American Sniper

Aiming that sucker while the vehicle was bounding up and down across the desert was something else again. You can move the gun up and down to keep it on target, but you’re never going to be particularly precise—at best, you lay down enough fire so you can get the hell out of there.

Besides our four three-seat DPVs, we had two six-seaters. The six-seater was the plain-vanilla version— three rows of two seats, with the only weapon the 60 on the front. We used it as the command-and-control wagon. Very boring ride. It was kind of like riding in a station wagon with Mom when Dad’s got the sports car.

We practiced for a few weeks. We did a lot of land navigation, built hide sights, and did SR (“surveillance and reconnaissance”) along the border. We’d dig in, cover the vehicles with netting, and try and make them disappear in the middle of the desert. Not easy for a DPV: usually it ended up looking like a DPV trying to hide in the middle of the desert. We also practiced deploying the DPVs out of helicopters, riding out the back when they touched down: a rodeo on wheels.

As January neared its end, we started getting worried, not that the war was going to break out, but that it would start without us. The usual SEAL deployment at the time was six months. We’d shipped out in September, and were due to rotate back to the States within a few weeks.

I wanted to fight. I wanted to do what I’d been trained for. American taxpayers had invested considerable dollars in my education as a SEAL. I wanted to defend my country, do my duty, and do my job.

I wanted, more than anything, to experience the thrill of battle.

Taya saw things a lot differently.

Taya:

I was terrified the whole time as the buildup continued toward war. Even though the war hadn’t officially started, I knew they were working dangerous ops. When SEALs work, there’s always some risk involved. Chris tried to play things down to me so I wouldn’t worry, but I wasn’t oblivious and I could read between the lines. My anxiety came out in different ways. I was jumpy. I’d see things out of the corner of my eye that weren’t there. I couldn’t sleep without all the lights on; I’d read every night until my eyes closed involuntarily. I did everything I could to avoid being alone or having too much time to think.

Chris called twice with stories about helicopter accidents that he’d been in. Both were extremely minor, but he was worried that they would be reported and that I would hear about them and worry.

“I just want you to know, in case you hear it on the news,” he’d say. “The helo was in a minor bang-up and I’m okay.”

One day he told me he had to go out on another helicopter exercise. The next morning, I was watching the news and they reported that a helicopter had gone down near the border and everyone had died. The newscaster said it had been filled with special-forces soldiers.

In the military, “Special Forces” refers to Army special-operations troops, but the newscasters had a tendency to use the term for SEALs. Immediately, I jumped to conclusions.

I didn’t hear from him that day, even though he had promised he’d call.

I told myself, I’m not going to panic. It wasn’t him.

I poured myself into my work. That night, with still no call, I started to feel a little more anxious… . Then a little freaked out. I couldn’t sleep, though I was exhausted from working and holding back the tears that kept threatening to overtake any sense of calm I was faking.

Finally, around one o’clock, I was starting to crack.

The phone rang. I jumped to answer it.

“Hey, babe!” he said, as cheerful as ever.

I started bawling.

Chris kept asking what was wrong. I couldn’t even choke out the words to explain. My fear and relief came out as unintelligible sobs.

After that, I vowed to stop watching the news.

4. FIVE MINUTES TO LIVE

Dune Buggies and Mud Don’t Mix

Geared up and strapped in, I sat vibrating in the gunner’s chair of the DPV shortly after nightfall March 20, 2003, as an Air Force MH-53 lifted off the runway in Kuwait. The vehicle had been loaded into the rear of the PAVE-Low aircraft, and we were en route toward the mission we’d spent the past several weeks rehearsing. The waiting was about to come to an end; Operation Iraqi Freedom was underway.

My war was finally here.

I was sweating, and not just with excitement. Not knowing exactly what Saddam might have in store, we’d been ordered to wear full MOPP gear (“Mission Oriented Protective Posture,” or spacesuits to some). The suits protect against chemical attacks, but they’re about as comfortable as rubber pajamas, and the gas mask that comes with them is twice as bad.

“Feet wet!” said someone over the radio.

I checked my guns. They were ready, including the 50. All I had to do was pull back the charging handle and load.

We were pointed straight toward the back of the helicopter. The rear ramp was not all the way up, so I could see out into the night. Suddenly, the black strip I was watching above the ramp speckled with red—the Iraqis had kicked on anti-aircraft radars and weapons that intel had claimed didn’t exist, and the chopper pilots began shooting off decoy flares and chaff to confuse them.

Then came the tracers, streams of bullets arcing across the narrow rectangle of black.

Damn, I thought. We’re going to get shot down before I even get a chance to smoke someone.

Somehow, the Iraqis managed to miss us. The helicopter kept moving, swooping toward land.

“Feet dry!” said someone over the radio. We were now over land.

All hell was breaking loose. We were part of a team tasked to hit Iraqi oil resources before the Iraqis could blow them up or set them on fire as they had during Desert Storm in 1991. SEALs and GROM were hitting gas and oil platforms (GOPLATs) in the Gulf, as well as on-shore oil refinery and port areas.

Twelve of us were tasked to hit farther inland, at the al-Faw oil refinery area. The few extra minutes it took translated into a hell of a lot of gunfire, and by the time the helicopter touched down, we were in the shit.

The ramp dropped and our driver hit the gas. I locked and loaded, ready to fire as we sped down the ramp. The DPV careened onto the soft dirt… and promptly got stuck.

Son of a bitch!

The driver started revving the engine and slapping the transmission back and forth, trying to budge us free. At least we were out of the helicopter—one of the other DPVs got stuck half on and half off the ramp. His 53 jerked up and down, trying desperately to free him—pilots hate like hell to get fired at, and they wanted out.

By this time I could hear the different DPV units checking in over the radio. Just about everybody was stuck in the oil-soaked mud. The intel specialist advising us had claimed that the ground would be hard-packed where we were going to land. Of course, she and her colleagues had also claimed that the Iraqis didn’t have anti-aircraft weapons. Like they say, military intelligence is an oxymoron.

“We’re stuck!” said our chief.

“Yeah, we’re stuck too,” said the lieutenant.