Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Read online

  Over the next couple of years, the family started to fall apart. The effects of Dad’s alcohol were magnified, and, quick to anger, he might erupt into a fit of violence. At first Mom would stand in front trying to protect us, but her small frame hardly stood a chance. Then Dad wrecked the company car in a drunken stupor, the first of several DWI accidents that would eventually leave him permanently disabled and unable to work. Feelings of inadequacy continued to build inside until all he knew was hate. Refusing to abandon him with a divorce, Mom rented a small apartment for him across town so that she could care for him without continuing to put her children at risk.

  Strangely, Dad’s absence from the home hurt all of us, but Dad’s decline was hardest on Michael.

  MICHAEL

  Michael was my older brother and my greatest protector. In our youth he helped Mom look after my sisters and me, but as we grew older he took a much more hands-on approach. Tall, thin, and shy, he was an easy target for schoolyard bullies and Mexican gangs, but as he matured and used the weight room to release anger, his body began to develop into a hulking figure. Unfortunately, without Mom and Dad’s direct involvement in his life, his naïveté allowed others to influence his decisions, and his judgment began to slip.

  As early as I can remember, Michael was enamored with Dad’s military service. He and I would play soldier with his army equipment and reenact key battles with toy soldiers. But where I was concerned about the types of gear the men carried, Michael concentrated on the circumstances that caused the battle. Dad was an ardent history buff and patriot who would spend hours explaining America’s history, and Michael ate it up. Dad spent every spare moment discussing American history or visiting museums with us; narrating the past had become his way of nurturing. Considering Dad had no interaction with his own parents, and therefore no parenting model, his history lessons proved remarkably effective with Michael. The themes of Dad’s stories of history and life were honor and loyalty, and it was just those values that influenced Michael to put aside his dream of serving in the Ranger Battalions to support the family after Dad’s decline.

  Mom tried to stop him, but his mind was made up. “No, Michael, you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Mom, I’m not going to let you work more and more hours when I can make money at the construction yard.” Michael raised his voice, as if raising his voice were going to make a difference with Mom.

  “No, Michael, we’ll get by. We’ll ask for help, just until you get through school.”

  “Mom, no one should help us when we have the ability to help ourselves,” he declared. His voice shifted to a softer tone. “You raised me better than that. You tell us all the time the difference between a handout and help is the effort those in need put into the solution. I can do this.”

  I heard Mom reluctantly agree through tears, but what else could she do? Things were falling apart, and she knew we couldn’t survive this way much longer. She also knew that her role as teacher and loving parent would diminish the second Michael took a job in the adult world; others would influence his life, and that’s hard for any parent.

  Dad’s internal pain and alcohol abuse had transformed him from a loving parent to a violent brute, and through the years, Michael and my eldest sister were often at the receiving end of his rage. I remember coming home and finding my brother’s blood on the floor and walls as he stood protecting our mother or simply absorbing the anger before my sister and I arrived home. At first Michael had no ability to counter the blows, but as he grew into a streetwise young man weighing 200 pounds, he could better defend himself. Still, he couldn’t raise a fist to the one man from whom he so desperately wanted approval, so each week he’d take a beating for the rest of us. Over time the effects changed him from a friendly and innocent teen to an introverted and indignant man who locked himself in his room, which he began to call “the dungeon.”

  The dungeon wouldn’t shelter Michael from a family tragedy that would soon shake us all to the core.

  SISTERS

  My oldest sister, Diana, married a serviceman at a very young age and left the house when I was in my early teens. Today we’re close, but as a youth maturing into a man, I only saw her sparingly and of course on holidays.

  I was much closer to Cassandra, who was my older sister by four years, a sweet and intelligent girl with a promising academic future. She got top grades in high school and earned a scholarship to a small Christian school back east, thirteen hours from Albuquerque.

  During the spring of my sophomore year, the chaos at home had calmed, until a fateful day when Mom received a call from Cassandra’s school. “Something” had happened to Cassandra in her dorm, and she was in a serious crisis. I arrived home from wrestling practice to find Mom and Michael packing frantically for the cross-country journey to Cassandra’s school. An hour later they left with little ceremony, both frightened and desperately concerned for Cassandra.

  I was left alone with no money, expected to care for myself and still make it to school and wrestling practice on time. Mom was cleaning buildings at night to cover the expenses of Dad’s apartment, and I was expected to assume those janitorial duties as well. All of this at age fourteen. I tell you this not to elicit sympathy but to illustrate the expectations I faced as a young man. My mother’s find a way to get it done attitude, I firmly believe, built a foundation in my psyche that would later prove invaluable in my special operations career.

  Cassandra returned home with Mom and Michael and was exhibiting symptoms of acute schizophrenia. It’s impossible to say if the illness existed in her early teens or if the traumatic event at college triggered it. Regardless of the impetus, she was in desperate shape and suffered terrible hallucinations; she claimed to be Jesus on several occasions and the president of the United States of America on others. She saw biblical scriptures flowing from the stucco walls and engaged in conversations with imaginary persons that were very real to her. None of us was equipped to deal with Cassandra’s illness, especially Dad, who exiled himself from the rest of us as a means to cope with his daughter’s condition. This, of course, led to more anger at everyone but himself and more chaos at home. I did my best to concentrate on academics and sports, and Mom did her best to keep the family intact. Yet we knew the family was falling apart, and my chances at a decent life in Albuquerque were fading away.

  COACH SPARAGO

  For me, wrestling was more than an athletic endeavor. It was a lifestyle that embodied every aspect of physical and psychological conditioning, and I believe it’s one of the main reasons I made it through SEAL training. Coach Sparago was a big influence and encourager and pushed me to meet my goals, both academically and on the mat. Although I never told him I had troubles at home, I think he sensed it and concentrated on teaching me how to stay focused on both school and sports. Later, when Mother Nature forced me into a weight class with one of my best friends, who just happened to be city champion, Coach was there to remind me what the sport, like life, was really about.

  “Mark,” he said pulling me aside, “you may have to move up in a weight class and wrestle kids bigger than you, but that doesn’t make you less competitive. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” He paused to see if his point was sinking in. He often used clichés but spoke with such sincerity that the point hit home every time.

  “I want you to be competitive at everything you do. If you’re on a conditioning run, try to be the first one in. If you’re in the classroom, try for the best grade in the class. Heck, if you get up to sharpen your pencil, try and make it the sharpest pencil in the room. You’ll never be the best at everything, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be the best at something. Just don’t quit trying to get there!”

  I absorbed his advice and tried to incorporate it in all aspects of my life, including my choices during military service.

  STAFF SERGEANT SANDOVAL

  I first met Staff Sergeant Sandoval in the main hallway at the high s
chool. He stood next to a folding table covered with recruiting materials, and he looked damn sharp in his dress blues. He was smart and personable, a good combination for a recruiter. He saw me walking by and mentioned my wrestling shirt, which led to a conversation about the sport and my love for it. He didn’t even mention the marines that day, although he made a big impression on me.

  Not as big as the next time I saw him, though. It was two weeks later, and I was wrestling in a regional tournament at the high school. Staff Sergeant Sandoval showed up and greeted me by name. He had driven all the way out to the school to watch me wrestle, and frankly, I was stunned. Yes, I know, it was probably a recruiting ploy, but he was there, and aside from Mom, who made every match, even if it was on her way to one of her three jobs, no one really cared about my wrestling career.

  A week later, I found myself in the staff sergeant’s office, and a week after that, I broke the news to Mom that I wanted to be a marine. It’s important to understand Mom’s position in all of this. She saw how the military affected my father, and she was scared witless the same thing would happen to me. On the other hand, she also knew the military would take me away from the streets of Albuquerque and the stresses at home and would present opportunities that would allow me to succeed on my own. I relayed Mom’s concerns to Staff Sergeant Sandoval, so he invited Mom and me to the office for a chat. Upon arrival, we were introduced to his parents, who both happened to be deaf. He spoke sign language to his parents and fluent Spanish to Mom, which of course melted her on the spot. We visited for two hours, and Mom began to admit this might be good for her “mijo” but was still unable to let go. Staff Sergeant Sandoval listened politely, fully grasping Mom’s concerns; after all, he’d heard them many times before from other concerned mothers.

  He crossed the room and sat next to Mom, then patted her hand and spoke gently. “Mrs. Donald, I understand you want to keep your boy close by. It’s the way of our people.” He then gestured to his mother and father. “My parents are right here; family is very important to me, too. But Mark is a smart young man with tremendous potential. Maybe he’ll have a better chance of reaching that in uniform. Mark seems to think so.”

  “I understand, Sergeant, but he is my boy, and like you say, family is everything,” she said. “This is very difficult for me.”

  Staff Sergeant Sandoval paused for a few seconds and then smiled. “I think I have an idea.”

  He then proposed a reserve contract and explained that as a Marine Corps reservist, I would be a part-time marine, which meant I could stay in Albuquerque and drill on the weekends with a specialized unit. I would attend boot camp, of course, but otherwise serve as a reservist and live at home. Mom was amenable to the idea and agreed to meet again in a couple of weeks. I, however, had a hard time with the compromise. I wanted to enlist and get far away from Albuquerque, and the thought of returning to the same hell I was currently in didn’t make me happy. Still, I wasn’t going to leave without Mom’s approval, so I met privately with Staff Sergeant Sandoval to discuss the options.

  We met after practice at Vip’s Big Boy, my early-morning sanctuary and study hall. Staff Sergeant Sandoval explained how reservists were expected to attend schools just like active-duty marines; not only that, they could also apply to join one of the United States Marine Corps Reconnaissance units, commonly known as Recon. He briefly explained the missions of Recon Marines, and the thought of being part of a secretive small unit that gathered intelligence and did cool-guy missions similar to those carried out by the Navy SEALs and the army’s Special Forces really intrigued me—but there was a catch. First, the closest reserve Reconnaissance command was right here in Albuquerque. Second, I would eventually have to qualify as a Reconnaissance Marine, which meant passing a grueling training program; otherwise, I might have to drill with another unit. I didn’t care for the idea of coming back home, but if I made it I could be spending many months and sometimes years in schools far away from here. I was in optimum shape at the time, so I couldn’t imagine not being able to make the cut. That was it. My mind was set on joining the Corps, and I knew Mom would eventually come around, too. Another week passed, and we all met to discuss details.

  Mom finally agreed, but with one requirement. As tears welled up in her eyes, she looked at Staff Sergeant Sandoval and said, “Staff Sergeant, my husband served over twenty years, and I know men in dress uniforms will visit me if something were to happen to my boy. So when you come to take him away from me I deserve that same respect. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  Staff Sergeant Sandoval took her hand, looked her in the eye, and promised he did. To this day, I choke up thinking about that moment and the impact a mother feels hearing her child will be leaving her for the military.

  It took a couple of months to finish school, fill out paperwork, visit MEPS (the Military Entrance Processing Station) for a medical exam, and button up the details of my enlistment, but the day finally came. We all watched as Staff Sergeant Sandoval pulled up to the house in the government sedan, exited the car, and walked to our door, in his United States Marine Corps dress blue uniform with his medals dangling. Mom opened the door, and the staff sergeant politely removed his hat and formally announced, “Mrs. Donald, I’m here for your son.”

  3

  EMERGENCE OF AN AMPHIBIAN

  There’s a fine line between courage and foolishness. Too bad it’s not a fence.

  —ANONYMOUS

  Boot camp at Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD) San Diego was challenging, but I followed Staff Sergeant Sandoval’s advice and made it through by “keeping my mouth shut, ears open, and following orders to the letter.” Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was still in top physical condition from wrestling season and had trained in the mountains of New Mexico before arriving at sea-level San Diego, both of which helped me breeze through the PT (physical training) with relative ease. Like other kids from a blue-collar background, I was accustomed to hard work and thrived in the highly structured environment that was lacking at home. I missed my family but didn’t have time to think on it.

  Not everything came easy. The Marine Corps is an amphibious assault force, and all marines have to be able to survive in the water. So it only stands to reason that basic water survival training occurs at the recruit depot. I’ll never forget the day our senior drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Shanhurst, marched Platoon 1097 to the pool for our first swim lesson. Up to that point I had excelled at every event and was in the running for top recruit and a meritorious promotion on graduation day, however, on pool day, humility came knocking. Many recruits already knew how to swim, but I wasn’t one of them. Having almost drowned at an early age, I went to great extents to avoid water over waist deep. However, being a naive and cocky recruit, I not only ignored those memories but somehow convinced myself that sheer willpower would see me through. I must have been quite a spectacle as a seventeen-year-old Mexican American kid getting ready to embarrass the hell out of myself. Heck, I’d pay good money to watch it today if I could.

  It all started when the drill instructors who worked at the training tank came out and started separating us into categories. Without any regard for my own safety I jumped in the line with the experienced swimmers. After all, that’s where my competition for honor graduate was, so I had to be there, too. After a short briefing on the upcoming event, we were marched through the building and onto a cold pool deck. There the lead instructor explained that our group would be starting first so they could clear the area for the others requiring more training. Assuming things would go quickly, with no surprises (such as nonswimmers in the pool), the instructors informed us we would first swim in camouflage utilities. After a quick demonstration we were asked if anyone had any questions or doubted his ability to pass the test. Still feeling arrogant, I thought, How hard can this be? You put on some clothes, jump into the water, and swim to the side. I can do this.

  As I approached the rack to get a pair of the wet fatigues, I saw the remedial
swimmers, the group I should’ve been with, make their way to the shallow end of the pool. That’s when I started to feel as if I had made a grave mistake. Even so, rather than swallowing my pride and accepting the countless push-ups that recruits receive for their blunders, I proceeded to learn my lesson the hard way.

  As I pulled the wet clothing over my body I immediately felt every piece of my skin retract underneath. It was as if I were trying to isolate the chilly fabric to my shoulders in order to preserve my body heat by ensuring the rest of my body remained dry. I took a spot at the back of the line and watched my fellow recruits go before me and realized exactly what I was getting myself into. Still, I blindly followed the recruit in front of me. Perhaps I thought my aquatic abilities had changed over time or I had intuitively learned to swim, or maybe I felt that St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, would somehow see me through. Whatever the reason, I climbed the ladder leading to the platform that overlooked the 12' pool and readied myself for the exercise, which started with an “abandon ship entry.”

  I walked to the edge and looked down and was instantly terrified. Had we actually been at sea and had to make this jump to survive, I would have chosen to go down with the ship, that’s how scared I was. Apparently that wasn’t scared enough to turn around and walk toward the angry drill instructor at the end of the platform, so I decided to jump.

  I landed as instructed, and the cold water collapsed around the fatigues, grabbing me and pulling me down. Miraculously, I hit bottom on my feet, and the familiarity of being upright gave me a glimmer of hope, so I looked up to the pool deck for instruction. I waited for a second or two, but when no order came down from above I started to flail as if I were trying to ascend some invisible ladder. I know the drill instructors must have thought I was some joker who was acting as if he couldn’t swim, but I was about to prove them wrong. I don’t remember much after that except waking up in a puddle of my own vomit, with a group of drill instructors yelling at me mercilessly. The Marine Corps had just handed me my first slice of mean green humble pie, and I ate every bite.