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

M
ARCUS

---

T
he Fourth of July 2005 was a beautiful California day: perfect
weather, not a cloud in the sky. My wife and I took our son and
drove out to a friend’s house in the foothills outside of town. There
we spread a blanket and gathered in the tailgate of my Yukon to
watch the fireworks display put on at an Indian reservation in the
valley. It was a perfect spot—we could see down as the fireworks
came up to us, and the effect was spectacular.
I’ve always loved celebrating the Fourth of July. I love the
symbolism, meaning of the day, and of course the fireworks and the
barbecues. It’s just a wonderful time.
But that day, as I sat back and watched the red, white, and blue
sparkles, sadness suddenly spread over me. I fell into a deep black
hole.
“This sucks,” I muttered as the fireworks exploded.
I wasn’t critiquing the show. I had just realized that I might never
see my friend Marcus Luttrell again. I hated to be unable to do
anything to help my friend, who was facing God only knew what
kind of trouble.
We’d gotten word a few days before that he was missing. I’d
also heard through the SEAL grapevine that the three guys he was
with were dead. They’d been ambushed by the Taliban in
Afghanistan; surrounded by hundreds of Taliban fighters, they
fought ferociously. Another sixteen men in a rescue party were
killed when the Chinook they were flying in was shot down. (You
can and should read the details in Marcus’s book, 
Lone Survivor
.)

---

T
o that point, losing a friend in combat seemed if not impossible, at
least distant and unlikely. It may seem strange to say, given
everything I’d been through, but at that point we were feeling pretty
sure of ourselves. Cocky, maybe. You just get to a point where you
think you’re such a superior fighter that you can’t be hurt.
Our platoon had come through the war without any serious
injuries. In some respects, training seemed more dangerous.
There had been accidents in training. Not long before, we were
doing ship takedowns when one of our platoon members fell while
going up the side. He landed on two other guys in the boat. All
three had to go to the hospital; one of the men he landed on broke
his neck.
We don’t focus on the dangers. The families, though, are a
different story. They’re always very aware of the dangers. The
wives and girlfriends often take turns sitting in the hospital with the
families of people who are injured. Inevitably, they realize they
could be sitting there for their own husband or boyfriend.
I
remained torn up about Marcus for the rest of the night, in my
own private black hole. I stayed there for a few days.
Work, of course, continued. One day, my chief popped his head
into the room and signaled me to join him outside.
“Hey, they found Marcus,” he said as soon as we were alone.
“Great.”

---

“He’s 
....
up.”
“So what? He’s going to make it.” Anyone who knew Marcus
knew that was true. The man cannot be kept down.
“Yeah, you’re right,” said my chief. “But he’s pretty tore up,
beat up. It’ll be hard.”
It was hard, but Marcus was up to it. In fact, despite health
issues that continue to dog him, he would deploy again not long
after leaving the hospital.