You picked this book up for dive-inspiration before your Sipadan'19 trip, and it. was. amazing. If one is an aspiring BUD/S trainee wanting an idea of the pain ahead of them, a rebel army trying to train their special forces more professionally than from watching YT videos of Russians shooting stuff with ridiculously overpowered rifles, or a sloth like you trying to shame yourself into waking up at 9am and doing 10 pushups to earn that 10 pancake breakfast, this book will do the job for 2 of them, and for approximately 2 days for one of you.
It was a sobering moment you discovered the famous and expected crux of the book, Hell Week, was basically step 1. At the end of the book is a list of collected wise witticisms as Dick delivers his commencement speech, saying 'the only easy day was yesterday', and that is a common theme through your experience of this book. Hell Week was laid out in all its gory masochism and, wouldn't you know it, hellishness, that after the chapter ended you needed to eat a large meal and take a well-deserved nap. The idea that Hell Week was 'secured' and the trainees proceeded to 'Phase...ONE' was galling for you, and at no point did you wonder why people were DOR'ing at various stages. The intensity of training never lets up, and makes you remark at just how far from that level of durability your mind currently is. An average of 3hrs sleep over the better part of a year, following which they are ready to... join the actual SEAL training. You reflect on the near certainty of crying and quitting after the alarm clock rang on day 1.
You loved the idea of Hell Week being not just about surviving but performing. They were constantly giving it their all to win the races, not just get through the exercise. Leaders were given the activity and had to brief their teams efficiently and approach the problem cerebrally. Eventually your dive trip finished by the time you got to the diving section, which was utterly terrifying and humbling for you as you complained about a little occasional fog developing on your mask and stressing you out as you incompetently tried to clear it underwater in pristine conditions. The dive test in the pool was terrifying to read and incredible to equate to your own diving comfort inadequacies given that half of those trainees had never dived in their lives.
Clippings
Kim had to drag his useless arm through the water; the other wounded had to swim as best they could. But SEALs prepare for this. In BUD/S training, the trainees are bound, hands and feet, and made to swim this way. They call it drown proofing.
In World War II and Korea and Vietnam, a young frogman or SEAL could find himself in a firefight after three or four months of training. Today, it takes more than thirty months to train a Navy SEAL.
Officers at BUD/S have a lower dropout rate than enlisted men. They tend to be older and, as a group, better educated. Because of the highly competitive selection process at Annapolis, they have a history of success in training.
Next to Hell Week, the first week of First Phase causes the greatest percentage of attrition. It's as if some of the trainees simply wanted to get to First Phase before they DOR.
“You will have thirty seconds to brief your crews. Go!” Taylor gives boat leaders a few extra seconds to plot strategy and fire up their crews. His surf evolutions are clever; the crews have to follow directions as well as pull together to win a surf race.
Many blacks who come to BUD/S, like Williams, are men with a heavy muscle mass. They tend to sink like a stone. With hands and feet bound, BUD/S trainees must travel several lengths of the pool and tread water for a period of time. Then, after executing an underwater somersault, they have to “swim” or wriggle to the bottom and retrieve their face mask in their teeth.
Some of them seem totally baffled by the idea of making a choice; others drift off in the middle of a sentence. “Okay, if that's the way you want it—door three. We'll go get wet and sandy, carry the boats through the O-course, and then do surf passage.” The assembled students accept the verdict like a death sentence. But none question it.
There was a time at BUD/S in the early 1970s when Hell Week was discontinued. The Vietnam War demanded a higher output of young men for the SEAL teams, so, in a top-down move, the Navy canceled Hell Week.
Water that cold is devastating; you go from miserable to numb very quickly. We were never in for more than a few minutes at a time; immersions were quick and very painful. I'm not so sure that twenty minutes at sixty degrees is any easier than two minutes at thirty-two degrees.
Today's BUD/S students are clearly stronger and more athletic than those in the past. It's obvious that many who arrive at BUD/S have logged more than a few hours in the weight room. But life in these United States is good—and often soft. On balance, the feel-good generation may be less prepared mentally for the crucible of BUD/S than their predecessors.
“Most guys with law degrees just want to be lawyers,” he told me. “They don't really, and I mean really, want to practice law.” I think it's the same with BUD/S trainees. A lot of them would like to call themselves SEALs, but perhaps not so many of them are prepared to do the work of Navy SEALs.
First, small men seem to get through the training easier and in larger numbers than big men. The second, almost a third of the men who began with Class 228 had tattoos. All but a very few of these trainees were gone by the end of Hell Week. Many young people get tattoos because they yield to peer pressure, or because they lack self-confidence or a strong personal identity. These are not traits I saw in the men who finished Hell Week.
In small groups, they are taken down to sixty feet in the recompression chamber, where they breathe pure oxygen. A small percentage of the population has a toxic reaction to oxygen under pressure. The men of Class 228 come through just fine.
BUD/S instructors, who are all enlisted men, lean heavier on their officer trainees. They know officers who leave BUD/S get treated much differently than enlisted men.
free-swimming ascents, or FSAs are taught so that in the event a SEAL should ever have to abandon his diving rig while on a mission, he can do so and safely get to the surface.
In the early 1960s, single-hose regulators replaced the two-hose models because they were simpler, safer, and easier to maintain. Only in BUD/S training do they still teach open-circuit scuba with the old double-hose equipment. There's a good reason for this. Next week the trainees will transition to the Draeger Lar V closed-circuit diving rig. Two hoses are required for closed-circuit operation.
Once in the water, they practice taking off all their gear and arranging it on the bottom of the pool. The last item to come off is the face mask. Then they secure all the gear with their weight belt and make an FSA to the surface. When a trainee signals he is ready to go to the surface, his instructor will swim down and tap him twice on the back of the head. The student diver then secures his air, kisses the bottom of the pool, and, while maintaining a steady exhalation,
The afternoon's diving evolution is equipment ditch and don—at night. For this evolution they do the same thing they did in the morning dive, only this time they use blacked-out face masks. Everything is by feel. It's a matter of confidence and familiarity. Seaman Marc Luttrell, the class corpsman, has trouble with the morning evolution. It takes him several tries to properly ditch and don his equipment. Back in the pool that afternoon, he does it perfectly the first time—in the dark.
But we want you to crawl—no standing. If you stand up, it tells us that you are panicky and you flunk the dive.”
First thing, release the mouthpiece and extend the hoses over your head—let it free flow.”Next trace the hoses from the horns to the mouthpiece.”“Next, bite the bubble and clear the mouthpiece.” Shaffer, holding the mouthpiece down, rotates it toward his chin and puts it in his mouth. Then he tilts his head to the left, in the direction of the exhalation hose, and blows.“Check air supply and reserve.” “Correct.” Shaffer reaches behind his head and turns his air valve fully counterclockwise and back a quarter turn. Then he checks to see that his reserve J-valve is in the up position.“Trace the straps, check for twists in the straps, and that all quick-releases have three-finger loops.”“Make sure the weight belt is over all tank straps and that the release buckle pulls to the right-hand side.” “When the mouthpiece over your head is free flowing, the air is on and your inhalation hose is working. So where is the kink? Probably in your exhalation hose, right? If the regulator is not free-flowing, you have a problem with the inhalation hose or the air is not turned on. Remember, if you can inhale, but can't exhale, you're okay. Just breathe out through your nose, complete your dive supe check, and fix the problem.
Class 228 splashes back into the pool. They begin to tread water while keeping their hands above the surface. With twelve pounds of lead around their waists and the dual tanks on their backs, they kick furiously to keep their heads above the surface and their hands visible. “Five minutes, that's all we ask. Gut it out for five minutes
Instructor John Surmont immediately pulls off his fins and face mask and delivers them to the side of the pool. Moments later, Surmont swoops down behind 228's class leader and grabs his feet. He tumbles him violently and almost carries him out of the lane. Then he cranks Gallagher's air valve almost off—not quite, but almost. Surmont returns to the surface for a bite of air. By the time Gallagher gets to his knees and begins a dive supe check, the instructor is on him again. This time he grabs his student's exhalation hose and turns his air fully off. Gallagher can neither breathe in nor out. He releases his mouthpiece and begins to trace his hoses from the regulator. He finds Surmont's hand on his left hose and taps it twice. Tracing back from his mouthpiece, he again double-taps the hand on the hose. Then he finds his air valve and cranks it on. Gallagher manages only a few breaths in and out when he finds he again can't exhale. But he can breathe in. Exhaling through his nose, he begins a dive supe check, twice double-tapping the hand crimping his exhalation hose. Then he completes his dive supe check without interruption. He begins crawling along his lane, waiting for the next assault. Bill Gallagher knows John Surmont is above him planning his next attack. He doesn't have to wait long. On his first pass, Surmont again turns Gallagher's air nearly off and gives him a good tumble. The next time down, he grabs the mouthpiece, allowing Gallagher a full breath before he pulls it from his mouth. Gallagher braces himself on all fours, like a cow being milked, while Surmont fully secures his air and pulls the regulator hoses through the manifold yoke and back up over the air valve. He gives Gallagher a good shove and heads for the surface. Snorkeling above, he watches as Gallagher goes to work. His dive supe check is short-lived. Reaching back, he finds the horns of his regulator, but the hoses will not budge. Gallagher drops his weight belt, draping it across the back of his knees. Then he methodically pulls the three quick-release straps and brings the twin 80s over his head. With the bottles in front of him, he is able to free the tangled hoses and turn on his air. After a few sweet breaths, he reseats the tanks on his back and begins to strap them on. As he goes for the weight belt, suddenly he can't breathe. He hesitates, but only for a second. He releases the mouthpiece and starts to trace his hoses, finding Surmont's hand clinched on his right hose. Two double-taps later he is breathing normally. Strapping on the weight belt, Gallagher again starts through his dive supe check. He does not get far. Again, there is a hand on his mouthpiece. Surmont allows him to draw a single deep breath—his last for awhile. Bill Gallagher waits while John Surmont works. Another shove and it's Gallagher's turn. As before, he can't breathe and he can't find his hoses. Off come the tanks. This time the hoses are rubber-banded around the manifold yoke in a Gordian knot. Gallagher knows he'll not solve this one on the air he has left, but he makes a show of it. Quickly, he steals a glance at the surface. There are several instructors milling above him. He is vaguely aware of a fellow student being tossed about to his left. That's enough; no way it's gonna come loose! Time to ditch this rig. Gallagher signals for an FSA and goes back to work, just maybe, if I can find a loop in the hose … There it is; the two taps on the back of the head. I'm outta here! Gallagher quickly drags his weight belt from the back of his legs and lays it across the tank. He tries to find the tank valve to secure the air, but it is buried under the tangle of rubber. Outta here! He kisses the bottom of the pool and begins blowing bubbles. An instant later, Surmont takes a handful of his shirt from the middle of his shoulder blades and guides him to the surface. “I feel fine!” “Again!” “I feel fine!”
The Draeger is the current edition of a long line of combat swimmer scubas, tracing its lineage back to crude British and Italian models developed during World War II. The diver breathes pure oxygen and his exhalation gas is sent through a canister that scrubs away the carbon dioxide. Additional oxygen is added to the breathing gas as needed. The theory of the oxygen rebreather has changed little over the past five decades, but the design and safety of these scubas have undergone considerable refinement. The Draeger is a light, compact rig worn on the diver's chest. There are no bubbles; with it, a combat swimmer has up to six hours of underwater time to complete his mission.
It is a shallow-water scuba; divers using the Draeger are restricted to a working depth of thirty feet. Below two atmospheres of pressure—pressures found below the thirty-two-foot depth— pure oxygen can become toxic.
This surface swimming with Draegers is called turtlebacking. Combat swimmers often turtleback on the surface at night as they approach a harbor and submerge to make their attack. Owens and Gallagher swim like this for close to a thousand yards. As they approach McKendry in the dive supe boat, they execute an emergency dive. This simulates the sudden arrival of a patrol boat or searchlight, and they have to get under quickly. The swim pair drops below the surface, turns on the oxygen to their Draegers, and begins their purge procedures. This replaces the air in their lungs with pure oxygen. Finally they get their face masks in place and are ready to continue.
Third Phase training is divided into two segments—training at the Center and training on San Clemente Island. During the first five weeks of Third Phase, they will be at the Center. This includes four days of training at La Posta for land navigation and four days at Camp Pendleton on the shooting ranges. They will then fly to San Clemente Island for more tactics, more shooting, demolitions, and the field training exercises.
Waterproofing a nonelectric firing assembly is a technical and highly evolved procedure. During World War II, the Navy expended no small amount of time and money to develop a reliable, waterproof firing assembly. None of them worked. The early frogmen solved the problem on the job: waterproof neoprene cement and condoms—two condoms for extra protection from the saltwater.
‘The only easy day was yesterday.’
I personally have come to believe the single trait that will get a man through BUD/S is the will to win. The desire to win is different from refusing to lose, or not quitting.
Realize that what you do and what you tolerate in your presence demonstrate your standards far more than what you say.
The qualities that make for a good SEAL leader also make them prized by business. Young ex-SEAL platoon officers often find themselves working half the hours for twice the pay, and they get to be with their families at night. But they pay a price for these opportunities in the business world and the potential for affluence: They are no longer warriors, and they will never again lead other warriors in harm's way. As one former platoon officer put it, “The money's there but not the rush. God help me, but I do miss it.”
More than half of what makes a Navy SEAL special is his commute to the job site. It's a tough commute—through the air, under the sea, or across the land.
$1 million per SEAL, deployed and ready to go, calls to mind an interesting analogy. Cruise missiles cost about $1 million dollars each.
The number of policy makers today who understand the culture of the military is less than it was several decades ago. And that number is shrinking. I believe this applies as well to the media and those who report on military affairs.
I suspect that these men do in fact have a very real pride in serving their country, but that was not why they volunteered for BUD/S. To one degree or another, they are simply talented, determined, motivated young men who were looking for a yardstick by which to measure themselves. So the question remains, do our armed forces need the conspicuous support of a grateful nation?
The gain in gender equality would come at a tremendous cost in operational effectiveness, and ultimately, in human lives. SEALs live and work together for long periods of time under some very basic and demanding conditions. I feel the inclusion of women would adversely alter the chemistry that is so vital to the teamwork of a combat-effective SEAL platoon.