The Heart And The Fist The education of a humanitarian, the
making of a Navy SEAL
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PART III: HEART AND FIST
8. Officer Candidate School
9. SEAL Training
10. Hell Week
11. Advanced Combat Training
12. Afghanistan
13. Southeast Asia
14. Kenya
15. Iraq
Epilogue: The Mission Continues
Author's Note and Acknowledgments
Notes
...
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT
BOSTON · NEW YORK 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Eric Greitens
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Greitens, Eric, date.
The heart and the fist : the education of a humanitarian, the making of a
Navy SEAL / Eric Greitens.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-547-42485-9
1. Greitens, Eric, date. 2. United States. Navy. SEALs—Biography. 3.
United States.
Navy—Officers—Biography. 4. United States. Navy—Officers—Training
of. 5. Humanitarian
assistance, American. 6. United States—Armed Forces—Civic action. I.
Title.
V63.G74A3 2011
359.9'84—dc22 [B] 2010026071
Book design by Robert Overholtzer, Boskydell Studio
Maps by Jacques Chazaud
Printed in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
TO THE MEMORY OF MY GRANDFATHERS
August Greitens, Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy
Harold Jacobs, Corporal, United States Army
Contents
Preface [>]
I: MIND AND FIST
1. IRAQ [>]
2. CHINA [>]
3. BOXING [>]
II: HEART AND MIND
4. BOSNIA [>]
5. RWANDA [>]
6. BOLIVIA [>]
7. OXFORD [>]
III: HEART AND FIST
8. OFFICER CANDIDATE SCHOOL [>]
9. SEAL TRAINING [>]
10. HELL WEEK [>]
11. ADVANCED COMBAT TRAINING [>]
12. AFGHANISTAN [>]
13. SOUTHEAST ASIA [>]
14. KENYA [>]
15. IRAQ [>]
EPILOGUE: THE MISSION CONTINUES [>]
Author's Note and Acknowledgments [>]
Notes [>]
Preface
This is a book about service on the frontlines. I've been blessed to work
with volunteers who taught art to street children in Bolivia and Marines
who hunted al Qaeda terrorists in Iraq. I've learned from nuns who fed the
destitute in Mother Teresa's homes for the dying in India, aid workers who
healed orphaned children in Rwanda, and Navy SEALs who fought in
Afghanistan. As warriors, as humanitarians, they've taught me that without
courage, compassion falters, and that without compassion, courage has no
direction. They've shown me that it is within our power, and that the world
requires of us—of every one of us—that we be both good and strong. I
hope that the stories re-counted here will inspire you, as these people have
inspired me. They have given me hope, and shown me the incredible
possibilities that exist for each of us to live our one life well. For each of us,
there is a place on the frontlines.
The Mission Continues A portion of the author's proceeds from the sale of
this book will go toward supporting The Mission Continues. The Mission
Continues empowers wounded veterans to serve again here at home and
brings communities together to honor the fallen through service.
PART I: MIND AND FIST
1. Iraq
THE FIRST MORTAR round landed as the sun was rising.
Joel and I both had bottom bunks along the western wall of the
barracks. As we swung our feet onto the floor, Joel said, "They better know,
they wake my ass up like this, it's gonna put me in a pretty uncharitable
mood." Mortars were common, and one explosion in the morning amounted
to little more than an unpleasant alarm.
As we began to tug on our boots, another round exploded outside, but
the dull whomp of its impact meant that it had landed dozens of yards away.
The insurgent mortars were usually wild, inaccurate, one-time shots. Then
another round landed—closer. The final round shook the walls of the
barracks and the sounds of gunfire began to rip.
I have no memory of when the suicide truck bomb detonated. Lights
went out. Dust and smoke filled the air. I found myself lying belly down on
the floor, legs crossed, hands over my ears with my mouth wide open. My
SEAL instructors had taught me to take this position during incoming
artillery fire. They learned it from men who passed down the knowledge
from the Underwater Demolition Teams that had cleared the beaches at
Normandy.
SEAL training... One sharp blast of the whistle and we'd drop to the
mud with our hands over our ears, our feet crossed. Two whistles and we'd
begin to crawl. Three whistles and we'd push to our feet and run. Whistle,
drop, whistle, crawl, whistle, up and run; whistle, drop, whistle, crawl,
whistle, up and run. By the end of training, the instructors were throwing
smoke and flashbang grenades. Crawling through the mud, enveloped in an
acrid haze—red smoke, purple smoke, orange smoke—we could just make
out the boots and legs of the man in front of us, barbed wire inches above
our heads...
In the barracks, I heard men coughing around me, the air thick with
dust. Then the burning started. It felt as if someone had shoved an open-
flame lighter inside my mouth, the flames scorching my throat, my lungs.
My eyes burned and I squinted them shut, then fought to keep them open.
The insurgents had packed chlorine into the truck bomb: a chemical attack.
From a foot or two away I heard Staff Sergeant Big Sexy Francis, who
often manned a .50-cal gun in our Humvees, yell, "You all right?"
Mike Marise answered him: "Yeah, I'm good!" Marise had been an F-18
fighter pilot in the Marine Corps who walked away from a comfortable
cockpit to pick up a rifle and fight on the ground in Fallujah.
"Joel, you there?" I shouted. My throat was on fire, and though I knew
that Joel was only two feet away, my burning eyes and blurred vision made
it impossible to see him in the dust-filled room.
He coughed. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said.
Then I heard Lieutenant Colonel Fisher shouting from the hallway.
"You can make it out this way! Out this way!"
I grabbed Francis's arm and pulled him to standing. We stumbled over
gear and debris as shots were fired. My body low, my eyes burning, I felt
my way over a fallen locker as we all tried to step toward safety. I later
learned that Mike Marise had initially turned the wrong way and gone
through one of the holes in the wall created by the bomb. He then stumbled
into daylight and could have easily been shot. I stepped out of the east side
of the building as gunfire ripped through the air and fell behind an earthen
barrier, Lieutenant Colonel Fisher beside me.
On my hands and knees, I began hacking up chlorine gas and spraying
spittle. My stomach spasmed in an effort to vomit, but nothing came. Fisher
later said he saw puffs of smoke coming from my mouth and nostrils. A thin
Iraqi in tan pants and a black shirt, his eyes blood red, was bent over in
front of me, throwing up. Cords of yellow vomit dangled from his mouth.
I looked down and saw a dark red stain on my shirt and more blood on
my pants. I shoved my right hand down my shirt and pressed at my chest,
my stomach. I felt no pain, but I had been trained to know that a surge of
adrenaline can sometimes mask the pain of an injury.
I patted myself again. Chest, armpits, crotch, thighs. No injuries. I put
my fingers to the back of my neck, felt the back of my head, and then
pulled my fingers away. They were sticky with sweat and blood, but I
couldn't find an injury.
It's not my blood.
My breathing was shallow; every time I tried to inhale, my throat
gagged and my lungs burned. But we had to join the fight. Mike Marise and
I ran back into the building. One of our Iraqi comrades was standing in the
bombed-out stairwell, firing his AK-47 as the sound of bullets ricocheted
around the building.
Fisher and another Marine found Joel sitting on the floor in the chlorine
cloud, trying to get his boots on. Shrapnel from the truck bomb had hit Joel
in the head. He had said, "I'm fine," and he had stayed conscious, but
instead of standing up and moving, his brain had been telling him boots ...
boots ... boots as he bled out the back of his head.
Fisher, Big Sexy, and I charged up the twisted bombed-out staircase to
find higher ground. The truck bomb had blown off the entire western wall
of the barracks, and as we raced up the staircase over massive chunks of
concrete and debris, we were exposed to gunfire from the west. Iraqi
soldiers from the barracks—this was their army, their barracks, and we were
their visiting allies at this stage of the war—were letting bullets fly, but as I
ran up the stairs, I couldn't see any targets. At the top of the stairs, I paused
to wait for a break in the gunfire, sucked in a pained, shallow breath, then
ran onto the rooftop. A lone Iraqi soldier who had been on guard duty was
already there, armed with an M60 and ripping bullets to the west. I ran to
cover the northwest, and Francis ran out behind me to cover the southwest.
As I ran, a burst of gunfire rang out, and I dove onto the rough brown
concrete and crawled through a mess of empty plastic drink bottles, musty
milk cartons, cigarette butts, dip cans, and spit bottles—trash left behind by
Iraqi soldiers on guard duty.
As I reached the northern edge of the roof, I peered over the eighteen-
inch ledge to check for targets and caught sight of a tall minaret on a
mosque to the northeast. It was not uncommon for snipers to take positions
inside minarets and shoot at Americans. It would have been a far shot for
even the best sniper, but as I scanned the streets, I kept my head moving,
just in case.
Women and children were scattered and running below us, but no one
had a weapon. Far off to the north, I saw armed men running. I steadied my
rifle and aimed. I took a slow breath, focused my sights, laid the pad of my
finger on the trigger... no. Those were Iraqi police from our base.
I called to Francis, "You see anything? You have any targets?"
"Nothing."
Nothing. The sun rose. We felt the heat of the day begin to sink into the
roof. We waited. We watched. My breathing was still shallow, and I felt as
if someone had tightened a belt around my lungs and was pulling hard to
kill me. I glanced over the ledge of the roof again. Nothing. I assessed. We
had plenty of bullets, and my med kit was intact. We had the high ground,
good cover, and a clear view of every avenue of approach. We'd need some
water eventually, but we could stay here for hours if necessary. Sitting there
in a nasty pile of trash on the rooftop of a bombed-out Iraqi building in
Fallujah, I thought to myself: Man, I'm lucky.
Travis Manion and two other Marines then ran up onto the roof. Travis
was a recent graduate of the Naval Academy, where he'd been an
outstanding wrestler. I came to know him while we patrolled the streets of
Fallujah together. Travis was tough, yet he walked with a smile on his face.
He was respected by his men and respected by the Iraqis. A pirated copy of
a movie about the last stand of three hundred Spartan warriors had made its
way to Fallujah, and Travis was drawn to the ideal of the Spartan citizen-
warrior who sacrificed everything in defense of his community. He likened
his mission to that of the warriors who left their families to defend their
home.
I glanced at the minaret again. The sky was blue and clear. A beautiful
day. The radio crackled with traffic informing us that a Quick Reaction
Force of tanks was on its way. After the explosion and the gunfire and the
rush of adrenaline, the day was quiet and getting hot. Tanks arrived, and a
