Marcus luttrell

 
 

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4
 
 
Welcome to Hell, Gentlemen
 
Battlefield whistle drills were conducted in the midst of high-pressure water jets, total chaos, 
deafening explosions, and shouting instructors...
“Crawl to the whistle, men! Crawl to the 
whistle! And keep your goddamned heads down!”
We assembled in the classroom soon after 1300 that last afternoon of Indoc. Instructor Reno 
made his entry like a Roman caesar, head held high, and immediately ordered us to push ’em out. 
As ever, chairs scraped back and we hit the floor, counting out the push-ups. 
At twenty, Reno left us in the rest position and then said crisply, “Recover.” 
“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-no!”
“Give me a muster, Mr. Ismay.” 
“One hundred and thirteen men assigned, Instructor Reno. All present except two men at 
medical.” 
“Close, Mr. Ismay. Two men quit a few minutes ago.” 
All of us wondered who they were. My boat’s crew members? Heads whipped around. I had no 
idea who had crashed at the final hurdle. 
“Not your fault, Mr. Ismay. You were in the classroom when they quit. Two-two-six will class 
up in BUD/S first phase with a hundred and eleven men.” 
Hooyah!
I realized we had been losing guys fairly steadily. But according to these numbers, Class 226 had 
had 164 men assigned on the first day, and we’d lost more than fifty of them. I know a few never 
showed up at all, mostly through sheer intimidation. But the rest had somehow vanished into the 
void. I never saw any of them leave, not even my roommate. 
And I still cannot work out quite how it happened. I guess they just reached some type of 
breaking point, or maybe they anguished for days over their own inability to cut the mustard. But 
gone is gone in this man’s navy. I did not entirely comprehend it at the time, but me and my 110 
cohorts were witnessing the ruthless elimination process of a U.S. fighting force that cannot 
tolerate a suspect component. 
Instructor Reno now spoke formally. “You’re on your way to first phase BUD/S. And I want 
each and every one of you to make me proud. Those of you who survive Hell Week will still 
have to face the pool competency test — that’s in second phase — and then the weapons 
practicals in third phase. But I want to be at your graduation. And right there I want to shake 
your hand. I want to think of you as one of Reno’s warriors.” 

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The 
Hooyah, Instructor Ree-no!
with our clenched fists in the air could have lifted the roof off 
the classroom. We loved him, all of us, because we all sensed he truly wanted the best for us. 
There was not a shred of malice in the guy. Neither was there a shred of weakness. 
He repeated the orders he had been giving us for two weeks. “Stay alert. Be on time. And be 
accountable for your actions at all times, in and out of uniform. Remember, your reputation is 
everything. And you all have a chance to build on that reputation, beginning right here on 
Monday morning, zero five hundred. First phase. 
“For those of you who make the teams, remember you’re joining a brotherhood. You’ll be closer 
to those guys than you ever were to friends in school or college. You’ll live with them...and, in 
combat, some of you may die with them. Your family must always come first, but the 
brotherhood is a privileged place. And I don’t want you ever to forget it.” 
And with that, he left us, walked away and slipped out of a back entrance, leaving behind a very 
long shadow: a bunch of guys who were revved up, gung ho, and ready to give everything to 
pass the challenging tests ahead. Just the way Reno wanted it. 
Enter Instructor Sean Mruk (pronounced