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

T
ATS
W
e did finally make shore without getting eaten. But meanwhile,
the entire Navy was looking for us. The news media started
carrying the story: 
FOUR SEALS LOST AT SEA.
Not exactly what we wanted to be famous for.
It took a while, but a patrol plane finally spotted us and an Mk-
V was dispatched to pick us up. The commander of the assault
boat took care of us and got us home.
T
hat was one of the few times when I was really glad to get aboard
a boat or ship. Generally, when I’ve been out at sea I’ve been
bored. Worrying about being assigned to sea duty was a big
motivator during BUD/S.
Submarines are the worst. Even the largest feel cramped. The
last time I was aboard one, we weren’t even allowed to work out.
The gym was located on the other side of the nuclear reactor from
our quarters, and we weren’t authorized to pass through the reactor
area to get there.
Aircraft carriers are a hell of a lot larger, but they can be just as
boring. At least they have lounges where you can play video games
and there are no restrictions on getting to the gym to blow off

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steam.
In fact, on one occasion, we were specifically requested to go to
the gym by the CO.
We were on the 
Kitty Hawk
when they were having a problem
with gangs. Apparently, some punk sailors who were gang
members were causing quite a discipline problem aboard ship. The
CO of the boat pulled us over and told us when the gang used the
gym.
So we went down to work out, locked the door behind us, and
fixed the gang problem.
D
uring this workup, I missed a dive session because I got sick. It
was as if a light went off in my head. From that point on, just about
every time diving turned up on our practice schedule, I came down
with a very bad disease. Or I found a sniper-training trip that just
had
to be taken at that point.
The rest of the guys teased me that I had better ninja smoke than
anybody.
And who am I to argue?
I
also got my first tattoo around this time. I wanted to honor the
SEALs, and yet I didn’t feel as if I’d earned a Trident tattoo. (The
official SEAL emblem had an eagle perched in an overwatch
position on a trident that forms the crossbar of an anchor; a flintlock
pistol sits in front of it. The insignia is known as the trident or,

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unofficially, a “Budweiser,” the reference being to BUD/S . . . or the
beer, depending on who you ask.)
So, instead, I got a “frog bone,” a tattoo that looks like a frog
skeleton. This, too, is a traditional SEAL and UDT symbol—in this
case, honoring our dead comrades. I have the tattoo on my back,
peeking over my shoulder—as if those who came before me were
looking after me, offering some protection.