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

S
TANDING
 D
OWN
W
e had a memorial service at Camp Ramadi for Marc Lee.
SEALs from every part of Iraq came in for it. And I believe the
entire Army unit we’d been working with showed up. They had a

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lot of concern for us; it was unbelievable. I was very moved.
They put us on the front row. We were his family.
Marc’s gear was right there, helmet and Mk-48. Our task unit
commander gave a short but powerful speech; he teared up and I
doubt there was a dry eye in the audience—or the camp, for that
matter.
As the service ended, each unit left a token of appreciation—a
unit patch or coin, something. The captain of the Army unit left a
piece of brass from one of the rounds he’d fired getting us out.
Someone in our platoon put together a memorial video with
some slides of him, and played it that night with the movie showing
on a white sheet we had hung over a brick wall. We shared some
drinks, and a lot of sadness.
Four of our guys accompanied his body back home. Meanwhile,
since we were on stand-down and not doing anything, I tried to go
see Ryan in Germany, where he was being treated. Tony or
someone else in the head shed arranged to get me on a flight, but by
the time everything was set up, Ryan was already being shipped
back to the States for treatment.
Brad, who’d been evac’d earlier because of the frag wound in
his knee, met Ryan in Germany and went back to the States with
him. It was lucky in a way—Ryan had one of us to be with him and
help him deal with everything he had to face.
W
e all spent a lot of time in our rooms.

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Ramadi had been hot and heavy, with an op tempo that was
pretty severe, worse even than Fallujah. We’d spend several days,
even a week out, with barely a break in between. Some of us were
starting to get a little burned out even before our guys got hit.
We stayed in our rooms, replacing bodily fluids, keeping to
ourselves mostly.
I spent a lot of time praying to God.
I’m not the kind of person who makes a big show out of religion.
I believe, but I don’t necessarily get down on my knees or sing real
loud in church. But I find some comfort in faith, and I found it in
those days after my friends had been shot up.
Ever since I had gone through BUD/S, I’d carried a Bible with
me. I hadn’t read it all that much, but it had always been with me.
Now I opened it and read some of the passages. I skipped around,
read a bit, skipped around some more.
With all hell breaking loose around me, it felt better to know I
was part of something bigger.
M
y emotions shot up when I heard that Ryan had survived. But my
overriding reaction was: Why wasn’t it me?
Why did this have to happen to a new guy?
I’d seen a lot of action; I’d had my achievements. I had my war.
I should have been the one sidelined. I should have been the one
blinded.
Ryan would never see the look on his family’s face when he

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came home. He’d never see how much sweeter everything is when
you get back—see how much better America looks when you’ve
been gone from it for a while.
You forget how beautiful life is, if you don’t get a chance to see
things like that. He never would.
And no matter what anybody told me, I felt responsible for that.