Marcus luttrell

 
Hooyah!
“Excellent,” he replied. “Because you are about to experience a very searching and painful test. 
Each one of you is going to find out what you are really made of. And every step of the way, you 
will be faced with a choice. Do I give in to the pain and the cold, or do I go on? It will always be 
up to you. There’s no quotas, no numbers. We don’t decide who passes. You do. But I’ll be there 
on Friday when Hell Week ends, and I hope to shake the hand of each and every one of you.” 
We all stood in some awe for the exit of Captain Maguire, the quintessential Coronado man, who 
understood the pride of achievement at having scaled the heights and who knew what really 
counted, in the SEALs and beyond. He was the everlasting chief. 
They briefed us about what to bring to class on Sunday — our gear, equipment, change of 
clothes, dry clothes, and some off-duty clothes, which would be placed in a paper bag so the 
successful guys would have something to wear when it was all over. Guys who went DOR 

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(dropped on request) would also have dry clothes available anytime during the week when they 
prepared to leave. 
Our instructor told us to eat plenty, right through the weekend, but not to worry about sleep gear 
on Sunday afternoon, during which time we would be incarcerated in the classroom. “You’ll be 
too keyed up to sleep,” he added brightly. “So just get in here and relax, watch movies, and get 
ready.” 
On the notice board was the official doctrine of the U.S. Navy SEALs, week five, first phase: 
“Students will demonstrate the qualities and personal characteristics of determination, courage, 
self-sacrifice, teamwork, leadership, and a never-quit attitude, under adverse environmental 
conditions, fatigue, and stress through-out Hell Week.” 
That’s laying it on the line, right? Almost. Hell Week turned out to be a lot worse than that. 
We spent the weekend organizing ourselves, and we assembled in the classroom at noon on 
Sunday, July 18. Two dozen in-structors from all over the compound, guys we’d never even met 
before, were in attendance. It takes that many to get a class through Hell Week, plus attending 
medics and support and logistics guys. I guess you need a full staff to march men into the 
ultimate physical tests of the navy’s warrior elite. 
This is known as the Hell Week Lockdown. No one leaves; we sit and wait all afternoon; we 
have our seabags; and the paper bags with our dry clothes are lined up, our names written on the 
outside in black marker. They served us pizza, a whole stack of it, in the late afternoon. 
And outside you could sense it was quiet. No one passed by, no patrols, no wandering students. 
Everyone on the base knew that Hell Week for 226 was about to begin. It was not exactly respect 
for the dead, but I guess you understand by now more or less what I mean. 
I remember how hot it was, must have been ninety degrees in the room. We’d all been goofing 
off, wearing Sunday casuals most of the day, and we all knew something was going to happen as 
the evening wore on. Some movie was running, and the hours ticked by. There was an 
atmosphere of heightened tension as we waited for the starter’s pistol. Hell Week begins with a 
frenzy of activity known as Breakout. And when it came for us, there were a lot more guns than 
the starter’s. 
I can’t remember the precise time, but it was after 2030 and before 2100. Suddenly there was a 
loud shout, and someone literally kicked open the side door. 
Bam!
And a guy carrying a machine 
gun, followed by two others, came charging in, firing from the hip. The lights went off, and then 
all three gunmen opened fire, spraying the room with bullets (blanks, I hoped). 
There were piercing blasts from whistles, and the other door was kicked open and three more 
men came crashing into the room. The only thing we knew for sure right now was when the 
whistles blew, we hit the floor and took up a defensive position, prostrate, legs crossed, ears 
covered with the palms of the hands.