American Sniper: The Autobiography Of The Most Lethal Sniper In U.S. Military History Part 26

We made our own logo, reminiscent of the Punisher character. We spray-painted it on our vests and much of our gear. Like him, we were righting wrongs. Photograph courtesy of 5.11

Here I am with the boys in '06, just back from an op with my Mk-11 sniper rifle in my right hand.

Set up on a roof in Ramadi. The tent provided me a bit of relief from the sun.

Another sniping position I used in the same battle.

We chose roofs in Ramadi that provided us with good vantage points. Sometimes, though, the job called for more than a sniper rifle-that black smoke in the background is an enemy position obliterated by a tank.

Marc Lee.

After Marc died, we created a patch to honor his memory. We will never forget.

Ryan Job.

A close-up of my Lapua .338, the gun I made my longest kill with. You can see my "dope" card-the placard on the side contains the come-ups (adjustments) needed for long-range targets. My 2,100-yard shot exceeded the card's range, and I had to eyeball it.

When not on the gun myself, I like to help others improve their skills. This was taken during my last deployment, while instructing a little cla.s.s for some Army snipers.

Leading a training session for Craft International, the company I started after leaving the Navy. We make our sessions as realistic as possible for the operators and law enforcement officers we teach. Photograph courtesy of 5.11

Here I am on a helo training course for Craft. I don't mind helicopters-it's heights I can't stand. Photograph courtesy of 5.11

Our company logo and slogan ("Despite what your momma told you ... violence does solve problems") honor my SEAL brethren, especially my fallen comrades. I'll never forget them.

Me and Taya, the love of my life and better half. Photograph courtesy of Heather Hurt/Calluna Photography

My son and I check out a C-17.

CHAPTER 7

Down in the s.h.i.+t

ON THE STREET

The kid looked at me with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. He was a young Marine, eager but tempered by the fight we'd been waging the past week.

"Do you want to be a sniper?" I asked him. "Right now?"

"h.e.l.l yeah!" he said finally.

"Good," I told him, handing over my Mk-11. "Give me your M-16. You take my sniper rifle. I'm going in the front door."

And with that, I headed over to the squad we'd been working with and told them I was helping them hit the houses.

Over the past few days, the insurgents had stopped coming out to fight us. Our kill rate from the overwatches had declined. The bad guys were all staying inside, because they knew if they came outside, we were going to shoot them.

They didn't give up. Instead, they would take their stands inside the houses, ambus.h.i.+ng and battling the Marines in the small rooms and tiny hallways. I was seeing a lot of our guys being carried out and medevac'd.

I'd been turning the idea of going down on the street over in my head for a while, before finally deciding to go ahead with it. I picked out one of the privates who'd been helping the sniper team. He seemed like a good kid, with a lot of potential.

Part of the reason I went down on the streets was because I was bored. The bigger part was that I felt I could do a better job protecting the Marines if I was with them. They were going in the front door of these buildings and getting whacked. I'd watch as they went in, hear gunshots, and then the next thing I knew, they'd be hauling someone out in a stretcher because he just got shot up. It p.i.s.sed me off.

I love the Marines, but the truth is these guys had never been taught to do room clearances like I had. It's not a Marine specialty. They were all tough fighters, but they had a lot to learn about urban warfare. Much was simple stuff: how to hold your rifle as you come into a room so it's hard for someone else to grab; where to move as you enter the room; how to fight 360 degrees in a city-things that SEALs learn so well we can do them in our sleep.

The squad didn't have an officer; the highest-ranking NCO was a staff sergeant, an E6 in the Marine Corps. I was an E5, junior to him, but he didn't have a problem letting me take control of the takedowns. We'd already been working together for a while, and I think I'd won a certain amount of respect. Plus, he didn't want his guys getting shot up, either.

"Look, I'm a SEAL, you're Marines," I told the boys. "I'm no better than you are. The only difference between you and me is I've spent more time specializing and training in this than you did. Let me help you."

We trained a little bit during the break. I gave some of my explosives to one of the squad members with experience in explosives. We did a little run-through on how to blow locks off. Until that point, they'd had such a small amount of explosives that they'd mostly been knocking the doors in, which, of course, took time and made them more vulnerable.

Break time over, we started going in.

INSIDE

I took the lead.

Waiting outside the first house, I thought about the guys I saw being pulled out.

I did not want to be one of them.

I could be, though.

It was hard to get that idea out of my mind. I also knew that I would be in a s.h.i.+tload of trouble if I did get hurt-going down on the streets was not what I was supposed to be doing, at least from an official point of view. It was definitely right-what I felt I had to do-but it would severely p.i.s.s the top bra.s.s off.

But that would be the least of my problems if I got shot, wouldn't it?

"Let's do it," I said.

We blew the door open. I led the way, training and instincts taking over. I cleared the front room, stepped to the side, and started directing traffic. The pace was quick, automatic. Once things got started and I began to move into the house, something took over inside me. I didn't worry about casualties anymore. I didn't think about anything except the door, the house, the room-all of which was plenty enough.

Going into a house, you never knew what you were going to find. Even if you cleared the rooms on the first floor without any trouble, you couldn't take the rest of the house for granted. Going up to the second floor, you might start to get a feeling that the rooms were empty or that you weren't going to have any problems up there, but that was a dangerous feeling. You never really know what's anywhere. Each room had to be cleared, and even then, you had to be on your guard. Plenty of times after we secured a house we took rounds and grenades from outside.

While many of the houses were small and cramped, we also made our way through a well-to-do area of the city as the battle progressed. Here the streets were paved, and the buildings looked like miniature palaces from the outside. But once you got past the facade and looked in the rooms, most were broken messes. Any Iraqi who had that much money had fled or been killed.

During our breaks, I would take the Marines out and go through some drills with them. While other units were taking their lunch, I was teaching them everything I'd learned about room clearance.

"Look, I don't want to lose a guy!" I yelled at them. I wasn't about to get an argument there. I ran them around, busting their a.s.ses while they were supposed to be resting. But that's the thing with Marines-you beat them down and they come back for more.

We broke into one house with a large front room. We'd caught the inhabitants completely by surprise.

But I was surprised as well-as I burst in, I saw a whole bunch of guys standing there in desert camouflage-the old brown chocolate-chip stuff from Desert Storm, the First Gulf War. They were all wearing gear. They were all Caucasian, including one or two with blond hair, obviously not Iraqis or Arabs.

What the f.u.c.k?