Frogman Stories, page 5
Every dive is briefed and debriefed, as is the custom for most operations. What we found out in this debrief was there had been an extremely large, unscheduled container vessel transiting the channel at the same time we were diving across, thus the mud dive. Turns out there was only 5–10 feet between the ship’s keel and the bottom of the channel. We did as trained and hit the bottom and survived. After the ship had passed and we continued our dive plan—plan your dive and dive your plan—the current had shifted with a vengeance and literally sucked us out of the channel and into Chesapeake Bay; a series of events no one could have foretold. We counted our blessings and went back to the locker room to clean off our equipment and get ready for the next evening’s dive. As we were cleaning off our gear, my buddy held up one of his fins. There was a large gash in the rubber from the prop of the ship that had passed over us.
Sometimes it is better to be lucky than good.
CHAPTER 8
Better to Be Lucky than Good
Without standards it is very hard to maintain order and discipline. Without grooming standards, there is no need to get a haircut. Without physical fitness standards, there is no need to work out. Standards are the key to success for any military unit, business, or household. The hard part is selecting standards that are relevant and can survive the test of time with common sense justification. There has to be a reason.
SEALs are required to work out at least five days a week for up to 2–3 hours each day. Everything from swimming to running to lifting and everything in between is acceptable. The absolute worst issue for any SEAL is having a more senior overweight SEAL telling you what to do. If the guy can’t even take care of his own body, what makes you think they will take care of you. Insensitive? Correct. Accurate? Also correct. SEALs don’t work out to meet a standard, they work out to crush it. Without a baseline, however, who is to be the judge on who is in shape and who isn’t? The time to tell is not during training or combat. As a member of a winter-warfare platoon at SEAL Team TWO, I was fortunate to visit all the miserably cold areas on this planet. One such place was Greenland. Not many Americans can say they visited Greenland and only a few SEALs can say they skied from a Defense Early Warning Site in the middle of the continent to the coast in 10 days. I’m not sure who was responsible for this wonderful idea, but at the time it sounded exciting. Fly from a New York National Guard base on a C-130 equipped with skis to a Russian-missile early warning site and then ski to the coast and conduct a typical SEAL exercise of our capabilities. Sounds plausible until you start doing the math; specifically, adding up the weight of all the equipment and food required to make the trek. A typical combat load of 300 rounds of ammunition, magazines, weapons, and vests is about 45 lbs. Tack on to that cold-weather gear such as a tent, stove for melting snow, fuel, sleeping bag, and extra clothing per individual added about fifty more pounds. Then came the Team equipment—radios, extra batteries, explosives, 0.50-caliber sniper rifle and ammunition—for a whopping 300 extra pounds disbursed throughout the team. Each man carried over one hundred pounds on their body in addition to each two-man team dragging a sled with additional equipment in the 75–100-lb range. Better skiers dragged more weight. Skiing across Greenland was a physical and mental test of endurance harder than anything I had accomplished at BUD/S training in Coronado. The only easy day was yesterday.
The center of Greenland is as flat as a pancake. Nothing to see as far as the eye can see. With only map, compass, and altimeter to guide us, we set out on what would be a true test of strength. The first eight days were long and painful. Ski for 8–12 hours a day, set up camp, pass out, and start again. Twenty-four hours of sunlight did not help matters; it never got dark. Sheer exhaustion was the only thing that allowed our bodies to shut down every “night.” The key to sleeping in the cold is to have a buffer or ground pad between your sleeping bag and the ice. Without it, you would eventually wake up freezing every few hours. As we were setting up camp one day in a steady 30-mph windstorm, one of my teammates accidentally loosened his grip on his ground pad and it took off like a rocket, never to be seen again. I made the usual comment—“dumbass”—and continued working on my own gear, now being extra careful. I knew the guy would survive, but his life had just become much more difficult. Oh well, no time to dwell on others’ misfortune.
There is a happy ending to this part of the story, believe it or not. Approximately 30 minutes after my teammate had lost his ground pad, we saw a blue shape coming from the opposite direction, heading straight at us at high speed. No one realized what it was until it was right on top of the camp. Someone had lost their own ground pad God knows where, in Greenland, on that day and it was traveling toward the camp. No one could believe it and many people I have told this story to don’t either. Bottom line, we grabbed the sailing pad and gave it to the guy who had lost his. True story. Sometimes it is good to be lucky.
Day nine brought us to the edge of the Greenland ice shelf, definitely the most dangerous point of the trip with ravines and crevasses so deep you could not see the bottom. One missed step or ski and you were going to be injured or worse. By that time, we were all running low on food. The trip had taken more energy than we had planned for. Knowing this day would be the most critical to survive, we ate most of what we had left and carried on. Somehow, we all made it off the ice. No one fell, no equipment lost. It was a miracle. As we hit solid ground, we were able to finally take off our skis and tie them to our back packs, which were now lighter after we ate all our food. I can remember actually falling asleep as we were walking off the ice looking for a place to set up camp. Thankfully, it was not on the side of a cliff, in case I had stepped the wrong way. We set up camp for the last time to try to get some sleep and prepare for tomorrow’s upcoming mission. As Team sniper, it was my responsibility to care for the 0.50-caliber sniper rifle, a beast which weighed a ton but could reach out over a mile to its target. The target in this case was a 50-gallon steel drum about 900 yards away with a can of gasoline on top simulating a radar antenna positioning motor which, when hit, would have stopped the function of the array. It was also supposed to blow up upon impact. Ten days across Greenland, no food left, tired and cold, and the first two shots missed. Had I knocked the scope loose? Had I actually just missed? Devastated, it was mission complete at that time and we headed to the extraction point for warm food, warm showers, warm clothes, and warm drinks. I could cry about my mistakes later. After a few hours, clean clothes, and a full stomach, life was good again. I also found out the rounds had actually impacted the steel drum underneath the gas can but did not set off the gas. Victory. No training or standard could have prepared me for this event. However, everyone has to start somewhere and the initial screening test for BUD/S is the standard. SEAL physical screening test:
Event Competitive Repetitions/Time Rest Period
500-yard swim using breast and/or sidestroke 10 minutes 10 minutes
Push-ups 79 2 minutes
Sit-ups 79 2 minutes
Pull-ups 11 (dead hang) 10 minutes
1.5-mile run wearing 10:20 minutes/
boots and trousers seconds N/A
CHAPTER 9
If You Are Going to Cheat, Don’t
I served at SEAL Team TWO (ST-2) under Master Chief Rudy Boesch for five years before volunteering for ST-6 in the summer of 1985.
I never would have had the opportunity if it had not been for a lenient senior leader who gave me another chance. When departing for a six-month winter-warfare deployment, the first stop at the time was a Naval Special Warfare detachment located on a Royal Air Force base in Machrihanish, Scotland—a wonderful place which was always cold and wet with 40-mph winds driving the rain into every orifice you have. It was probably one of the worst environments you could imagine operating in. Temperatures hovered between 30–40 degrees Fahrenheit, usually not cold enough to snow, but wet and cold enough to make hypothermia a real concern. I have seen few places more beautiful and greener than Scotland but that did not make up for the harsh conditions I endured trying to survive there. A typical week, while not on travel to some mountain top in Scandinavia, involved working out, usually a long-distance run, and some sort of water work in the North Sea.
Our time in Machrihanish was fairly brutal so our usual pastime was going to the local pubs to unwind and have fun. Getting to town from the base was a problem. No one joins the Navy to get rich. Money was tight, especially for a young enlisted man. Cabs were expensive and unreliable, so the platoon before us had purchased what we call a “turnover” car, which meant each incoming platoon would purchase and maintain the car and use it during their time in Scotland. The plan was solid except the turnover car left for us would never pass a safety inspection without major work and money to pay for it. This is when I had a brilliant idea to forge a legitimate town safety inspection sticker and place it on the turnover car. The only sticker I could get my hands on to forge belonged to the executive officer (XO) of the detachment. The XO in Navy terms is the second in command behind the Commanding Officer (CO). The sticker happened to be on his motorcycle and not on the inside windshield like all the cars driven in the area. I took the sticker off the bike, copied it, and put it back on the bike. No one the wiser, the plan was perfect. I took my time coloring the sticker to make it look exactly like the real thing. Only the closest of inspections would catch this masterpiece.
After five months of enjoyment using the turnover car, we were nearing the end of our deployment and the return to the USA. One of my friends asked if he could use the car to go to church. Apparently, he had found the Lord. Of course I said yes. While my buddy was in church, unfortunately, the car gained some unwanted attention from some of the local “bobbies” who noticed the sticker was not quite right and waited for the owner to return. Needless to say, I was given up quickly since my name was on the registration. I had broken two of the major standard operating procedures of Special Operations: always operate at night and don’t get caught. The reason we had never been caught is because we only used the car to get back and forth from the local pubs. The sticker was very hard to see at night and we never gave anyone a reason to question our credibility. In broad daylight and next to a church was a different story. Maybe the Lord was trying to tell me something, so I went and turned myself in to the local police station and hoped for the best. I am not sure what I expected in Machrihanish, but it was worse—a stone room that looked like it was built 500 years ago, with one 12-inch by 12-inch window covered with iron bars, an old mattress on the floor, and a big iron door that would take a few pounds of C4 to blast through. The police let me sit for about five hours before coming to get me for my appearance before the magistrate. Fortunately, the courthouse was about 50 yards from the jail and two of the biggest bobbies I had seen escorted me to it. They actually held on to each of my arms with their other hand underneath my armpits. They thought I was going to run for it. Actually, they did it for good reason because one SEAL arrested for another misunderstanding had actually bolted, and ran through the fields all the way back to the barracks to get away. My trip to court was uneventful. The magistrate asked if I was guilty of forging the sticker, I said yes, and he asked me how much longer I had in the country. I told him seven days, which was lucky for me because I actually think he would have given me a few days in the slammer. He then asked me how much money I had on me, to which I replied, “About two hundred pounds”; amazingly, the fine was 200 pounds. I handle myself fairly well under pressure, but at that point, I wasn’t in the state of mind to lie and give him a lesser number. Two hundred pounds was a small price to pay to get out of there. I paid my fine and was a free man once again.
The only problem with justice when you are in the military is that there are two separate and distinct justice systems when you are on active duty. Civilian, which I had just freed myself from, and Military, Uniformed Code of Military Justice, which I was about to face. There is an old and famous saying among the SEAL Teams: “Bad news doesn’t get any better with age.” My chain of command was fully aware of what was going on at this point because I told them. No sense trying to hide the news. When I returned from town, I found myself standing before the detachment CO and XO. The XO was out for blood since I had used his motorcycle sticker for the forgery. He basically said my request to go to ST-6 would be torn up and he would make my life miserable. The CO, however, had a different take and let me off. To this day, I have no idea why he did. I even asked him many years later after we had both left the Navy and he said he didn’t even remember the incident. In the big picture, I guess the offense was small potatoes compared to what was going on in the world. I did not squander my second chance. After the five hours in the cold, wet jail, I promised myself if I got out of this one, I would never get caught again. Just kidding. I actually used the experience to question future decisions and, so far, it has never failed me. I am grateful to the CO for the second chance that really changed my life and set me back on course. 1. If you are going to cheat, don’t. 2. If you do it anyway, don’t get caught. 3. If you get caught, own it, face the consequences, and go back to number one.
CHAPTER 10
If You Can Dish it Out, You Better Be Able to Take It
Hazing is a dirty word in today’s times. Maybe it always was. However, during my tenure as a SEAL it was a way of life. Hazing was part of just about every aspect of being a Navy SEAL. Some good, some bad, and some very bad. The hard truth was that some of my teammates didn’t know where to draw the line when it got to the bad and very bad categories. A common harassment for all involved in Naval Special Warfare was to provide the beer or other alcoholic refreshments whenever you accomplished something for the first time. In other words, “first time” could mean anything from first parachute jump to first dive to first time visiting the Navy SEAL Museum. If you were a new guy, you were constantly shelling out the cash to pay for the other SEALs’ drinking habits. I consider this hazing on the good side of things. No one was inflicting pain on anyone or anything other than the pocketbook. When special occasions arose, however, the physical abuse escalated quickly from good to bad and sometimes very bad. Special occasions included birthdays, marriages, birth of a child, or many other significant events that happen throughout life. The weird thing about this tradition—which happily was discontinued—was that Team guys very seldom openly shared these significant events with others on their team. Most information was gleaned second or thirdhand, which made it worse for the individual being hazed. Comments like “Don’t you trust your own brothers?” or “Did your wife tell you not to tell us?” often came out as selected torture was handed out.
One such event happened to yours truly on my birthday. It just so happened to fall on a Friday with a scheduled beer and BBQ lunch before closing out the week. I am still not quite clear as to how my teammates found out it was my birthday, but before I realized what was going to happen, five or six guys jumped me, pinning my arms and legs while tying my hands and feet together behind my back, all while taking or tearing off my clothes. At the time, there were no females at the Command; perhaps my clothes would have stayed on if there were. Once the takedown was complete, as I lay buck naked in the dirt, the entire Command proceeded to sing “Happy Birthday” to me. I felt so special. Unfortunately, at this point, the hazing was just beginning. After softening me up for about thirty minutes with no contact at all, various guys would walk up and offer me a beer. After getting a few pitchers of beer poured on me, I stopped saying yes to the beer and was grateful it was warm outside. As the afternoon dragged on and the others enjoyed their beer and food, I could sense the crowd getting more rebellious. No longer satisfied with pouring beer on me, a few gentlemen had the great idea to drag me to a pile of Sodasorb behind the diving department. Sodasorb is a granular chemical used for diving re-breathers or SEAL rigs that did not give off any tell-tale bubbles while sneaking around under ships or in ports. The chemical absorbed the CO2 in your breath while the diving rig continuously fed you 100-percent oxygen, thus eliminating the need to off-gas. The downside of Sodasorb is it becomes a caustic chemical when exposed to water. If the diving rig happens to leak, or you leave your mouthpiece open, which allows water inside the rig, there is a great chance you will get a caustic cocktail. The cocktail can burn your mouth, throat, and ultimately lungs if you breathe in enough of it. Laying naked and tied up on a pile of used Sodasorb is no fun. When the water hose came out, I knew things were getting worse. I tried to rest as little of my exposed skin as possible on the pile to prevent chemical burns. I was essentially resting the back of my head, balled up fists and heels of my feet on the pile as long as I could hold it. Someone would always come by and give me a kick so I would fall on my side, but I would immediately get back into the position with least amount of exposure. After what seemed like a lifetime (10 minutes), I could feel my skin start to burn. Luckily, there were a few sane heads in the group; they pulled me off the pile and hosed the remaining chemical off my body. Another 30 minutes later, everyone was tired and ready to go home for the weekend. Actually, all the beer was gone. I was eventually left alone to fend for myself and break loose of the zip ties holding my hands behind my back, which allowed me to free my feet. Party over. This type of occurrence happened almost every week for one reason or another.
One of my favorite hazing stories comes from an event which should be one of the happiest times in your life—getting married. Regular people send out invitations, make announcements, and plan grand affairs. Team guys tended to keep the entire event as private as possible, especially if that SEAL happened to be one of the individuals who took pleasure hazing others. They knew that even the guys who normally did not participate in hazing would make an exception for an instigator of past hazing. Well, it just so happened that one of the worst hazers of all time was soon to be married. What made it even better, he tried to keep it secret, which incited even more people to a little payback. On the afternoon the individual was to leave for the wedding, and ultimately honeymoon, we decided to strike. He put up a fight, but a half dozen Team guys can take down just about anyone. Standard to any hazing ritual at the Team, his clothes were ripped off and he was bound by zip ties with his hands and feet behind his back. The rest of the story is also fairly standard until you get to the end. We had an absolute genius pull out a large master lock with key and actually locked it between our victim’s body and scrotum. There was just the right amount of room there to get the shackle in place and lock the lock. There was no way to get the lock off by pulling it off unless you truly wanted to hurt yourself. There was also no way to cut it off because the lock was too close to the skin and other very sensitive areas. To add insult to injury, he was also doused with a special blue dye that was used to dye metal parts for machine work. The dye lasts at least a week no matter how hard you try to remove it. It gave a new meaning to the term “blue balls.” We then let him go and proceeded to run away because at this point no one wanted to get into a real fight with the victim. Besides, everyone was laughing too hard. The victim soon realized he was in deep trouble when he was told what happened to the one and only key. It was placed in an envelope and mailed to his soon-to-be-wife courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service (there was a back-up key). The key arrived two days later, well before the wedding. His wife didn’t talk to us for quite some time, but even she eventually got over it.
