Marcus luttrell

Geneva Convention
while I’m writing this, I 
might more or less lose control. 
Anyway, they found Axe, with the bullets the Taliban rifles had emptied into his face as he lay 
dying, just as they had done to Mikey. But Axe was in a different place from where I thought. I 
know we were both blown out of the hole by the RPG, because I went over the precipice. But 
Axe was a few hundred yards even farther away. No one quite knows how he got there. 
Axe still had three magazines left for his pistol when the grenade hit us. But when they found 
him, he was on the last one. And that could mean only one thing: Axe must have fought on, 
recovering consciousness after the blast and going for those bastards again, firing maybe thirty 
more rounds at them; must have driven them mad. I guess that’s why, when he inevitably 
succumbed to his most shocking injuries, they had accorded him that barbaric tribal finale. 
I used to think Audie Murphy was the ultimate American warrior. I’m not so sure about that. Not 
now. Not anymore. And it upsets me more than I can say, thinking what they did, in the end, to 
Mikey and Axe. It upsets Morgan so bad, no one can even mention Axe’s name without him 
having to leave the room. I guess you had to know him to understand that. There were not many 
like Matthew Axelson. 
Well, by the time they brought Axe down, I was gone. They flew me out on the night of July 8, 
in a big military Boeing, the C-141, on a long journey to Germany. Jeff Delapenta accompanied 
me, never left my side once. And there I checked in to the regional medical center at the U.S. Air 
Force base at Landstuhl, up near the western border with France, about fifty-five miles southwest 
of Frankfurt. 
I was there for about nine days, recovering and receiving treatment for my wounds and therapy 
for the healing bones in my back, shoulder, and wrist. But that Pepsi bottle bug wouldn’t budge 
from my stomach. It showed major resistance for long months and made it hard to regain my lost 
weight. 
But I came through it and finally left Germany for the four-thousand-mile ride back to the U.S.A. 
This time Lieutenant Clint Burk, my swim buddy in BUD/S, accompanied me, along with Dr. 
Dickens. Clint and I have been closest friends forever, and the journey passed pretty quickly. We 
traveled in a C-17 cargo plane, upstairs in first class...well, nearly. But in seats. It was great. And 
we touched down nine hours later in Maryland. Then the navy hitched a ride for us in a 
Gulfstream private jet owned by a senator. 

---

And I guess I arrived back in some style to San Antonio Airport, Texas, which stands almost two 
hundred miles west of Houston, right along Route 10 and over the Colorado River. Back home I 
guess there had been some talk that I might be taken on to San Diego, but apparently Morgan 
just said, “You can forget all about that. He’s coming home, and we’re going to get him.” 
They saddled up the family Suburban, Morgan and my kid brother, Scottie, plus the SEALs 
Lieutenant JJ, and JT. And they set off across the Lone Star State to collect the brother they had 
been told by the media was dead. I couldn’t believe it when I saw them all waiting there when 
my private jet landed. 
There were a few tears from all of us. Just tears of happiness, I guess, because they had all lived 
with the darkest of threats, that we would not see one another ever again. I have to say the 
thought had also crossed my mind a few times as well. 
But mostly I remember the laughter. “Jesus, you look awful,” said Morgan. “Mom’ll have a 
nervous breakdown when she sees you.” It reminded me of what I’d said to Axe when he’d been 
fatally wounded on the mountain — “Hey, man, you’re all fucked up.” 
It’s just the way we talk to each other. Remember, Morgan was a SEAL, and his words, even to 
his twin brother, were tempered with humor, like all of our words among ourselves. One day it 
could be Morgan trapped on the mountain and me waiting for him, beside myself with worry and 
fear for his life. I recall he did tell me he loved me, though, and so did Scottie. And that meant a 
lot to me. 
In the absence of Commander Pero, Scottie rustled up a bagful of cheeseburgers for the five-hour 
journey home, and we guffawed our way across Texas; me making light of my ordeal, telling 
’em it wasn’t much really, none of them believing me. I guess it’s impossible to look as bad as I 
did when it wasn’t much really. 
But we had some fun, and in the end, I told them a few of the bits that were on the serious side of 
horrendous. Morgan wept like a child when I told him about Axe. We all went pretty quiet while 
that was happening, because there were no words which could comfort him, nothing that could 
ever be said to ease his sadness. In my view, nothing ever will. Same with me and Mikey. 
Eventually we ran into our little corner of East Texas. Everyone pulled together as we drove 
down that wide, red dirt road to the ranch, the home I thought I might never see again. Those big 
oaks still towered over the place, and Dad’s dogs came running out to meet us, barking like hell, 
with Emma unusually out in the lead, wagging her tail, as if she knew something the others 
didn’t. 
Mom predictably broke down at the sight of me, because I was still more than thirty pounds 
lighter than when she last saw me. And I guess I still looked pretty ill. I never told her about the 
goddamned typhoid-laden Pepsi bottle. A ton of people were there, from all around the 
neighborhood, to greet me. 
I didn’t know at the time that these people had formed the bedrock of the five-day prayer vigil 
that had taken place on the property while I was missing. A vigil to which no one had been 
invited, and no one knew if anyone else would be there; a vigil born of pure friendship and 

---

concern, which started with such melancholy prophesies of doom and tenuous hopes, but ended 
on the sunlit uplands of answered prayers. I could scarcely believe it when I heard what had 
happened. 
And yet, standing right before me, was the cast-iron evidence of the love those Texans must have 
had for me and for what I had tried to do on behalf of my country. It came in the form of a brand-
new stone house standing across a new paved courtyard, maybe twenty feet from the main house. 
It was two floors high, with a wide, timbered upper deck around the bedrooms, which abutted a 
tall, stone-walled shower, custom-made for me. Inside, the house was perfectly decorated, 
carpeted, and furnished, with a big plasma television. 
“How the hell did that get here?” I asked Mom. And what she then told me blew me away. It 
started with a visit, after the vigil had ended, from a marvelous Texan landowner called Scott 
Whitehead. He was just one of so many who came to see my parents and express his delight that 
I had been found. He’d never, by the way, met any of the family before. 
And before he went, he explained he had a close friend who owned a construction company in 
Houston and wondered if there was anything Marcus might like when he came home. 
Mom explained how I had always wanted a little space of my own where I could...well...chill, as 
the late Shane Patton would undoubtedly have expressed it. And perhaps a small extension off 
my lower-floor bedroom might be really nice. She was thinking rock-bottom price, and maybe 
she and Dad could manage that. 
Next thing that happened, she said, two of the biggest trucks she’d ever seen came rolling into 
the drive, accompanied by a crane and a mechanical digger, a couple of architects, site engineers, 
and God knows what else. Then, Mom says, a team of around thirty guys, working twenty-four 
hours a day in shifts over three days, built me a house! 
Scott Whitehead just said he was proud to have done a small favor for a very great Texan 
(Christ! He meant me, I think). And he still calls Mom every day, just to check we’re all okay. 
Anyway, Morgan and I moved in, freeing up space for the stream of SEALs who still kept 
coming to see us. And I stayed home with the family, resting for two weeks, during which time 
Mom fought a fierce running battle with the Pepsi bottle bug, trying to get some weight on me. 
Scott Whitehead’s boys had thought of everything. They even had the house phone wired up in 
my new residence, and the first call I received was a real surprise. I picked it up and a voice said, 
“Marcus, this is George Bush. I was forty-one.” 
Jesus! This was the forty-first president of the United States. I knew that real quick. President 
Bush lives in Houston. 
“Yessir,” I replied. “I very definitely know exactly who you are.” 
“Well, I just called you to tell you how proud we all are of you. And my son’s real proud, and he 
wants you to know the United States of America is real proud of you, your gallantry, and your 
courage under fire.” 

---

Hell, you could tell he was a military man, right off. I knew about his record, torpedo bomber 
pilot in the Pacific, World War II, shot down by the Japanese, Distinguished Flying Cross. The 
man who appointed General Colin Powell as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Victor of the Gulf 
War. 
Are you kidding! “I’m George, forty-one, calling you to let you know how proud we are of you!” 
That really broke me up. He told me if I needed anything, no matter what, “be sure to call me.” 
Then he gave me his phone number. How about that? Me, Marcus? I mean, Jesus, he didn’t have 
to do that. Are Texans the greatest people in the world or what? Maybe you don’t think so, but I 
bet you see my point. 
I was thrilled President Bush had called. And I thanked him sincerely. I just told him at the end, 
“Anything shakes loose, sir, I’ll be sure to call. Yessir.” 
By mid-August, still being in the U.S. Navy, I had to go back to Hawaii (SDV Team 1). During 
my two weeks there I had a visit from the chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Mike Mullin, 
direct from the Pentagon. 
He asked me to come over to the commanding officer’s office and promoted me right there on 
the spot, made me a Petty Officer First Class, no bullshit. 
He’s the head of the U.S. Navy. And that was the greatest honor I had ever received. It was a 
moment I will never forget, just standing there in the presence of Admiral Mullin. He told me he 
was very proud of me. And it doesn’t get a whole lot bigger than that. I nearly cracked up. 
Perhaps civilians might not appreciate why an honor like that means all the world to all of us; 
that sacred recognition that you have served your country well, that you have done your duty and 
somehow managed to live up to the highest possible expectations. 
Even though it may seem like a strange ritual in a foreign tribe, kinda like 
lokhay,
probably, I 
hope y’all get my drift. 
Anyway, he asked me if there was anything he could do for me and I told him there was just one 
thing. I had with me the Texas patch I’d worn on my chest throughout my service in 
Afghanistan, fighting the Taliban and al Qaeda. This is the patch that bears the Lone Star. It was 
burned from the blast of that last RPG, and it was still blood-spattered, though I’d tried to get it 
cleaned. But I’d wrapped it in plastic, and you could see the Star of Texas clearly. And I asked 
Admiral Mullin if he could give it to the president of the United States. 
He replied that he most certainly would and that he believed that President George W. Bush 
would be honored to have it. 
“Would you like to send a brief letter to the president to accompany the battle patch?” Admiral 
Mullin asked me. 
But I told him no. “I’d be grateful if you’d just give it to him, sir. President Bush is a Texan. 
He’ll understand.” 

---

I had another request to make as well, but I restricted that to my immediate superiors. I wanted to 
go back to Bahrain and rejoin my guys from SDV Team 1 and ultimately bring them home at the 
conclusion of their tour of duty. 
“I deployed with them, and I want to come back with them,” I said, and my very good friend 
Mario, the officer in charge of Alfa Platoon, considered this to be appropriate. And on September 
12, 2005, I flew back to the Middle East, coming in to land at the U.S. air base on Muharraq 
Island, same place I’d left with Mikey, Axe, Shane, James, and Dan Healy, bound for 
Afghanistan, five months ago. I was the only one left. 
They drove me out over the causeway, back to the American base up in the northeast corner of 
the country on the western outskirts of the capital city of Manama. We drove through the 
downtown area, through the places where people made it so plain they hated us, and this time I 
admit there was an edge of wari-ness in my soul. I knew now, firsthand, what jihadist hatred 
was. 
I was reunited with my guys, and I stayed in Bahrain until late October. Then we all returned to 
Hawaii, while I prepared for another arduous journey, the one I had promised myself, promised 
my departed brothers in my prayers, and promised the families, whenever I could. I intended to 
see all the relatives and to explain what exemplary conduct all of their sons, husbands, and 
brothers had displayed on the front line of the battle against world terror. 
I suppose, in a sense, I was filling in a part of me, which had missed seeing the outpouring of 
grief as, one by one, my teammates returned from Afghanistan. I had missed the funerals, which 
mostly took place before I returned. And the memorial services immaculately conducted by the 
navy for my fallen comrades. 
For instance, the funeral of Lieutenant Mikey Murphy on Long Island, New York, was 
enormous. They closed down entire roads, busy roads. There were banners hanging across the 
highway on the Long Island Expressway in memory of a Navy SEAL who had paid the ultimate 
price in our assault on the warriors of al Qaeda. 
There were police escorts for the cortege as thousands of ordinary people turned out to pay their 
last respects to a local son who had given everything for his country. And they did not even 
know a quarter of what he had given. Neither did anyone else. Except for me. 
I was shown a picture of the service at the cemetery graveside. It was held in a slashing 
downpour of rain, everyone soaked, with the stone-faced Navy SEALs standing there in dress 
uniform, solemn, unflinching in the rainstorm, as they lowered Mikey into the endless silence of 
the grave. 
Every one of the bodies was flown home accompanied by a SEAL escort who wore full uniform 
and stood guard over each coffin, which was draped in the Stars and Stripes. As I mentioned, 
even in death, we never leave anyone behind. 
They closed Los Angeles International Airport for the arrival of James Suh’s plane. There were 
no arrivals and no takeoffs permitted while the aircraft was making its approach and landing. 
Nothing, until the escort had brought out the coffin and placed it in the hearse. 

---

The State of Colorado damn near closed down for the arrival of the body of Danny Dietz, 
because the story of his heroism on the mountain had somehow been leaked to the press. But like 
the good citizens of Long Island, the people of Colorado never knew even a quarter of what that 
mighty warrior had done in the face of the enemy, on behalf of our nation. 
They actually did close down the entire city of Chico, in northern California, when Axe came 
home. It’s a small town, situated around seventy-five miles north of Sacramento, with its own 
municipal airport. The escort was met by an honor guard which carried out the coffin in front of 
a huge crowd, and the funeral a day later stopped the entire place in its tracks, so serious were 
the traffic jams. 
It was all just people trying to pay their last respects. The same everywhere. And I am left feeling 
that no matter how much the drip-drip-drip of hostility toward us is perpetuated by the liberal 
press, the American people simply do not believe it. They are rightly proud of the armed forces 
of the United States of America. They innately understand what we do. And no amount of poison 
about our alleged brutality, disregard of the Geneva Convention, and abuse of the human rights 
of terrorists is going to change what most people think. 
I doubt any editor of any media outfit would get a reception like the SEALs earned, even though 
these combat troops had achieved their highest moments in the enforced privacy of the Hindu 
Kush. Perhaps the media offered the American public a poisoned chalice and then chugged it 
back themselves. 
Some members of the media might think they can brainwash the public any time they like, but I 
know they can’t. Not here. Not in the United States of America. 
Certainly on our long journey to visit the relatives, we were met only with warmth, friendship, 
and gratitude as representatives of the U.S. Navy. I think our presence in those scattered homes 
all over the country demonstrated once and for all that the memories of those beloved men will 
be forever treasured, not only by the families, but by the navy they served. Because the U.S. 
Navy cares enormously about these matters. Believe me, they really care. 
The moment I suggested to my superiors that the remaining members of Alfa Platoon should 
make the journey, the navy offered their support and immediately agreed we should all go and 
that they would pay every last dollar the trip might cost. 
We arrived back in San Diego and hired three SUVs. Then we drove up to Las Vegas to meet the 
family of my assistant Shane Patton, who died in the helicopter crash on the mountain. We 
arrived on Veterans Day. They made us guests of honor at the graveside for the memorial 
service. It was very upsetting for me. Shane’s dad had been a SEAL, and he understood how well 
I knew his son. I did the best I could. 
Then we flew to New York to see Mikey’s mother and fiancée, and after that I went to 
Washington, D.C., to see the parents of Lieutenant Commander Eric Kristensen, our acting 
commanding officer, the veteran SEAL commanding officer who dropped everything that 
afternoon and rushed out to the helicopter, piling in with the guys, slamming a magazine into his 
rifle, and telling them Mikey needed every gun he could get. I think it was Eric to whom Mikey 
spoke when he made that last fateful phone call. 

---

I told Admiral Kristensen, his father, that Eric would always be a hero to me, as he was to all of 
those who died with him on the mountain. Our CO was buried at the U.S. Naval Academy in 
Annapolis. 
We went to Arlington National Cemetery afterward to visit the graves of Lieutenant Mike 
McGreevy Jr. and Petty Officer First Class Jeff Lucas, of Corbett, Oregon. They both died in the 
helicopter and were laid to rest shoulder to shoulder in Arlington, as they had died in the Hindu 
Kush. 
Next we flew back across the country to visit the huge family of Petty Officer James Suh. 
Everyone came to the cemetery to say a prayer for one of the most popular guys in the platoon. 
Chief Dan Healy is buried in the military cemetery at Point Loma, San Diego, not far from 
Coronado. We all made the journey to northern California to see his family. Then we drove to 
Chico, and I told Axe’s wife, Cindy, how hard he had fought, what a hero he was, and how his 
final words to me were “tell Cindy I love her.” 
Danny Dietz was from Colorado, and that’s where he was buried. But his family lived in 
Virginia near the base at Virginia Beach. I went to see his very beautiful, dark-haired wife, Patsy, 
and tried the best I could to explain what a critical role he had played in our team and how, in the 
end, he went down fighting as bravely as any man who ever served in the U.S. Armed Forces. 
But grief like Patsy suffered is very hard to assuage. I know she felt her loss had smashed her life 
irrevocably, though she would try to put it together. But she sat with Danny’s two big dogs, and 
before I went, she said simply, “I just know there will never be another man like Danny.” 
No argument from me about that. 
As the year drew to an end, my injuries improved but remained, and I was posted back to 
Coronado. I detached from SDVT 1 and joined SEAL Team 5, where I was appointed leading 
petty officer (LPO) to Alfa Platoon. Like all SEAL platoons, it has a near-clockwork engine. The 
officer is responsible, the chief is in charge, the LPO runs it. They even gave me a desk, and the 
commanding officer, Commander Rico Lenway, instantly became like a father to me, as did 
Master Chief Pete Naschek, a super guy and veteran of damn near everywhere. 
But it was a very reflective time for me, returning to Coronado, where I had not lived since 
BUD/S seven years ago. I walked back down to the beach where I’d first learned the realities of 
life as a Navy SEAL and what was expected and what I must tolerate; the cold, the freezing cold 
and the pain; the ability to obey an order instantly, without question, without rancor, the 
bedrocks of our discipline. 
Right here I’d run, jumped, heaved, pushed ’em out, swum, floundered, and strived to within an 
inch of my life. I’d somehow kept going while others fell by the wayside. A million hopes and 
dreams had been smashed right here on this tide-washed sand. But not mine, and I had a funny 
feeling that for me this beach would forever be haunted by the ghost of the young, struggling 
Marcus Luttrell, laboring to keep up. 

---

I walked back to my first barracks and nearly jumped out of my boots when that howling decom 
plant screamed into action. And I went and stood by the grinder, where the SEAL commanders 
had finally offered me warm wishes after presenting me with my Trident. Where I had first 
shaken the hand of Admiral Joe Maguire. 
I looked at the silent bell outside the BUD/S office and at the place where the dropouts leave 
their helmets. Soon there would be more helmets, when the new BUD/S class began. Last time I 
was here I’d been in dress uniform, along with a group of immaculately turned-out new SEALs, 
many of whom I had subsequently served with. 
And it occurred to me that any one of them, on any given day, would have done all the same 
things I had done in my last combat mission in the Hindu Kush. I wasn’t any different. I was just, 
I hoped, the same Texas country boy who’d come through the greatest training system on earth, 
with the greatest bunch of guys anyone could ever meet. The SEALs, the warriors, the front line 
of United States military muscle. I still get a lump in my throat when I think of who we all are. 
I remember my back ached a bit as I stood there on the grinder, lost in my own thoughts, and my 
wrist, as ever, hurt, pending another operation. And I suppose I knew deep down I would never 
be quite the same physically, never as combat-hard as I once was, because I cannot manage the 
running and climbing. Still, I never was Olympic standard! 
But I did live my dream, and then some, and I guess I’ll be asked many times whether it had all 
been worth it in the end. And my answer will always be the same one I gave so often on my first 
day.