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After one deployment, we were driving in the car and
Chris said, just out of the blue, “Did you know there is a
certain kind of smell when someone dies in a particular
way?”
And I said, “No. I didn’t know that.”
And gradually I got the story.
It was suitably gruesome.
Stories would just come out. A lot of times, he said
things to see what I could handle. I told him I really,
truly did not care what he did in wartime. He had my
unconditional support. Still, he needed to go slow, to test
the waters. I think he needed to know I wouldn’t look at
him differently, and perhaps more than that, he knew he
would deploy again and he didn’t want to scare me.
As far as I can see it, anyone who has a problem with
what guys do over there is incapable of empathy. People
want America to have a certain image when we fight.
Yet I would guess if someone were shooting at them and
they had to hold their family members while they bled
out against an enemy who hid behind their children,
played dead only to throw a grenade as they got closer,
and who had no qualms about sending their toddler to
die from a grenade from which they personally pulled
the pin—they would be less concerned with playing
nicely.
Chris followed the ROEs because he had to. Some of
the more broad-spectrum ROEs are fine. The problem
with the ROEs covering minutiae is that terrorists really
don’t give a shit about the Geneva Convention. So
picking apart a soldier’s every move against a dark,
twisted, rule-free enemy is more than ridiculous; it’s
despicable.
I care about my husband and other Americans
coming home alive. So other than being concerned for
his safety, I truly wasn’t afraid to hear anything he
wanted to share. Even before I heard the stories, I don’t
think I was ever under illusions that war is pretty or
nice.
When he told me the story about killing someone up
close, all I thought was, Thank God he’s okay.
Then I thought, You’re kind of a bad-ass. Wow.
Mostly, we didn’t talk about killing, or the war. But
then it would intrude.
Not always in a bad way: one day, Chris was getting
his oil changed at a local shop. Some men were in the
lobby with him. The guy behind the counter called
Chris’s name. Chris paid his bill and sat back down.
One of the guys waiting for his own vehicle looked at
him and said, “Are you Chris Kyle?”
And Chris said, “Yeah.”
“Were you in Fallujah?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit, you’re the guy who saved our ass.”
The guy’s father was there and he came over to thank
Chris and shake his hand. They were all saying, “You
were great. You got more kills than anyone.”
Chris got embarrassed and very humbly said, “Y’all
saved my ass, too.”
And that was it.
Photos
Stick ’em up, Yankee . . .
Young hunters and their prey. My brother (
left
) is still one of my
best friends.
I’ve been a cowboy pretty much from birth. Look at those fine
boots I wore as a four-year-old.
Here I am in junior high, practicing with my Ithaca pump shotgun.
Ironically, I’ve never been much of a shot with a scattergun.
You’re not a real cowboy until you learn to lasso . . .
And I eventually got to where I was halfway decent at it.
It’s a rough way to make a living, but I’ll always be a cowboy at
heart.
All kitted up with my Mk-12 sniper rifle, the gun I was carrying
when I rescued the trapped Marines and reporters in Fallujah.
Fallujah in ’04. Here I am with my .300 WinMag and some of the
snipers I worked with. One was a SEAL, the others were Marines.
(You can tell their service by the camis.)
The sniper hide we used when covering the Marines staging for
the assault on Fallujah. Note the baby crib turned on its side.
General Peter Pace, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, hands me
the Grateful Nation Award from JINSA, the Jewish Institute for
National Security Affairs. JINSA gave me the award in 2005 in
recognition of my service and achievements in Fallujah.
Charlie Platoon of SEAL Team 3 during the Ramadi deployment.
The only faces that are shown are Marc Lee’s (
left
), Ryan Job’s
(
middle
), and mine (
right
).
Marc Lee leading the platoon on patrol in Ramadi. With the help of
the Marines, we were able to use the river to launch several ops
against insurgents.
We made our own logo, reminiscent of the Punisher character. We
spray-painted it on our vests and much of our gear. Like him, we
were righting wrongs.
Photograph courtesy of 5.11
Here I am with the boys in ’06, just back from an op with my Mk-11
sniper rifle in my right hand.
Set up on a roof in Ramadi. The tent provided me a bit of relief from
the sun.
Another sniping position I used in the same battle.
We chose roofs in Ramadi that provided us with good vantage
points. Sometimes, though, the job called for more than a sniper
rifle—that black smoke in the background is an enemy position
obliterated by a tank.
Marc Lee.
After Marc died, we created a patch to honor his memory. We will
never forget.
Ryan Job.
A close-up of my Lapua .338, the gun I made my longest kill with.
You can see my “dope” card—the placard on the side contains the
come-ups (adjustments) needed for long-range targets. My 2,100-
yard shot exceeded the card’s range, and I had to eyeball it.
When not on the gun myself, I like to help others improve their
skills. This was taken during my last deployment, while instructing
a little class for some Army snipers.
Leading a training session for Craft International, the company I
started after leaving the Navy. We make our sessions as realistic
as possible for the operators and law enforcement officers we
teach.
Photograph courtesy of 5.11
Here I am on a helo training course for Craft. I don’t mind
helicopters—it’s heights I can’t stand.
Photograph courtesy of
5.11
Our company logo and slogan (“Despite what your momma told
you . . . violence does solve problems”) honor my SEAL brethren,
especially my fallen comrades. I’ll never forget them.
Me and Taya, the love of my life and better half.
Photograph
courtesy of Heather Hurt/Calluna Photography
My son and I check out a C-17.
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