And that riled him. Most important, we let him rest. We knew what we were coming for. "The One" is US Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell who's book, "Lone Survivor - The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10", is out tomorrow, June 12th. In these drills, we pushed our aggression levels to the limit. It's one of the noisiest aircraft in the stratosphere, a big, echoing, steel cave speci?cally designed to carry heavy-duty freight - not sensitive, delicate, poetic conver­sationalists such as ourselves. You could always tell who the lowest-ranking guy in the room was, because he had cleanup. But we knew what to look for, and we would most certainly have recognized it if we had found it. Same thing, right? “I’m with Five,” I offered. Once our leadership put the brakes on that, though, things went back to normal: team first, personal issues later. “Hey, mijo,” he said, using his nickname for me—meaning “baby boy” in Spanish. Fuggeddaboutit.". Previous to Morgan's current city of Magnolia, TX, Morgan Luttrell lived in Virginia Beach VA and Arlington VA. I’d find myself feeling as though Operation Redwing hadn’t actually happened, that it was a story I had read somewhere. this lot's gotta go. My brother rolled that brand-new Tahoe three times before it finally came to rest. Sometimes they trapped us so well that there was nothing left to do but dismount and shoot it out, the instructors closing in, guns blazing. But still unusually warm for a group of Americans in springtime, even for a Texan like me. When we heard the laughter start, Boss took advantage of the diversion to throw on some borrowed lab coats, heave Morgan into his wheelchair, and roll him right out of his room. We came in low over the lake in our MH-47 Chinook helicopter and suddenly we spotted the tail of an aircraft jutting out of the water. It was one week after the U.S. forces launched their opening bombardment against the city, trying to nail Saddam before the war really started. Fired on from the rooftops, watching for car bombs, we learned to ?ght like terrorists, night after night, moving like wild animals through the streets and villages. Marcus Luttrell, left, with the actor Mark Wahlberg in 2013 at a screening of “Lone Survivor,” the movie based on Mr. Luttrell’s book of the same name. I should have known better. No complacency. Our job was to get our valuable cargo out of harm’s way. They are an absolute must for any combat unit heading off to war. In the No. “Got any advice before we head downrange?”. Axe was a quiet man, six foot four, with piercing blue eyes and curly hair. The Skipper’s right-hand man was every bit as important and influential—his command master chief. You must ?ght like him, or he will surely kill you. My right hand was still in a cast. On June 27, 2005, near a mountain peak in the Hindu Kush, almost two miles above sea level, our four-man recon team had gone out on a mission to kill or capture a senior Taliban leader. Within a few short hours the Gulf of Mexico was disappearing behind us. We loaded and stowed our essential equipment: heavy weaps (machine guns), M4 ri?es, SIG-Sauer 9mm pistols, pigstickers (combat knives), ammunition belts, grenades, medical and com­munication gear. Then the helicopter crashed into the ship, steel on heavier steel, and rocked over onto its side. des Iraks. He and Morgan were swim buddies together in SEAL training, went through Sniper School together. Blinded by the smoke and with a fractured back, he struggled away from the inferno. There were times when it all seemed to grow calmer, and then on July 4, a taped voice, which al-Jazeera television said was Sad-dam, urged everyone to join the resistance and ?ght the U.S. occupation to the death. It was two tough weeks, but a great training exercise, with all the bells and whistles. It's not quite, Hey, hey, hey . He was right. A solid operator and a hellacious gunfighter, he’s been at my side through nearly my entire career. I sensed they were sending a message that they wanted me to raise my game as a leader and invest myself in the team. Team 1, a West Coast outfit, has been called Stalag 1 for its tradition of severe discipline. That Iraqi president was one wily devil, ducking and diving between his thirteen palaces, evading cap­ture, making tape recordings, urging the dregs of his armed forces to keep killing us, encouraging the insurgents to continue the war against the great Satan (that's us). When things slowed down, the rage and feelings of futility would sometimes well up in the face of the reality that there was nothing I could have done. And he loved us all with equal passion, both big families, his wife and children, sisters, brothers, and parents, and the even bigger one hitherto based on the island of Bahrain. No matter how many we ran to ground, there were always more. When he snapped an ankle in college and didn’t have the money for treatment, he just hopped around on that busted hoof for weeks because he had to go to class and keep working. My twin brother, Morgan, was his best friend. Remember, there is no other reason on this earth to want uranium-235 except to make an atom bomb. Members save with free shipping everyday! re blindly around a corner, aiming at nothing in particular, and end up killing three passing Iraqi civilians. Me, I put it all in the grace of the Lord. Those two teams have glorious battle histories going back more than fifty years, to the founding days of the teams during Vietnam. Concentrate. It was the most realistic mass-casualty simulation we had ever seen. A loyal friend and teammate, he and JT developed a bond so strong that JT joked to Amy, then Boss’s fiancée, that their wedding wouldn’t go through until the two SEALs were officially divorced. Skipper and the head-shed boys would locate in Fallujah, close to their higher headquarters, the I Marine Expeditionary Force (or I MEF). No matter how bad things got, we all stuck together. Workup was often a circus anyway, with everybody moving around all the time, missing various training blocks when opportunities for more important work came along. Make no mistake about it: my lost teammates are still part of me. Eventually it all went quiet, and I crawled out, unscathed. I followed him a few weeks later, rejoining our team at Pearl Harbor in August. Because everyone knows liberals have never been wrong about anything. Eine der am stärksten umkämpften Städte ... Ramadi, die Hauptstadt der vom Krieg zerrütteten al-Anbar- Provinz. Does a cowboy stop riding if he gets thrown off a horse? Over several weeks during my downtime, I went to Massachusetts and sat down with a writer and pulled together my part of the story. The SEALs who run a platoon—the officer in charge (OIC), the assistant officer in charge (AOIC), the platoon chief, and the LPO—are objects of constant scrutiny. I'll never for­get it. Summary: Morgan Luttrell is 44 years old and was born on 11/07/1975. He told us a story about a training dive he had done in the muddy waters of the Persian Gulf. We already had the big picture of how U.S. forces were taking on that city. He was usually not that dif?cult to ?nd. But it was not long before we began to hear of an out?t called al Qaeda in Iraq, a malicious terrorist group trying to cause mayhem at every conceivable opportunity, led by the deranged Jordanian killer Abu Musab al-Zarqawi (now deceased). We’ve smelled the shitty air in Iraq and felt our lungs burn in the Hindu Kush. This was easily the most fun I’ve had in the teams. The Navy seemed unmoved until the media started doing its thing. And when we reached our objective, we'd either go in with sledgehammers and a hooley - that's a kind of a crowbar that will rip a door right off its hinges - or we'd wrap the demo around the lock and blast that sucker straight in. Learn how to enable JavaScript on your browser. I sensed the change in my status the first time I walked into the platoon hut and noticed how the boys quickly hushed up. Our friendship didn’t move him to cut us any slack, however. How about when a bunch of guys wearing colored towels around their heads and brandishing AK-47s come charging over the horizon straight toward you? You can ask them. There are those military of?cers who might have consid­ered merely capturing the dump and con? Someone’s always getting jacked up. I’ve come close to losing my life more than once. We banked out over the Gulf of Bahrain and made a long, left-hand swing onto our easterly course. And we knew where we were going: right up there to the high peaks of the Hindu Kush, those same mountains where bin Laden might still be and where his new bands of disciples were still hiding. Most of those big military coups, like the elimination of Saddam's sons and the capture of Saddam himself, were the result of military intel. We planted our own explosives in the building and then deferred to our EOD guy (explosive ordnance disposal). The guys who traveled from Bahrain with me were remarkably diverse, even by SEAL standards. He put my life in the hands of a doctor from that tribe, Sarawa, and the village elder’s son, Gulab, who guarded and sheltered me for four days until my brothers in arms came for me, as they always do for one of their own. He had only one sibling, an older sister, but he had about three hundred cousins, every one of whom he was sworn to protect. Men like Skipper and Master Chief did me the greatest favor possible: they put me in a platoon as a regular frontline operator and demanded that I be treated as anyone else would be. After it was over, I noticed that I’d have to get it changed as soon as we got back to the Strand. Took me a while to get used to the fact I had an assistant who was d**n near as sharp as Matt Axelson. The guys never said anything out loud, but I’m sure that all the outside attention affected the platoon as a whole. We'd sometimes go out on patrol every day for weeks, and there seems to be no time to shower and no point in showering when you're likely to be up to your armpits in swamp water a few hours later. Each of the six of us in that aircraft en route to Afghanistan had constantly in the back of our minds the ever-intrusive rules of engagement. That's what they taught us. The platoons need that time to sharpen their skill sets and allow that all-important chemistry to develop. Everyone's got to have his little hands in it, blathering on about the public's right to know. If I hit them, I failed. We’ve fought as a team all our lives—and we grew up fighting, from grade school through college. The EOD maestro was standing right next to me. Every time. SEALs are masters of strategy, professional marksmen with ri?es, artists with machine guns, and, if necessary, pretty handy with knives. We were and always have been a damn good team. Every team has its own reputation. Elliott Miller, a Bravo Platoon medic, was spot-on as he went around with me, triaging the wounded. It was a test of sight recognition, nerves, and reflexes. And he simply would not tolerate any other high-ranking of?cer, commissioned or noncommissioned, reaming out one of his guys. However, in the room downstairs, where the Iraqis were by now in surrender mode, we'd look for the ringleader, the guy who knew where the explosives were stored, the guy who had access to the bomb-making kit or the weapons that would be aimed straight at American soldiers. From there, the news traveled fast. We stayed well clear of those places. I’d hardly been home three weeks when Morgan got orders to rejoin SDVT-1 in Hawaii. Ever. We'd go in fast, driving into the most dangerous districts in the city, scream­ing through the streets in Humvees, or even fast-roping in from helicopters if necessary. Exhausted from the bone-crushing pain, I’d suddenly feel the slash of shrapnel and the burn in my lungs, the labors of a body under assault in thin air. My shooting hand was busted up so bad that the finest handiwork of the Navy surgeons who had pieced it together with metal bars and transplanted tendons hadn’t restored its full range of motion—and it hasn’t come back to this day. As the LPO in Alfa Platoon (E-6 pay grade), I did more than I ever did as a regular shooter, running and gunning with the rest of the E-5s (second-class petty officers) in the train. On one such night I was almost killed. Javascript is not enabled in your browser. If not the actual guys, then their blood brothers, the luna­tics who still wished us dead and might try it again. In the teams, you’re an old man at thirty-five. His parents owned a ranch in Houston, where he grew up with his brother. We needed all our skill, moving up to the corner blocks, opening ?re out there in the night as we rounded these strange, dark, foreign street junctions. Almost everyone loves the survival films; not to forget the ‘Lone Survivor‘ based on the non-fiction book by Marcus Luttrell. If there's a ? When all hell breaks loose and people start falling, God becomes priority number one. I considered this as the docs probed his wound. Amplifying ambient light from the stars or the moon, NVGs cast the night in a glowing green. In the worst of conditions, the legacy of my teammates steadies my resolve and silently guides my every deed. We’ve leaned on each other in good times and in bad. But that would have taken us over the dubious southern up­lands of the Islamic Republic of Iran, and we do not do that. But it didn't sport the Rangers logo. We wore helmets, face masks, and protection for sensitive parts, but the instructors took the air bags out of our vehicles, because they just got in the way. The black ?ags worked. The author seeks to explain the honor of military service to the vast majority of readers who have never experienced it. He always took the hit himself. He might even cut your throat if he had a chance. As I tended to my wounds and took refuge from the enemy, who was scouring the hills in search of us, a Chinook helicopter, unbeknownst to me, was inbound to our rescue. Locally, in Ramadi, our operations would be conducted under a U.S. Army brigade that reported to General Zilmer’s headquarters. In this dry run for taking on Iraq, we worked through our concept of operations, the whole counterinsurgency scenario. I think of the soldiers and U.S. Marines we fought side by side with, the point men and breachers, the bomb techs, the JTACs, intel guys, pilots and other augmentees, the doctors and medics, support platoons, and all the others. Finally I saw him splashing through the water about four hundred yards offshore. SEALs react somewhat differently and generally look for a faster solution. In Baghdad we were up against an enemy we often could not see and were obliged to get out there and ?nd. I'll say one thing. Somebody, someone from their own side, shopped them, as they had shopped hundreds of oth­ers. His pale face turned my way and he looked at me with weary eyes. "—Kirkus Reviews, "Marcus Luttrell, with James D. Hornfischer, has written another emotional story that the reader will not want to put down.". Because we played it by the book. I’m still here only because of things JJ has done. Now that I was an LPO for an entire platoon, things were getting serious. He told him what was working and what wasn’t in the struggle to rid the area of Al Qaeda’s murder squads. Seemed ?tting. He lives near Houston, Texas. That’s pretty much all the interview you need.” She was offering him money as he hung up the phone, and she promptly went on the air anyway, making up a few things for her story. An unknown distance farther ahead, some orange traffic cones stood in my path. Jumping out of airplanes and locking out of submarines is pretty cool, but let me be the first to tell you: 90 percent of the time, all we’re doing is working from sunup to sundown, wearing our asses out practicing, practicing, practicing. I can say from ?rsthand experience that those rules of engage­ment cost the lives of three of the ?nest U.S. Navy SEALs who have ever served. When these guys go after an American, they usually ? During workup, we spent several weeks at a military and police marksmanship school. The best result we found for your search is Morgan J Luttrell age 40s in Magnolia, TX in the Indigo Lake Estates neighborhood. Martial-arts tournaments. Operation Homebound was a success. Street fights. Thinking outside the box—Bravo Zulu, guys. I remember it like it was yesterday, some­one pulling open the door to our barracks room, the light spill­ing out into the warm, dark night of Bahrain, this strange desert kingdom, which is joined to Saudi Arabia by the two-mile-long King Fahd Causeway. The SEAL team was made up of Luttrell, Michael P. Murphy, Danny Dietz and Matthew Axelson. They will never be forgotten. 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