The Last Punisher: A SEAL Team THREE Sniper's True Account of the Battle of Ramadi Read Online Free Page A

rang. As she relayed the details of the two planes hitting the World Trade Center, only two hours from where I grew up, the gravity of it sank in.
    I went to the house next door and watched on television the dark clouds of billowing smoke, the people jumping to avoid the searing flames, the pancaking collapse into the massive fog of dust and rubble. I was overcome with the same feeling of anger that gripped the American consciousness.
    Later that day, I heard about Bruce Eagleson, a close family friend who had been a mentor to me growing up in Middlefield, Connecticut. Bruce worked for the Westfield Corporation, and he called his son from one of the twin towers that morning. “I’ve got employees up there,” Bruce told him. “I have to go back in and check on them.”
    They never found his body.
    At Bruce’s memorial service, I found myself at a crossroads. I was not doing enough with my life. Evil men murdered my friend, and what could I do about it? Playing rugby and beer pong until I puked had suddenly lost its allure. I wanted to kill the men who planned the mass murder of nearly three thousand Americans. It was my generation’s Pearl Harbor, and I thought about my family’s connection to the Navy in World War II. My grandfather was a machinist’s mate on a ship in the South Pacific, and my great-uncle flew a biplane, hunting Japanese in the Pacific, where he was shot down and spent four days floating on the open sea before being rescued by U.S. forces.
    At the Navy recruiting station, I was drawn to an old poster for theSEALs. Five gun-wielding Frogmen in face paint, web gear, and caterpillar mustaches were climbing out of the water. They looked ready to make somebody’s day. The poster read simply “SEALs,” and I vaguely knew of their reputation. I was interested, and after a little research, it didn’t take long to decide I wanted to become one. I was done living a life of mediocrity. It was the first real risk I’d ever taken—the moment I decided to step up and be a man.
    When I told my parents, it went over like a turd in a punch bowl. I’m the oldest of three brothers in a proud working-class family from Connecticut. My maternal great-grandparents and my paternal grandparents emigrated from Poland in the early twentieth century. My paternal grandfather was a factory worker and farmer. My mom’s dad worked in a factory until he went into business with die molds. My parents have spent their entire lives in central Connecticut in a small, tight-knit community, and they felt I was putting my future on hold by joining the Navy.
    I scored high on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery test, and my recruiter tried to convince me to sign up for the Navy’s nuclear operations program. Qualifying test scores like mine are hard to come by, and he talked up the technical training and skills, the cash bonuses and college money. I wanted none of it. My goal was to go into combat and shoot terrorists.
    In March 2002, I went off to Navy boot camp at Recruit Training Command Great Lakes, or “Great Mistakes.” Boot camp was mostly a giant disappointment in terms of the challenge it provided. The Navy used to have a saying: our ships are made of wood, and our men are made of steel. Based on my boot-camp experience, it seemed more like the modern Navy’s ships are made of steel and its sailors are made of sausage. The vast majority of sailors I encountered were not preparing themselves for SEAL training.
    After Great Mistakes, I went on to sixteen weeks of training at hospitalcorpsman school. All I did was work out, study, and think about the challenge ahead. I worked hard, found some time to blow off some steam with my friends, and graduated near the top of my class.
    In January 2003, a buddy of mine picked me up from the airport and drove me across the San Diego–Coronado Bridge to report for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training on Coronado Island. Driving across the bridge in my dress