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

things but has moved on. It’s not the most glorious self-realization, but it is reality. My departure from the Teams changed my direction. I was on the path to becoming a physician assistant, I had earned a bachelor’s in political science, I had a wife and a son and ahouse and a whole life that separated me from who I was when I was a Teamguy. Yet, somehow, I’ve always felt drawn back to the Teams. Especially in times like those, at the death of a brother, I realize that a Teamguy is never really out. The brotherhood binds us for longer than a deployment, longer than a platoon, longer than a work-up.
    I recalled the phone call Chris made to me to tell me that Ryan “Biggles” Job had passed in 2009. It was my first introduction to loss outside the Teams, and it was raw. I could make sense of dying on the battlefield, but Ryan had overcome his injuries and lived a full life for several years before succumbing to complications from a reconstructive surgery. When Chris called and told me, I felt angry, like we’d been cheated. There was no goodbye. Just a few days before his death, Ryan had called to tell me his wife was pregnant. He was so happy. Then he was gone. I regretted that I hadn’t told him more. I hadn’t told him how proud I was of him. I didn’t say how much of an inspiration he was to others—and the Teamguys—around him. There was no going back. Only memories to relive.
    Ryan was the beginning of a cycle. There would be more phone calls and bad news. More anger and memories, and more of the feeling that I am always connected to the brotherhood, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve worn the uniform. Pat Feeks. Nick Checque. Matt Leathers. Tim Martin. The list goes on. Each time the loss brings me back.
    And now Chris had left us just as suddenly as Biggles and the others, with nothing but memories to relive.
    Each time, the news incites the same rage. The rage is not directed toward any individual, but rage that the world lost a favored son. The memories I had of these individuals strengthen this claim. These were giants among men, and they will no longer walk among us. I feel sorrow for the future that will not know them. I felt the rage boil in me when I thought about Chris.
    I downed the last of my bourbon. There is only one place to go when you lose a close friend. A Teammate. A brother. You have to go back. My time in the Teams constantly intersects with the present. It is unavoidable. Each time I suffer a loss, I go back to better times when I knew him living. I go back to the genesis—the beginning of my Frogman days. There is comfort in this journey. It takes me back to the brotherhood, to the blood, the sweat, and the tears endured to earn the beloved burden. It helps me not to lament the passing of a Teammate, but rather to relish in the luxury I was afforded to live and fight next to him.
    Many people search their entire lives for meaning or for a single memorable experience. My time in the Teams with the Punishers, with Chris, was my holy grail.
    I slid my glass to the side and opened a file on the computer. I stared at the picture of Chris and me at our 2007 awards ceremony. A wave of energy shot through my veins. We had all gone to Danny’s Island Bar for the drink-up afterward. My dad had been there, along with Lindsey, Momma Lee, and the hundred or so Frogmen from Team THREE. I laughed out loud as I remembered catching my dad’s eye at the bar. We had captured some unsuspecting BUD/S trainees and voluntold them to participate in some “team-building” exercises. I let my mind drift to the following drink-up and after party at Ty Woods’s bar, the Far East Rock. The memories were clear. They would always be clear. I smiled as I thought about my progression as a Frog.
    I opened a CD case and put on my platoon’s video from 2006. I used to watch it religiously after I got out of the Teams, but as the years had gone by the frequency had decreased. Tonight, it felt right to