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

C
HRISTMAS
T
hat December was the first Christmas I’d ever been away from
my family, and it felt a little depressing. The day kind of came and
went without a memorable celebration.
I do remember the presents Taya’s folks sent that year, though:
remote-control Hummers.
They were small, radio-controlled toys that were just a blast to
drive around. Some of the Iraqis working on base had apparently
never seen anything like them before. I’d drive a vehicle toward
them and they would scream and bolt away. I don’t know if they
thought it was some sort of guided missile or what. Their high-
pitched screams, coupled with sprints in the opposite direction, had
me doubled over. Cheap thrills in Iraq were priceless.
Some of the people we had working for us were not exactly the
best of the best, nor were all of them particularly fond of
Americans.
They caught one jerking off into our food.
He was quickly escorted from the base. The head shed—our
commanding officers—knew that as soon as everyone found out
what he’d done, someone would probably try and kill him.

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W
e stayed at two different camps in Kuwait: Ali al-Salem and
Doha. Our facilities at both were relatively bare-bones.
Doha was a large U.S. Army base, and played important roles in
both the First and what would be the Second Gulf War. We were
given a warehouse there and framed-out rooms with the help of
some Seabees, the Navy combat engineers. We’d come to rely on
the Seabees for similar support in the future.
Ali al-Salem was even more primitive, at least for us. There we
got a tent and some shelving units; that was about it. I guess the
powers-that-be figured SEALs don’t need much.
I
was in Kuwait when I saw my first desert sandstorm. The day
suddenly became night. Sand swirled everywhere. From the
distance, you can see a vast orange-brown cloud moving toward
you. Then, suddenly, it’s black and you feel like you’re in the
middle of swirling mineshaft, or maybe the rinse cycle in a bizarre
washing machine that uses sand instead of water.
I remember being in an airplane hangar, and even though the
doors were closed, the amount of dust in the air was unbelievable.
The sand was a fine grit that you never wanted to get in your eyes,
because it would never come out. We quickly learned to wear
goggles to protect them; sunglasses wouldn’t do.

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