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I loved our new CO. He was outstanding, aggressive, and stayed out of our hair. He not only knew each one of us by name and face, he knew our wives and girlfriends. He took it personally when he lost people, and yet was able to stay aggressive at the same time. He never held us back in training, and, in fact, approved extra training for snipers.
My command master chief, whom I’ll call Primo, was another top-notch commander. He didn’t give a flying fuck about promotions, about looking good, or covering his butt: he was all about successful missions and getting the job done. And he was a Texan—as you can tell, I’m a little partial—which meant he was a bad-ass.
His briefs always started the same way: “What are you sons of bitches doing?” he’d snarl. “Are you gonna get out there and kick some ass?”
Primo was all about getting into battle. He knew what SEALs are supposed to do, and he wanted us to do it.
He was also a good ol’ boy off the battlefield.
You always have team guys getting in trouble during off-time and training. Bar fights are a big problem. I remember him pulling us aside when he came on.
“Listen, I know you’re going to get into fights,” he told us. “So here’s what you do. You hit fast, you hit hard, and you run. If you don’t get caught, I don’t care. Because when you get caught is when I have to get involved.”
I took that advice to heart, though it wasn’t always possible to follow.
Maybe because he was from Texas, or maybe because he had the soul of a brawler himself, he took a liking to me and another Texan, whom we called Pepper. We became his golden boys; he’d cover our asses when we got in trouble. There were times when I may have told off an officer or two; Chief Primo took care of it. He might chew me out himself, but he always smoothed the way with head shed. On the other side of things, he knew he could count on Pepper and me to get a job done if it needed doing.
Tats
W hile I was home, I had a pair of new tattoos added to my arm. One was a Trident. Now that I felt like a real SEAL, I felt I had earned it. I had it put on the inside of my arm where not everyone would see, but I knew it was there. I didn’t want it to be out there bragging.
On the front of my arm, I had a crusader cross inked in. I wanted everyone to know I was a Christian. I had it put in in red, for blood. I hated the damn savages I’d been fighting. I always will. They’ve taken so much from me.
E ven the tattoos became a cause for stress between my wife and myself. She didn’t like tattoos in general, and the way I got these—staying out late one evening when she was expecting me home, surprising her with them—added to our friction.
Taya saw it as one more sign that I was changing, becoming somebody she didn’t know.
I didn’t think of it that way at all, though I admit I knew she wouldn’t like it. But it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Actually, I had wanted full sleeves, so, in my mind, it was a compromise.
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