Would this ever become easier? House to house, freeway to freeway, state to state? Not so far. And here
I was again, behind the wheel of a hired SUV, driving along another Main Street, past the shops and the
gas station, this time in a windswept little town on Long Island, New York, South Shore, down by the
long Atlantic beaches. Winter was coming. The skies were platinum. The whitecaps rolled in beneath
dark, lowering clouds. So utterly appropriate, because this time was going to be worse than the others. A
whole lot worse.
I found my landmark, the local post office, pulled in behind the building, and parked. We all stepped
out of the vehicle, into a chill November day, the remains of the fall leaves swirling around our feet. No
one wanted to lead the way, none of the five guys who accompanied me, and for a few moments we just
stood there, like a group of mailmen on their break.
I knew where to go. The house was just a few yards down the street. And in a sense, I’d been there
before — in Southern California, northern California, and Nevada. In the next few days, I still had to
visit Washington and Virginia Beach. And so many things would always be precisely the same.
There would be the familiar devastated sadness, the kind of pain that wells up when young men are
cut down in their prime. The same hollow feeling in each of the homes. The same uncontrollable tears.
The same feeling of desolation, of brave people trying to be brave, lives which had uniformly been shot
to pieces. Inconsolable. Sorrowful.
As before, I was the bearer of the terrible news, as if no one knew the truth until I arrived, so many
weeks and months after so many funerals. And for me, this small gathering in Patchogue, Long Island,
was going to be the worst.
I tried to get a hold of myself. But again in my mind I heard that terrible, terrible scream, the same
one that awakens me, bullying its way into my solitary dreams, night after night, the confirmation of
guilt. The endless guilt of the survivor.
“Help me, Marcus! Please help me!”
It was a desperate appeal in the mountains of a foreign land. It was a scream cried out in the echoing
high canyons of one of the loneliest places on earth. It was the nearly unrecognizable cry of a mortally
wounded creature. And it was a plea I could not answer. I can’t forget it. Because it was made by one of
the finest people I ever met, a man who happened to be my best friend.
All the visits had been bad. Dan’s sister and wife, propping each other up; Eric’s father, an admiral,
alone with his grief; James’s fiancée and father; Axe’s wife and family friends; Shane’s shattered
mother in Las Vegas. They were all terrible. But this one would be worse.
I finally led the way through the blowing leaves, out into the cold, strange street, and along to the
little house with its tiny garden, the grass uncut these days. But the lights of an illuminated American
flag were still right there in the front window. They were the lights of a patriot, and they still shone
defiantly, just as if he were still here. Mikey would have liked that.
We all stopped for a few moments, and then we climbed the little flight of steps and knocked on the
door. She was pretty, the lady who answered the door, long dark hair, her eyes already brimming with
tears. His mother.
She knew I had been the last person to see him alive. And she stared up at me with a look of such
profound sadness it damn near broke me in half and said, quietly, “Thank you for coming.”
I somehow replied, “It’s because of your son that I am standing here.”
As we all walked inside, I looked straight at the hall table and on it was a large framed photograph of
a man looking straight at me, half grinning. There was Mikey, all over again, and I could hear his mom
saying, “He didn’t suffer, did he? Please tell me he didn’t suffer.”
I had to wipe the sleeve of my jacket across my eyes before I answered that. But I did answer. “No,
Maureen. He didn’t. He died instantly.”
I had told her what she’d asked me to tell her. That kind of tactical response was turning out to be
essential equipment for the lone survivor.
I tried to tell her of her son’s unbending courage, his will, his iron control. And as I’d come to expect,
she seemed as if she had not yet accepted anything. Not until I related it. I was the essential bearer of
the final bad news.
In the course of the next hour we tried to talk like adults. But it was too difficult. There was so much
that could have been said, and so much that would never be said. And no amount of backup from my
three buddies, plus the New York City fireman and policeman who accompanied us, made much
difference.
But this was a journey I had to complete. I had promised myself I would do it, no matter what it took,
because I knew what it would mean to each and every one of them. The sharing of personal anguish
with someone who was there. House to house, grief to grief.
I considered it my sworn duty. But that did not make it any easier. Maureen hugged us all as we left. I
nodded formally to the photograph of my best friend, and we walked down that sad little path to the
street.
Tonight it would be just as bad, because we were going to see Heather, Mikey’s fiancée, in her
downtown New York City apartment. It wasn’t fair. They would have been married by now. And the
day after this, I had to go to Arlington National Cemetery to visit the graves of two more absent friends.
By any standards it was an expensive, long, and melancholy journey across the United States of
America, paid for by the organization for which I work. Like me, like all of us, they understand. And as
with many big corporations which have a dedicated workforce, you can tell a lot about them by their
corporate philosophy, their written constitution, if you like.
It’s the piece of writing which defines their employees and their standards. I have for several years
tried to base my life on the opening paragraph:
“In times of uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our Nation’s call; a
common man with uncommon desire to succeed. Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America’s
finest special operations forces to serve his country and the American people, and to protect their way
of life. I am that man.”
My name is Marcus. Marcus Luttrell. I’m a United States Navy SEAL, Team Leader, SDV Team 1,
Alfa Platoon. Like every other SEAL, I’m trained in weapons, demolition, and unarmed combat. I’m a
sniper, and I’m the platoon medic. But most of all, I’m an American. And when the bell sounds, I will
come out fighting for my country and for my teammates. If necessary, to the death.
And that’s not just because the SEALs trained me to do so; it’s because I’m willing to do so. I’m a
patriot, and I fight with the Lone Star of Texas on my right arm and another Texas flag over my heart.
For me, defeat is unthinkable.
Mikey died in the summer of 2005, fighting shoulder to shoulder with me in the high country of
northeast Afghanistan. He was the best officer I ever knew, an iron-souled warrior of colossal, almost
unbelievable courage in the face of the enemy.
Two who would believe it were my other buddies who also fought and died up there. That’s Danny
and Axe: two American heroes, two towering figures in a fighting force where valor is a common
virtue. Their lives stand as a testimony to the central paragraph of the philosophy of the U.S. Navy
SEALs:
“I will never quit. I persevere and thrive on adversity. My Nation expects me to be physically harder
and mentally stronger than my enemies. If knocked down, I will get back up, every time. I will draw on
every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates and to accomplish our mission. I am never
out of the fight.”
As I mentioned, my name is Marcus. And I’m writing this book because of my three buddies Mikey,
Danny, and Axe. If I don’t write it, no one will ever understand the indomitable courage under fire of
those three Americans. And that would be the biggest tragedy of all.