No one quits the Training Team.
Well, that’s not quite true—I’m sure it happens occasionally. But for the most part, a SEAL who is offered a chance to screen for Team (redacted)—in a demanding six-month process during which he will be part of an elite training unit—will not withdraw of his own volition. BUD/S is comprised of many months of ceaseless physical and mental pressure; the vast majority of trainees simply aren’t up to the challenge, and they know it. They either don’t want it badly enough, or they can’t fight through the pain. Either way, the outcome is the same: they quit.
The Training Team is different. The training is physically intense and demanding, but focused as much on performance as misery. It’s all geared toward practical application of skills that will be used on deployment. The goal is not to force candidates to quit but rather to determine which ones are best suited to the job. And since everyone who joins the Training Team is already, by definition, pretty damn good at his job, with a minimum of two combat deployments as a SEAL on his résumé and a proven ability to endure the six-month suckfest that is BUD/S, the navy has to come up with other methods to thin the herd.
They do this through endless physical testing and performance evaluations during various forms of combat and survival training, as well as through psychological testing, all of which led to a Training Team attrition rate of roughly 50–60 percent. But at this level, guys don’t quit. They are simply asked to leave.
I joined the Training Team in the fall of 2007. Most of the training took place in Virginia, although some of our marksmanship training was held in Mississippi. For me, the hardest thing about the Training Team was knowing that I couldn’t simply will myself to the finish line. As in BUD/S, my generally low-key personality helped make it easier to withstand the constant shitstorm of abuse from instructors. The stress came from trying to achieve required scores and times in a variety of evolutions—and from not knowing whether I was considered an appropriate psychological fit. All I could do was work my ass off every day, try to maintain a good attitude, and hope I wouldn’t be asked to leave.
I never was.
At the end of six months, I graduated from the Training Team and became one of the youngest members of SEAL Team (redacted). Training Team graduates are assigned to one of four squadrons, each denoted by color. Regardless of a squadron’s particular reputation or area of expertise, it’s fair to say that every member of the team is, first and foremost, a fighter.
An operator.
Squadrons choose their new members in a mysterious process that resembles the NFL or NBA draft. Training Team graduates are assigned to a particular squadron based on that team’s openings and needs. Personality and fit can factor into the process, as well, with prior relationships sometimes playing a role. I would have been content with any assignment, but as it turned out, I was assigned to a squadron where I happened to have a couple of friends.
The best thing about going to Team (redacted)—and this was obvious from day one—was the increase in resources. Simply put, there was more money. By that, I don’t mean that we were paid better (there was a modest bump in salary, but I barely noticed it and didn’t care, anyway). I am referring to the fact that it was obviously a step up: I knew we’d be getting the plum assignments on deployment and going after the most important targets, but even at home in the States, while training, it was apparent that the team got almost anything it needed in terms of equipment and other resources. It was all first rate.
If there was a downside, it was simply that I went back to being low man on the totem pole, so to speak. The new guys from the Training Team got all the shit jobs and worked the longest hours. First to arrive, last to leave—which, by the way, is exactly as it should be. I got used to taking out the trash or cleaning up, carrying stuff nobody else wanted to carry during training exercises, and generally just doing whatever scut work I was assigned. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open.
Training provided endless opportunities for the new guys to find their niche, and then they would naturally gravitate toward concentrating on that specialty. Some guys liked skydiving, for example. Other guys liked sniper training or climbing.
I liked dogs.
I mean, I liked a lot of the other stuff, too, but I found myself drawn to the dogs, probably more out of curiosity than anything else.
The history of working dogs within the Navy SEALs can be traced back as far as the Vietnam War, although their use was not widely implemented until after the events of 9/11. Because of the nature of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, which frequently involved hidden explosive devices and targets embedded within civilian communities, it became apparent that specially trained MWDs, with their extraordinary sense of smell and ferocious prey drive, could be not just useful but invaluable. As a result, demand for the dogs worldwide soon outstripped availability, leading to an expansion of programs designed to train both dogs and handlers across a broad spectrum of military Special Operations.
Rather than simply acquire dogs from other sources, the SEALs began training their own dogs, much as the army had been doing for years. A small, fledgling program in Virginia, specifically designed to provide combat assault dogs for the elite SEAL team, had been in place for a couple of years by the time I arrived.
Although I had never seen MWDs utilized on deployment, my one interaction during that training exercise in Kentucky had left a strong impression; more so, I would guess, than it had on some of my teammates. There certainly wasn’t any animosity toward the canine program—indeed, the more people were exposed to it, the greater their appreciation. Still, a lot of guys weren’t particularly interested in a deeper involvement. But to be integrated into the ranks, the dogs had to become comfortable with their human counterparts, and we, as SEALs, had to be comfortable around them. As one of the new guys, I was a bigger part of this desensitization process than perhaps some of the more experienced members of the team.
It was all pretty basic stuff. We’d watch the handlers work with the dogs, then take a turn at moving them around—very gently, just guiding them through spaces. The dog would be passed from soldier to soldier. Sometimes, while we were doing shooting drills, the dogs would walk around us or weave through our legs. The idea was to simulate for them, as well as for us, the conditions of battle, so they would be comfortable around gunfire and explosions and respond positively to anyone in the unit. You didn’t want a dog freaking out and biting one of his own soldiers when the bullets started flying.
Everyone took a turn at this. Some guys merely tolerated it, while others, like me, found it fascinating. I wouldn’t say I had any intention of making a career out of being a dog handler—I was more interested in being a traditional operator—but I liked the look and temperament of the dogs, and I was curious about how they would perform in the field of battle.
The answer came during my next deployment in the spring and early summer of 2008. We were based in Kandahar, but ended up spending as much time out on operations as we did on the base. In just about every way imaginable, it was a very different experience from my two previous deployments with SEAL Team 4.
For one thing, the fighting was quite different. In Iraq, especially in Baghdad, we usually hopped in an armored vehicle and rode through the crowded city streets. In Afghanistan, our missions took us out into rural and mountainous regions, or to small villages, on an almost nightly basis.
Despite the mountainous terrain and the comparative lack of population density, it was a very busy deployment. This was, in part, because our team, by design, was kept very active with a seemingly never-ending stream of quality missions and high-value targets presenting themselves. We’d sleep until late morning or early afternoon. Then we’d eat a big breakfast or lunch, hit the gym to work out, and wait for a late-afternoon briefing, during which details of the next operation were revealed.
The rhythm and tempo of a deployment are usually established early, and this one was active from the beginning. We went out on missions four or five nights a week, usually with a couple of teams, each consisting of six or seven assaulters and roughly an equal number of support personnel. Sometimes we’d hit long stretches during which we would go out virtually every night.
Rarely were these excursions quiet and uneventful. We had solid intelligence behind us and the capability to neutralize targets with efficiency. In most cases, this meant fighting stealthily, in close quarters, to minimize the risk to both our own troops and Afghan civilians. It was dangerous, intense work, but this was what we had been trained to do, and I found it exhilarating and rewarding.
But here’s the strange thing: most of the time, I didn’t even get nervous before we went out on missions. It was a job, and I felt like I was completely prepared to do the job to the best of my ability. Sometimes we’d have to fly an hour and a half or more to reach our drop-off point for the evening mission. On the flight, some guys would listen to music, some guys would just think. Some guys would read by ChemLight. Talking was difficult because of the noise in the chopper. A surprising number of guys would fall asleep almost as soon as they climbed aboard. I was often one of them. I don’t share that as an illustration of toughness but merely as an example of the professionalism and temperament of the guys on the team. We approached it as though it were work, not a video game or an adventure.
If there was ever a temptation to become overconfident or complacent, something would happen to remind you of the stakes involved. Our squadron did not lose anyone on that deployment, but we were involved in one firefight, alongside a Ranger unit, in which one of the Rangers was killed by a squirter who had bedded down in an open field. Those were some of the most dangerous scenarios—when a target got out of a secured area and lay in wait, hidden by grass or trees. Usually, when that happened, the squirter became less a fighter than a suicide bomber. He knew he was going to die; he just wanted to take as many people with him as he could. All the training in the world won’t save you if you happen upon someone with a bomb or a grenade. Wrong place, wrong time.
In this regard, a military working dog was an exceptional asset.
We had two dogs embedded with us on that deployment. Their names were Falco and Balto. Night after night, I watched them do amazing work, catching or neutralizing one bad guy after another. There were virtually no restrictions on where we could take them. If we had to jump out of a helicopter while hovering fifty or a hundred feet above ground, the handler would hook the dog into his line and fast-rope with him. If we had to parachute in—which wasn’t common, but did happen—the dog would be placed in a harness and a large pouch attached to his handler, and the two of them would jump together. It was awesome to witness this, especially since the dogs always seemed so calm. Dogs instinctively do not like high, open spaces. For example, some dogs wash out of SEAL training because they freak out when climbing stairs. But just as SEAL candidates either overcome these sorts of phobias and deficiencies or find themselves dropping out of BUD/S, so, too, does the stock get thinned during canine training. The dogs who were deployed with SEALs in Afghanistan were the best of the best. They were genetically gifted and temperamentally suited to the assignment; whatever weaknesses they might have had were mostly trained out of them.
So, when it came time to jump, they jumped, or at least they were cradled without much fuss.
You had to see the dogs on a nightly basis to truly appreciate their contributions. It wasn’t just that Balto and Falco could sniff out explosive devices or run down a squirter before he had time to take out one of our team. They could also be sent into a building, where their movement could be tracked with cameras. This naturally made it possible for us to have a better idea of what we would see once inside, and it would minimize the likelihood of surprises. Not only would the dogs provide us with a clear picture of a structure, but they would also frequently find bad guys and either hold them at bay until we arrived, or literally start ripping them apart. Since the insurgents were generally reluctant to reveal their position, they would avoid shooting at the dogs unless absolutely necessary. Often, by the time they tried to fire, they already had a dog’s powerful muzzle wrapped around their arm or leg.
It always seemed to me that the bad guys feared our dogs more than they feared us. And maybe with good reason.
At first, I barely noticed the dogs. They were just sort of there, behaving appropriately, sometimes being used extensively and getting involved in the action and sometimes not. Then I started to pay closer attention, and I started to see the little things they did and how fiercely loyal and reliable they were. It was common to come back from a mission and sit around afterward and debrief casually over a few beers about what had gone down. We’d tell stories about shit that had happened, targets we’d eliminated, close calls, and the like. Invariably, someone would bring up one of the dogs.
“You see what Balto did out there, man?”
“No, I was on the other side of the compound. What happened?”
“Practically took a squirter’s arm off. Guy never had a chance.”
Sometimes the stories were more dramatic than mere rundowns. There was one time, for example, when a group of our guys were walking through a field, in a line. The dog was on the left end of the line, off lead, and actively following a scent. He was excited, which is usually a sign that a dog is onto something. This type of situation is ripe for the possibility of an ambush, so the dog’s handler gave a command to let him go. The dog sprinted down the line of men at full speed, from the far left to the far right, near a tree line. He stopped suddenly and tore into the ground in front of him. A human cry went out, loud and piercing. There was a flutter of grass and leaves and other debris as an insurgent popped up, with the dog still attached to his feet, and AK-47 in his hands.
They weren’t more than a few meters from our unit.
I was a good distance away from the engagement, so I didn’t see the way it ended, but there was no shortage of guys who wanted to talk about it afterward. As the dog ripped into his leg, the guy hesitated just long enough to present a close and easy target for our unit. He was shot and killed at close range, and the mission went on without incident and without any casualties on our side. But if not for the dog’s intervention, that encounter would have ended very differently. I don’t know how many of our people the insurgent might have taken out before he was killed, but the answer is definitely not zero. He had an automatic weapon, and he was close enough to have squeezed off a few quick and deadly rounds before we would have had time to react.
Sometimes, we’d say a dog saved our lives, and it was just a generally descriptive term for something he did that made our job easier. Other times, it was a literal description of what had transpired.
“That dog just saved my life!”
This particular incident fell into the second category.
More common were incidents in which one of the dogs would simply make our jobs easier by revealing a squirter’s position or running him down. When that happened, the handler would let the dog get in a few good bites, then recall the dog through his transmitter or by yelling to him. Once the dog safely returned, we could eliminate the squirter by tossing a grenade onto his position from a safe distance.
As the deployment went on, I came to realize that a dog saving someone’s life, in any number of ways, wasn’t that rare an occurrence. When you’re going out on operations practically every night, for four or five months, and coming in contact with the enemy on most of those missions, the close calls begin to add up.
I began to think of Balto and Falco as not just tools or weapons but as full-fledged members of the squadron. I began to think of them as members of our family.
I don’t mean to imply that the dogs did all the dirty work for us; they were additional tools in the box, albeit tools that were highly effective. They were so reliable, in fact, that sometimes we had to remind ourselves not to break protocol solely because of something the dog had done. For example, let’s say we were using the dogs to help clear a house. We might send one of the dogs in first to check things out. If the dog found nothing, that didn’t mean the house was empty or that a particular room was empty. They were not infallible, and sometimes they could be distracted by outside factors: strange noises or funky smells. Livestock, in particular, was an ongoing problem, since so many Afghan compounds were overrun with animals like dogs, goats, chickens, and so on.
If the dog returned from a house search having detected nothing, we followed suit, and while training and experience dictated that we proceed as if a dog had not even checked the place out—in other words, that every room might in fact be occupied by someone with a gun or explosives—I can’t deny that a clean search by Balto or Falco left me with just the slightest warm and fuzzy feeling. It didn’t change the way I did my job, but it was reassuring. Like I said, the dogs weren’t perfect, but they didn’t make a lot of mistakes.
A bigger risk was the possibility of getting so caught up in the dog’s performance that you might temporarily forget about your own job. Here’s the truth: it’s an absolutely amazing thing to see a dog attacking a bad guy, just effortlessly crushing someone who has a one-hundred-pound advantage. I’d been warned about this ahead of time; we all had.
“Don’t watch the dogs,” we were told. “I know it’s fun. I know it’s tempting. But it’s dangerous as hell. Do your job.”
More than once on that deployment, I caught a quick glimpse of a bad guy going down, shrieking at the top of his lungs as Balto or Falco ripped at his flesh. I never stopped working, but I might have taken a few seconds to admire the awesome display of power and violence. I mean, how could you not?
These dogs were fighting and tracking machines. They also could be cute as hell. Balto’s handler actually taught him how to open doors! Which was one hell of a trick but also freaked people out a bit. Some dogs were more affectionate than others—like humans, each had its own personality and temperament—but in general, they could be trusted to hang out with us when we got back from a mission. They were tools, yes. They were weapons. But they also were … dogs. If you were a dog guy like I am, you were predisposed to feeling affectionate toward them. And the fact that they were such loyal and reliable soldiers, as well, only served to strengthen the relationship.
Occasionally, if things unfolded just right, we might get more than a brief glimpse. There was a night early in the deployment, for instance, when we were working our way through a compound. We had gotten word that our target—a male—was hiding somewhere in the compound, so we slowly worked our way around the perimeter and through each building. Every mission was different, and while our intel was usually solid, we never knew what we might find once we were on the ground. We might be looking for a lone male in his thirties and discover a houseful of his friends, all armed to the teeth and willing to die for the cause. Or we might find absolutely nothing. Dry holes were common, but you had to treat every mission as if it could be deadly. You just never knew.
We all learned how to interview the locals, since the bad guys often were embedded within their homes. It wasn’t unusual for the locals to hate the insurgents—their existence complicated the locals’ lives and put them at risk—but fear played into the equation, as well. The locals were often so frightened of repercussions that they would not easily give up the position of a bad guy who might in fact be hiding right in their home. We learned to ask the right questions and discern fact from fiction, but it was a constant struggle. Some of the Afghans welcomed our presence. Some of them hated us almost as much, if not more, than they hated the insurgents.
We never knew who to trust, so in the end, we mainly trusted our instincts. Dogs were immensely helpful in that regard, since they couldn’t be bothered with extensive interviewing or logistical hand-wringing. Turn them loose and let them poke around. Sometimes the results were amazing. This particular night was one such instance. We slowly and methodically began clearing the compound, calling to the residents to come out of their rooms, most of which were doorless or otherwise open. At first, they all seemed to comply. One after another, the locals walked out into the center of the compound, hands up, offering no trouble or resistance, as we moved through the open courtyard. Near the end, a single doorway remained covered by a curtain.
We asked if anyone occupied the room. Several of the locals nodded affirmatively.
“Come out!” we yelled. (Although we almost always were accompanied by an interpreter, most of us had mastered a few important phrases or commands in Pashto: “Stop!” “Come out!” “Don’t be a fucking idiot!”)
No response.
Typically, we did not ask more than once. Refusal to comply usually indicated that the person inside the room was either the target we sought or a different bad guy. Either way, he was now officially considered dangerous. The next step would be an escalation of force: flash bombs, for example. Or …
“Come out now, or we send in the dog.”
Still no response. The team leader nodded at Frank, Falco’s handler. Frank unclipped the dog from his hip lead (a leash attached to the handler’s belt), and Falco bolted away. It took him only a few seconds to reach the doorway. Instantly, there was contact—the sound of a man screaming. Ordinarily, the handler would have let this go on for a few moments before operators followed the dog into the room to make sure the target wasn’t killed (ideally, he would be held for interrogation); more importantly, to make sure the dog wasn’t harmed. Some dogs, especially newer dogs, were more aggressive than others. They would bite whenever the opportunity presented itself. Others preferred to “bark and hold,” meaning they would corner a bad guy and immobilize him with fear. The danger was that an armed insurgent might shoot a dog that had opted to bark and hold rather than bite. Falco, in the beginning, was prone to barking and holding rather than biting. But this tendency was effectively trained out of him to the point that he became an absolute monster—in the best possible sense of the term.
Before anyone could react, Falco pulled the target out of the room and into the hallway. The man was seated on the floor, turned sideways, with Falco locked onto his arm. But instead of just holding the man in place, Falco began slowly backing up, dragging the man with short intense bursts of strength.
Rather than interfere, we all stood there watching in astonishment as this bizarre game of fetch played itself out. The man screamed and swatted at Falco, but every attempt to free himself only deepened Falco’s resolve and, presumably, his bite. Blood poured down the guy’s arm as he tried to dig in with his feet and prevent Falco from delivering the goods. An added benefit of Falco’s determination was that it provided us with an opportunity to get a full view of the insurgent, and to see whether he was wearing a suicide vest—an enemy tactic that was, unfortunately, not uncommon during missions in Afghanistan. But he had no chance. Falco kept backing up, his muscular body positioned inches off the floor to gain the greatest leverage. Eventually, they came to rest at the foot of our line of soldiers. Falco let go and returned to Frank as the insurgent slumped to the floor, blood pouring down his arm, whimpering from pain and exhaustion.
Good boy!
We were probably halfway through that deployment when I decided that I wanted to be a dog handler. This was not a decision to be made lightly. While dogs were extremely important to our work—and by extension, so were their handlers—the job was quite different from what I had done in the past and from what I had always assumed would be my role as a SEAL.
Not everyone wanted to be a dog handler. First of all, you had to really like dogs. Second, you had to accept the fact that the job was, by design, a supportive position. One of critical importance, to be sure, but unlike other team members, a dog handler was expected to manage and care for his dog at all times while also serving as a shooter. It was an extraordinarily demanding and complicated job. It’s true that once Frank released Falco, he became another soldier, armed and ready to fight. But he had to balance those two priorities: fighting and taking care of Falco. The dog handler was rarely the first guy in a room. Much of the time, he was outside, on the perimeter with his dog. This job was no less important than any other job on a mission.
But it was, indisputably, different.
Not only that, but the responsibility of being a dog handler never seemed to end. Operators (or assaulters, as we often were called) would return from a mission, take care of their gear and collateral duties, and then hang out and relax. The dog handler … well, he had to take care of the dog 24-7. Some guys, like Frank, loved it. Frank was a master-at-arms in the navy; he wasn’t a SEAL. But he knew his shit when it came to dogs, and he could handle himself in a firefight. I was intrigued by the challenge of balancing these twin responsibilities. Others? Not so much. Most guys would look at Frank (or a SEAL dog handler) and think, You’re out of your fucking mind. We were all grateful to have Falco and Balto on the squadron, and we respected the hell out of Frank for taking on the responsibility of making sure Falco was fit and well trained and ready for work—and for leading him into combat situations.
But make no mistake: almost no one wanted to switch places with Frank.
Almost.
As the deployment wore on, I spent increasing blocks of time with both dogs, but especially with Falco. I just liked his personality. I also knew that Frank was planning on giving up his role as Falco’s primary handler after this deployment, which meant Falco would need a new partner. I spent a lot of time hanging out with Frank and Falco, seeing how they worked and trained together, and before long, I had talked myself into becoming a dog handler. I was not only fascinated by the job and totally enamored of the dogs themselves—I also figured it would be good experience if I ever became a team leader. Combat assault dogs were now fully integrated into the SEALS, and that wasn’t going to change. A good team leader would have to fully understand and appreciate the roles performed by both dog and handler.
Frank liked the idea of my assuming responsibility for Falco because he wanted to know that his dog would be in good hands. The rest of the guys were only too happy to let me apply for the job because … well, somebody had to do it, and this way it wouldn’t be one of them.
One night, late in the deployment, we went out on a mission. As often happened, we divided into two assault teams, each of us chasing a different target. I was not on Frank’s team that night, so I didn’t see exactly what went down, but I heard the story afterward. Apparently, Falco caught someone hiding in a ditch, lying in wait and preparing for an ambush. As he was trained to do, Falco jumped on the guy and immediately bit into his arm, immobilizing him as he shrieked in pain. Unfortunately, the bad guy wasn’t alone. This was always the most dangerous situation for a dog: coming upon more than one target. In this case, as Falco held on to the first guy, doing his job with complete commitment just as he was trained to do, the second guy shot Falco several times.
The rest of the team quickly responded and killed both insurgents, but not before Falco was critically wounded. By the time I arrived and saw him being loaded onto a helicopter, he was already dead. The loss hit me hard, but not nearly as hard as it hit Frank. He was completely crushed, almost as if he had lost a family member or a fellow soldier. Which, in a way, he had.
Just as we would have with a fallen soldier, we held a memorial service for Falco back on the base. (Later, a memorial plaque in his honor was put on permanent display in Virginia.) Frank got up and said a few words, as did the master chief. There were tears and salutes. Afterward, we did what we would have done for any of our brothers: we talked about what a great soldier and friend Falco had been to all of us. We told stories. We shared a cake in his honor. We celebrated his life and service. We laughed more than we cried.
We said goodbye.
Falco was cremated; his ashes were placed in an ammo can and presented to Frank. They went home together.