Marcus luttrell

Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet 
bellum
— Flavius Vegetius Renatus, fourth century). Or, as a SEAL might say, 
You want things 
to remain cool, pal? Better get your ass in gear.
I knew I was close. 
That old Roman knew a thing or two. His military treatise 
De Rei Militari
was the bible 
of European warfare for more than 1,200 years, and it still applies in Coronado, stressing 
constant drilling, training, and severe discipline. He advised the Roman commanders to gather 
intelligence assiduously, use the terrain, and then drive the legionnaires forward to encircle their 
objective. That’s more or less how we operate in overseas deployment against terrorists today. 
Hooyah,
Flavius Vegetius. 
Coronado, like New York, is a city that never sleeps. Those instructors are out there 
patrolling the corridors of our barracks by night into the small hours. One of them once came 
into my room after I’d hot mopped it and high polished the floor till you could almost see your 
face in it. He dropped a trickle of sand onto the floor and chewed me out for living in a dust 
bowl! Then he sent me down to the Pacific, in the company of my swim buddy and of course 
himself, to “get wet and sandy.” Then we had to go through the decontamination unit, and the 
shrieking of those cold hydraulic pipes and the ferocious jets of water awakened half the 
barracks and nearly sent us into shock. Never mind the fact that it was 0200 and we were due 
back under those showers again in another couple of hours. 
I think it was that time. I can’t be absolutely sure. But my roommate quit that night. He 
went weak at the knees just watching what was happening to me. I don’t know how the hell he 
thought I felt. 
One time during Indoc while we were out on night run, one of the instructors actually 
climbed up the outside of a building, came through an open window, and absolutely trashed a 
guy’s room, threw everything everywhere, emptied detergent over his bed gear. He went back 
out the way he’d come in, waited for everyone to return, and then tapped on the poor guy’s door 
and demanded a room inspection. The guy couldn’t work out whether to be furious or 
heartbroken, but he spent most of the night cleaning up and still had to be in the showers at 0430 
with the rest of us. 
I asked Reno about this weeks later, and he told me, “Marcus, the body can take damn 
near anything. It’s the mind that needs training. The question that guy was being asked involved 
mental strength. Can you handle such injustice? Can you cope with that kind of unfairness, that 
much of a setback? And still come back with your jaw set, still determined, swearing to God you 
will never quit? That’s what we’re looking for.” 

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As ever, I do not claim to quote Instructor Reno word for word. But I do know what he 
said, and how I remember it. No one talks to him and comes away bemused. Trust me. 
Thus far I’ve only dealt with that first two weeks of training on the land and in the pool, and I 
may not have explained how much emphasis the instructors put on the correct balanced diet for 
everyone. They ran classes on this, drilling into us how much fruit and vegetables we needed, the 
necessity for tons of carbohydrates and water. 
The mantra was simple — you take care of your body like the rest of your gear. Keep it 
well fed and watered, between one and two gallons a day. Start no discipline without a full 
canteen. That way your body will take care of you when you begin to ask serious questions of it. 
Because there’s no doubt in the coming months you will be asking those questions. 
This was an area, I remember, where there were a lot of questions, because even after those first 
few days here, guys were feeling the effects: muscle soreness, aches and pains in shoulders, 
thighs, and backs where there had been none before. 
The instructor who dealt with this part of our training warned us against very strong 
drugs like Tylenol, except for a fever, but he understood we would need ibuprofen. He conceded 
it was difficult to get through the coming Hell Week without ibuprofen, and he told us the 
medical department would make sure we received a sufficient amount to ease the pain, though 
not too much of it. 
I remember he said flatly, “You’re going to hurt while you’re here. That’s our job, to 
induce pain; not permanent injury, of course, but we need to make you hurt. That’s a big part of 
becoming a SEAL. We need proof you can take the punishment. And the way out of that is 
mental, in your mind. Don’t buckle under to the hurt, rev up your spirit and your motivation, 
attack the courses. Tell yourself precisely how much you want to be here.” 
The final part of Indoc involved boats — the fabled IBS (inflatable boat, small) or, 
colloquially, itty-bitty ship. These boats are thirteen feet long and weigh a little under 180 
pounds. They are unwieldy and cumbersome, and for generations the craft has been used to teach 
BUD/S students to pull a paddle as a tight-knit crew, blast their way through the incoming surf, 
rig properly, and drag the thing into place in a regimented line for inspection on the sandy beach 
about every seven minutes. At least that’s how it seemed to us. 
At that point we lined up in full life jackets right next to our boats. Inside the boat, the 
paddles were stowed with geometric precision, bow and stern lines coiled carefully on the rubber 
floor. Inch perfect. 
We started with a series of races. But before that, each of our teams had a crew leader, 
selected from the most experienced navy personnel among us. And they lined up with their 
paddles at the military slope-arms position, the paddles resting on their shoulders. Then they 
saluted the instructors and announced their boat was correctly rigged and the crew was ready for 
the sea. 
Meanwhile, other instructors were checking each boat. If a paddle was incorrectly 
stowed, an instructor seized it and hurled it down the beach. That happened on my first day, and 
one of the guys standing very near to me raced off after it, anxious to retrieve it and make 

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amends. Unhappily, his swim buddy forgot to go with him, and the instructor was furious. 
“Drop!”
he yelled. And every one of us hit the sand and began to execute the worst kind of 
push-up, our feet up on the rubber gunwales of the boats, pushing ’em out in our life jackets. The 
distant words of Reno sung in my ears: “Someone screws it up, the consequences affect 
everyone.” 
We raced each other in the boats out beyond the surf. We raced until our arms felt as if 
they might fall off. We pulled, each crew against the rest, hauling our grotesquely unstreamlined 
little boats along. And this was not Yale versus Harvard on the Thames River in Connecticut, all 
pulling together. This was the closest thing to a floating nuthouse you’ve ever seen. But it was 
my kind of stuff. 
Boat drill is a game for big, strong guys who can pull. Pull like hell. It’s also a game for 
heavy lifters who can haul that boat up and run with their team. 
Let me take you through one of these races. First, we got the boat balanced in the 
shallows and watched the surf roll in toward us. The crew leader had issued a one-minute 
briefing, and we all watched the pattern of those five- to six-foot breakers. This part is called surf 
passage, and on the command, we were watching for our chance. Plainly, we didn’t want to 
charge into the biggest incoming wave, but we didn’t have much time. 
The water was only a fraction above sixty degrees. We all knew we had to take that first 
wave bow on, but we didn’t want the biggest, so we waited. Then the crew leader spotted a 
slacker one, and he bellowed,