SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper Page 5

  My company commander looked at me like I had a mushroom growing out of my head. “Wasdin, do you know what they do at IT?”

  “The guys that got in trouble told me they do a lot of exercise.”

  He laughed.

  After evening chow, I arrived at IT and found out why he was laughing. IT busted my rump. We did push-ups, sit-ups, drills holding rifles over our heads, and much more. I looked to the left and to the right—the men on either side of me were crying. This is tough, but why are you crying? I’d experienced much worse. Sweat and tears covered the gym floor. I sweat, but I didn’t cry. The people who ran IT didn’t know I had volunteered for it. After showing up there for an hour nearly every evening seven, eight, nine times, they wanted to break me of my evil ways. I never told them any different. When I left boot camp, they must’ve thought, Wasdin was the biggest screwup who ever came through here.

  I took the Search and Rescue screening test. At the pool, I saw a guy with an unfamiliar insignia on his chest. At the time, I didn’t know he was a Navy SEAL, and I didn’t know what a SEAL was. Most people didn’t. The IT may have helped me prepare for the Search and Rescue test—if not physically, mentally. I passed. Even so, I was only 70 percent confident that I would be accepted to aircrew school. My fate lies in the hands of the navy. What job will they make me do if I don’t pass this?

  Toward the end of the three-month navy boot camp, my air crewman company commander gave me a smile and orders to attend aircrew school. “I’ll see you in the fleet,” he said. I’d passed. That was the best day of my life. Laura came out to Florida to see me at boot camp graduation, staying the weekend. I had to remain in uniform even when we were off base. While we were eating dinner in a restaurant, a couple gave us tickets to Disney World—and picked up my check on the way out. The next day, we explored the Magic Kingdom.

  * * *

  There would be no married housing where Laura could stay with me while I attended aircrew school in Pensacola, Florida. At aircrew school, I got to wear flight suits, learned how to deploy the rescue raft out of an aircraft, ran the obstacle course, and boxed in the navy “smoker” matches. Toward the end of the six-week-long school, I attended a week of survival training. The instructors simulated our aircraft being shot down, and we had to survive: tie knots, cross a river, and build a tent out of a parachute, with only minimal food like broth and apples. During the last three days of the survival training, we only ate what we could find and were willing to put in our mouths. I wasn’t ready to eat grub worms yet.

  My first boxing match was the night after returning from survival training. I told the coach, “I’ve been out in the woods three days without eating. You think I’ll be OK?”

  “Hell, yeah. This jarhead has been cleaning our clocks. We need you to go in there and fight him.”

  Thanks a lot, pal.

  My friends Todd Mock and Bobby Powell came to watch and provide moral support.

  Todd stood in my corner. I told him, “Wish I had more time to get ready for this fight.”

  “Just hit him more than he hits you.”

  Great advice.

  The smokers were three three-minute rounds. Not a lot of pacing, just dumping everything you’ve got into every round. In the first round, I felt the marine and I fought about evenly. In the second round, I didn’t react quickly enough and got caught a couple of times. He’s outclassing me. My arms felt weak. The 16-ounce gloves felt like 40 pounds.

  In the third round I went to touch gloves with him, a silent courtesy that boxers show each other at the beginning of the last round. I put my right hand out, and he sucker-punched me. It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. Knocked me down on my knee. I stood up but had to take an eight-count.

  I wasn’t Rocky—I was scared of getting hit again. After the eight-count, I came out whaling on the marine with everything I had, scared to death he was going to hurt me again. In the end, I won the fight. The navy fans went wild. I sat on the stool in my corner, exhausted. Looking at Todd, I said, “You and Bobby are going to have to help me get out.”

  They literally carried me to the parking lot and put me in a car. After helping take off my gloves, they changed me into some sweats and drove me to a Wendy’s, where we ate. Later, they took me to the barracks and tucked me into bed.

  The next morning, I thought something was wrong with me. My face had puffed up, and one eye had swollen shut. The other eye had partially closed. What happened? I was sick for three or four days. Fortunately, it was near the end of aircrew school, and I graduated on time.

  In spite of the separation, Laura and I wrote each other letters, and I called her. She came out to visit me for the weekend following graduation. Our relationship seemed fine.

  After aircrew school, Todd, Bobby, and I moved down the street and started twelve weeks of Search and Rescue school. The place was intimidating: names on the wall, gigantic indoor pool, mock door of an H-3 helicopter, and SAR instructors in their shorts and blue T-shirts.

  Man, these guys are gods.

  SAR school challenged me. We got comfortable being in the water, jumped in with all our gear on, swam to the rescue hoist, hooked our pilot to it, did hand signals, lit the Mark-13 flare, and simulated rescues.

  At the end of the school, for my final test, I had to complete a rescue scenario. One pilot sat in his raft. The other lay facedown in the water. In the huge indoor pool, I jumped out of the mock helicopter door and into the pool, then took care of the facedown man. The pilot in the raft screamed at me. “Hey, man. Get me the hell out of here! He’s dead. Don’t worry about him.”

  When I reached out to touch the facedown pilot, he sprang to life and grabbed me. I swam underwater, where drowning men don’t like to go. After maneuvering around him, I started a spinal highway on him: checking to see no parachute cord was wrapped around his body. He seemed OK, so I started swimming, but he wouldn’t budge. I checked him again and found parachute cord around both his legs. After clearing the cord, I swam him over to the other guy’s raft. The pilot in the raft started yelling at the pilot in the water, “It’s your fault. You screwed up.”

  I can’t put this pilot in the same raft as the troublemaker pilot. After inflating his flotation device, I left him in the water tied to the raft. Entering the raft, I checked on the troublemaker. I hooked him up to the helicopter hoist and sent him up first. He fought me, so I had to wrestle him before sending him up. Then I hooked myself up with the pilot in the water and went up with him.

  Back in the locker room, some of my classmates hadn’t returned. It hadn’t dawned on me that they might’ve failed—I was still recovering from my rescue. Five or six instructors stood around me. “Wasdin, what did you do wrong?”

  Holy crap. I just failed Search and Rescue school, and I have no idea why.

  They took a J-hook, used for cutting parachute cord, and cut off my white T-shirt.

  I tried to figure out what I’d missed.

  “Congratulations, Wasdin. You just made it through SAR school.” They gave me my blue shirt and threw me in the pool with my buddies, who were treading water. All of them laughed their asses off at my traumatized face—they’d all been through the same.

  SAR graduation was more special than boot camp or aircrew graduation because SAR training seriously challenged me physically and mentally.

  * * *

  After SAR school, I got even more schooling: antisubmarine warfare at Millington, Tennessee. Even though there was still no married housing, Laura and I rented a small apartment off base. When she became pregnant, she returned to live with her parents until the baby was born.

  Then the navy assigned me to a training squadron in Jacksonville, Florida, to put together everything I’d learned in aircrew, SAR, and antisubmarine warfare. Still in Jacksonville, I reported to my first real duty station at HS-7 Squadron—the “Dusty Dogs”—assigned to the aircraft carrier USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67). Although the Kennedy was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia, my squadron would stay in Jacksonvil
le except for when the Kennedy deployed out to sea.

  * * *

  On the morning of February 27, 1985, Bobby Powell came into my room in the barracks and told me, “Your wife is having a baby.”

  “Holy crap,” I said. It would be a two-hour drive from Jacksonville to the military hospital in Fort Stewart, Georgia. I called Laura’s family.

  Her father answered the phone. “She’s had a boy,” he said.

  Still wearing my flight suit, I drove as fast as I could. Everything was OK until I got within twenty minutes of the hospital. Police lights flashed at me from the rear—Georgia State Highway Patrol. I pulled over and stopped.

  The officer parked behind me, stepped out of his vehicle, and strolled over to my door. “Where you off to so fast, son?”

  Nervous and upset, I explained, “My wife had a baby, and I’ve got to get to the hospital, sir.”

  “Driver’s license.”

  I handed it over.

  He looked at it. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll escort you to the hospital. If we get there and your wife really has had a baby, I’ll give you your license back.” He put my license in his shirt pocket. “If she hasn’t, you’re going to take a ride with me.”

  He escorted me to the hospital parking lot, then walked with me into Laura’s room. Among the visitors stood my mother—still mad at me for leaving home to marry Laura but excited about her grandson. The patrol officer spoke with her.

  I held my beautiful baby boy, Blake, for the first time. I was so proud to be a father, and an elite SAR swimmer. Life was good. After a while, I noticed the officer had disappeared. “Where’s the state patrol officer? I need my driver’s license back.”

  My mom handed it to me. “The officer said to tell you congratulations.”

  After Blake grew old enough, he and Laura moved down to Jacksonville to join me.

  * * *

  On October 6, 1986, a Russian Yankee-class nuclear submarine (K-219) sailing off the coast of Bermuda experienced a failed seal on the missile hatch. Seawater leaked in and reacted with the missile liquid fuel residue, causing an explosion that killed three of its sailors. The sub limped toward Cuba. The John F. Kennedy’s task force sent my helicopter out to track the Russian vessel. Usually, we were supposed to fly within approximately 30 miles of our carrier group, but we had special permission to fly out farther.

  I wore my booties, a short-sleeve wetsuit top called a shorty, and my white cotton briefs—tighty-whiteys. Most guys wore wetsuit bottoms, but I took my chances that I might have to rescue someone in my tighty-whiteys. For outerwear, I wore my flight suit. We picked up the Russian sub on active sonar. Following close, we kept popping its butt with sonar pings.

  Suddenly, our pilot said, “Look at the temperature gauge on our main rotor transmission.”

  Oh, my … The gears burned hot enough to shear off.

  The pilot tried to take us to a hover just before we fell out of the sky. We didn’t hit the water as hard as I expected, but we hit hard enough. “Mayday, mayday…”

  As the first swimmer, I rushed to the copilot to help him attach the sea anchor and put it out the window. Next, I made sure the pilot and copilot exited the aircraft through the front escape window. Then I hurried to the rear of the cockpit, where I made sure the first crewman had exited the side door. I took off my flight suit and put my swim fins, mask, and snorkel on. Finally, I kicked the raft out, inflated it, and helped the two pilots in. The other rescue swimmer was an older guy, in his forties. Instead of inflating his life vest and swimming to the raft, he hung on to a cooler for dear life, drifting out to sea. So I had to swim him down, bring him back to the raft, and get him inside. A disturbing thought occurred to me: What am I going to do if that Russian sub rises up underneath us?

  An antisubmarine jet, an S-3 Viking, flew over. Its low-pitched hum sounded like a vacuum cleaner. The plane came back to us at a 90-degree angle, probably noting our position. Thirty minutes later, a helicopter arrived. I took the green sea dye marker, which looked like a bar of soap, and swished it in the water around the raft. We became a huge fluorescent green target for the rescue helicopter to see.

  The helicopter came in low, and I signaled for them not to jump their swimmer. I put the pilots’ helmet visors down to protect them from the stinging sea spray the helicopter blades blasted. Then I swam everyone over to the rescue hoist, riding up myself with the last guy. After the adrenaline dump of the crash, swimming the other swimmer down, and getting everyone to the hoist, I was wasted. In the helicopter, my buddy Dan Rucker, also a Search and Rescue swimmer, gave me a thumbs-up.

  Our rescue helicopter landed on the aircraft carrier. We stepped out onto the flight deck, and everyone cheered, slapping me on the back, congratulating me for the rescue. Walking across the flight deck, I carried my swim fins, looking like the hero, except for my tighty-whiteys. Now my cotton briefs were tighty-fluorescent-greeneys. My whole body glowed from the fluorescent green dye marker. It was embarrassing as hell. I would’ve given a million dollars for my wetsuit bottom. Later, to my horror, others and I watched the scene all over again on the ship’s video.

  * * *

  A couple of weeks before my active duty contract with the navy expired, I noticed five guys from a unit I’d never heard of: SEALs. In retrospect, they weren’t even a standard seven- or eight-man SEAL squad. They seemed like a laser op team: two laser target designators, two spotters, and the lieutenant in charge—probably also running communications. They were in our Search and Rescue berthing space, so I started following them around asking questions about the SEALs.

  During World War II, the first navy frogmen were trained to recon beaches for amphibious landings. Soon they learned underwater demolitions in order to clear obstacles and became known as Underwater Demolition Teams (UDTs). In the Korean War, UDTs evolved and went farther inland, blowing up bridges and tunnels.

  Years later, after observing Communist insurgency in Southeast Asia, President John F. Kennedy—who had served in the navy during World War II—and others in the military understood the need for unconventional warriors. The navy created a unit that could operate from sea, air, and land—SEALs—drawing heavily from UDTs. On January 1, 1962, SEAL Team One (Coronado, California) and SEAL Team Two (Little Creek, Virginia) were born.

  One of the first SEALs was Rudy Boesch, a New Yorker and chief from UDT-21. Wearing his hair in a perfect crew cut, he led the newly formed SEALs at Team Two in physical training (PT). On his dog tag in the space for RELIGION was written PT. To stay in shape, Rudy and his Teammates played soccer for hours—thirty-two men on each team. Broken legs were common. The SEALs used a variety of tactics to get out of Rudy’s fitness runs—making excuses, going to the restroom and not returning, and ducking into the bushes during the runs.

  Rudy also served as chief of 10th Platoon, which relieved 7th Platoon in My Tho, Vietnam, on April 8, 1968. After a week of learning what 7th Platoon had been doing and going out on ops with 7th Platoon SEALs, 10th Platoon set out to do their thing. Rudy carried an imported version of the German Heckler & Koch 33. The assault rifle used the same .223 ammo as the standard-issue M-16 but was much easier to maintain in the jungle—and it had magazines that could hold forty rounds! He carried the large magazines in the pouches of a Chinese AK-47 chest pouch, two straps tied around his lower back and two straps across his chest, with the three largest pouches suspended over his stomach. Rudy stored his inflatable UDT life vest in one of his trouser pockets.

  The SEALs’ meat and potatoes were snatch-and-grabs. At night, Rudy and his Teammates crept into a thatched hut and grabbed one of the Vietcong (VC) out of his hammock. They wrapped the VC up and disappeared with him. Most VC had enough sense not to struggle against the green-faced men who came at night. The SEALs turned him over to the CIA for interrogation (the SEALs also used the South Vietnamese police to conduct interrogations). Then Rudy and his Teammates would act on that intelligence the next evening and snatch a VC who was higher up in t
he food chain. One of the prisoners switched sides to join the SEALs. The defector offered to take the green-faced men to their next target. The SEALs kept the turned VC in the front as their guide, letting him know that if he led them into an ambush, he would likely be the first killed—and if the enemy didn’t kill the guide in an ambush, a SEAL would. After the guide worked hard enough to earn the trust of Rudy and the other SEALs, they made him a scout and gave him an AK-47.

  With their Vietnamese scout, Rudy and six other SEALs rode through the night on a Landing Craft, Mechanized nicknamed the “Mike boat” that was loaded with weapons—M-60 and .50 caliber machine guns, a 7.62 minigun, and an M-29 mortar. It dropped them off on the shore, and they patrolled a mile until they came to a paddy dike. Rudy brought up the tail as rear security. Then they crawled in 8-inch-deep water until they reached a trail. The SEALs set up three claymore mines facing the trail, preparing to ambush an eight-man squad of VC. Twenty minutes later, Rudy and the others were fighting off sleep when at least eight VC showed up on the trail. The SEALs were waiting for all of the enemy to enter the kill zone when the VC’s point man noticed some tracks, stopped, and called back to the others in Vietnamese, “Someone is here.” The SEALs’ Vietnamese scout shot the point man, and the green-faced men launched their ambush. Twenty-one hundred steel balls exploded from the claymores in 60-degree arcs. SEALs fired. The ambush literally tore the enemy apart. When the smoke cleared, the commandos hurried in, gathered weapons, and searched the scattered body parts for intelligence. While they were searching, AK-47 rounds came at them from the darkness—visitors. Soon muzzle flashes appeared. The VC were closing in. Rudy and his Teammates decided it was time to bug out and reversed back to the river. The point man became rear security, while Rudy led them sloshing through the rice paddy. The volume of fire from behind increased. They had stirred up a hornets’ nest. Rudy had never led a run of SEALs at Little Creek who were so motivated. The radioman called the Mike boat and said, “Drop mortar,” requesting prearranged mortar fire. The Mike boat lobbed an 81 mm mortar shell over the SEALs’ heads that missed the enemy. The radioman talked the next mortar round closer to the SEALs’ rear, giving the enemy a loud surprise. When the SEALs neared the Mike boat, it opened up with all its guns on the pursuing enemy. The incredible firepower shredded trees and VC, silencing them. The SEALs climbed aboard the Mike boat and motored up the black river.