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A boy in Mother Teresa's home for the dest.i.tute and dying in Varanasi, India. He had squatted and begged for so many years that his legs became deformed.

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With an orphan named Fjorda in Albania. Many of the children were severely underdeveloped.

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The Oxford boxing team, 1998, after we beat Cambridge, 54. The victory was part of the longest winning streak in the history of Oxford sports.

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Landing an uppercut in my first Varsity Match.

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The grinder: the famous concrete compound where men crank out thousands of pushups and sit-ups. With the exception of the week after h.e.l.l Week, all students at BUD/S are required to run from place to place during training. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

As indoctrination at BUD/S begins, cla.s.ses often start with over two hundred men learning how to run with boots on, in soft sand. By the end of training, only two or three out of every ten men will graduate. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

An oddity of BUD/S is that part of the brutal training takes place on one of the most beautiful beaches in the country. Here, students run toward the Hotel del Coronado, a famous luxury resort. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

Drown-proofing is one of BUD/S's most feared evolutions. With their feet tied together and their hands bound behind their backs, these men will swim fifty meters, then perform a series of exercises, including retrieving a face mask from the bottom of the pool with their teeth. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

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The principle of surf torture is simple: Lie in fifty-degree water. Stay there as your core body temperature drops. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

Boat races. The goal is to get the boat out past the surf zone before the waves crash down on you. Boats that fail to make it can send seven two-hundred-pound men flying through the air. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

Log PT is a truly painful evolution. Spiritual training by physical means, it tests teamwork as much as endurance. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

A student reaches for the wall at the end of his fifty-meter underwater swim. Notice the instructor swimming several feet above him, ready to pull him to the surface if he pa.s.ses out. Because of the difficulty and danger of BUD/S, instructors watch over students every step of the way. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

Fifteen feet down, a student (right) performs underwater knot-tying in front of an instructor. During this evolution, one of our cla.s.smates pa.s.sed out and had to be revived on the pool deck. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

Instructors blast rounds at the beginning of h.e.l.l Week. Water from hoses, smoke from grenades, insults from bullhorns, and the whine of air raid sirens bombard trainees. The instructors aim to sow chaos and confusion. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

During h.e.l.l Week the instructors always made sure the bell was nearby. Men who quit "rang out" by ringing the bell three times. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

The instructors lined us up on the sand berm to watch the sun go down at the beginning of the first full night of h.e.l.l Week. At night, the water gets colder, the hours get longer, and the instructors become more vicious. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

In the demo pit at BUD/S, students practice taking cover during incoming artillery fire. Practice creates habits, and I fell into this position when we were hit by the suicide truck bomb in Iraq. RICHARD SCHOENBERG RICHARD SCHOENBERG [image]

James Suh and Matt Axelson were both in my boat crew during SEAL Qualification Training. When Axe was later pinned down in a firefight with the Taliban in Afghanistan, James boarded a helicopter to fly in for a rescue mission. Both men died that day, June 28, 2005.

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With James Suh before a training evolution in the California desert.

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Our Mark V detachment outside our base in Zamboanga, Philippines.

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Riding an elephant with my BUD/S cla.s.smate and fellow boat detachment commander Kaj La.r.s.en in Thailand.

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The Mark V special operations craft. Commanding two of these boats in Southeast Asia was one of the highlights of my military service.

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Outside the government center in Fallujah, Iraq. Note the American Humvee beside me and the Iraqi police trucks in the background. We were most effective when we were able to work well with our Iraqi allies.

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At the opening of The Mission Continues in 2008. With me are Matthew Trotter, whose fellowship was named in honor of Travis Manion, and Travis's mother, Janet Manion.

PART III: HEART AND FIST.

8. Officer Candidate School

LANDING IN PENSACOLA, FLORIDA, on January 20, 2001, I looked down at the papers in my hand, a printed list of the "General Orders of the Sentry." The Officer Candidate School website had recommended memorizing the orders before I arrived. on January 20, 2001, I looked down at the papers in my hand, a printed list of the "General Orders of the Sentry." The Officer Candidate School website had recommended memorizing the orders before I arrived.

General Order no. 2: To walk my post in a military manner, keeping always on the alert and observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing.1 I was going to OCS to take up my new "post," but after signing my papers, I now had my doubts. A few things were certain: I knew that I wanted to serve my country. I knew that I wanted to be tested. The strong often need to protect the weak, and I believed that rather than talking about what should be done, I should do it. I should live my values by serving. At the same time, I was leaving a life of extraordinary freedom that I absolutely enjoyed, and I was reluctant to sacrifice that freedom.

At Oxford I had done pretty much as I pleased. Walking the ancient streets of the city one overcast day as mist hung in the air, my girlfriend and I talked about how nice it would be to go on a beach vacation. On the next street over we saw a poster hanging in the window of a travel company that advertised bargain vacations to Greece, and we booked the trip. At Oxford I'd spent whole days reading novels- The Grapes of Wrath, The Color Purple The Grapes of Wrath, The Color Purple-in the University Parks. When I wanted to serve at one of Mother Teresa's homes for the dest.i.tute and dying, I left for India. I trained nine times a week with the boxing team, but every time I showed up I did so by choice. I had days, weeks, months, years at my disposal. At Oxford I learned and trained and lived and served on my own schedule.

My Oxford routine included an early-morning workout and a leisurely breakfast filled with reading for pleasure before I started my day. At OCS, I knew that I'd be lucky to steal two minutes to myself. I had read that entire cla.s.ses were run through the showers and fought two at a sink to shave in just a few minutes a day. My material possessions had always been minimal-bed, books, boxing gear-but I had been living in comfortable places with time on my hands.

General Order no. 3: Report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce.

I had never really had any rules to follow, beyond the dictates of my own self-imposed discipline. I was entering a world where every candidate was issued a thick rule book that he was instructed to study, memorize, and obey. The rule book was to be placed on the desk such that the right side of the book ran parallel to the right side of the desk exactly one half inch from the edge, and the bottom of the book ran parallel to the bottom of the desk exactly one half inch from the edge. In the Navy, there were rules about rules.

In my first few days at OCS, I wondered whether my decision to join the military had been a mistake. Once on base, I was greeted by candidate officers-officer candidates in the final two weeks of the thirteen-week program, who were put in charge of the incoming officer candidates. One of these guys-sweating, slightly pudgy, his head shaved-yelled at me to "Walk faster!" as his face broke out in red blotches. Is he kidding? Is he kidding?

I lined up on a sidewalk with other recruits. I was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and the same faded safari shirt I'd worn to China eight years earlier. I dropped my red duffle bag at my feet. The candidate officers walked up and down the line doing their best imitation of General Patton. "Look straight ahead!"

One candidate officer was sweating and the cracked timbre of his voice gave away the fact that he was nervous. "You want to be a Navy officer?!" he yelled repeatedly. We were marched around the base in our civilian clothes. We were yelled at to stand straight and yelled at not to put our hands in our pockets. There was a tremendous amount of yelling, and it all seemed immature to me. Earl and Henry had demanded extraordinary performance, and I had never once heard them yell at or berate one of their fighters.

The candidate officers collected our orders and started our military service records.

GREITENS, ERIC R.

Initial Date of Entry to Military Service: January 20, 2001.

The yelling continued. "Drink water! Drink more water! Every fountain you pa.s.s, you will stop and drink water!" I had boxed for years. I knew exactly how much water I needed to drink. "Drink more water! You will empty a full canteen!" A candidate officer shadowed us. "Do what you're told, and you'll have nothing to fear!"

I must not have looked sufficiently panicked, because a candidate officer put his face next to mine and yelled, "Just wait until your drill instructor shows up, you'll be doing pushups until your arms fall off!" I allowed myself the small rebellion of c.o.c.king an eyebrow at him and frowning slightly.

The candidate officers had been in the Navy exactly eleven weeks more than I. They were twenty-two years old. I was only twenty-six, but I felt two decades older than these just-graduated-from-college-and-joined-the-Navy kids who were now yelling at me to look straight ahead. Thanks to Hollywood, I had expected to be greeted by wizened drill sergeants, hard-driving veterans who would push exhausted recruits to their limits. That would have been a test. I looked forward to being pushed by people who had served and earned the right to train me. These guys, strutting around in their recently issued black Navy windbreakers, just seemed like jerks. As they walked up and down the rows of recruits, Napoleon complexes in full bloom, I wondered, Is this the kind of leadership the military produces? All yelling and ego? Is this the kind of leadership the military produces? All yelling and ego?

As I stole glances at my fellow cla.s.smates, I became even more disappointed. Many of them were so intimidated, their hands shook when they bent to tie their shoes. Didn't they see that this was a joke? Didn't they see that this was a joke?

We were issued a set of ill-fitting plain green fatigues-"p.o.o.py greens"-and wearing those fatigues, I sat down in the chow hall across from another candidate. The yelling had gotten to him, and after forcing down water all day, he promptly puked a full canteen's worth of bile across the table and soaked my fatigues.

From the chow hall, the candidate officers ran us into our barracks and lined us up in the hallway. Finally, someone from central casting arrived. Our drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Lewis, was a pure green comic-book-like figure of Marine Corps perfection striding down the hall, his face hidden beneath his Smokey Bear hat, his biceps emerging from his perfectly rolled sleeves, boots shining, baritone booming. "Get out of my pa.s.sageway! Stand against the bulkhead!"

As he walked down the hallway, I remember watching with anthropologist-like fascination and thinking, This is interesting, watching these college kids get indoctrinated in the U.S. military; you can see that they're afraid. I wonder if the drill instructors practice this, the walking-down-the-hallway moment. I wonder what's going to happen next. This is interesting, watching these college kids get indoctrinated in the U.S. military; you can see that they're afraid. I wonder if the drill instructors practice this, the walking-down-the-hallway moment. I wonder what's going to happen next. Staff Sergeant Lewis grabbed me by the green collar of my fatigues, walked me back three steps, pressed me against the wall, and yelled, "Join the rest of this sorry group!" Staff Sergeant Lewis grabbed me by the green collar of my fatigues, walked me back three steps, pressed me against the wall, and yelled, "Join the rest of this sorry group!"

I realized then that I was actually in the Navy.

Staff Sergeant Lewis was a squared-away, hard-core Marine and-I would later come to believe-a great drill instructor. But as I watched him march up and down the hall, yelling and shoving and barking commands, the whole thing struck me as comical. We were instructed to run around the barracks. One woman in her panic ran the wrong direction down the hallway. Staff Sergeant Lewis flew into a rage. "Get over here now!" He grabbed her by her lapels and threw her down the pa.s.sageway.

We were instructed that after hearing a command, we would yell, "Kill!" and then execute the command. "Eyes right!"

"Kill!"

"Forward, march!"

"Kill!"

During one of these kill-yelling moments I looked across the hallway to see if any of the other candidates also thought that this was ridiculous. Only one of them rolled his eyes in a gesture of shared endurance.

"Kill!"

I had very little confidence that my new cla.s.s would have been able to kill anything. We had a few "priors"-men and women who had previously been enlisted in the Navy and were now here to become officers-but other than those few, it was largely a group of untested and almost uniformly out-of-shape college grads.

"Your name is on your room. Get there!"

I ran to find my room, which I shared with three roommates, and once we were finally clear of the candidate officers and the drill instructor for a moment, I sat down and started to laugh. I glanced at my new roommates, all of them wide-eyed with fear, and I could see them thinking, Oh no, the pressure's got to this guy, he's cracking already. Oh no, the pressure's got to this guy, he's cracking already.

I went through the next several days unimpressed. We were issued workout clothes that were as dysfunctional-swim trunks with no drawstring-as they were unfashionable, and I began to learn some basic Navy lingo. A door was a "hatch," a wall was a "bulkhead," a bathroom was a "head." Women were not to be referred to as women, but as "females." To say something was to "put the word out." To be quiet was to "lock it up."

We sat down in the chow hall to meals of overcooked food. Teams of drill instructors swarmed as we ate. They walked on top of the tables and kicked silverware and gla.s.ses onto the floor with their boots. As candidates walked through the chow hall carrying trays, drill instructors who saw minor infractions of the rules knocked the trays out of their hands and sent spaghetti flying through the air.

A great deal of our time was focused on clothes. We spent hours folding our shirts and shorts and pants. We actually sprayed starch-a lot of it-on our underwear, and then ironed our underwear into perfect squares, and then set these flat squares in our lockers for inspection. We were issued two pairs of running shoes, but the word came down to avoid wearing one pair so that they would be clean for inspection. They were anti-running shoes, apparently. It all seemed absurd.

I had antic.i.p.ated runs so fast my lungs would be on fire. Instead we ran in formation as a cla.s.s. I was used to running six-minute miles in my training. Now I was jogging twelve-minute miles while singing silly songs.

Mission top secret, destination unknown We don't know if we're ever coming home Stand up, buckle up, and shuffle to the door...

And the cadence would ring out, "Left, left, leftee right, lay-eft." As we shuffled down the road I felt my physical conditioning actually slipping away- When were we going to train hard? Is this really my life? When were we going to train hard? Is this really my life? I'd joined the Navy for a challenge, but at night I held a bottle of fingernail polish in my hands. We were told to cut any loose strings-"Irish pennants"-from our uniforms, and then to dab the spot with fingernail polish so that the strays would not reemerge. I'd joined the Navy for a challenge, but at night I held a bottle of fingernail polish in my hands. We were told to cut any loose strings-"Irish pennants"-from our uniforms, and then to dab the spot with fingernail polish so that the strays would not reemerge. This is my challenge? Fingernail polish? This is my challenge? Fingernail polish?

Wong was a thin, short, Asian American member of my cla.s.s who had recently graduated from college with a degree in engineering and whose ambition was to be a civil engineer in the United States Navy. One morning during physical training, we were doing pushups when a drill instructor began yelling at Wong. "What are you doing to my gym floor, candidate?" Wong had been instructed-as we all had-to keep a straight back during pushups, but Wong could not do a single correct pushup. With his arms fully extended, his back sagged so that his crotch pressed into the ground. The drill instructor continued, "What are you doing?! You are defiling my gym floor! Are you lonely here?!"

Wong swiveled his hips in an attempt to straighten his back, but this only incensed the drill instructor. "Oh my goodness! That is one of the most disgusting frickin' acts of violence against a piece of United States Navy property that I have ever seen!"

By this time, Staff Sergeant Lewis, United States Marine Corps, had walked over to Wong. "Wong, what is the matter with you!" And then he yelled out, "Where is that Gritchens!"

Did he mean me?

"Gritchens, get over here!"

I jumped up and ran over to Staff Sergeant Lewis.

"Yes, sir!"

"Gritchens, Wong here just became your personal project, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You are going to teach Wong how to do pushups! You are going to teach Wong PT! You are going to move rooms and you are going to live in the same room as Wong, wake at the same time as Wong, and you will teach Wong in every spare moment so that Wong will will pa.s.s the final physical fitness test. I am going to hold you responsible for Wong's PT, do you understand?!" pa.s.s the final physical fitness test. I am going to hold you responsible for Wong's PT, do you understand?!"

"Yes, sir!"

I had to make my peace with OCS. I wanted to serve, and I couldn't change the school. I couldn't make us actually run, instead of jog while singing. I couldn't change the curriculum so that we ran the obstacle course instead of polishing belt buckles. I couldn't change the schedule so that we learned to use a shotgun instead of folding our underwear into starched squares. None of that was in my control.

OCS produced Navy officers, and those officers were supposed to be leaders. I had imagined that my leadership would be built at OCS through difficult physical tests-obstacle courses, runs, rescue swims-through hard cla.s.sroom learning, and through precision military maneuvers-learning how to march, to drill with a rifle, to shoot a pistol. I was wrong on all counts-but I now realized there was was an opportunity here. I had the chance to lead others, to be of genuine help to my cla.s.smates. OCS would be easy for me, but for some of the men and women in my cla.s.s it was the test of their lives, and if I had joined the military to be of service, here was my chance. an opportunity here. I had the chance to lead others, to be of genuine help to my cla.s.smates. OCS would be easy for me, but for some of the men and women in my cla.s.s it was the test of their lives, and if I had joined the military to be of service, here was my chance.

I threw myself into the school. Wong and I began to take breaks every ten minutes while working on our uniforms to knock out fifteen pushups. I became the "PT Body," the person in charge of the physical training of the cla.s.s. I grew to respect Wong in particular. OCS was hard on him. He must have known that it would be hard when he signed up, but still he signed up.

When we were issued rifles, I worked as hard as I could to master the drill. OCS offered a recognition-a white badge called a snowflake-to any man or woman who graduated with excellence in all three areas of endeavor-physical training, academic tests, and military proficiency. I decided that I might not like the course, but I would master it. We worked together as a cla.s.s and we made it our goal to graduate with more snowflakes than any other cla.s.s in our year. We started to cooperate in small ways. I was, for example, never very good at shining shoes, so I made deals with cla.s.smates: I washed their sneakers and they polished my shoes. Our cla.s.s was given a "guide-on," a flag, and we marched with it everywhere we went.

The school remained disappointing. Our cla.s.ses seemed irrelevant, and in one of the most ridiculous traditions in the Navy, the instructors would stomp their feet when they said things that would be tested. "Buoys are considered an aid to navigation"-and they would stomp their feet two times. Someone explained to me, "That means that'll be a question on the test."

"Why don't they just say, 'This is going to be on the test'?"

" 'Cause they're not allowed to tell us what's on the test."

We often stayed up late at night preparing our uniforms, and fell asleep in cla.s.ses during the day. We continued to polish belt buckles, and almost everyone slept in a sleeping bag on on their beds rather than their beds rather than in in their beds because we didn't want to have to take twenty minutes in the morning to prepare our beds again for inspection. their beds because we didn't want to have to take twenty minutes in the morning to prepare our beds again for inspection.

Wong and I continued to take breaks during uniform-prep sessions to do pushups. One night we had a mishap. Guys used different strategies to remove the Irish pennants from their uniforms. Not everyone used the scissors-and-fingernail-polish method. Some guys-Wong being one-actually used a lighter to burn stray strings. The night before an inspection, Wong's technique failed, and he burned a three-finger-sized hole in one of his khaki uniform shirts.

On the morning of the inspection, the drill instructors pulled out Wong's shirt with the black burn ring in his official Navy uniform. They exploded. "Wong, drop down!" With Wong in pushup position, they proceeded to pull every item out of his locker-starched underwear, starched socks, laundry bag, knit cap, pants, belt buckles-and throw everything onto the floor. Three screaming drill instructors worked our room over.

"What is the matter with you people?" one of them yelled. "How are you going to let Wong over here burn holes burn holes in his uniform? What did you think was going to happen when we walked in here?!" in his uniform? What did you think was going to happen when we walked in here?!"