American Sniper: The Autobiography Of The Most Lethal Sniper In U.S. Military History Part 54

GETTING BETTER

The doctors performed all sorts of tests on my little girl. Some of them really p.i.s.sed me off.

I remember especially when they took blood, which they had to do a lot. They'd hold her upside down and p.r.i.c.k her foot; a lot of times it wouldn't bleed and they'd have to do it again and again. She'd be crying the whole time.

These were long days, but eventually the docs figured out that my daughter didn't have leukemia. While there was jaundice and some other complications, they were able to get control of the infections that had made her sick. She got better.

One of the things that was incredibly frustrating was her reaction to me. She seemed to cry every time I held her. She wanted Mommy. Taya said that she reacted that way to all men-whenever she heard a male voice, she would cry.

Whatever the reason, it hurt me badly. Here I had come all this way and truly loved her, and she rejected me.

Things were better with my son, who remembered me and now was older and more ready to play. But once again, the normal troubles that parents have with their kids and with each other were compounded by the separation and stress we'd all just gone through.

Little things could really be annoying. I expected my son to look me in the eye when I was scolding him. Taya was bothered by this, because she felt he wasn't accustomed to me or my tone and it was too much to ask a two-year-old to look me in the eye in that situation. But my feeling was just the opposite. It was the right thing for him to do. He wasn't being corrected by a stranger. He was being disciplined by someone who loved him. There's a certain two-way road of respect there. You look me in the eye, I look you in the eye-we understand each other.

Taya would say, "Wait a minute. You've been gone for how long? And now you want to come home and be part of this family and make the rules? No sir, because you're leaving again in another month to go back on training."

We were both right, from our perspectives. The problem was trying to see the other's, and then live with it.

I wasn't perfect. I was wrong on a few things. I had to learn how to be a dad. I had my idea of how parenting should be, but it wasn't based on any reality. Over time, my ideas changed.

Somewhat. I still expect my kids to look me in the eye when I'm talking to them. And vice versa. And Taya agrees.

MIKE MONSOOR

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."

"d.a.m.n."

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 cla.s.sified information, but rest a.s.sured it is more than a metric a.s.s-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 hea.r.s.e.

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.

The 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, wis.h.i.+ng my friend one last good-bye.

One 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 pa.s.sing 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 friends.h.i.+ps forged in war are strong ones. Ours would prove that truism.

PUNCHING OUT SCRUFF FACE

After the funeral we went to a local bar for the wake proper.

As always, there were a bunch of different things going on at our favorite nightspot, including a small party for some older SEALs and UDT members who were celebrating the anniversary of their graduation. Among them was a celebrity I'll call Scruff Face.

Scruff served in the military; most people seem to believe he was a SEAL. As far as I know, he was in the service during the Vietnam conflict but not actually in the war.

I was sitting there with Ryan and told him that Scruff was holding court with some of his buddies.

"I'd really like to meet him," Ryan said.

"Sure." I got up and went over to Scruff and introduced myself. "Mr. Scruff Face, I have a young SEAL over here who's just come back from Iraq. He's been injured but he'd really like to meet you."

Well, Scruff kind of blew us off. Still, Ryan really wanted to meet him, so I brought him over. Scruff acted like he couldn't be bothered.