Part 36 (1/2)

Not so with the guys from SOAR. Right place, first time, every time. That rope drops, it's where it belongs.

MARCUS

The Fourth of July 2005 was a beautiful California day: perfect weather, not a cloud in the sky. My wife and I took our son and drove out to a friend's house in the foothills outside of town. There we spread a blanket and gathered in the tailgate of my Yukon to watch the fireworks display put on at an Indian reservation in the valley. It was a perfect spot-we could see down as the fireworks came up to us, and the effect was spectacular.

I've always loved celebrating the Fourth of July. I love the symbolism, meaning of the day, and of course the fireworks and the barbecues. It's just a wonderful time.

But that day, as I sat back and watched the red, white, and blue sparkles, sadness suddenly spread over me. I fell into a deep black hole.

”This sucks,” I muttered as the fireworks exploded.

I wasn't critiquing the show. I had just realized that I might never see my friend Marcus Luttrell again. I hated to be unable to do anything to help my friend, who was facing G.o.d only knew what kind of trouble.

We'd gotten word a few days before that he was missing. I'd also heard through the SEAL grapevine that the three guys he was with were dead. They'd been ambushed by the Taliban in Afghanistan; surrounded by hundreds of Taliban fighters, they fought ferociously. Another sixteen men in a rescue party were killed when the Chinook they were flying in was shot down. (You can and should read the details in Marcus's book, Lone Survivor.)

To that point, losing a friend in combat seemed if not impossible, at least distant and unlikely. It may seem strange to say, given everything I'd been through, but at that point we were feeling pretty sure of ourselves. c.o.c.ky, maybe. You just get to a point where you think you're such a superior fighter that you can't be hurt.

Our platoon had come through the war without any serious injuries. In some respects, training seemed more dangerous.

There had been accidents in training. Not long before, we were doing s.h.i.+p takedowns when one of our platoon members fell while going up the side. He landed on two other guys in the boat. All three had to go to the hospital; one of the men he landed on broke his neck.

We don't focus on the dangers. The families, though, are a different story. They're always very aware of the dangers. The wives and girlfriends often take turns sitting in the hospital with the families of people who are injured. Inevitably, they realize they could be sitting there for their own husband or boyfriend.

I remained torn up about Marcus for the rest of the night, in my own private black hole. I stayed there for a few days.

Work, of course, continued. One day, my chief popped his head into the room and signaled me to join him outside.

”Hey, they found Marcus,” he said as soon as we were alone.

”Great.”

”He's f.u.c.ked up.”

”So what? He's going to make it.” Anyone who knew Marcus knew that was true. The man cannot be kept down.

”Yeah, you're right,” said my chief. ”But he's pretty tore up, beat up. It'll be hard.”

It was hard, but Marcus was up to it. In fact, despite health issues that continue to dog him, he would deploy again not long after leaving the hospital.

EXPERT, SO-CALLED

Because of what I'd done in Fallujah, I was pulled out a few times to talk to head shed types about how I thought snipers should be deployed. I was now a Subject Matter Expert-an SME in militarese.

I hated it.

Some people might find it flattering to be talking to a bunch of high-ranking officers, but I just wanted to do my job. It was torture sitting in the room, trying to explain what the war was like.

They'd ask me questions like, ”What kind of gear should we have?” Not unreasonable, I guess, but all I could think of was: G.o.d, you guys are really all pretty stupid. This is basic stuff you should have figured out long ago.