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M
IKE
M
ONSOOR
I
’d been home for roughly two weeks when a SEAL friend of mine
called and asked what was up.
“Nothing much,” I told him.
“Well, who did y’all lose?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“I don’t know who it was, but I heard you lost another.”
“Damn.”
I got off the phone and started calling everyone I knew. I finally
got a hold of someone who knew the details, though he couldn’t
talk about them at the moment, because the family had not been
informed yet. He said he’d call me back in a few hours.
They were long hours.
Finally I found out Mike Monsoor, a member of our sister
platoon, had been killed saving the lives of some of his fellow
platoon members in Ramadi. The group had set up an overwatch in
a house there; an insurgent got close enough to toss a grenade.
Obviously, I wasn’t there, but this is the description of what
happened from the official summary of action:
The grenade hit him in the chest and bounced onto the deck
[here, the Navy term for floor]. He immediately leapt to his
feet and yelled “grenade” to alert his teammates of impending
danger, but they could not evacuate the sniper hide-sight in
time to escape harm. Without hesitation and showing no
regard for his own life, he threw himself onto the grenade,
smothering it to protect his teammates who were lying in
close proximity. The grenade detonated as he came down on
top of it, mortally wounding him.
Petty Officer Monsoor’s actions could not have been
more selfless or clearly intentional. Of the three SEALs on
that rooftop corner, he had the only avenue of escape away
from the blast, and if he had so chosen, he could have easily
escaped. Instead, Monsoor chose to protect his comrades
by the sacrifice of his own life. By his courageous and
selfless actions, he saved the lives of his two fellow SEALs.
He was later awarded the Medal of Honor.
A lot of memories about Mikey came back as soon as I found
out he’d died. I hadn’t known him all that well, because he was in
the other platoon, but I was there for his hazing.
I remember us holding him down so his head could be shaved.
He didn’t like that at all; I may still have some bruises.
I
drove a van to pick up some of the guys from the airport and
helped arrange Mikey’s wake.
SEAL funerals are kind of like Irish wakes, except there’s a lot
more drinking. Which begs the question, how much beer do you
need for a SEAL wake? That is classified information, but rest
assured it is more than a metric ass-ton.
I stood on the tarmac in dress blues as the plane came in. My
arm went up in a stiff salute as the coffin came down the ramp, then,
with the other pallbearers, I carried it slowly to the waiting hearse.
We attracted a bit of a crowd at the airport. People nearby who
realized what was going on stopped and stared silently, paying their
respects. It was touching; they were honoring a fellow countryman
even though they didn’t know him. I was moved at the sight, a last
honor for our fallen comrade, a silent recognition of the importance
of his sacrifice.
T
he only thing that says we’re SEALs are the SEAL tridents we
wear, the metal insignia that show we’re members. If you don’t
have that on your chest, you’re just another Navy puke.
It’s become a sign of respect to take it off and hammer it onto
the coffin of your fallen brother at the funeral. You’re showing the
guy that you’ll never forget, that he remains part of you for the rest
of your life.
As the guys from Delta Platoon lined up to pound their tridents
into Mikey’s coffin, I backed off, head bowed. It happened that
Marc Lee’s tombstone was just a few yards from where Monsoor
was going to be buried. I’d missed Marc’s funeral because I’d still
been overseas, and still hadn’t had a chance to pay my respects.
Now it suddenly seemed appropriate to put my trident on his
tombstone.
I walked over silently and laid it down, wishing my friend one
last good-bye.
O
ne of the things that made that funeral bittersweet was the fact
that Ryan was released from the hospital in time to attend it. It was
great to see him, even though he was now permanently blind.
Before passing out from blood loss after he’d been shot, Ryan
had been able to see. But as his brain swelled with internal bleeding,
bone or bullet fragments that were in his eye severed his optic
nerves. There was no hope for restoring sight.
When I saw him, I asked him why he’d insisted on walking out
of the building under his own power. It struck me as a remarkably
brave thing—characteristic of him. Ryan told me he knew that our
procedures called for at least two guys to go down with him if he
couldn’t move on his own. He didn’t want to take more guys out of
the fight.
I think he thought he could have gotten back on his own. And
probably he would have if we’d let him. He might even have picked
up a gun and tried to continue the fight.
Ryan left the service because of his injury, but we remained
close. They say friendships forged in war are strong ones. Ours
would prove that truism.
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