Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  Masked faces came in and out of view.

  “Stay with me, honey,” blue-eyes exhorted.

  In my mind I nodded.

  She patted me gently on the arm. “That’s right. Just stay with me.”

  I’m not going anywhere, I thought. But maybe I was wrong.

  “Come on!” she yelled. “He’s still dropping!”

  She squeezed my hand tightly and I could see her eyes watching the monitor. “Come on. Come on,” she whispered to herself.

  “Pressure’s coming back up,” someone yelled.

  Her eyes never moved from the monitor, but she patted my hand gently as if trying to coax my blood pressure back to normal.

  After a few minutes she leaned over and gave my hand a good squeeze. “Okay, honey, you’re going to be fine,” she said. “You did good.” She smiled, the surgical mask lifting high on her cheekbones.

  My breathing was slowly returning to normal. It seemed like several minutes passed before blue-eyes came back into view.

  “Okay, dear. We’re going to give you something to help you sleep.”

  “No!” I protested. “I don’t want to sleep!”

  The mind does funny things when your body is torn apart. Sleep meant death. I was certain of it. No morphine. No sleep. I needed to be awake. Feel the pain. Stay conscious.

  “It’s okay. We’re not going to operate on you right now. But we need to do some scans and make sure you’re not bleeding inside. It will be easier if you’re asleep.”

  “No,” I repeated. “I’m okay.”

  Blue-eyes shook her head and left my view. I could hear her talking with Gould. Moments later she returned.

  “Okay, sir. We’re going to keep you conscious, but if you get too irritated or can’t deal with the pain we’re going to have to put you under.”

  “I understand.”

  The imposing face of Doc Gould popped back into view. “You’re going to make them think all SEALs are fucking superhuman.”

  “No, just afraid of losing control, Doc.”

  “All right, Commodore. We’re going for a ride.”

  Over the course of the next hour I was X-rayed, scanned, probed, and then wheeled back into the ICU. Blue-eyes had removed my neck brace and I could see more of what was around me now.

  Through the glass window, Georgeann, my son John, a college freshman now, and my good friend and fellow SEAL Joe Maguire huddled outside waiting to hear from the attending physician. A few minutes later Joe entered the room.

  Joe and I had known each other for twenty years, since our early days in the Philippines. He, his wife, Kathy, and their two children, Daniel and Catherine, were our closest friends. Joe had broken his back during a fast-rope accident many years earlier. Georgeann and I had been the first to the hospital then. This is what good friends do.

  Joe was always upbeat, never lacking a joke or a good story to make one feel better. “Man, what some guys will do to get out of work!”

  “Yeah, I was getting a little tired of the daily staff meetings.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “I don’t know. What did the doc tell you?”

  “Not sure I’m supposed to tell you just yet.”

  Joe looked around the room and then whispered, “You’re pretty screwed up, but the good news is there is no internal damage and your spine is okay.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Your pelvis is separated by about five inches. All of the muscles in your abdomen and legs have been separated from the bone and your back is slightly fractured.”

  “No big deal, then.” I laughed.

  “Naw, you’ll be fine,” Joe said without conviction.

  Outside I could see the doctors conferring with Georgeann. She nodded stoically as they gave her the news. “Of course,” the doctor mouthed as Georgeann asked if she could see me.

  Georgeann and John entered the room and came to the gurney. John, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, who would later go on to get his PhD in theoretical physics, was our brilliant child. But he also had a very sensitive side and I could see that as much as he wanted to approach my accident as something to study—logically, scientifically—it was hard when it was his dad lying in the ER.

  “Hey, Dad. How you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” I smiled. “Really, no big deal. Look, I can wiggle my toes.”

  John cocked his head and furrowed his brow as he thought about my statement. He seemed to immediately understand the connection between my toes and my well-being. He forced a smile and touched me on the shoulder.

  Georgeann moved beside me and held my hand. Her fingers fit perfectly between mine. To me there was nothing in the world more comforting than holding her hand. She kissed me on the forehead.

  “Are you in much pain?” she asked.

  “No, no. I feel fine,” I lied.

  “Well, the doctor says they may try to operate tomorrow.”

  “Sure, sure. They’ll patch me up and I’ll be out of here in no time.”

  She nodded, trying to maintain her composure.

  Being the wife of a Team guy was never easy. It took a certain kind of woman to say, “I do.” SEALs were overseas constantly, gone for months at a time. Every day was filled with anxious moments—wondering if and when we would return home. Every man who was married for long knew who was the toughest member of the family—and it wasn’t us.

  Joe stood by quietly as John, Georgeann, and I made small talk to convince us that everything was in fact going to be all right. Later that night, my two other children, Bill, the oldest, and Kelly, who was ten at the time, showed up at my bedside. Bill, always the caring older brother, made sure Kelly was not too upset and good-naturedly ribbed me about the accident’s effect on my basketball game. Kelly, with tears rolling down her cheeks, didn’t want to leave my bedside as they rolled me off to another room.

  Hours later Doc Gould showed up to discuss my options.

  “Sir, I have a friend in L.A. who is the best back guy in the nation. He thinks that we will need to plate you in the front and run a long screw across your backside to stabilize the pelvis.”

  “Okay,” I said. It sounded good, but what the hell did I know?

  “Now…” Doc paused. “There is some risk here.”

  Doc thought for a second, as if to decide whether to outline the full extent of the procedure.

  “That screw will be placed very near your spine. Obviously, if the doctor makes a mistake inserting the screw, it could have serious implications.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “But,” Doc continued, “this guy is the best, and if we can get that screw in place the chances that you will have a full recovery are much better.”

  A full recovery? I hadn’t thought about it until that moment. What if I couldn’t be a SEAL anymore? What if the damage was so bad that I couldn’t run or jump out of airplanes or scuba dive? What if my career was over and I was the only one who didn’t realize it?

  No, that was not going to happen! As long as I could wiggle my toes (again that fixation), I was going to stay a SEAL.

  “Let’s do it, Doc.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  That evening, the doctor arrived from L.A. My confidence waned momentarily when he appeared to be no more than twenty-five years old. As it turned out, he was a bit of a surgeon savant, and the next morning he managed to pin me and plate me back together with great success.

  After recovery, the first visitor I had was Moki Martin. Moki, a Vietnam-era SEAL and one of my SEAL instructors, had been in a bicycle accident years earlier. The head-on collision with another cyclist left him paralyzed from the waist down, with limited use of his arms. In a wheelchair now, Moki was one of the most inspirational men I knew.

  He rolled up beside my bed, reached out, and grabbed my hand. “Well, clearly I need to give you some parachute lessons.”

  “Clearly,” I replied, laughing.

  “I t
alked with Gould. He said you’re going to be okay, but it could be a long recovery.”

  “No sweat. I didn’t have anything on my calendar for the next year.”

  He moved his wheelchair closer so we could be eye to eye. “Bill, never forget that you’re a SEAL. You got to this point in your life because you’re tough. I watched you go through training. You were tough then. You’re tough now. You’ll get through this just fine. But no matter what happens.” He paused. “Don’t ring the bell.”

  Don’t ring the bell. Don’t ring the bell. It was the call to continue no matter what obstacles lay ahead. No man wearing a SEAL Trident ever rang the bell. Ringing the bell was for those who couldn’t make it. Ringing the bell was for those who weren’t up to the challenge of SEAL training. Ringing the bell was an admittance of defeat. Moki Martin never rang the bell. I wouldn’t either.

  For a week after the operation I struggled with “Sundowners Syndrome”—hallucinating wildly, screaming at night, fighting the nurses, and unable to maintain any sense of sanity. Finally I told my military doctors that I had to escape the hospital. I truly feared for my long-term sanity.

  After a contentious discussion with the hospital staff, they reluctantly agreed to let me go as long as the military doctors promised to check up on me throughout the day. That night the ambulance took me back to my house at the Naval Amphibious Base. My command surgeon had equipped the living room with a hospital bed.

  For the first week, my military doctors were checking on me every several hours. As my sanity returned and my health got better, Georgeann took on the nursing duties. Every day she gave me a series of shots to keep my blood from clotting. She changed my bedpan, cleaned my surgical wounds, checked my vitals, fed me, and, most important, told me everything was going to be okay. I believed her, even if she didn’t believe it herself.

  As the days went by dozens of well-wishers came from all around to check up on me. Within three weeks, I was able to sit in a wheelchair, and even attended a traditional SEAL gala event, much to the dismay of my doctor—who was not invited on grounds that he would prevent me from drinking.

  I remained worried that in spite of my quick recovery, weeks after the accident I was still in and out of a wheelchair. Occasionally I wheeled myself over to the office, which was minutes away from my house. One day, Admiral Eric Olson, the commander of Naval Special Warfare Command and my boss, came by to talk about my future.

  Olson was a Naval Academy graduate and one of the toughest SEALs I had ever known. He received the Silver Star for his actions in Mogadishu during the famed Black Hawk Down incident. He was a serious man, hard to read, but universally respected and admired by all the SEAL community. Olson would go on to be the first three-star and the first four-star SEAL in Navy history, but was now a one-star admiral. My fate rested in his hands.

  Navy regulations required that an officer have a full medical examination after a serious accident. Subsequent to the examination, a Navy medical board must meet to determine the officer’s fitness to continue to serve. I knew that the board would never find me fit to continue as a Navy SEAL. I was barely fit to get out of bed.

  “How are you feeling?” Olson asked.

  “Great, sir! Just great!” I lied. It was getting to be a bad habit.

  “Bill.” He hesitated. “You know that I’m required to have your record reviewed by a medical board.”

  “Yes sir. I’m aware of that.”

  Olson continued, “I called the Navy staff and they are okay with delaying your arrival at the Pentagon for a few weeks.”

  Olson had personally arranged for my next assignment to be on the Navy staff. He was positioning me to make admiral, and he knew that a job in the Pentagon would get me some much-needed recognition with the Navy leadership.

  “The problem is, if the med board doesn’t approve you for continued service, then the Navy is unlikely to accept you for the position in the Pentagon.”

  “Yes sir. I understand,” I said, with a certain sense of resignation. “Sir, Bob Harward and I are scheduled to have our change of command next week. After that, I have a couple of weeks’ leave before I have to report to the Pentagon. If I can get out of my wheelchair and make the change of command on my crutches, is there any way we can waive the med board requirements?”

  I was putting Olson in a tough position. There were rules to be followed. People to be notified. Forms to be filled out.

  Olson nodded. “If you can do your change of command, on crutches, then I will see what I can do.”

  A week later, dressed in my finest “choker” white uniform, I stepped out of the military sedan, grabbed my crutches, and hobbled my way to the outdoor stage. With a band playing, flags flying, and bells ringing, I passed command of the West Coast SEALs to Captain Bob Harward. As per tradition, we both turned and saluted the senior officer, Admiral Eric Olson. By then I knew that the paperwork had never made it to Washington. Rarely had a salute to a senior officer come with more appreciation.

  That evening I returned to my house and collapsed back into my bed. I knew that the road ahead was going to be long and painful. I would need a lot of rest in order to get strong again. Admiral Olson had graciously granted me thirty days’ leave to help with my rehab. The extra leave delayed my arrival at the Pentagon by a few weeks, but the Navy staff never complained and never questioned the reason.

  Thirty days later, as I lay in my living room, Georgeann and I watched in horror as American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175 struck the World Trade Center towers. Moments later, pictures of the Pentagon, smoke pouring out of the E-Ring, came across the screen. Georgeann looked at me, but we never said a word—only a silent prayer for the families who had lost loved ones in New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington.

  Within a few days, my orders to the Pentagon had been changed. I would now join retired General Wayne A. Downing in the Office of Combatting Terrorism, a newly formed directorate on the National Security Council staff. Our job was coordinating the counterterrorism activities of the nation. The two years that followed gave me time to fully recuperate. By October 2003, I was in combat in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  As the casualties mounted and my daily routine involved visits to the combat hospital, I never forgot the kindness of those who helped me through the tough times after my accident. Not a week went by without some wounded soldier pleading with me to keep them in special operations. They didn’t need that second leg. They could see fine out of just one eye. They shot better with a prosthetic hand.

  But as the commander I had a job to do. There were rules to be followed. People to be notified. Forms to be filled out. I had to follow the regulations. But somehow my damn staff kept losing the paperwork.

  One of these days, I need to check into that…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  October 2001

  The Pope?”

  “Yes. The Pope.”

  “You want me to draft a letter from the President to the Pope justifying the war in Afghanistan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You do know that scholars, philosophers, and theologians have been trying to justify war for… oh… like since the beginning of mankind.”

  “Well, you’ve got a week.”

  “Oh, well a week… should be plenty of time.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcasm. “Can you get this done or not?”

  “Yes sir, of course. I’ll have it to you in a week.”

  He hung up abruptly.

  I had arrived at the White House just five days earlier assigned to my new position as the Director of Strategy and Military Affairs in the Office of Combatting Terrorism. My boss, retired four-star General Wayne Downing, had persuaded Admiral Olson that my services would be better utilized in the White House, helping orchestrate the war on terrorism, than on the Navy staff in the Pentagon. Georgeann and I had moved acro
ss the country, and along with my ten-year-old daughter, Kelly, we were temporarily living at Fort Belvoir in northern Virginia.

  The days had a sense of purpose. The United States had just suffered the worst attack on its soil since Pearl Harbor. The nation was mobilizing. Flags were everywhere. You could feel the patriotism. You could feel the fear. Young soldiers were preparing for war. The news was a constant drumbeat of urgency. A spirit of revenge filled the American heart, and it felt justified. Nothing seemed ordinary. We were living history.

  Downing glared at his phone.

  “I’m sorry I won’t be here, Congressman, but something’s come up. My Director of Military Affairs, Captain Bill McRaven, will be in the office. He’s a Navy SEAL. He can help you.”

  Me! I pointed to myself.

  Downing glared again, this time in my direction. “No sir. I don’t think I’ll be back.” Downing looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yes sir. One o’clock. Bill will be ready.”

  Downing put down the phone and shook his head. “Rohrabacher is coming by,” he said, referring to the California Congressman. “He wants us to help out some warlord named Dostum. I’ve got to head out. You handle it.”

  “Where are you going, sir?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Condi.” He grinned, knowing I knew better.

  “Rohrabacher is a very influential Congressman,” Downing said. “He’s got the phone numbers of every mujahedeen leader in Afghanistan and thinks he has the authority to direct the war from Congress. Just hear him out and don’t promise anything.”

  He laughed. “Well, is this what you expected the White House to be like?”

  “I don’t know what I expected, sir. But if I can’t be on the ground in Afghanistan, I guess being at the White House is the next best thing.”

  Downing rose from his desk, smiled, slapped me on the back, and headed out the door.

  I liked Downing a lot. General Wayne A. Downing, referred to as “the WAD” by junior officers, was a legend in special operations. A 1962 West Point graduate, he had served in the Vietnam War and Desert Storm. A recipient of two Silver Stars for valor and a Purple Heart, he was as tough a soldier as the Army had ever seen. Downing had commanded the famed Ranger Regiment, the Joint Special Operations Command, the U.S. Army’s Special Operations Command, and eventually, all U.S. special operations. Now he was the President’s point man on the war on terrorism. With dusty blond hair, short in stature, but strong around the edges, he was a physical fitness machine. Even in his sixties, he could outrun and out-PT most younger men. He had a dry sense of humor, and when in the Army he loved to test his junior officers’ mettle. Could they keep up with him on the long runs? Did they understand Clausewitz, Sun Tzu, and Liddell Hart? Were they afraid of a thirty-thousand-foot night parachute jump? Did they lead from the front in combat or training? He seemed to see everything and judge every man’s fitness to command.