Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Read Online Free PDF

what I wanted to do, so I marched my nonswimming self down to the training tank and inquired about lessons. An old marine who worked there greeted me and asked how well I swam. “Like a rock, sir,” I answered bluntly. After what happened the last time I wasn’t about to misrepresent my abilities.
    “How long are you going to be stationed here?” He was skeptical of my commitment.
    “I’m just here for FROC training, sir.” I could tell by his hesitancy that he didn’t want to take this on, but I wasn’t taking no for an answer. During the course of our conversation I told him about the pool, my desire to be a Reconnaissance Marine, and how Coach Sparago, my mother, and Michael taught me never to quit anything I started. In fact, I just kept talking until he finally agreed to give me lessons, if for no other reason than to shut me up.
    “Okay, marine, we’ll start tomorrow. Bring your swim trucks and a towel, and be ready to work. Hard.”
    Over the next three months I went to the pool as often as I could, and with his help I learned to swim well enough to turn my terrifying weakness into a personal strength. I succeeded by drawing on the wisdom of my family, encouragement of my coaches, and an old leatherneck willing to help a young man conquer his fears.

4
    A HIGHER CALLING
    Every calling is great when greatly pursued.
    —O LIVER W ENDELL H OLMES
    Following FROC at Twentynine Palms, I returned home and checked into Delta Company, 4th Reconnaissance Battalion. Prior to my arrival I had applied for a billet with one of the company’s four-man Reconnaissance teams and was accepted, but I still had to earn my qualifications to remain on the team. The long road to becoming a Recon Marine had just begun. The next step was to pass a rigorous assessment and selection program, followed by two months of in-house training. After several weeks of classwork and constant physical testing, I was finally given the opportunity to compete against my brother marines for the best “high-speed” schools in the military, including SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape), Army Airborne, Navy SCUBA, and, of course, Amphibious Reconnaissance, among others. I wasn’t Recon, though; not yet.
    Recon Marines worked hard and played hard and took immense pride in their training. They weren’t in it for the silver SCUBA bubble or gold parachute wings pinned to their uniforms or even the public ego stroke. They thrived on being different and doing something unique and dangerous. In a service that trumpets “Every marine is a rifleman” and then practices what it preaches, it’s easy to blend in with the rest of the Corps. Recon was a means to break free, and that’s why they volunteered for the job. They were destined for extremely dangerous missions, sneaking among a sea of enemy, hiding in miserable conditions and gathering intelligence, and doing it with little acknowledgment that the organization even existed. They knew it existed, and they acknowledged it among themselves. To a Recon Marine, that’s all that mattered. Recognition among their peers drives men to endure things others wouldn’t, and I knew I wanted to be a part of that elite and highly selective brotherhood. During the testing, assessment, and training phases, I pushed myself as if training for the city or state wrestling tournament, determined to win a slot at Recon school.
    After four months of training, I received orders to Navy SCUBA School in Panama City, Florida. Training was hard, but I was well prepared after hours and hours of swim practice at FROC and Recon Battalion. I received my SCUBA bubble on graduation day, and a day later I was issued orders to the highly coveted Amphibious Reconnaissance School (ARS).
    HEART OF A LION
    Arrival day, Amphibious Reconnaissance School. The icy wind ripped through the cracks in the concrete walls, creating a constant chill that lingered throughout the old building. I had checked in the previous day along with