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

Erik Little, my close friend and teammate from Delta Company. We were busy prepping our gear for the first day of training while other marines streamed in from various overseas units. I sat on my steel-framed bunk, a rickety remnant from World War II, and worked feverishly on my H-harness, repositioning components and changing them back again, a never-ending task of indecisiveness. Like every other infantryman in the military, I had convinced myself that by moving a few pouches around I’d find a more efficient, and perhaps comfortable, way to carry my combat load.
    Despite my compulsive drive to finish numerous tasks before morning PT, I set aside my gear and greeted the marines still arriving from around the globe. I figured if we were going to be living together for the next few months, I should meet them now rather than later.
    As dawn broke, Gunny Russo, a rock-solid gunnery sergeant, suddenly entered the hooch and barked orders, sending the marines scrambling for the classroom next door. We had barely settled into our desks when Gunny Boyd, another broad-shouldered senior NCO, growled, “Attention on deck,” causing the room to snap to attention as Captain Bradford entered the room and stalked to the podium at the front of the room. The captain was sharp, like all marines, but carried himself with a confidence earned through years of distinguished leadership. He straightened his papers on the podium, ordered us to sit, and then jumped right in with no pretense or small talk. He told us our time at ARS was going to be hard but fair, and training evolutions would be based on a mutual respect between the students and the cadre, our instructors. He knew that many of us had already received a great deal of training prior to arriving at ARS and others had been doing the job for more than a year before earning a slot at the highly coveted school, and he acknowledged our efforts.
    He then engaged the class directly. “Can anyone tell me what it takes to be a Recon Marine?” asked the captain.
    Erik, who had never been short on words or shy about pronouncing his opinion in a crowd (which is probably why we bonded in the first damn place), yelled out in a manner that made everyone crack up, including the captain, “Being a lunatic and PT stud … ssssir!”
    In some ways he was right. Back then if an infantry marine was a first-class swimmer in exceptional physical shape and possessed the intestinal fortitude to gut through the screening process, he could be a Recon Marine.
    “Not exactly the answer I was looking for, marine. It’s having the heart of a lion, possessing the courage and bravery to accept a mission against insurmountable odds while isolated deep inside enemy forces and driving on. It’s all in here.” The captain pointed to his heart. “Not here,” he said, pointing to his flexed bicep that stretched his uniform sleeve to its limits.
    I felt a sense of pride as the captain spoke because I understood his point. With the help of many mentors and the encouragement of my brother marines, along the way, I went from using my uniform to keep me afloat and a dog-paddling breaststroke in boot camp to graduating Navy SCUBA School in a year’s time. Now, I wasn’t sure if tackling my fear of the water would be the type of bravery needed under fire, but I felt I met the captain’s definition of a Recon Marine, and it gave me a feeling that I was at the right place.
    The captain then walked over to Erik, who popped tall and stood rock still. “Now drop down, Lance Corporal, and push out a hundred. That shouldn’t be too hard … you PT stud,” the captain said with a grin. Needless to say, we all joined Erik on the floor and began knocking them out, figuring that if you’re only as strong as your weakest man, then we definitely wanted to make certain all of us had equal opportunity to develop.
    TURNING POINT
    Once again, a small, innocuous incident led to a major turning point in my career. Several weeks