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

9
The Punishers
“I’
M 
H
ERE TO 
G
ET 
T
HOSE 
M
ORTARS
”
Y
ou would think an army planning a major offensive would have a
way to get its warriors right to the battle area.
You would think wrong.
Because of the medical situation with the cyst and then my
daughter’s birth, I ended up leaving the States about a week behind
the rest of my platoon. By the time I landed in Baghdad in April
2006, my platoon had been sent west to the area of Ramadi. No
one in Baghdad seemed to know how to get me out there. It was

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up to me to get over to my boys.
A direct flight to Ramadi was impossible—things were too hot
there. So I had to cobble together my own solution. I came across
an Army Ranger who was also heading for Ramadi. We hooked
up, pooling our creative resources as we looked for a ride at
Baghdad International Airport.
At some point, I overheard an officer talking about problems the
Army was having with some insurgent mortarmen at a base to the
west. By coincidence, we heard about a flight heading to that same
base; the Ranger and I headed over to try to get onto the
helicopter.
A colonel stopped as we were about to board.
“Helicopter’s full,” he barked at the Ranger. “Why do you need
to be on it?”
“Well, sir, we’re the snipers coming to take care of your mortar
problem,” I told him, holding up my gun case.
“Oh yes!” the colonel yelled to the crew. “These boys need to
be on the very next flight. Get them right on.”
We hopped aboard, bumping two of his guys in the process.
B
y the time we got to the base, the mortars had been taken care
of. We still had a problem, though—there were no flights heading
for Ramadi, and the prospects of a convoy were slimmer than the
chance of seeing snow in Dallas in July.
But I had an idea. I led the Ranger to the base hospital, and

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found a corpsman. I’ve worked with a number as a SEAL, and in
my experience, the Navy medics always know their way around
problems.
I took a SEAL challenge coin out of my pocket and slipped it
into my hand, exchanging it when we shook. (Challenge coins are
special tokens that are created to honor members of a unit for
bravery or other special achievements. A SEAL challenge coin is
especially valued, both for its rarity and symbolism. Slipping it to
someone in the Navy is like giving him a secret handshake.)
“Listen,” I told the corpsman. “I need a serious favor. I’m a
SEAL, a sniper. My unit is in Ramadi. I got to get there, and he’s
coming with me.” I gestured to the Ranger.
“Okay,” said the corpsman, his voice almost a whisper. “Come
into my office.”
We went into his office. He took out a rubber stamp, inked our
hands, then wrote something next to the mark.
It was a triage code.
The corpsman medevac’d us 
into
Ramadi. We were the first,
and probably only, people to be medevac’d into a battle rather than
out of it.
And I thought only SEALs could be 
that
creative.
I have no idea why that worked, but it did. No one on the
chopper we were hustled into questioned the direction of our flight,
let alone the nature of our “wounds.”

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