Marcus luttrell

A League of Their Own,
“There’s no crying in 
baseball”? Well, we have a line in Coronado: There’s no walking in BUD/S. 
Our first encounter with this cruel and heartless rule came when it was time for breakfast. 
The chow hall was a mile away, so we had to run two miles — there and back — for a plate of 
toast, eggs, and bacon. Same for lunch. Same for dinner. For anyone mathematically challenged, 
that’s six miles every day just to find something to eat, nothing to do with our regular daily 
training runs, which often added up to another eight miles. 
That morning we ran in formation all the way across the naval amphibious base to the 
Special Warfare Center. And there Instructor Reno, after about a thousand push-ups and God 
knows what else, finally had us seated and paying attention in a manner which satisfied him. 
This was not easy, because he had eyes like a sea eagle and some kind of a high-flying business 
degree from USC. He knew precisely what was required, and he missed nothing. 
And right here I needed to remember a lesson drummed into me from an early age by 
Billy Shelton: when a special forces commander makes even a slight reference to an issue that 
may be helpful, listen and then 
do it
. Even if it was an aside, not a proper command, maybe even 
starting with 
I think it might be a good idea . . .
Always pay attention and then carry out the task, no matter how minor it may seem. 
Billy’s point was that these SF instructors were looking for the best, and it might be only small 
things that separate guys who are very good from guys who are absolutely excellent, outstanding. 
“Listen, Marcus,” Billy told me, “always listen, and always jump all over anything your 
instructor tells you. Get out in front. Fast. Then make sure you stay there.” 
Well, that morning, Instructor Reno pulled himself up to his full height of about fifteen 
feet, in my eyes, and told us he wanted to talk to us briefly, and we better pay attention. “Better 

---

yet, take notes.” 
I was into my zipper bag instantly, getting hold of a dry notebook and a couple of pencils, the 
lesson of Billy Shelton ringing in my ears: even an aside, even a suggestion, 
do it.
I looked around the room, and a few others were doing the same as I was, but not everyone, by 
no means everyone. Some of them just sat there gazing at Instructor Reno, who suddenly said, 
mildly, “How many of you have pencil and paper?” 
I stuck my hand up, along with the other guys who had them. And suddenly there was a look like 
a storm cloud on Reno’s face. 
“Drop! All of you!”
he bellowed. And there was an unbelievable commotion as chairs were 
scraped back and we all hit the floor in the straight-arm rest position. 
“Push ’em out!”
he 
snapped. And we made the twenty then were left in the rest position. 
He stared at us and said, “Listen. You were told to have a pencil and paper with you at all times. 
So why don’t you? Why the hell don’t you!”
The room went stone silent. Reno glared. And since I was not able to write while I was 
prostrate on the floor supporting myself with the palms of my hands, I can’t say verbatim the 
exact words he said, but I bet I can come damn close.
 
“This is a school for warriors, understand? This is the most serious business there is. And if you 
don’t want to do it, then get the hell out right now.”
Christ. He was not joking, and I just hoped to hell he knew who had pencil and paper and 
who didn’t. Months later I reminded him of that day and asked him. “Of course I knew,” he said, 
adjusting his sunglasses. “It was your first test. I had the names of the guys who paid attention 
written down before you’d done your first twenty. And I still remember you were on that list.” 
Anyway, that first morning, we did another couple of sets of push-ups and somehow gasped out 
a loud