Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  A few years later, I served on the promotion board for Lieutenant Jeremy Carter, the officer I had found guilty of a DUI. A good man who had made a mistake. Carter was promoted to lieutenant commander and would eventually go on to serve in Iraq and Afghanistan, earning the Bronze Star for valor and saving the lives of several of his fellow SEALs. SEALs who also got a second chance.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AIRBORNE FROGGY

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  2001

  Six minutes! Six minutes!”

  The SEAL jumpmaster motioned to the aircrewman and the ramp of the C-130 slowly lowered, roaring like some giant mechanical beast.

  It was mid-July in San Diego, and the sky outside the plane was a cloudless blue, just a few shades lighter than the Pacific Ocean, which stretched from the ramp of the aircraft to the horizon.

  I was a Navy captain, the commodore of Naval Special Warfare Group One and in charge of all the SEALs on the West Coast. We were based out of the Naval Amphibious Base (NAB) Coronado, in California. NAB was a small man-made peninsula that jutted out into San Diego Bay and was by far the best place in the Navy to be stationed. Thirty minutes earlier, fifteen other SEALs and I had boarded the C-130 aircraft out of North Island Naval Air Station and were preparing for a freefall training jump over Brown Field, located just south of San Diego, on the Mexican border.

  “Stand up!” came the next command.

  The jumpers unhooked their seat belts, rose from the nylon benches, and turned and faced the ramp. The roar of the four Allison turboprops was deafening.

  “Check equipment!” the jumpmaster yelled.

  “Check equipment!” came the response from every jumper.

  There was no one in front of me as I faced the rear of the aircraft, but the man behind me began to check my MT-1X freefall parachute to ensure the ripcord pin was properly in place and the automatic opening device was set to the right altitude.

  Once the rigs were checked, starting at the end of the line, each man patted the jumper in front of him on the rear, indicating the rig was good to jump. As the last man in the line, I received a strong pat on the butt and announced to the jumpmaster that we were all good to go.

  Returning to the ramp, the jumpmaster got to his knees and took one final look out the side of the aircraft. Communicating with the pilot, he aligned the C-130 along the right course to ensure that when the SEALs exited the aircraft at 12,999 feet we would be in the right position to reach the drop zone.

  “One minute!”

  “One minute!”

  The jumpmaster motioned for me to move to the edge of the ramp. In a straight line behind me, the other jumpers fell into place. Approaching the ramp, I looked out over the terrain below me. From almost thirteen thousand feet I could see the sprawling city of Tijuana, Mexico, the border crossing leading to South San Diego, and the tall untended fields of grass. We were on a northbound heading and everything to the south came into view.

  Under my breath, I began to sing, “Happy Anniversary, baby, got you on my miiiind,” over and over. It was one of those silly superstitions that started in Army jump school more than twenty-five years earlier. Before every jump, I sang the words, certain that they would keep me from harm. It had worked up until now. There must be some magic in those words.

  The jumpmaster grabbed me by the front of my rig and pulled me to the very edge of the ramp. He looked me in the eye, smiled, and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Thrusting my arms forward and tucking my legs beneath me, I dove off the back of the ramp, tipping over slightly before the prop blast and the speed of my descent began to level me out. The wind rushed by me, a loud whistling noise in my ear. My heart pounded and my breathing matched the beats in my chest. As I gained speed I pulled my arms parallel to my ears and allowed my legs to jut out a bit farther. My breathing began to slow. My pulse settled down.

  At 12,500 feet, I was stable now. No drifting or spinning or tumbling. While many of the guys in the Teams were exceptional jumpers who could maneuver easily around the sky, I was not one of them. But I still loved jumping. There was something special about being untethered and falling through the air at 120 miles an hour while the earth below rushed up to meet you. It was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Skydiving was one of the great thrills of being a SEAL, and each time out of the aircraft was memorable.

  As I looked out across the Pacific Ocean and the beautiful hills that surrounded South San Diego, I could tell today was another jump I would never forget.

  Ten thousand feet.

  The other freefallers began to come into view. We were all wearing standard green Navy flight suits, black Pro-Tec helmets, goggles, and on our back a 270-square-foot parachute with a smaller reserve chute capable of being deployed if the main chute failed.

  Off to my right, I saw a few of the better jumpers forming a four-way—four jumpers with arms linked, dropping together until the time to pull their ripcords. I envied them. Relative work, the ability to maneuver smoothly in the air, was something I had never mastered. Oh, I could link up with one or two others if they were in close proximity, but sailing across the sky to a specific point and stopping your relative motion on a dime—that was skydiving.

  Six thousand feet.

  Off to my right I could see one jumper below me. About two hundred feet away and five hundred feet down, he was spinning slightly counterclockwise, because his arms were not symmetrical and the force of the air was pushing him to the left.

  To my other side were two jumpers. One was well off to my left, but the second SEAL was about a hundred feet away and two hundred feet down. Shifting my hands slightly, I maneuvered farther to the right to ensure I was out of his way. The spinning SEAL on my right had corrected his body position and was tracking away from me, preparing to open his chute.

  Below me, the ocean seemed flat and tranquil. The air was clean and a little cool for a July day. The sun was bright but not blinding. It was just perfect.

  Fifty-five hundred feet.

  “Holy shit!”

  Below me, the close-in SEAL was waving his arms, a signal that he was about to pull his ripcord. Our paths had converged in the sky and he was directly beneath me. Instantly, the pilot chute came off his back, jerking him upright as the main chute began to deploy. Throwing my arms to my side, I tried to track away from the man and his chute as we rocketed toward each other, his descent slowing while I still fell at 120 mph.

  Suddenly I was enveloped by the light blue main canopy of the man below me. As his nylon parachute opened, it hit me with the force of a heavyweight boxer, sending me tumbling through the sky. Stunned by the initial impact of the deploying canopy, I struggled to understand what was happening. Although I had slid through the jumper’s opening parachute, I was now falling out of control, unaware of my altitude or whether I had been momentarily knocked unconscious.

  Spinning head over heels, all I could see was ground, sky, ground, sky, ground, sky. Where was my altimeter? How much time before impact? Time to get stable? Screw it. Pull the ripcord. Pull the ripcord!

  Grabbing the aluminum handle, I pulled hard and felt the pilot chute begin to deploy. Ground, sky, ground, sky, ground, sky. Springing off my back, the small chute wrapped around my legs, flapping against my ankle as I tried to shake it loose.

  Ground, ground, ground. All I could see now was the ground, and it was rushing toward me. I was in a completely head-down angle, tangled in a mess of pilot chute, half-deployed main parachute, and risers. With each hundred feet I fell, I could feel the main chute slowly inching its way out of the pack, further encircling me with more nylon.

  Craning my neck toward the sky, I could see that my legs were bound by two sets of risers, the long nylon straps that connected the main parachute to the harness on my back. One riser had wrapped around one leg, the other riser around the other leg. The main parachute was fully out of the backpack but hung up somewhere on my body.

  As I struggled to break free of
the entanglement, suddenly I felt the canopy lift off my body and begin to open. Looking toward my legs, I knew what was coming next.

  “Mother…”

  Within seconds, the canopy caught air. The two risers, one wrapped around each leg, suddenly and violently pulled apart, taking my legs with them. My pelvis separated instantly as the force of the opening ripped my lower torso. The thousand small muscles that connect the pelvis to the body were torn from their hinges.

  My mouth dropped open and I let out a scream that could be heard in Mexico. Searing pain arched through my body, sending waves pulsating downward to my pelvis and upward to my head. Violent muscular convulsions racked my upper torso, shooting more pain through my arms and legs. Now, like an out-of-body experience, I became aware of my screaming and tried to control it, but the pain was too intense.

  Still head down and falling too fast, I turned myself upright in the harness, relieving some of the pressure on my pelvis and back.

  Fifteen hundred feet.

  I had fallen more than four thousand feet before the parachute deployed. The good news: I had a full canopy over my head. The bad news: I was two miles from the drop zone, broken apart by the impact of the opening and heading into a field of eight-foot-high tomato stakes.

  Shock was setting in. My breathing was erratic. My body was numb, but my mind was still clear. Looking over the tomato field, I found an area of tall grass that looked unencumbered by pointy sticks.

  The chute was inverted and the toggles that controlled the direction of flight were backward. Pulling hard on the left toggle, I maneuvered the square parachute toward the right, trying to set up for a landing. A small patch of tall grass looked inviting, but there was no way to know what was hidden beneath it. Too late. I was committed now.

  Leveling the parachute for a short approach, I waited until I was just about ten feet off the ground and jerked downward on the two toggles simultaneously. The parachute flared upward, easing me onto my backside and sliding me gently into the soft field.

  Well, I thought, laughing, I may be shitty in the air, but I do know how to land a parachute.

  The pain was gone. Shock had set in. I was on my back with the parachute strung out behind me draped over the top of the tall grass.

  “Oh, that’s not good,” I said, looking down at my pelvis. The bones were protruding off to one side, causing my jumpsuit to bulge awkwardly to the right. I couldn’t sit up. The muscles in my abdomen were no longer connected. I was unable to move in any direction.

  “Shit.”

  Looking around, I thought that no one knew where I was. The tall grass hid my location, and unless someone on the drop zone had noticed my descent, it could be an hour before they found me.

  Strapped to my side was a Mark 13 flare, a signaling device that puts out a high-intensity flame that can be seen for miles. Great idea, except for one minor problem—I was in a field of tall dry grass. Oh, they would find me all right, but only after the fire department scraped my charred body from the tomatoes.

  Minutes went by as I tried to think through my options.

  “Billy! Billy Mac!”

  I heard a voice in the distance.

  “Over here! Over here!” I yelled.

  Men were making their way through the tall grass.

  “Billy!”

  I knew the voice. It was Bill Reed—a hard-as-nails Vietnam vet who had been on the jump.

  “Here!” My voice was fading.

  They were circling my position.

  “Billy!”

  “Here…”

  Through my fogged-up goggles, I could see the blond hair and stern face of Bill Reed.

  “Billy. Are you all right?”

  I didn’t let many men call me Billy, but I had great respect for Bill Reed and we had known each other for over twenty years.

  “I think I’m broken up pretty bad, Bill.”

  “We have an ambulance on the way,” Reed answered.

  I nodded.

  “Man, that must have been one hell of a landing.”

  “It didn’t happen on the landing. It happened in the air.”

  More men began to come into my view. Leaning over me was the drop zone corpsman.

  “Sir, I’m Doc Smith. We have EMTs on the way. Can you tell me where you’re injured?”

  Smith was a Navy SEAL corpsman. While not qualified MDs, the corpsmen in the Teams were great at trauma care.

  “Pelvis, back, legs.”

  Reaching into his kit bag, he pulled out a pair of large surgical scissors and began to cut my jumpsuit away from my body. Two other SEALs helped as Smith began to survey the extent of my injuries. At my feet, someone else was removing my boots.

  In the distance I could hear the sound of the ambulance. Around me now there was a lot of activity, with Smith and Reed directing the action.

  “Are you in pain?” Smith asked.

  “No, Doc. I’m feeling okay.”

  We both knew that was not a good sign.

  “I can wiggle my toes,” I said with great joy. I knew that if my spine had been severed, I wouldn’t be able to feel my toes.

  Doc didn’t smile.

  “Holy shit,” came a muffled voice in the back.

  My jumpsuit was off and the extent of my injury was now apparent to those around me.

  “Commodore, we’re going to take your helmet and goggles off. Let me know if you’re in any pain,” Smith said.

  “I got it, Doc,” came the voice of Steve Chamberlain, my command master chief. Chambo was my senior enlisted at Naval Special Warfare Group One and the finest enlisted man I had ever worked with. Personally tough, professionally demanding, and loyal beyond words, Chambo was always there for me.

  Lifting my head, Chamberlain gently removed my helmet and goggles.

  “Chambo.”

  “Yes sir. I’m here.”

  “Chambo. Call Georgeann and let her know I’m all right.”

  “Yes sir. Will do.”

  But I knew it was a request he couldn’t honor. There were procedures. Someone would contact Georgeann and let her know there had been an accident. But no one would give her my status until the real doctors had done their assessment.

  The whine of the siren got closer and closer. I could hear the guys directing the ambulance through the tomato fields and to my location.

  Soon I was strapped to a backboard and hoisted into the ambulance. Doc Smith jumped in beside me and we drove off bumping across the field until we hit a dirt road. Within a few minutes we were on the highway heading to Sharp Memorial Hospital in downtown San Diego.

  The EMT wired me up to several machines and reached into his bag, drawing out a syringe.

  “Sir, I’m going to give you some morphine for the pain.”

  “No. No morphine,” I said.

  “Sir, you don’t have to be tough. The pain must be excruciating. Let me give you a shot of morphine.”

  “No. No morphine!”

  Admittedly, I wasn’t in my right mind, but many years ago I read a spy novel in which the main character refuses morphine so he can feel the pain and not mask his injuries. Okay, I know it sounds stupid, but…

  “Sir, I’m required to give you morphine unless you specifically tell me no. And you must tell me three times.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sir, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want morphine?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want morphine?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want morphine?”

  “No.”

  The EMT just shook his head.

  Doc Smith leaned over. “Sir, are you sure?” He smiled.

  “Yeah, Doc, I’m sure.”

  Within twenty minutes we were pulling into the emergency entrance at Sharp Memorial. A flurry of activity ensued as doctors, nurses, and medics all surrounded me and began to move me into the ER. Secured onto the gurney and rolling through the halls of the hospital, all I c
ould see was the acoustic tile of the ceilings and the occasional nurse who leaned over to ask me how I was.

  Then a booming voice penetrated the sounds of the orchestrated chaos.

  “Man, you look fucked up, Commodore!”

  “Well, I have had better days,” I offered.

  Lieutenant Mark Gould was a Navy surgeon who was assigned to Sharp to undergo additional training. A former Army Special Forces medic, Gould finished his Army enlistment, got his degree, joined the Navy, and received his medical degree from the military medical school in Maryland. Grabbing the clipboard at the bottom of the gurney, he walked briskly along with the crew that was wheeling me into the ER.

  “What’s my status, Doc?”

  “Well, it looks like you have a separated pelvis, back and legs are screwed up. The real concern is whether you have any internal injuries.”

  I nodded.

  “They’re going to roll you into the ER. Take some pictures and we’ll have a better idea of what to do after that.”

  Inside the ER, the doctors began to administer a radioactive dye designed to identify internal damage. Suddenly, I began to lose consciousness. I could see the concern on Doc Gould’s face.

  “You okay, sir?”

  My breathing was erratic and I tried to settle it down. “I’m fading, Doc.”

  A nurse unceremoniously pushed Gould out of the way and began to call my readings. “Blood pressure is dropping,” she announced loudly. “Pulse is dropping!”

  I was having a bad reaction to the dye.

  Grabbing my hand, she gently squeezed it and said, “Stay with me.” Above her surgical mask all I could see were her eyes. But they were good eyes: blue, middle-aged, mature, caring, professional. There was a certain confidence about her eyes that gave me comfort.

  Gasping for breath, I tried to calm myself, but I could feel my mind slipping away.

  “We’re losing him!” the blue-eyed nurse shouted.

  “I need epinephrine now!”

  Stay awake. Stay awake. Got to stay awake.