Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (11 page)

It didn’t take long to realize their combined experience and knowledge was extraordinary. Later, I would be awed by their ability to remain tactically sound while navigating the politically sensitive waters of international relations. It wasn’t too difficult to figure out where their maturity and sound judgment came from. Like the rest of the SEAL Teams, my platoon ranged in age from their midtwenties to midthirties, each man possessing a strong intellect and a high level of education. The officers graduated from some of the top engineering and science institutions in the country, and over a third of the enlisted crew had a college degree, making me one of the least-educated members among them. They were also fiercely loyal to one another, a tight-knit tribe that did nearly everything together, including the mentoring of one young SEAL corpsman.

*   *   *

Thad was a formable college wrestler and a natural teacher who happened to have a bachelor’s degree in history. Despite qualifying for an officer’s commission, he purposely joined the enlisted ranks as the most direct route to fulfilling his life’s desire, to be a Navy SEAL. It was his calling in life, and he wasn’t interested in delaying the opportunity by waiting for an officer billet. In the military that would have been quite unusual, but not in the teams. Enlisted SEALs operate and kick doors for their entire career, while an officer’s time as a shooter is limited. Eventually rank will push an officer out of the team room and into an office. It may be an office in the middle of a jungle or on a forward operating base in a barren desert, but it’s still an office. Officer candidates realize this, so when it comes time to apply for a commission many opt for the enlisted route instead. The officers that do enter the teams often opt for extended operational time versus a promotion in rank. My SEAL Team was no different from the rest of the force. Our guys had degrees ranging from philosophy to engineering to history. We even had foreign language majors that used their skills to seamlessly blend in with the local populace when needed. This broad range of skills, education, and experience was the foundation of plenty of spirited discussions on world affairs, sports rivalries, and, of course, practical jokes.

*   *   *

The months began to fly by when we started our workup, the training period used to prepare SEALs for an overseas deployment. During that time I worked hard to absorb everything I could as both a SEAL and a medic. Lucky for me I had a senior corpsman to teach me the ropes. I can’t imagine trying to get acclimated to special operations medicine without his guidance. I remember the frustration I felt when I received my first aid bag. It was haphazardly stuffed with lifesaving equipment and common medications that had no place in a first aid bag. Some of the trauma gear was basic, and I had mastered its use in Hospital Corps school, but other items were way beyond my abilities, and it made me wonder why I was issued these things in the first place. I was unsure what I needed to carry or even where to place it inside the bag, so I laid everything out on a table in front of me.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Scott, my senior corpsman, as he walked into the medical department.

“I’m trying to figure out what I’m going to need. SOT didn’t teach me about any of this,” I said dumbfounded as I lifted a thoracostomy tube and Heimlich chest drain. SOT stood for Special Operations Technician Course, an intense diving medicine course that all SEAL corpsmen attended after BUD/S. It was a good course, and I learned a great deal, but it only concentrated on the diagnosis and treatment of dive-related injuries and not the field trauma that special operations medics encounter during training or on the battlefield.

“Don’t worry about any of that, you’ll get introduced to it later. Just keep it simple for now. Stick with ABC’s, but not necessarily in that order,” he said as he laughed at the mess I had made. I knew he was alluding to the importance of controlling hemorrhage from a conversation we’d had the day before.

I picked up a couple of ancient battle dressings and tossed them to him as I sarcastically said, “What, these things?”

“Yep,” he replied, not reacting to my mockery of the bag’s contents.

“These bandages look like remnants from Iwo Jima. Four linen ties sewn to the back of a cotton bandage. Now, I get the whole ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ thing, but come on … you’d think by now someone would have developed a better bandage.”

“I’m not arguing with you. All I’m saying is stop your bitching and get your shit ready, otherwise you’ll be here all day. Besides, these battle dressings aren’t that bad. You can get them on fairly quickly, and they’ll control some pretty heavy bleeding—but not the way you have them now. You need to prep the right way and place them in the bag where you can get to them within seconds,” he said, demonstrating what I needed to do.

Scott stayed with me for nearly three hours helping to prep and pack my aid bag. We’d stop every few minutes so he could explain or demonstrate the proper use of an item, or justify why we were throwing it out.

“These Vietnam-era tourniquets are useless,” Scott said. “Now, go over there and grab some extra cravats and I’ll show you how to make a device that’ll hold both in and out of the water.”

Scott was right; I tried using one of the navy-issued Vietnam-era tourniquets to hold my dive med kit to the backboard when I was on the support boat during SOT. It worked at first, but once it got wet it failed miserably. I knew then there was no way this tourniquet would ever stay tight enough to control a major bleed, especially if we had to extract through the water, and that’s exactly what we’re taught to do. The water is our home, and while others look at it as an obstacle, we view it as an ally. If our equipment can’t handle the extremes of sand and saltwater, carrying it is more trouble than it’s worth.

Scott continued showing me the tricks of the trade, and I couldn’t have been more appreciative. Back then, unlike our army counterparts, we didn’t have a formal “combat trauma” training program, so the principles of battlefield medicine were passed down from SEAL corpsman to SEAL corpsman. Over the course of the workup, I spent a lot of time with him going over everything from trauma to snotology, a term I picked up for describing the branch of medicine that deals with the common cold and other low-level complaints. I knew at some point our platoon would be split in two and half of the men were going to be relying solely on me for care, so I took every available opportunity to see patients both with Scott and at the medical clinic in the middle of the compound.

The clinic offered new learning opportunities. There I joined with other SEAL corpsmen and a dedicated doctor and learned about orthopedic injuries, allergic reactions, emergency medicine, and, of course, the treatment of hangovers. If the military offers one thing to care providers, it’s variety.

I had two very distinct duties in the teams: The first was to take care of the SEALs and the support personnel as medical provider, the job I was called to do. The second was to train up as a combat-ready shooter. It created a moral paradox that would follow me through my career. Eventually, I would receive the qualifications to prescribe meds, place chest tubes, and perform lab procedures, but I also shot, swam, jumped from planes, and blew things up. I worked hard to become a valuable member of the platoon, and over our workup period I earned the trust of the team guys both as corpsman and warrior. I would soon put that training and trust to good use in the Persian Gulf.

9

DESERT STORM

For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.

—S
UN
T
ZU

In August of 1990, Iraqi troops invaded Kuwait, and the United States prepared for war. The UN Security Council brought economic sanctions against Saddam Hussein, and President George H. W. Bush deployed troops to Saudi Arabia under Operation Desert Shield. Saddam was ordered out of Kuwait on a strict timeline, and blockades were initiated to prevent Iraqi ships from ferrying cargo to and from restricted areas. In response Big Navy sent a few carrier battle groups into the region, and my platoon was assigned to one of them. It would be my first deployment, and I was more than ready to implement both the deadly skills I’d learned as a Navy SEAL and the lifesaving procedures I’d been taught as a combat medic. Years of training, conditioning, and mental toughness would soon be tested, and I welcomed it.

*   *   *

The USS
Saratoga
had positioned itself off the Arabian coast with orders to prevent unauthorized passage of any ship that dared break the blockade. We were just one of the many options on the table, but since our methods didn’t require sinking or disabling a ship we quickly became the navy’s preferred method of interdiction.

After landing on the “
Sara
” the platoon immediately began honing skills needed for the mission. Shipboard seizures are perilous at best; if everything goes right the enemy should never see us coming, and we may not have to fire a single shot. However, if just one or two things go awry the risks exponentially increase with each passing minute. Understanding the gravity of the situation, we’d split our time between ready room briefings on potential targets, shooting practice, and the all-important rehearsal. For weeks we practiced each phase of the mission, concentrating most of our time on shipboard movement until we were able to flow through a ship’s infrastructure like a train. Soon everything was instinctual; a head nod, hand gesture, or stance would silently relay the next man’s role as he approached a passageway or hatch. Timing was everything, but in order to take down a ship we had to be both fast and tactically sound, which meant daily rehearsals.

As we were jocking up for one of the training missions, Senior Chief informed us that we only had one bird (helicopter) available, so each squad would be inserting separately before regrouping on the deck to finish the drill. This suited us just fine as long as we had the ability to further refine our timing requirements for inserting onto a nonpermissive vessel. Insertion was one of the most vulnerable components related to shipboard assault, and we knew if the balloon went up (a spec ops euphemism meaning execute the mission), we’d only have a minute or two to get the team on deck before losing any element of surprise.

Much quicker than rappelling, fast-roping is ideal for minimizing the time a helicopter has to maintain its hover, but it’s far more dangerous. First, the pilot has to quickly find the designated insertion point, then maintain a constant distance from the ship while crosswinds push him from his position and waves shift and possibly bob the ship. The SEAL, heavily laden with body armor, weapons, and other equipment, is only attached to the rope by his grip. Once he lands, he has to resist being propelled overboard by the wind generated from the rotor blades while simultaneously readying his weapon, which was previously secured to his back. All with the possibility of receiving incoming enemy fire.

*   *   *

Today my squad would be going first, so after Mike rigged the helo for fast-rope insertion we crowded into the plane and lifted off the
Sara
, heading out to sea. The pilot took us out for about five minutes before banking left and roaring the bird back toward the flight deck. Once the helo was in position we kicked the rope out, and in less than a minute everyone was on deck, dispersed with weapons at the ready. Tom, our officer in charge, nodded in approval as the bird landed for his squad’s run. I watched as the squad loaded up, and within a few minutes the bird was back overhead. The ropes dropped to the deck with a thud immediately followed by the signal to exit the aircraft. Hector, the platoon’s fearless Puerto Rican, was the first out the door, followed by Scott. Just as Scott grabbed the rope, the helo bucked and sent him down the line in an awkward position toward the steel deck below. Fast-roping is just that: fast. From the moment he exited the aircraft it didn’t look good, and he had no time to recover. He hit with the full weight of his body sandwiching his ankle against the steel deck, snapping it like a branch of a falling tree. Scott tried to stand but collapsed on the deck and rolled out of the way before the next man on the rope landed on top of him.

Once the last man touched down I tried to rush forward with the shipboard medics and assist them getting Scott to sick bay, where we could better assess his injuries, but that wasn’t my job. I had to remain with the team and finish the training op. In the SEAL Teams emphasis is placed on practicing in the same manner we are expected to perform. If there’s a possibility a mission requires parachuting our boats into an extreme sea state in order to get in undetected, then by damn we’ll be rehearsing in those same conditions. In Scott’s case it was move him to a secure area for the medical evacuation and continue on with the op. Knowing the high possibility of injury or wounding on insertion, we developed contingencies for just such circumstances and had a response team standing by on the ship. They didn’t have to fast-rope from a search-and-rescue bird; they simply ran across the flattop to render aid to Scott. It was their job; that’s why they were standing by as we rehearsed. It was not mine, and despite an instinctual medic’s urge to stay and help my friend, my place was with the squads moving forward. No deviations from SOPs—“practice the way you play!”

*   *   *

At the end of the training day we were all anxious to learn the extent of Scott’s injuries, so immediately after debrief I headed down to sick bay while the rest of the group restaged our gear, or so I thought. I paid a quick visit to the ship’s physicians in sick bay to get the official diagnosis, but as I walked out of the medical office I saw the platoon huddled around Scott in the treatment area, ribbing him about his fall’s “lack of style points.” They laughed loudly as Hector continually replayed the video from the ship’s closed-circuit TV that had managed to capture the event. “I knew my ankle was fractured. I heard it pop when I hit,” Scott said to the group, and he was right. The X-rays confirmed everyone’s suspicions. His fractures were beyond the capability of the ship’s medical department. Scott would need an orthopedic surgeon if he expected to remain a SEAL.