Marcus luttrell

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep . . .
And of course they always ended with the special verse exclusively for the Navy SEALs, the 
everlasting anthem for SPECWARCOM: 
Eternal Father, faithful friend,
Be quick to answer those we send,
In brotherhood and urgent trust,
On hidden missions dangerous,

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O hear us when we cry to Thee,
For SEALs in air, on land, and sea.
People just slept whenever and wherever they could. We have a large wood guesthouse at the 
entrance to the property, and people just went in there. The SEALs came into the house and slept 
where they could, on beds, on sofas, in chairs, wherever. And every three hours, there was a 
telephone call, patched in directly from the battlefield in Afghanistan. It was always the same: 
“No news.” No one ever left Mom alone, but she was beside herself with worry. 
As June turned into July, many were beginning to lose faith and believe I was dead. Except for 
Morgan, who would not believe it and kept saying he’d been in communication, mentally. I was 
hurt but alive. Of that he was certain. 
The SEALs also would not even consider the possibility that I was dead. He’s missing in action, 
MIA. That was their belief. And until someone told them different, that’s all they would accept. 
Unlike the stupid television station, right? They thought they could say any damn thing they felt 
like, true or not, and cause my family emotional trauma on a scale only a community as close as 
we are could possibly understand. 
Meanwhile back in the cave, Norzamund came back with two other guys, again frightening the 
life out of me. It was about 0400 on Friday, July 1, and they had no lantern. They communicated 
with whispers and hissing signals for silence. Once more they lifted me up and carried me down 
the hill to the river. I tried to throw the foul-smelling water bottle away, but they found it and 
brought it right back. Guess there was a heavy shortage of water bottles in the Hindu Kush. 
Anyway, they looked after that bottle like it was a rare diamond. 
We crossed the river and turned up the escarpment, back to the village. It seemed to take a real 
long time, and at one point I flicked on the light on my watch, and they almost went wild with 
fury: 
No! No! No! Dr. Marcus. Taliban! Taliban!
Of course I didn’t know what they were talking about. The light was tiny, but they kept pointing 
at it. I soon realized that light was an acute danger to all of us, that the village of Sabray was 
surrounded by the Taliban, waiting for their chance to capture or kill me. My armed bearers had 
the same Pashtun upbringing and knew the slightest flicker of a light, no matter how small, was 
unusual out here on the mountain and could easily attract the attention of an alert watchman. 
I switched that sucker off, real quick. And one of my guys, walking out in front with his AK, had 
some English. He came back to me and whispered: “Taliban see light, they shoot you, Dr. 
Marcus.” 
Finally we reached high ground, and I picked up the word 
helicopter.
And right here I thought 
someone might be coming to rescue me. But it was just a false alarm. Nothing came. I stretched 
out on the concrete, and some time before dawn, Sarawa showed up with his medical bag and 
attended to my leg. He removed the blood-soaked dressings, washed out the wounds, and applied 
antiseptic cream and fresh bandages. Then, to my astonishment, he produced some insulin for the 
diabetes I didn’t have. 

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Guess I was a better liar than I thought. And I obviously had to take it. The stuff I do for my 
country. Unbelievable, right? 
They moved me into a house up there near the top of the village, and soon after I arrived I met 
my first real friend, Mohammad Gulab, the thirty-three-year-old son of the village elder, and the 
resident police chief. Everyone called him Gulab (pronounced