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BY TOM BRACKEN
Excerpts from
Tommy—The Saving of a U.S. Navy SEAL:
One daythe junior high principal got the bright idea of having the entire student body—hundreds of us—line up on the football field . . . by height! My palms were sweating as the line formed. I moved farther and farther down toward the short end, praying as I walked, “God, please don’t let me be the shortest kid in the whole school.”
************
Finally, after a long wait, with peripheral vision I detected a solitary figure walking from a building in the distance. We stayed at attention, looking straight ahead as the figure came into full view. He stopped in front of us, did a sharp military left turn, and stood silent for a few moments. It was our head instructor.
The man was swarthy and had rugged features, especially his nose. It looked like it had been broken a couple of times. He wore a Navy blue ball cap and very dark sunglasses. He had on a blue and gold reversible team shirt, (blue side out), starched drab green cut-off pants with a blue Navy belt and shiny brass buckle, black jump boots, spit-shined to perfection, with white socks carefully rolled down to the tops. Over his shirt, he wore a Navy blue windbreaker, snapped partway up. From the corner of his mouth hung a fat, stubby, unlit cigar.
My eyes came to rest on a name, sewn in white thread and bold letters just above his left breast pocket. It read, “G-O-D.”
************
Breaking our teammate’s jaw was not the best prelude for what came next—the interrogation and torture routine. They tried to break us down in various ways. Some guys were heavily interrogated—berated, slapped. Others had a measure of torture applied. I was selected at random to receive a propaganda brainwashing and torture. It must have been my baby face.
************
It was a blustery morning when we mustered with our boats out on the strand next to the beautiful Hotel Del Coronado. The small mountain of massive rocks protecting the hotel from the sea was to our right. The temperature had dropped again. There must have been a storm earlier in the week, as the waves were enormous. White caps were everywhere, and the wind was whipping. The surf zone was deep with the first incoming swells breaking almost a hundred yards out; ten yards inside that, another wave crashed, another, and another, until the series of breakers consisted of ten to twelve.
Our boat crew stood there staring, holding onto the straps of our IBS. “Down boat!” came the order from Mr. Plumb.
Once the other crews were lined up side-by-side, an instructor strode to the front. “All you girls have to do today is get out past that farthest breaker, turn around, and come back in. It’s easy.”
Easy! I mused. This would be anything but easy. We had done this evolution before . . . many times, just not in a surf zone that looked this wild. Nothing in BUD/S was easy. In fact, every day seemed harder than the day before. A new motto would eventually develop from that common, but perceptive observation: “The only easy day was yesterday.”
************
The small, green Army helicopter lifted off and rose rapidly, banking away from the ship and simultaneously turning around in a sweeping motion, leaving my stomach trailing somewhere below. I decided right then and there that I liked to ride in helicopters. The sensation was something akin to a fast ride at the fair. And this one seemed especially in a hurry.
Our bird climbed to its cruising altitude and leveled off. All I could see of the two officer pilots were the backs of their white flight helmets. The black door gunner was young and had a somber look about him. I leaned over to look down past his legs for my first bird’s-eye view of Seafloat and the Delta.
There she was, like a small floating fortress smack in the middle of the big brown river, in the center of the Mekong Delta, the Republic of South Vietnam. As far as I could see, the Delta was a collage of earth tones—a vast tangle of waterways—a patchwork quilt of rice paddies, and jungle.
Three days in the country. My first operation. My stomach tightened with anticipation. I was green as a gourd, but my senses were on alert.
************
Ambushes were numerous. Casualties were high. The captain of UDT Twelve, LCDR Robert C. Condon, was killed seven months earlier when a B-40 RPG struck his boat in just such an ambush.
We were considered demolition experts. Our role was to blow up anything that got in the convoy’s way, blow up enemy bunkers that were discovered along the way, and man the guns in a firefight.
When my number came up in the rotation, and it was time to go out on patrol, I usually teamed up with Freddy-Joe. He was a good man to have by my side in a firefight, or any kind of fight for that matter. He favored the .30 cal machine gun mounted on the side of a Tango. When he opened up in an ambush, he let go with a steady torrent of profanity to match the stream of bullets spitting from the gun’s barrel.
I preferred the CAR-15 and M-79 grenade launcher.
************
The curves got tighter, but no one slowed down. In last position now, I came around a turn to discover I was alone. The bikes in front were nowhere in sight. I sped up trying to catch the pack.
The lush vegetation flashed by. As I approached the next curve, I decelerated, downshifted, and leaned into it. I saw the patch of fine gravel too late. I braked!
As if in slow motion, I felt the bike go out from under me. Still holding onto the handgrips, I slid along, halfway on top of it, toward the far side of the road. Bam! Followed by sounds of screeching metal and squealing tires.
The violent motion stopped. Then stillness.
Dazed, I lay there . . . my eyes closed.
The thump of a car door slamming startled me. Then another. The pain started registering as a burning sensation. My eyes popped open.
Where am I?
************
The rock wasn’t so big that I couldn’t step over it, so I glanced back down at the map, and automatically adjusted my pace as I approached. As my boot cleared the top of the rock, I happened to glanced down. My foot froze in midair!
I was staring into the evil eyes of a giant rattlesnake! It was huge, ugly, and coiled. Its black, forked tongue flicked at me as its thirteen rattles shook.
I was a bit rattled myself! My heart moved up to my throat and pounded away. I stayed motionless for about thirty seconds, trying to figure out what to do.
************
That night Pappy had a little too much to drink. When I made one too many wisecracks within his hearing, his self-importance overrode his better judgment. I looked up just in time to see his wiry frame slowly coming toward me like a panther. In his hand he gripped a KA-Bar, its razor-sharp blackened blade pointing my direction.
As he came closer, he seethed through barely parted lips, “I’m going to kill you.”
************
After fifty minutes, I surfaced for a sighting. There was nothing to line up on, but we were heading where he wanted to go. I dropped back down to six feet and headed on in, watching the time elapse on my chronometer and judging the distance we would need to travel at that speed. After five minutes I slowed a little. I knew another five would have us within the drop-off range.
Wham! With the sound of an explosion, and the effect of slamming into a brick wall, my face struck the instrument panel. The colonel’s face smashed into the back of my head. Water flooded into my mask stinging my eyes.
We were sinking!
************
As I prepared for round two of our cultural exchange, a short, stocky Japanese man entered our car. At first I thought he was just passing through, but when he came adjacent to our seats, he stopped abruptly and turned toward me. He appeared surprised. When he slightly weaved, I got the idea this fiftish-looking man was about half full of sake.
His eyes narrowed and he scowled. He moved a step closer. I didn’t know what set him off, but off he went into a rage, arms flailing and Japanese syllables pouring out in torrents.
Turning to the girl I raised my eyebrows and shrugged, palms up, as if to say, What’s going on?
Her face registered embarrassment and pain. She raised her hands and with her two index fingers traced the outline of a mushroom cloud.
************
It was pitch dark as I reached the crest. Though I felt anxious, I sensed no fear. Just beyond the ridge, I came to what looked like a small rise made of coarse, crushed stone. I ascended.
At the top I recognized it for what it was—a set of railroad tracks. Then I heard the train.
I stood there, not two feet from the first rail. The sound grew louder. I looked toward it. It was like a giant, bright, one-eyed monster. Anxiety was present, but still no fear—no urge to run. I stared at it. The roar grew rapidly; the whistle assaulted my ears. The bright light was blinding.
************
Pulling his hand back, John proclaimed, “I don’t do that anymore, Tommy.”
“What?” I asked perplexed. “What’s this about, John?” I felt somewhat put out with him.
“I found it, Tommy! This is what we’ve been looking for!” He seemed genuinely excited.
“What’s this about? What did you find?” I fired back, thinking, what has he gotten into now? Is this another one of his crazy schemes—another dead end street?
Tommy—The Saving of a U.S. Navy SEAL:
One daythe junior high principal got the bright idea of having the entire student body—hundreds of us—line up on the football field . . . by height! My palms were sweating as the line formed. I moved farther and farther down toward the short end, praying as I walked, “God, please don’t let me be the shortest kid in the whole school.”
************
Finally, after a long wait, with peripheral vision I detected a solitary figure walking from a building in the distance. We stayed at attention, looking straight ahead as the figure came into full view. He stopped in front of us, did a sharp military left turn, and stood silent for a few moments. It was our head instructor.
The man was swarthy and had rugged features, especially his nose. It looked like it had been broken a couple of times. He wore a Navy blue ball cap and very dark sunglasses. He had on a blue and gold reversible team shirt, (blue side out), starched drab green cut-off pants with a blue Navy belt and shiny brass buckle, black jump boots, spit-shined to perfection, with white socks carefully rolled down to the tops. Over his shirt, he wore a Navy blue windbreaker, snapped partway up. From the corner of his mouth hung a fat, stubby, unlit cigar.
My eyes came to rest on a name, sewn in white thread and bold letters just above his left breast pocket. It read, “G-O-D.”
************
Breaking our teammate’s jaw was not the best prelude for what came next—the interrogation and torture routine. They tried to break us down in various ways. Some guys were heavily interrogated—berated, slapped. Others had a measure of torture applied. I was selected at random to receive a propaganda brainwashing and torture. It must have been my baby face.
************
It was a blustery morning when we mustered with our boats out on the strand next to the beautiful Hotel Del Coronado. The small mountain of massive rocks protecting the hotel from the sea was to our right. The temperature had dropped again. There must have been a storm earlier in the week, as the waves were enormous. White caps were everywhere, and the wind was whipping. The surf zone was deep with the first incoming swells breaking almost a hundred yards out; ten yards inside that, another wave crashed, another, and another, until the series of breakers consisted of ten to twelve.
Our boat crew stood there staring, holding onto the straps of our IBS. “Down boat!” came the order from Mr. Plumb.
Once the other crews were lined up side-by-side, an instructor strode to the front. “All you girls have to do today is get out past that farthest breaker, turn around, and come back in. It’s easy.”
Easy! I mused. This would be anything but easy. We had done this evolution before . . . many times, just not in a surf zone that looked this wild. Nothing in BUD/S was easy. In fact, every day seemed harder than the day before. A new motto would eventually develop from that common, but perceptive observation: “The only easy day was yesterday.”
************
The small, green Army helicopter lifted off and rose rapidly, banking away from the ship and simultaneously turning around in a sweeping motion, leaving my stomach trailing somewhere below. I decided right then and there that I liked to ride in helicopters. The sensation was something akin to a fast ride at the fair. And this one seemed especially in a hurry.
Our bird climbed to its cruising altitude and leveled off. All I could see of the two officer pilots were the backs of their white flight helmets. The black door gunner was young and had a somber look about him. I leaned over to look down past his legs for my first bird’s-eye view of Seafloat and the Delta.
There she was, like a small floating fortress smack in the middle of the big brown river, in the center of the Mekong Delta, the Republic of South Vietnam. As far as I could see, the Delta was a collage of earth tones—a vast tangle of waterways—a patchwork quilt of rice paddies, and jungle.
Three days in the country. My first operation. My stomach tightened with anticipation. I was green as a gourd, but my senses were on alert.
************
Ambushes were numerous. Casualties were high. The captain of UDT Twelve, LCDR Robert C. Condon, was killed seven months earlier when a B-40 RPG struck his boat in just such an ambush.
We were considered demolition experts. Our role was to blow up anything that got in the convoy’s way, blow up enemy bunkers that were discovered along the way, and man the guns in a firefight.
When my number came up in the rotation, and it was time to go out on patrol, I usually teamed up with Freddy-Joe. He was a good man to have by my side in a firefight, or any kind of fight for that matter. He favored the .30 cal machine gun mounted on the side of a Tango. When he opened up in an ambush, he let go with a steady torrent of profanity to match the stream of bullets spitting from the gun’s barrel.
I preferred the CAR-15 and M-79 grenade launcher.
************
The curves got tighter, but no one slowed down. In last position now, I came around a turn to discover I was alone. The bikes in front were nowhere in sight. I sped up trying to catch the pack.
The lush vegetation flashed by. As I approached the next curve, I decelerated, downshifted, and leaned into it. I saw the patch of fine gravel too late. I braked!
As if in slow motion, I felt the bike go out from under me. Still holding onto the handgrips, I slid along, halfway on top of it, toward the far side of the road. Bam! Followed by sounds of screeching metal and squealing tires.
The violent motion stopped. Then stillness.
Dazed, I lay there . . . my eyes closed.
The thump of a car door slamming startled me. Then another. The pain started registering as a burning sensation. My eyes popped open.
Where am I?
************
The rock wasn’t so big that I couldn’t step over it, so I glanced back down at the map, and automatically adjusted my pace as I approached. As my boot cleared the top of the rock, I happened to glanced down. My foot froze in midair!
I was staring into the evil eyes of a giant rattlesnake! It was huge, ugly, and coiled. Its black, forked tongue flicked at me as its thirteen rattles shook.
I was a bit rattled myself! My heart moved up to my throat and pounded away. I stayed motionless for about thirty seconds, trying to figure out what to do.
************
That night Pappy had a little too much to drink. When I made one too many wisecracks within his hearing, his self-importance overrode his better judgment. I looked up just in time to see his wiry frame slowly coming toward me like a panther. In his hand he gripped a KA-Bar, its razor-sharp blackened blade pointing my direction.
As he came closer, he seethed through barely parted lips, “I’m going to kill you.”
************
After fifty minutes, I surfaced for a sighting. There was nothing to line up on, but we were heading where he wanted to go. I dropped back down to six feet and headed on in, watching the time elapse on my chronometer and judging the distance we would need to travel at that speed. After five minutes I slowed a little. I knew another five would have us within the drop-off range.
Wham! With the sound of an explosion, and the effect of slamming into a brick wall, my face struck the instrument panel. The colonel’s face smashed into the back of my head. Water flooded into my mask stinging my eyes.
We were sinking!
************
As I prepared for round two of our cultural exchange, a short, stocky Japanese man entered our car. At first I thought he was just passing through, but when he came adjacent to our seats, he stopped abruptly and turned toward me. He appeared surprised. When he slightly weaved, I got the idea this fiftish-looking man was about half full of sake.
His eyes narrowed and he scowled. He moved a step closer. I didn’t know what set him off, but off he went into a rage, arms flailing and Japanese syllables pouring out in torrents.
Turning to the girl I raised my eyebrows and shrugged, palms up, as if to say, What’s going on?
Her face registered embarrassment and pain. She raised her hands and with her two index fingers traced the outline of a mushroom cloud.
************
It was pitch dark as I reached the crest. Though I felt anxious, I sensed no fear. Just beyond the ridge, I came to what looked like a small rise made of coarse, crushed stone. I ascended.
At the top I recognized it for what it was—a set of railroad tracks. Then I heard the train.
I stood there, not two feet from the first rail. The sound grew louder. I looked toward it. It was like a giant, bright, one-eyed monster. Anxiety was present, but still no fear—no urge to run. I stared at it. The roar grew rapidly; the whistle assaulted my ears. The bright light was blinding.
************
Pulling his hand back, John proclaimed, “I don’t do that anymore, Tommy.”
“What?” I asked perplexed. “What’s this about, John?” I felt somewhat put out with him.
“I found it, Tommy! This is what we’ve been looking for!” He seemed genuinely excited.
“What’s this about? What did you find?” I fired back, thinking, what has he gotten into now? Is this another one of his crazy schemes—another dead end street?
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