Marcus luttrell

Showers,
by the way, is a word so polite it’s damn near a euphemism. They were 
showers, okay, but not in the accepted, civilized sense. They were a whole lot closer to a 
goddamn car wash and were known as the decontamination unit. Someone cranked ’em up at 
around 0400, and the howl of compressed air and freezing cold pressurized water forcing its way 
through those pipes sounded like someone was trying to strangle a steam engine. 
Jesus. First time I heard it, I thought we were under attack. 
But I knew the drill: get into my canvas UDT swim trunks and then get under those ice-
cold water jets. The shock was unbelievable, and to a man we hated it, and we hated it for as 
long as we were forced through it. The damn thing was actually designed to power wash our 
sand-covered gear when we returned from the beach. The shock was reduced somewhat then 
because everyone had just been in the Pacific Ocean. But right out of bed at four o’clock in the 
morning! Wow! That was beyond reason, and I can still hear the sound of those screaming, 
hissing water pipes. 
Freezing cold and wet, we reported to the training pool to roll and stow the covers. Then, 
shortly before 0500, in the pitch dark, we lined up on the grinder and sat in rows, chest to back, 
very close, to conserve body heat. There were supposed to be 180 of us, but for various reasons 
there were only 164 of us assigned. 
We had a class leader by now, Lieutenant David Ismay, a Naval Academy man and 
former Rhodes Scholar who’d had two years at sea and was now a qualified surface warfare 
officer. David was desperate to achieve his lifelong dream of becoming a SEAL. He had to do 

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this right. Officers only got one shot at BUD/S. They were supposed to know better than to waste 
anyone’s time if they weren’t up to it. 
The man we all awaited was our proctor. That’s the instructor assigned to guide us, teach 
us, torture us, observe us, and get rid of us, if necessary. He was Instructor Reno Alberto, a five-
foot-six man-mountain of fitness, discipline, and intelligence. He was a ruthless, cruel, 
unrelenting taskmaster. And we all grew to love him for two reasons. He was scrupulously fair, 
and he wanted the best for us. You put out for Instructor Reno, he was just a super guy. You 
failed to give him your absolute best, he’d have you out of there and back to the fleet before you 
could say, “Aye, aye, sir.” 
He arrived at 0500 sharp. And we’d have a ritual which was never broken. This was how 
it went: 
“Feet!” shouted the class leader. 
“Feet!”
An echoing roar ripped into the still night air as nearly 164 of us responded and jumped 
to our feet, attempting to move into ranks. 
“Instructor Ree-no!” called the class leader. 
“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-no!”
we bellowed as one voice. 
Get used to that: 
hooyah.
We don’t say yes, or right away, or thanks a lot, or understand and will 
comply. We say 
hooyah.
It’s a BUD/S thing, and its origins are lost in antiquity. There’s so 
many explanations, I won’t even go there. Just so you know, that’s how students respond to an 
instructor, in greeting or command acceptance. 
Hooyah.
For some reason, Instructor Reno was the only one who was unfailingly addressed by his 
first name. All the others were Instructor Peterson or Matthews or Henderson. Only Reno 
Alberto insisted on being called by his first name. I always thought it was good they didn’t call 
him Fred or Spike. Reno sounded good on him. 
When he walked onto the grinder that morning, we could tell we were in the presence of 
a major man. As I mentioned, it was pitch dark and he was wearing sunglasses, wraparound, 
shiny black. It seemed he never took them off, night or day. Actually, one time I did catch him 
without them, and as soon as he saw me, he reached into his pocket and immediately put ’em on 
again. 
I think it was because he never wanted us to see the expression in his eyes. Beneath that 
stern, relentless exterior, he was a superintelligent man — and he could not have failed to be 
amused at the daily Attila the Hun act he put on for us. But he never wanted us to see the 
amusement in his eyes, and that was why he never showed them. 
On this dark, slightly misty morning he stood with his arms folded and gazed at the 
training pool. Then he turned back to us and stared hard. 
We had no idea what to expect. And Instructor Reno said without expression, “Drop.” 
“Drop!”
we roared back. And we all struggled down to the concrete and assumed a position for 
push-ups, arms extended, bodies outstretched, rigid. 
“Push ’em out,” said Reno. 
“Push-ups,” snapped the class leader.