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

T
ATS

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W
hile I was home, I had a pair of new tattoos added to my arm.
One was a Trident. Now that I felt like a real SEAL, I felt I had
earned it. I had it put on the inside of my arm where not everyone
would see, but I knew it was there. I didn’t want it to be out there
bragging.
On the front of my arm, I had a crusader cross inked in. I
wanted everyone to know I was a Christian. I had it put in in red,
for blood. I hated the damn savages I’d been fighting. I always will.
They’ve taken so much from me.
E
ven the tattoos became a cause for stress between my wife and
myself. She didn’t like tattoos in general, and the way I got these—
staying out late one evening when she was expecting me home,
surprising her with them—added to our friction.
Taya saw it as one more sign that I was changing, becoming
somebody she didn’t know.
I didn’t think of it that way at all, though I admit I knew she
wouldn’t like it. But it’s better to ask for forgiveness than
permission.
Actually, I had wanted full sleeves, so, in my mind, it was a
compromise.
G
ETTING 
R
EADY TO 
G
O

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W
hile I was home, Taya became pregnant with our second child.
Again, that was a lot of strain for my wife.
My father told Taya that he was sure once I saw my son and
spent time with him, I wouldn’t want to reenlist or go back to war.
But while we talked a lot about it, in the end I didn’t feel there
was much of a question about what to do. I was a SEAL. I was
trained for war. I was made for it. My country was at war and it
needed me.
And I missed it. I missed the excitement and the thrill. I loved
killing bad guys.
“If you die, it will wreck all our lives,” Taya told me. “It pisses
me off that you would not only willingly risk your life, but risk ours,
too.”
For the moment, we agreed to disagree.
A
s it came up to the time to deploy, our relationship became more
distant. Taya would push me away emotionally, as if she were
putting on armor for the coming months. I may have done the same
thing.
“It’s not intentional,” she told me, in one of the rare moments
when we both could realize what was happening and actually talk
about it.
We still loved each other. It may sound strange—we were close
and not close, needing each other and yet needing distance between
us. Needing to do other things. At least in my case.

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I was anticipating leaving. I was excited about doing my job
again.