American Sniper: The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U. S. Military History

G
ETTING 
T
HERE
D
ismissed by the lieutenant commander, I immediately gathered my
gear, then headed outside to a pickup truck that was waiting to take
me out to the helo. A 60—a Blackhawk H-60—was waiting for me
and another guy who’d been working with the GROM, a coms
specialist named Adam. We looked at each other and smiled. We
were thrilled to be getting into a real battle.
SEALs from all over Iraq were making a similar trip, heading
toward the large Marine base south of the city at Camp Fallujah.
They’d already established their own small base inside the camp by
the time I arrived. I treaded my way through the narrow halls of the
building, which had been dubbed the Alamo, trying not to knock
into anything. The walls were lined with equipment and gear, gun

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boxes and metal suitcases, cartons and the odd box of soda. We
could have been a traveling rock band, staging a stadium road
show.
Except that our road show had very serious pyrotechnics.
Besides snipers from Team 3, men had been pulled from Team 5
and Team 8 to join the assault. I already knew most of the West
Coast guys; the others I’d come to respect over the next few
weeks.
The energy level was intense. Everyone was eager to get into the
fight and help the Marines.
T
HE 
H
OME 
F
RONT
A
s the battle drew near, my thoughts wandered to my wife and
son. My little baby boy was growing. Taya had started sending me
photos and even videos showing his progress. She’d also sent
images through e-mail for me to look at.
I can see some of those videos now in my mind—he’d be lying
on his back, and shake his hands and feet, going as if he was
running, a big ol’ smile on his face.
He was a super-active kid. Just like his daddy.
Thanksgiving, Christmas—in Iraq, those dates didn’t mean all
that much to me. But missing my son’s experience of them was a
little different. The more I was gone, and the more I saw him grow,

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the more I wanted to help him grow—do the things a father does
with and for a son.
I called Taya while I was waiting for the assault to begin.
It was a brief conversation.
“Look, babe, I can’t tell you where I’m going, but I’m going to
be gone for a while,” I said. “Watch the news and you’ll figure it
out. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to talk to you again.”
That was going to have to do for a while.