American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U. S. Military History

T
HE 
P
UNISHERS
O
ur platoon had its own nickname, one that went beyond Cadillac.
We called ourselves the Punishers.
For those of you who are not familiar with the character, the
Punisher debuted in a Marvel comic book series in the 1970s. He’s
a real bad-ass who rights wrongs, delivering vigilante justice. A
movie by the same name had just come out; the Punisher wore a
shirt with a stylized white skull.
Our comms guy suggested it before the deployment. We all

---

thought what the Punisher did was cool: He righted wrongs. He
killed bad guys. He made wrongdoers fear him.
That’s what we were all about. So we adapted his symbol—a
skull—and made it our own, with some modifications. We spray-
painted it on our Hummers and body armor, and our helmets and all
our guns. And we spray-painted it on every building or wall we
could. We wanted people to know, 
We’re here and we want 
to
 
....
 with you.
It was our version of psyops.
You see us? We’re the people kicking your ass. Fear 
us.
 
Because we will kill you, 
....
.
You are bad. We are badder. We are bad-ass.
Our sister platoon wanted to use the template we used to mark
our gear, but we wouldn’t let them. We told them 
we
were the
Punishers. They had to get their own symbol.
W
e went a bit light with our Hummers. They were named, mostly,
for 
G.I. Joe
characters, like Duke and Snake Eyes. Just because
war is hell doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.
W
e had a good team that deployment, starting at the top. Decent
officers, and a really excellent chief named Tony.
Tony had trained as a sniper. He was not only a bad-ass, he was
an 
old
bad-ass, at least for a SEAL—rumor has it he was forty that
deployment.

---

SEALs usually do not make it to forty and stay out in the field.
We’re too beat-up. But Tony somehow managed it. He was a
hard-core son of a bitch, and we would have followed him to hell
and back.
I was the point man—snipers usually are—when we went on
patrols. Tony was almost always right behind me. Generally, the
chief will be toward the rear of the formation, covering everybody
else’s ass, but in this case our LT reasoned that having two snipers
at the head of the platoon was more effective.
O
ne night soon after the entire platoon had gotten back together,
we traveled about seventeen kilometers east of Ramadi. The area
was green and fertile—so much so that it looked to us like the
Vietnamese jungle, compared to the desert we’d been operating in.
We called it Viet Ram.
One night not long after the unit reunited, we were deposited at a
patrol area and began walking toward a suspected insurgent
stronghold on foot. Eventually, we came to a huge ditch with a
bridge going across it. Most of the time, these bridges were booby-
trapped, and in this case we had intel indicating this one definitely
was. So I went up and stood there, shining my laser to look for a
trip wire.
I played the light across the top of the bridge but saw nothing. I
ducked a little lower and tried again. Still nothing. I looked
everywhere I could think of, but found no contact wires, no IEDs,

---

no booby-traps, nothing.
But since I’d been told the bridge was booby-trapped, I was
sure there 
had
to be something there.
I looked again. My EOD—the bomb disposal expert—was
waiting behind me. All I had to do was find a trip wire or the bomb
itself, and he’d have it disarmed in seconds.
But I couldn’t find shit. Finally, I told Tony, “Let’s go across.”
Don’t get the wrong image: I wasn’t charging across that bridge.
I had my rifle in one hand and the other parked protectively over
my family jewels.
That wouldn’t have saved my life if an IED exploded, but at least
I’d be intact for the funeral.
The bridge was all of ten feet long, but it must have taken me an
hour to get across that thing. When I finally reached the other side, I
was soaking wet from sweat. I turned around to give the other guys
the thumbs-up. But there was no one there. They’d all ducked
behind some rocks and brush, waiting for me to blow up.
Even Tony, who, as point man, should have been right behind
me.
“
....
!” I yelled. “Where the hell did you go?”
“There’s no reason for more than one of us to get blown up,” he
told me matter-of-factly as he came across.