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H
AZED AND
H
ITCHED
F
or months, the United Nations Security Council pressured Iraq to
comply fully with U.N. resolutions, especially those requiring
inspections of suspected weapons of mass destruction and related
sites. War wasn’t a foregone conclusion—Saddam Hussein could
have complied and shown inspectors everything they wanted to see.
But most of us knew he wouldn’t. So when we got the word that
we were shipping out to Kuwait, we were excited. We figured we
were going to war.
One way or the other, there was plenty to do out there. Besides
watching Iraq’s borders and protecting the Kurdish minority, who
Saddam had gassed and massacred in the past, U.S. troops were
enforcing no-fly zones in the north and south. Saddam was
smuggling oil and other items both into and out of his country, in
violation of the U.N. sanctions. The U.S. and other allies were
stepping up operations to stop that.
Before we deployed, Taya and I chose to get married. The
decision surprised both of us. One day we started talking in the car,
and we both came to the conclusion that we should get married.
The decision stunned me, even as I made it. I agreed with it. It
was completely logical. We were definitely in love. I knew she was
the woman I wanted to spend my life with. And yet, for some
reason, I didn’t think the marriage would last.
We both knew that there is an extremely high divorce rate in the
SEALs. As a matter of fact, I’ve heard marriage counselors claim
that it is close to 95 percent, and I believe it. So maybe that was
what worried me. Perhaps part of me wasn’t really ready to think
about a lifetime commitment. And of course I understood how
demanding my job was going to be once we went to war. I can’t
explain the contradictions.
But I do know that I was absolutely in love, and that she loved
me. And so, for better or worse, make that peace or war, marriage
was our next step together. Happily, we’ve survived it all.
O
ne thing you ought to know about SEALs: when you’re new to
the Teams, you get hazed. The platoons are very tight-knit groups.
Newcomers—always called “new guys”—are treated like hell until
they prove they belong. That usually doesn’t happen until well into
their first deployment, if then. New guys get the shit jobs. They’re
constantly tested. They’re always beat on.
It’s a kind of an extended hazing that takes many forms. For
example: on a training exercise, you work hard. The instructors kick
your ass all day long. Then, when you’re done, the platoon will go
out and party. When we’re out on a training mission, we usually
drive around in large, twelve-passenger vans. A new guy always
drives. Which, of course, means he can’t drink when we hit the
bars, at least not to SEAL standards.
That’s the mildest form of hazing. In fact, it’s so mild it’s not
really hazing.
Choking him out while he’s driving—that’s hazing.
One night soon after I joined my platoon, we were out partying
after a training mission. When we left the bar, all the older guys
piled into the back. I wasn’t driving, but I had no problem with that
—I like to sit up front. We were speeding along for a while and all
of a sudden I heard, “One-two-three-four, I declare a van war.”
The next thing I knew, I was pummeled. “Van war” meant it was
open season on the new guys. I came out of that one with bruised
ribs and a black eye, maybe two. I must have gotten my lip busted
a dozen times during hazing.
I should say that van wars are separate from bar fights, another
SEAL staple. SEALs are pretty notorious for getting into bar
scrapes, and I was no exception. I’ve been arrested more than
once through the years, though as a general rule the charges were
either never filed or quickly dismissed.
Why do SEALs fight so much?
I haven’t made a scientific study of it, but I think a lot is owed to
pent-up aggression. We’re trained to go out and kill people. And
then, at the same time, we’re also being taught to think of ourselves
as invincible bad-asses. That’s a pretty potent combination.
When you go into a bar, you’ll always have someone who will
poke a shoulder into you or otherwise imply you should
....
off.
Happens in every bar across the world. Most people
just ignore
things like that.
If someone does that to a SEAL, we’re going to turn and knock
you out.
But at the same time, I have to say that while SEALs
end
a lot of
fights, we usually don’t start many. In a lot of cases, the fights are
the result of some sort of stupid jealousy or the need for a dumbass
t o test his own manhood and earn bragging rights for fighting a
SEAL.
When we go into bars, we don’t just cower down in the corner
or lay low. We go in extremely confident. Maybe we’re loud. And,
with us being mostly young and in great shape, people take notice.
Girls gravitate toward a group of SEALs, and maybe that makes
their boyfriends jealous. Or guys want to prove something for some
other reason. Either way, things escalate and fights happen.
B
ut I wasn’t talking about bar fights; I was talking about hazing.
And my wedding.
We were in the Nevada mountains; it was cold—so cold that it
was snowing. I had gotten a few days leave to get married; I was
due to take off in the morning. The rest of the platoon still had some
work to do.
We got back that night to our temporary base and went inside to
the mission-planning room. The chief told everybody that we’d
relax and have a few beers while we mapped out the next day’s
operation. Then he turned to me.
“Hey, new guy,” he told me. “Go grab the beer and the booze
out of the van and bring it in here.”
I hopped to.
When I came back in, everyone was sitting in chairs. There was
only one left, and it was kind of in the middle of a circle of the
others. I didn’t think too much about it as I sat down.
“All right, this is what we’re going to do,” my chief said, standing
in front of dry-erase board at the front of the room. “The operation
will be an ambush. The target will be in the center. We will
completely encircle it.”
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