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

T
HE 
S
ALACIOUS AND THE 
S
URREAL
O
ne evening, we took over what we thought was an abandoned
apartment, since it was empty when we arrived. I was rotating with
another sniper, and while I was off, I went hunting around to see if
there was something I might use to make the hide more
comfortable.
In an open drawer of a bureau, I saw all this sexy lingerie.
Crotchless panties, nightgowns—very suggestive stuff.
Not my size, though.
There was often an odd, almost surreal mix of things inside the
buildings, items that would seem out of place under the best
circumstances. Like the car tires we found on the roof in Fallujah,
or the goat we found in the bathroom of a Haifa Street apartment.
I’d see something, then spend the rest of the day wondering
what the story was. After a while, the bizarre came to seem natural.
Not quite surprising were the TVs and satellite dishes. They
were everywhere. Even in the desert. Many times we’d come upon
a little nomad settlement with tents for houses and nothing but a
couple animals and open land around them. Still, they were bristling
with satellite dishes.

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C
ALLING 
H
OME
O
ne night, I was on an overwatch and things were quiet. Nights
were normally slow in Baghdad. Insurgents usually wouldn’t attack
then, because they knew we had the advantage with our
technology, including our night-vision gear and infrared sensors. So
I thought I’d take a minute and call my wife back home, just to tell I
was thinking of her.
I took our sat phone and dialed home. Most times, when I
talked to Taya, I’d tell her I was back at base, even though I was
really on an overwatch or in the field somewhere. I didn’t want to
worry her.
This night, for some reason, I told her what I was doing.
“Is it all right to talk?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, it’s all good,” I said. “There’s nothing going on.”
Well, I got maybe another two or three sentences out of my
mouth when someone started firing at the building from the street.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said nonchalantly.
Of course, the gunfire stoked up real loud as the words came
out of my mouth.
“Chris?”
“Well, I think I’m going to get going now,” I told her.

---

“Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah. It’s all good,” I lied. “Nothing happening. Talk to you
later.”
Just then, an RPG hit the outside wall right near me. Some of the
building smacked into my face, giving me a couple of beauty marks
and temporary tattoos courtesy of the insurgency.
I dropped the phone and started returning fire. I spotted the guys
down the street and popped one or two; the snipers who were with
me downed a bunch more before the rest got the hell out of there.
Fight over, I grabbed up the phone. The batteries had run out,
so I couldn’t call back.
Things got busy for a few days, and it wasn’t until two or three
days later when I finally got a chance to call Taya and see how she
was.
She started crying as soon as she answered the phone.
It turned out I hadn’t actually ended the call before I put down
the phone. She’d heard the whole gunfight, complete with shots and
curses, before the batteries had finally run out. Which, of course,
happened all of a sudden, adding to the anxiety.
I tried to calm her down, but I doubt what I said really eased her
mind.
She was always a good sport, always insisting that I didn’t have
to hide things from her. She claimed her imagination was a lot worse
than anything that really could happen to me.
I don’t know about that.

---

I
made a few other calls home during lulls in battles during my
deployments. The overall pace of the action was so intense and
continuous that there weren’t many alternatives. Waiting until I got
back to our camp might mean waiting for a week or more. And
while I’d call then, too, if I could, it wasn’t always possible.
And I got used to the battles. Getting shot at was just part of the
job. RPG round? Just another day at the office.
My dad has a story about hearing from me at work one day
when I hadn’t had a chance to call in a while. He picked up the
phone and was surprised to hear my voice.
He was even more surprised that I was whispering.
“Chris, why is your voice so hushed?” he asked.
“I’m on an op, Dad. I don’t want them to know where I’m at.”
“Oh,” he answered, a little shaken.
I doubt I was actually close enough for the enemy to hear
anything, but my father swears that a few seconds later, there were
gunshots in the background.
“Gotta go,” I said, before he had a chance to find out what the
sound was. “I’ll get back to you.”
According to my father, I called back two days later to
apologize for hanging up so abruptly. When he asked if he had
overheard the start of a firefight, I changed the subject.

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