Marcus luttrell

Duty, 
Honor, and Country.
” No need for ghosts in the U.S. Navy SEALs. Those words are engraved 
upon our hearts. 
And many such men way down there in East Texas were willing to give up their time for 
absolutely no reward to show kids what it takes to become a SEAL, a Ranger, or a Green Beret. 
The one we all knew about was a former Green Beret sergeant who lived close by. His name was 
Billy Shelton, and if he ever sees this, he’ll probably die of embarrassment, seeing his name in 
print on the subject of valor. 
Billy had a glittering army career in combat with the Green Berets in Vietnam and, later, 
serving on a government SWAT team. He was one of the toughest men I ever met, and one 
afternoon just before my fifteenth birthday, I plucked up my courage and went to his house to 

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ask if he could train me to become a Navy SEAL. He was eating his lunch at the time, came to 
the door still chewing. He was a bull of a man, rippling muscles, fair skin, not carrying one 
ounce of fat. To my eyes he looked like he could have choke slammed a rhino. 
I made my hesitant request. And he just looked me up and down and said, “Right here. Four, 
tomorrow afternoon.” Then he shut the door in my face. I was a bit young at the time, but the 
phrase I was groping for was 
No bullshit, right?
Now, everyone in the area knew that Billy trained kids for the special forces. And when 
he had a group of us running down the street, cars driving by would blow their horns and cheer 
us on. 
He always ignored that, and he showed us no mercy. Our program included running with 
heavy concrete blocks on our shoulders. When Billy thought we were strong enough, we stepped 
up the pace, running with rubber tires, which felt like they’d just come off the space shuttle or at 
least that big ole tractor out back. 
Billy did not hold an exercise class; he operated a full pre-SEAL training program for 
teenagers. Over the years he had us in the gym pumping iron, hauling the torture machine, the 
ergometer, pounding the roads, driving our bodies, sweating and straining. 
Morgan and I were terrified of him. I used to have nightmares when we were due to 
report to him the next morning, because he drove us without mercy, never mind our extreme 
youth. We were in a class of maybe a dozen guys, all midteens. 
“I’m gonna break you down, mentally and physically,” he yelled at us. “Break you down, 
hear me? Then I’m gonna build you right back up, as one fighting unit — so your mind and body 
are one. Understand me? I’m gonna put you through more pain than you’ve ever been in.” 
Right about then, half the class ran for their lives rather than face this bulldog, this ex–Texas 
Tech tailback who could run like a Mack truck going downhill. He had the support of a local 
high school, which allowed him to use their gym free of charge to train future special forces from 
our part of the world. 
“I’m not your friend,” he’d shout. “Not right here in this gym. I’m here to get you right 
— fit, trained, and ready for the SEALs, or the Berets, or the Rangers. I’m not getting one dime 
from anyone to do this. And that’s why you’re gonna do it right, just so you don’t waste my time. 
“Because if any one of you fails to make the grade in the special forces, it will not be because 
you were too weak. Because that would mean I’d failed, and I’m gonna make sure that cannot 
happen, because right here, failure’s not an option. I’m gonna get you right. All of you. 
Understand?” 
He’d take us on twelve-mile runs, hauling the concrete blocks till we nearly collapsed. 
Guys would have blood on the backs of their heads from the chafing. And he never took his eyes 
off us, never tolerated idleness or lack of concentration. He just made us grind it out, taking it to 
the limit. Every time. 
That’s what built my strength, gave me my basis. That’s how I learned the fitness creed 
of the SEALs. Billy was extremely proud of that; proud to pass on his knowledge. 
And he asked only for undying devotion to the cause, the discipline of a samurai warrior, and 

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lungs like a pair of bagpipes. He was absolutely relentless, and he really loved Morgan and me, 
two of only six survivors in the class. 
Once, when I came back from a tour of duty in Iraq, I went to see him after a couple of 
weeks’ easy living and Mom’s cooking, and he threw me out of the gym! 
“You’re a goddamned fat, pitiful excuse for a SEAL, and I can’t stand to look at you!” he yelled. 
“Get out of my sight!” Holy shit! I was out of there, ran down the stairs, and didn’t dare go back 
until I’d dropped eight pounds. No one around here argues with Billy Shelton. 
The other skill I needed was still to come. No Navy SEAL can operate without a high level of 
expertise in unarmed combat. Billy told me I’d need to take martial-arts classes as soon as 
possible. And so I found a teacher to work with. All through my grade school and college career, 
I studied and learned that strange, rather mystical Asian skill. I worked at it for many years 
instead of becoming involved in other sports. And I attained all of my goals. 
Morgan says the real truth is I don’t know my own strength and should be avoided at all times. 
By any standards, I had a head start in becoming a Navy SEAL. I was made aware of the 
task at a young age, and I had two strong engines driving me forward: my dad and Billy Shelton. 
Everything I learned beyond the schoolroom, down from my early years, seems to have directed 
me to Coronado. At least, looking back now it seems that way. 
Everyone understands why there’s a huge rate of dropouts among applicants for the 
SEALs. And when I think of what I went through in the years before I got there, I can’t even 
imagine what it must be like for guys who try out with no prior training. Morgan and I were 
groomed to be SEALs, but it was never easy. The work is brutally hard, the fitness regimes are 
as harsh and uncompromising as any program in the free world. The examinations are searching 
and difficult. Nothing but the highest possible standard is acceptable in the SEAL teams. 
And perhaps above all, your character is under a microscope at all times; instructors, teachers, 
senior chiefs, and officers are always watching for the character flaw, the weakness which may 
one day lead to the compromise of your teammates. We can’t stand that. We can stand damn 
near anything, except that. 
When someone tells you he is in the SEAL teams, it means he has passed every test, been 
accepted by some of the hardest taskmasters in the military. And a short nod of respect is in 
order, because it’s harder to become a Navy SEAL than it is to get into Harvard Law School. 
Different, but harder. 
When someone tells you he’s in a SEAL team, you know you are in the presence of a 
very special cat. Myself, I was just born lucky, somehow fluked my way in with a work ethic 
bequeathed to me by my dad. The rest of those guys are the gods of the U.S. Armed Forces. And 
in faraway foreign fields, they serve their nation as required, on demand, and mostly without any 
recognition whatsoever. 
They would have it no other way, because they understand no other way. Accolades just 
wash off them, they shy away from the spotlight, but in the end they have one precious reward 
— when their days of combat are over, they know precisely who they are and what they stand 
for. That’s rare. And no one can buy it. 

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Back in the C-130, crossing into the southern wastes of the Regestan Desert, the gods of 
the U.S. Armed Forces with whom I traveled were asleep, except for the beach god Shane, who 
was still rockin’. 
Somewhere out in the darkness, to our starboard side, was the Pakistani city of Quetta, 
which used to be quite important when the Brits ran the place. They had a big army staff college 
down there, and for three years in the mid-1930s, Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery, later the 
victor of the Battle of Ala-mein, taught there. Which proves, I suppose, that I’m as much 
addicted to military trivia as I am to the smart-ass remark. 
However, we stayed on the left-hand, Afghanistan side of the border, I think, and 
continued on above the high western slopes of the great range of the Hindu Kush mountains. The 
most southerly peak, the one nearest the desert, is 11,000 feet high. After that it gets pretty steep, 
and it was to those mountains we were headed. 
Way below us was the important city of Kandahar, which a few weeks later, on June 1, 
2005, was the scene of one of the most terrible Taliban attacks of the year. One of their suicide 
bombers killed twenty people in Kandahar’s principal mosque. In that central-city disaster, they 
killed the security chief of Kabul, who was attending the funeral of an anti-Taliban cleric who 
had been killed three days earlier by a couple of guys on a motorbike. 
I think that Chief Healy and myself, in particular, were well aware of the dangers in this 
strife-torn country. And we realized the importance of our coming missions, to halt the ever-
burgeoning influx of Taliban recruits streaming in over the high peaks of the Hindu Kush and to 
capture their leaders for interrogation. 
The seven-hour journey from Bahrain seemed endless, and we were still an hour or more 
south of Kabul, crawling north high above the treacherous border that leads directly to the old 
Khyber Pass and then to the colossal peaks and canyons of the northern Hindu Kush. After that, 
the mountains swerve into Tajikstan and China, later becoming the western end of the 
Himalayas. 
I was reading my guidebook, processing and digesting facts like an Agatha Christie 
detective. Chaman, Zhob, key entry points for the Taliban and for bin Laden’s al Qaeda as they 
fled the American bombs and ground troops. These tribesmen drove their way over sixteen-
thousand-foot mountains, seeking help from the disgruntled Baluchistan chiefs, who were now 
bored sideways by Pakistan and Afghanistan, Great Britain, Iran, the U.S.A., Russia, and anyone 
else who tried to tell them what to do. 
Our area of operations would be well north of there, and I spent the final hours of the 
journey trying to glean some data. But it was hard to come by. Trouble is, there’s not much 
happening in those mountains, not many small towns and very few villages. Funny, really. Not 
much was happening, and yet, in another way, every damn thing in the world was happening: 
plots, plans, villainy, terrorism, countless schemes to attack the West, especially the United 
States. 
There were cells of Taliban warriors just waiting for their chance to strike against the 
government. There were bands of al Qaeda swarming around a leader hardly anyone had seen for 

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several years. The Taliban wanted power in Afghanistan again; bin Laden’s mob wanted death 
and destruction of U.S. citizens, uniformed or not. One way or another, they were all a 
goddamned nightmare, and one that was growing progressively worse. Which was why they sent 
for us. 
In the weeks before our arrival, there had been widespread incidents of violence, 
confirming everyone’s dread that the generally hated Taliban was once more on the rise and a 
serious threat to the new government of Afghanistan. Even with the support of thirty thousand 
U.S. and NATO troops, President Hamid Karzai struggled to control the country anywhere 
outside of Kabul. 
A few weeks earlier, in February, the Taliban flatly announced they were increasing their 
attacks on the government as soon as the weather improved. And from then on they launched a 
series of drive-by shootings and bombings, usually directed at local officials and pro-government 
clergy. In the south and over to the east, they started ambushing American soldiers. 
It’s a strange word,