But I did live my dream, and then some, and I guess I’ll be asked many times whether it had all been worth it in the end. And my answer will always be the same one I gave so often on my first day.

“Affirmative, sir.” Because I came through it, and I have my memories, and I wouldn’t have traded any of it, not for the whole world. I’m a United States Navy SEAL.

Epilogue: Lone Star

On September 13, 2005, Danny Dietz and Matthew Axelson were awarded the highest honor which either the United States Navy or the Marine Corps can bestow on anyone — the Navy Cross for combat heroism. I was summoned to the White House to receive mine on July 18 the following year.

I was accompanied by my brothers, Morgan and Scottie, my mom and dad, and my close friend Abbie. SEAL Team 5’s Commander Lenway and Master Chief Pete Naschek were also there, with Lieutenant Drexler, Admiral Maguire’s aide.

Attired in full dress blues, my new Purple Heart pinned on my chest, close to my Trident, I walked into the Oval Office. The president of the United States, George W. Bush, stood up to greet me.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” I said.

And the president gave me that little smile of his, which I took to mean, We’re both Texans, right? And he said, a little bit knowingly, “It’s my pleasure to meet you, son.”

He looked at the cast on my left wrist, and I told him, “I’m just trying to get back into the fight, sir.”

I shook his hand, and he had a powerful handshake. And he looked me right in the eye with a hard, steady gaze. Last time anyone looked at me like that was Ben Sharmak in Afghanistan. But that was born of hatred. This was a look between comrades.

Our handshake was prolonged and, for me, profound. This was my commander in chief, and right now I had his total attention, as I would have every time he spoke to me. President Bush does that naturally, speaking as if there is no one else in the room for him. This was one powerful man.

I remember I wanted to tell him how all my buddies love him, believe in him, and that we’re out there ready to bust our asses for him anytime he needs us. But he knows that. He’s our guy. Even Shane in his leopard-skin coat recognized our C in C as “a real dude.”

President Bush seemed to know what I was thinking. And he slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Thank you, Marcus. I’m proud of you, son.”

I have no words to describe what that meant to me, how much it all mattered. I came to attention, and Lieutenant Drexler read out my citation. And the president once more came toward me. In his hand he carried the fabled Navy Cross, with its dark blue ribbon that’s slashed down the center by a white stripe, signifying selflessness.

The cross itself features a navy ship surrounded by a wreath. The president pinned it directly below my Trident. And he said again, “Marcus, I’m very proud of you. And I really like the SEALs.”

Again I thanked him. And then he saw me glance at his desk, and on it was the battle patch I’d asked Admiral Mullin to present to him. The president grinned and said, “Remember this?”

“Yessir.” Did I ever remember it. I’d hidden that baby in my Afghan trousers, just to make sure those Taliban bastards didn’t get it. And now here it was again, right on the desk of the president of the United States, the Lone Star of Texas, battle worn but still there.

We talked privately for a few minutes, and it was clear to me, President Bush knew all about the firefight on Murphy’s Ridge. And indeed how I had managed to get out of there.

At the end of our chat, I reached over and picked up the patch, just for old times’ sake. And the president suddenly said, in that rich Texan accent, “Now you put that down, boy! That doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

We both laughed, and he told me my former battle patch was going to his future museum. As I left the Oval Office he told me, “Anything you need, Marcus. That’s anything. You call me right here, on that phone, understand?”

“Yessir.” And it still felt to me like two Texans meeting for the first time. One of ’em kinda paternal, understanding. The other absolutely awestruck in the presence of a very great United States president, and my commander in chief.

Afterword

by Patrick Robinson

In the fall of 2006, Marcus Luttrell was redeployed with SEAL Team 5 in Iraq. At 0900 on Friday, October 6, thirty-six of them took off in a military Boeing C-17 from North Air Station, Coronado, bound for Ar Ramadi, the U.S. base which lies sixty miles west of Baghdad — a notorious trouble spot, of course. That’s why the SEALs were going.

The fact that the navy had deployed their wounded, decorated hero of the Afghan mountains was a considerable surprise to many people, most of whom thought he would leave SPECWARCOM for the less dangerous life of a civilian. Because even after more than a year, his back was still painful, his battered wrist was less than perfect, and he still suffered from that confounded Afghan stomach bug he had contracted from the Pepsi bottle.

But the deployment of Marcus Luttrell was a personal matter. He alone called the shots, not the navy. His contract with the SEALs still had many months to run, and there was no way he was going to quit. I think we mentioned, there ain’t no quit in him. Marcus wanted to stay, to fulfill his new obligations as leading petty officer (Alfa Platoon), a position which carries heavy responsibilities.

To me, he said, “I don’t want my guys to go without me. Because if anything happened to them and I wasn’t there, I guess I would not forgive myself.”

And so Marcus Luttrell went back to war. The C-17 was packed with all the worldly goods of SEAL Team 5, from machine guns to hand grenades. On board the flight was Petty Officer Morgan Luttrell (Bravo Platoon), a new posting not absolutely guaranteed to delight their mother.

Marcus had a new patch on his chest, identical to the one on the president’s desk in the Oval Office. “That’s who I’m fighting for, boy,” he told me. “My country, and the Lone Star State.”

The last words to me from this consummate Navy SEAL were “I’m outta here with my guys for a few months. God help the enemy, and God bless Texas.”

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to my coauthor, Patrick Robinson, whose admiration and respect for the SEALs is reflected in so many of his novels. He understood I had made a solemn, private vow to the guys that I would somehow get out and relate the story of their gallantry and unending courage. Patrick made this possible, beyond my hopes. I could not possibly have done it without him.

I also owe thanks to the senior commanders of SPECWAR-COM, who granted me permission to tell my story: in particular to Admiral Joe Maguire; to our judge advocate general, Captain Jo King; and to Captain Barbara Ford, who helped me through the network of naval administration prior to publication.

My skipper in SEAL Team 5, Commander Rico Lenway, and Master Chief Pete Naschek unfailingly understood my requests for latitude during the long process of writing the book. As their leading petty officer (Alfa Platoon) I owe them my thanks, not only for their cooperation but also for their certainty that the story of the guys on the mountain should be made public.

I would also like to express my appreciation to ex–Navy SEAL Dick Couch, author of the excellent book The Warrior Elite, the story of the training of BUD/S Class 228. I, of course, was there and appear in his book from time to time, but I referred to Captain Couch’s well-kept log of events for accurate times, dates, sequences, and rate of dropouts. I had notes, but not as good as his, and I’m grateful.