want to go into the field with Harvey as my swim buddy. I missed Walt.

  With the mission under way on the Afghan side of the border, I sat in our small command center and scanned all the ISR feeds. Based off the radio traffic and what I was seeing on my screens, nobody seemed to be moving in my direction. For that matter, nobody seemed to be moving in the Tora Bora region altogether.

  My squadron assaulted onto the top of the deserted Tora Bora mountain range the day after I left. They set up at a patrol base. From there, they started to search the area. The FBI’s DNA expert arrived on the third wave of helicopters and promptly got altitude sickness. She had to be medevaced out twelve hours later. So much for that good-idea fairy.

  A couple of times during the mission, I’d have to call in the officers after one of the Predators saw a large group of men with guns moving along the border, only to be told the group was part of the host nation’s forces. One time, the Predators spotted what looked like a camp near the border. I could make out tents and several men with guns walking around the area. They didn’t appear to be in uniform, but after an investigation with our host, he reported that it was just a border checkpoint.

  After several days with little to no activity and the operation starting to wind down, the PakMil sent word back to the embassy that they didn’t want us there anymore. The next day, Harvey and I packed our gear and climbed aboard the same ratty MI-17 helicopter. Over a cup of tea, I watched the mountains slip by as the helicopter—still cockeyed—flew us back to the capital, where I met back up with Walt. We were both frustrated and ready to go back to some real work.

  I told Walt what happened with Harvey. It dawned on both of us just how lucky we were to be in the unit where your swim buddy would take his shirt off his back for you. There was no AAR between Harvey and me, and no chance for us to discuss lessons learned. He wasn’t interested in being a good teammate and I never felt like he had my back. I was happy that I’d never see him again

  We boarded a plane to fly back to Afghanistan. Walt and I were flying back with a half dozen other diplomats and soldiers. Just as I settled into my seat, the door opened and the young State Department staffer who took us to the plane climbed back onboard.

  He’d set up the flight, but now he looked pale and nervous. Right behind him were several customs officials with AK-47s. From what I could gather, they wanted to know who was on the plane and the State Department staffer didn’t have any answers. The staffer was no older than twenty-five and probably hadn’t been in the country more than a few months.

  Walt and I had our guns, explosives, and all our operations gear in our bags. As ordered, we’d brought everything we’d need to go into the field.

  “Leave all your stuff,” the staffer said to everybody. “They told me the plane can leave, but only if you all get off. You all have to get off the plane right away.”

  I could see the stress on his face. The staffer kept looking back at the officials. Something was really wrong. I glanced over at the guards. They looked angry.

  As the others got up to leave, Walt and I ditched our pistols by hiding them in our bags and followed the staffer. Outside on the tarmac, a guard shoved his rifle in my face and started to scream at the group. I held up my hands and smiled. It felt strange to be without my pistol. It wasn’t like I was going to start fighting customs inspectors, but the weapon was a security blanket for me. I felt naked without it. I could see Walt sizing up the guards and assessing the situation. He was always the little guy with the big personality.

  —

  A few years before, I invited Walt out to SHOT Show, a shooting trade show in Las Vegas. We’d usually go out there to meet with vendors and see what kinds of new guns and gear were available on the market that we might be able to use.

  The first day, I introduced him around to all the vendors. By the second day, my contacts were asking me where Walt was hanging out. At a bar after the show the third night, I found Walt holding court with executives from the National Rifle Association. He had a cigar in his mouth, and he was slapping backs and shaking han
ds like he was running for office.

  But one look at the guards and I was sure his winning personality wasn’t going to help here. We were in a lot of trouble. We weren’t sure what was going on, but from the looks of it, we weren’t going to talk our way out of this one.

  We were herded into a waiting room near the flight line. Walt sat down in the chair next to me. I could just make out his exasperated grimace through his beard. He kept his head down and his eyes low.

  “This is bullshit,” he growled.

  A couple of the diplomats and younger soldiers began showing signs of stress. They were beginning to get more and more upset. The State Department staffer who pulled us off the airplane wasn’t in the room, so to me that was a good sign. Hopefully he was working out whatever issues there were. I looked over our group and could tell that there were some very worried folks.

  “Hey, guys, everyone just needs to relax. I’m sure this is being worked out right this second,” I said. “Let’s just all keep our mouths shut and wait to hear more.”

  There were multiple guards armed with AK-47s standing in the room, and there was no doubt in my mind that they spoke English. They were not only guarding us, but also listening to everything we said, waiting for someone to slip up and say something they shouldn’t.

  We sat in the room for almost an hour. The guards kept coming in and demanding our military ID cards or passports. Once they made copies of those, I guess, they wanted our driver’s licenses and any other documents we could produce.

  Each time, I’d hold the document up, only to have it snatched out of my hand by the guard. He’d growl something at me in Urdu and march off. My mind was spinning. Why did they let the plane leave, but not us? What exactly were they looking for? Why were they harassing us? I started to wonder if I had diplomatic immunity.

  Then the State Department staffer was back with the guards. No one looked happy, but the color had returned to the staffer’s face. Instead of that frazzled look, he now just looked tired.

  “OK, we can go,” he said. “Head out to the van. They are going to let us go back to the embassy.”

  As we passed, the guard’s scowl got more severe. Walt and I pulled the staffer aside in the van. We wanted to know what had happened as well as where our gear was. We never traveled without our weapons and kit, and it felt wrong to leave them behind.

  “What’s the deal?” Walt said.

  “I finally got to my boss at the embassy and he made some calls,” the staffer said. “The plane was allowed to leave, but your kit will have to meet you back in Afghanistan.”

  “OK, so our kit is safe. Now, what the fuck was up with that entire situation?” I asked angrily.

  The staffer was flustered again. He stammered out something about a mix-up. I turned and looked at Walt and could already tell that he was thinking the whole explanation was suspect.

  “My money is on the fact that you fucked up and forgot to file the proper paperwork,” I said to the staffer.

  He didn’t respond, but kept talking about getting us home.

  “I’m going to need to work some angles, so it may be a few days before I can get you guys out and back to Afghanistan,” he said.

  After lying low at the American Embassy for a few days, we were allowed to leave. Walt and I landed back in Afghanistan a week later and couldn’t have been happier. We both had gotten a healthy dose of what it’s like to work without a swim buddy, and neither one of us wanted to repeat it anytime soon. While I had endured living with a horrible version of a swim buddy, Walt had stayed at the American Embassy without one at all. He was left with no mission and no support. All he had to do was kill time. We were not only happy to be back and linked up together, but very appreciative of each other’s support.

  When all was said and done, the Air Force essentially knocked the tops off a few of the Tora Bora Mountains and my teammates went on a weeklong camping trip. There was no sign of any man in flowing white robes. My money is still on the fact that the single-source intelligence was shit from the beginning. We’d never forget the “flowing white robes,” and from that point on, the term became slang for a mission that was all fucked up from the start.

  I’d remember the mission for another reason too. Working without trust, solid communication, and the ability to pull your partner aside and give him or her your honest opinion—and get honest feedback in return—was tough for me. Good, bad, or otherwise, your swim buddy is there to protect you, encourage you, give advice, call you on your shit, and most importantly be there when you need help.

  CHAPTER 10

  Comfortable Being Uncomfortable

  Discomfort

  It was Alaska cold.

  Not kind of cold.

  Not partially cold or even the type of cold where you think you could go without gloves and a hat.

  I’m talking bone-chilling cold that hits you at your core.

  I couldn’t feel my toes, and my fingers were numb despite thick gloves and hand warmers. The metal of my rifle hurt to touch barehanded and I alternated putting each of my hands in my pocket in hopes I’d be able to pull the trigger when we got to the target.

  We were on a winter deployment in 2009. Our intelligence analysts were tracking a group of fighters in a valley south of Kabul. We’d hit a couple of decent targets, but mostly dry holes. The winter deployments were always slow because of the weather. The run-of-the-mill, low-level fighters hung up their guns when it got cold and waited for the spring fighting season.

  Our analysts were working on tracking down a very high-level Taliban commander. Using multiple sources, including drones, they were able to locate him. From the drone feed we could see that the commander was traveling with a large group of fighters and they were holed up in a building at the center of a village.

  We were told the commander and his fighters were responsible for a series of attacks in the valley that killed several Coalition soldiers. At this point we had collected enough intelligence; we were sure we could get a missile strike approved. After all, there was no reason to go out in the cold and risk our lives in a gunfight if someone could simply push the “easy button” and drop a bomb on him.

  But these guys were not your standard Taliban fighters. The commander moved from mosque to mosque and village to village, never staying more than a short time in any place. They had been trained and knew our limitations. The Taliban were getting smarter and smarter at countering our tactics. They knew that with our current rules of engagement we couldn’t bomb a mosque or even go inside. Working with this kind of knowledge, they simply never exposed themselves long enough for us to take a shot.

  That meant we’d probably have to go out in the dead of winter and hunt them down. Combat was dangerous enough, but even more so in waist-deep snow and freezing-cold temperatures.

  SEALs are taught starting in BUD/S to be comfortable being uncomfortable. From drown proofing, where the instructors tie our hands and feet and throw us in the water, to Hell Week, where we spend five and a half days swimming, running, and moving with fewer than four total hours of sleep during the whole week, SEALs experience a lot of uncomfortable conditions.

  Part of being a SEAL is overcoming cold, exhaustion, fear, stress, and pain. It is easy to lose focus, drive, and determination when things are uncomfortable. We know from early on that not everything we do in the job is going to be comfortable.

  Not everything is going to be easy.

  During BUD/S training, I concentrated on just getting to the next meal. If I made it to breakfast, I started thinking about lunch. After lunch, I focused on dinner. If I started to think about the weeks and months of uncomfortable challenges ahead of me, I lost focus, so I just didn’t.

  That was a mind-set that was coming in handy during this deployment. As I trudged toward the village, I broke the mission down into small steps. First conduct the patrol. Then assault the target. Th
en go home and get warm. But at that moment, I was still on step one. I knew I had to set little goals and reach them. And along the way, I might forget I was miserable.

  There is a reason we chose “The only easy day was yesterday” as our motto. We used to joke, “Everyone wants to be a SEAL on Friday.” It was easy to be a SEAL at the bar or when you’re out with friends relaxing. But being excited about being a SEAL in the middle of winter in Afghanistan when you know you have a long, crazy, cold night in front of you is a different story.

  The analysts continued throughout the day watching the commander move from building to building in the village. As it got dark, his group moved farther up the valley and entered what could be a mosque. From the drone feed, it was kind of hard to tell which mud building among the rest of the mud buildings was indeed the mosque.

  I huddled in the operations center with Steve and watched footage of the fighters trudging down a goat trail, moving from compound to compound. As they walked, the last guy in line fell back a little, checking to make sure no one followed. They walked in patrol order; it wasn’t the typical gaggle of farmers walking down the road. My eye tracked forward, looking at each fighter in the line until I got to the point man. He was well ahead of the main body and keenly looking for possible Coalition forces waiting to ambush them.

  “Let’s just bomb these guys,” Steve said as we watched the fighters enter the village.

  “Can’t see any guns,” said one of the intelligence analysts. “No guns, no strike. Besides they very rarely clear civilian buildings long enough for us to coordinate an air strike.”

  We watched helplessly as the fighters filed into what we thought was another mosque. While most of them got warm inside, three stayed outside to keep watch. Two of the fighters started to walk up and down the main road, and a third sat outside of the main entrance to the building. Maybe we couldn’t see their guns, but obviously these men were guards. There was no other reason to stay outside in this weather. How often did we find Taliban fighters pulling security without weapons? Never.