Frogman Stories, page 6
The bottom line on this story is that if you are going to participate in hazing or pranks, you better be able to take the good with the bad. There were many SEALs I have known that didn’t know what the term “escalation” meant. If you happened to place a dead rat in their locker, they would in turn take everything out of yours and set it on fire. No one-upmanship there. Story over and prank ended.
Hazing that turns to physical abuse is always unacceptable, the same as a BUD/S instructor harming a student. There is a fine line to both items and crossing it becomes easier the more you do it. That is why senior leaders, whether enlisted or officer, must be held accountable when someone goes too far. It is their job to ensure bad things don’t happen. Isn’t just being a SEAL dangerous enough? The hazing of the old days has been discontinued for good reason. Times change, attitudes change, people change. It’s still funny.
CHAPTER 11
When Life Hands You Lemons, Make a Drink
I was getting near the end of my first four-year enlistment and began to think what a life outside the military would be like. I was honored to have made it through BUD/S and into SEAL Team TWO, but it seemed like a life on the road constantly training for something that may or may not ever happen would be a hard life. In addition, military life, especially in the SEAL Teams, is very difficult. Yes, we got to do a whole lot of cool things, but the price paid to do those cool things was quite steep. Low pay, no real missions at the time, and my youth all factored into the decision to re-enlist or get out. I was still undecided on what to do when we were assigned a training mission at a base in North Carolina.
The concept of the op was to insert via Special Boat Unit from Virginia Beach to the Oregon Inlet off the coast of North Carolina. From that point, we would assemble portable and man-carriable Klepper canoes (large two-man kayaks) and paddle for the next two days to the target. The SEAL Teams have a way of making anything that should be fun—like kayaking—into a miserable experience. I have since learned I really don’t like doing much of anything for over an hour, especially paddling any type of kayak. We made it to the target approximately forty-eight hours later, stashed the boats, and proceeded to unload all the equipment and explosives we had been carrying to prepare to conduct a demolition raid on a staged camp with a bunch of vehicles.
Planning a demolition raid is complicated and requires practice if you are going to destroy multiple targets at the same time. Each target requires its own tailor-made explosive charge. Custom charges mean you have to carry less explosives to do the most amount of damage. Less explosives equals less weight on your back; every pound matters when trying to move quickly. The next problem is that every charge must go off at literally the same time. Explosive charges that ignite before or after all the other charges in line can affect the entire demolition field by rearranging the placement of charges (knocking them off) or creating a cut-off which means that particular charge doesn’t fire at all. Mission failure. Charges are connected together using an explosive called demolition cord, or “Det Cord.” Individual charges are tied into a piece of det cord or trunk line which fires all the charges near simultaneously. The cord is made of highly explosive material stuffed into a hollow plastic tube that looks like a small rope and can be wound on a reel.
The target we were going after was well equipped with sensors and cameras, which meant no easy overland travel. This was going to be a classic SEAL operation from the water. The only way in without being detected would be a waist- to chest-deep walk along a very swampy coastline, with approach to the target as close to the water as we could make it. The mile or so patrol was expected to take about an hour, moving slowly and quietly.
As we started our patrol, however, we realized the route was not a sandy beach but a tangled mess of underwater roots and other obstacles in our path that slowed our movement to a crawl. The easy answer would have been to put on our fins and swim the mile, except we didn’t bring them. Cardinal sin number one in the SEAL world. We probably could have swum without them, but every man was weighed down with weapon, ammunition, explosives, radios, and the like. There was no choice but to slog it out. I fell into the water at least 500 times that night. Feet caught in roots and every other thing you could imagine. At about the three-quarter mile mark or 300th fall, I had a SEAL epiphany—either I start to enjoy what I am doing no matter how much it may suck or get out of the Navy and move on. I’m not exactly sure how it all happened, maybe divine intervention, but I decided right then and there I was going to stay in the Navy and keep being the best SEAL I could be. It was by no means a cake walk after the decision. I still had another 200 falls to go, but I had gained peace of mind. I had found out what I liked to do and I was somewhat good at it. I thought about a good rum and coke for the rest of the night.
With the decision made, I marched on through the swamp and focused on the mission ahead. We finally did make it to the target about two hours later than planned and proceed to affix various demolition charges to different vehicles and buildings on the site. My job was to attach a charge to the drive shaft of a large truck. As I climbed underneath the truck, I carefully taped the charge to the shaft as securely as I could. I did not want it to fall off because it was also equipped with a mousetrap booby trap which would ignite the charge if someone tried to remove it or drive the truck away. After it was attached, I released a long line attached to the safety pin of the boobytrap so I could safely arm the charge from a distance and not blow myself up. I slowly climbed out and, careful not to pull the line, backed into the swamp. Once the team was ready to go, we lit the time fuse, and I pulled the safety pin for the boobytrap. Nothing blew up. All good. At this point the only thing we could do was to move as fast as we could to get away from the blast and any reaction force that would show up after the explosion. Setting up explosives is not as easy as they make it look in the movies.
CHAPTER 12
NAVY—Never Again Volunteer Yourself
In the early 1980s, SEAL Teams TWO and SIX (ST-2 and ST-6) shared the same compound on Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek, Virginia. I knew many of the plank owners (original members) of ST-6 and saw them on a day-to-day basis. I was fascinated by their lack of uniforms, no grooming standards, and their use of pagers. Back in the time before cell phones, pagers were like a badge of honor. They made you feel different and special—or at least that is what I thought. I wanted to be part of that. It was actually a very formal process. I filled out a special request chit asking the ST-2 commander and Command Master Chief (Rudy) in 1985 for permission to try out for ST-6. Your chain of command had to approve the chit before moving on to the next step in the process, which was a formal interview from the ST-6 leadership. I had been a good sailor with three separate deployments under my belt at that point, so they approved the chit.
Since I had never experienced a formal job interview at this point, the next phase was nerve racking. I was brought into the ST-6 compound and found myself standing before the ST-6 Commanding Officer, Command Master Chief, and the Command’s psychologist. I was very nervous but managed to answer all the questions satisfactorily until the end. I am sure the three of them did this for all interviewees but, as I was walking out, the shrink asked me, “Petty Officer Kaiser, are you a homosexual?” I stood there frozen. What? After 30 seconds, they started laughing and told me to leave. Had I been accepted? What in the world was going on? I was guided to the quarterdeck and asked to sit down and wait. This was just as bad as my time in jail in Scotland. After an hour or so, the admin chief came out and said, “Congratulations.” I was accepted. I would be receiving orders in the near future to an additional six-month ST-6 training program. I got up and left, happy and excited I had been accepted but also concerned about the unknown. What was training going to be like? What did I have to do? How should I prepare? Back in those days, ST-6 was off the books. There was no one to talk to even if they would have said anything.
In some minds, the word Navy stands for “Never Again Volunteer Yourself.” I was happy at ST-2. I was established with good friends and a nice place to live. The joke is, why would you want to keep putting yourself out there since you already enlisted? Maybe I just needed change. Maybe I wanted to challenge myself. I always figured there was no reward without great risk, so I signed up for another six months of grueling training. In theory, I was already a Navy SEAL with over three deployments under my belt at ST-2. In practice, I was starting all over again. Past performance meant very little at ST-6. I was there to learn how ST-6 wanted me to perform. It wasn’t exactly BUD/S training again. This time the instructor’s main job was to teach rather than weed out the weak. If you failed along the way, however, there would be no tears shed as you walked out the door. This was the real deal. First-class training, equipment, and proven warriors ready to take on the next phase of our careers.
Close quarters battle, or CQB, was the skillset which separated ST-6 from the other SEAL Teams of the time. Our main mission was counterterrorism, which meant hostage rescue, one of the most dangerous missions any unit can attempt. Mission failure is gauged by the condition of the hostages, not by what you do, but by what the enemy does. Success or failure is literally a game of inches and sometimes dumb luck. Everyone was expected to be an expert shot under combat conditions. Training was relentless. Not only did we go to the range every day, we would often include our daily workouts as part of the range time to simulate stress, fatigue, and heart rate. Everyone can be a Frogman on a warm sunny day, so we trained in all conditions, night and day, to prepare for the call. When I was assigned to ST-6, there were about ninety SEALs and 10–20 support personnel at the team. Everyone had to be able to do everything from shooting to maintenance of equipment to daily clean up. There was no one else to do it. Today, there are over a few thousand assigned. I was lucky to know most of them in my tenure. What I miss the most about ST-6 is the laser focus the entire command has on completing the mission. It was an honor to be part of that Team for over 25 years.
Realistic training is one of the keys to success on the battlefield. Live fire using your actual weapon was the norm during all training events. Initial training at ST-6 was no different. Basic weapons safety was ingrained into our heads like nothing else. Accidental discharges, or ADs, were a quick way to get the boot from ST-6. There were countless ways to be released. Another example happened during one of our many CQB runs in the kill house. The kill house is a ballistic box that does not allow bullets to escape in close quarters. The first guy in line entered the room followed by his partner. If you encounter a target, you are supposed to go through it and deal with the threat. Unfortunately, the first guy stepped around the target and kept going. His partner behind him engaged the target and ended up shooting the first guy in the back. Luckily, the number one guy was saved by his body armor. Always good to know your equipment works. Both ended up getting the boot but were allowed to try again during a future class. Brutal. Making mistakes that could cost you or your teammate your life is one thing, but always knowing you are one step away from the door is an entirely different mind game.
A SEAL’s main purpose in life is to operate. For the most part, we want the mission no matter what it entails. We train and we fight with that one goal in mind; do whatever it takes to get yourself ready for the next mission. My life at ST-6 for the next 25 years revolved around chasing that mission. One of the unknown facts of life for all SEALs is the constant state of readiness. Once called, you must drive into work within one hour, pack your bags and weapons within three hours, and depart via military aircraft at the four-hour mark. Twenty-five years of that life will change anyone.
The method of choice for recall back in the day were the pagers. If you ask a young person what a pager is nowadays, they will not know what you are talking about. But in days past, they were the bomb. I actually felt special for carrying one. We got an 1800 practice recall every night. The pager became an extension of my body. The only time I did not have it was when we were on the road, which averaged between 150–200 days a year. You can’t be a good SEAL sitting at home in Virginia Beach. Luckily, I never spent more than three to four years at any one job while assigned to ST-6. Everything from assaulter to sniper to the training department kept me busy and engaged over my career. My favorite positions were Team Sniper and Sniper Team Leader.
I had learned early on that at six feet three inches tall, and sometimes slow and uncoordinated, up-close hand-to-hand combat would probably not be the best choice for me. Hand-to-hand combat or mixed martial arts were never my strong point. All SEALs are required to become proficient at these skills. I could hold my own, but I regularly got my butt kicked in training sessions. My size, however, did not affect my ability to shoot, move, and communicate as a sniper. That’s why I eventually realized that remaining on a regular assault team was probably not the best decision for my future well-being. I decided to move to the sniper team—long-distance shots with minimal hand-to-hand contact with the enemy or teammates.
There are many fallacies that surround SEAL snipers. I will quickly try to debunk a few of the most popular falsehoods. Number one, the best sniper rifle is the one you practice with. It doesn’t matter what make or caliber. You are just as dead with a .22 as you are with a 300 Winchester Magnum. Number two, you only shoot what you can clearly identify, unless the enemy is shooting at you. SEALs fight at night. Even with the best optics and night-vision devices, you can only see with that amount of clarity to approximately 100 to 150 yards. Snipers are in place to support the main assault. Shooting your teammates or hostages is not a good thing. Number three, leave the long-distance shots to someone else. Not your job.
CHAPTER 13
Swim Buddy
Teamwork is also ingrained in the mind of every SEAL starting at BUD/S training in Coronado. “Two is one, one is none” is a motto we live by in the Teams, whether it be equipment or personnel. A swim buddy or shooting partner is the one person you can always count on to pull you out of a mess. He is the one to cover your back without question. My swim buddy had been at ST-6 a year prior to my arrival. He was a good man that took me under his wing when I graduated and was assigned to an assault team.
A typical training day started at 0800 with two hours of physical training—running, lifting, swimming, climbing, etc. At 1000, we usually hit the range and practiced close quarters battle and marksmanship. All live fire, no blanks or paint for the most part. From 1200 to 1300 was rest and lunch and then start back up again with 1300–1600 being more range time or other advanced training. On one particular day, we were practicing four-man room entries in which four SEALs would enter a room and engage all the hostile targets. At this point, we were confident in our skills and knew what we were doing. After reloading our magazines and checking our equipment for what seemed like the 100th run of the day, our four-man team lined up at the door. Not knowing if it was going to be lights on or off, our flashlights were ready to go. Each man had his free hand on the man in front of him with the other hand on his weapon. A squeeze from the back of the line passed forward let the number one man know he was cleared to open the door.
As we entered, I could see it was dark, so the flashlights came on. The initial room was cleared of targets within seconds with double taps to the head or body depending on which was visible. Once clear, myself and another SEAL moved into a small room within the room which had been erected inside the kill house to make movement more complex. Upon entering the room, I immediately engaged a target near the door from about two feet away. Once completed, I heard the range safety officer yell “cease fire” and the lights came on. Not knowing what had happened, the standard operating procedure was to put our weapons on safe, unload, and wait for further instruction. I heard a loud commotion outside the room with people yelling and then, “Everybody get out!” As I was walking out, I could see someone lying on the floor with medics surrounding him. I had no idea who it was or what happened until I walked out of the room. “What happened?” It turns out the bullets I had fired into the target of the second room had passed through the wall and struck my shooting partner, who was now lying on the floor fighting for his life. I felt weak at the knees but proceeded to offload my equipment in a total daze. I didn’t know what to say or do. That was my friend. I am not a particularly religious person when it comes to regular visits to church, but I said many prayers that day directly to God asking for his intervention. Unfortunately, my prayers were unanswered; my buddy died in the hospital soon after. The bullets had entered his side through a gap in his body armor.
