Marcus luttrell

MUR-rock
), ex-SEAL from Team 2, veteran of three 
overseas deployments, native of Ohio, a cheerful-looking character we had not encountered 
during Indoc. He was assistant to our new proctor. We heard him before we saw him, his quiet 
command, “Drop and push ’em out,” before he had even made his way to the front of the 
classroom. 
In the following few minutes he ran through the myriad of tasks we must complete after hours in 
first phase. Stuff like preparing the boats and vehicles, making sure we had the right supplies. He 
told us he expected 100 percent at all times, because if we did not put out, we’d surely pay for it. 
He made sure we had all moved from our Indoc barracks, behind the grinder, over to the naval 
special warfare barracks a couple of hundred yards north of the center. Prime real estate on the 
sandy beach, and it’s all yours — just as long as you can stay on the BUD/S bandwagon and 
remain in Class 226, the numbers of which will shortly be blocked in stark white on either side 
of your new green phase one helmet. Those numbers stay with you as long as you serve in the 
Navy SEALs. My class’s three white-painted numbers would one day become the sweetest 
sounds I ever heard. 
Instructor Mruk nodded agreeably and told us he would be over to the new barracks at 1000 
Sunday to make sure we knew how to get our rooms ready for inspection. He gave us one last 
warning: “You’re an official class now. First phase owns you.” 
And so to the cloudless Monday morning of June 18, all of us assembled outside the barracks 
two hours before sunrise. It was 0500 and the temperature not much above fifty degrees. Our 
new instructor, a stranger, stood there silently. Lieutenant Ismay reported, formally, “Class Two-
two-six is formed, Chief. Ninety-eight men present.” 
David Ismay saluted. Chief Stephen Schulz returned the salute without so much as a “Good 
morning” or “How y’doing?” Instead, he just snapped, “Hit the surf, sir. All of you. Then get 
into the classroom.” 

---

Here we went again. Class 226 charged out of the compound and across the beach to the ocean. 
We floundered into the ice-cold water, got wet, and then squelched our way back to the 
classroom, freezing, dripping, already full of apprehension. 
“Drop!” ordered the instructor. Then again. Then again. Finally, Ensign Joe Burns, a grim-
looking SEAL commander, took his place in front of us and informed us he was the first phase 
officer. A few of us flinched. Burns’s reputation as a hard man had preceded him. He later 
proved to be one of the toughest men I ever met. 
“I understand you all want to be frogmen?”
 
Hooyah!
“I guess we’ll see about that,” said Ensign Burns. “Find out how bad you really want it. This is 
my phase, and these are my staff instructors.” 
Each of the fourteen introduced himself to us by name. And then Chief Schulz, presumably 
terrified we’d all go soft on him after an entire two minutes of talk, commanded, “Drop and push 
’em out.” And again. And again. 
Then he ordered us out to the grinder for physical training. 
“Move! Move! Move!”
And finally we formed up, for the first time, on the most notorious square of black tarmac in the 
entire United States Armed Forces. It was 0515, and our places were marked by little frog 
flippers painted on the ground. It was hardly worth the visit. 
“Hit the surf. Get wet and sandy!” yelled Schulz. “Fast!” 
Our adrenaline pumped, our legs pumped, our arms pumped, our hearts pumped. Every goddamn 
thing there was pumped as we thundered off the blacktop, still dressed in our squelching boots 
and fatigue pants, went back down to the beach, and hurled ourselves into the surf. 
Jesus, it was cold. The waves broke over me as I struggled back into the shallows, flung myself 
onto the sand, rolled over a couple of times, and came up looking like Mr. Sandman, except I 
wasn’t bringing anyone a dream. I could hear the others all around me, but I’d heard Schulz’s 
last word. 
Fast.
And I remembered what Billy Shelton had taught: pay attention to even the 
merest suggestion...and I ran for my goddamned life straight back to the grinder, right up with 
the leaders.