Among Heroes: A U.S. Navy SEAL's True Story of Friendship, Heroism, and the Ultimate Sacrifice by Brandon Webb
Authors: Brandon Webb
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evening and drive back down to Coronado, where he was rooming with his twin brother, Marcus, rather than stay at our barracks. Marcus remembers Morgan coming in every night, feeling exhausted and defeated. One evening he rolled in, collapsed on the living room couch, and said, “I am praying every night that they kick me out of this course. It sucks so bad. It’s worse than BUD/S.”
Marcus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stared at his brother and said, “What are you talking about?
Nothing’s
worse than BUD/S.”
Morgan stretched out his long limbs, groaned, and said, “Man, it’s a different kind of suck.”
Marcus could not wrap his head around this. “What do you mean, ‘a different kind of suck’? I’m a SEAL; I know what the definition of ‘suck’ is.” A few months later, when he went through the course himself, Marcus understood exactly what his brother was talking about. “Please, God,” he remembers muttering, “let them kick me out of this frigging course—I can’t stand it!”
Matt was having just as hard a time as Morgan. His mother remembers him calling home one day and saying, “Oh, man, I only got a sixty percent today. I’ve
got
to get my average higher if I want to make it through this course!” He was consumed with worry that he was going to flunk out.
I understood why he felt so much anxiety about it. Every sniper student did. But he had no reason to worry. At no time was he ever at serious risk of failing. He and Morgan ended up finishing at the top of their class.
As I said, observing the way Matt held himself to the highest standard possible goaded me to hold
myself
to an even higher standard. I didn’t know it then, but within months this would push me into one of the riskiest decisions of my years on the teams. In fact, it would take me within a hairbreadth of ruining my career.
• • •
When September came, Matt and Morgan returned to their platoon, and Eric and I were on to our next class of new students. Except that it was
not
business as usual. Axelson’s presence in the course that summer had hammered home an ironic fact about our sniper course that was gnawing at me and making my life increasingly miserable. It had to do with
my
mentor.
Throughout my time in the Navy I saw striking examples of good leadership, mediocre leadership, and terrible leadership. When it was good, it was life-changing. Nobody exemplified that more than Bob Nielsen, our division officer.
In the short time we worked together, Bob was a tremendous role model and mentor for me. We talked every day, not only about the changes in the course and how that was going,but also about my life and my career. Bob knew that sooner or later I had a decision coming: whether to continue working as an instructor; or try out for a top-tier unit, as he had done; or get out of the service altogether. This fork in the road wouldn’t come for a few years yet, but I was thinking about it. Bob knew that, and he served as a wise and solid sounding board.
The greatest thing about working for Bob was that he completely empowered us to run his course. “You guys are it,” he told us. “You’re the experts; I trust you.” When someone you look up to and respect so highly puts his trust in you and gives you the mandate to act, that’s the greatest feeling in the world. Our hard work made Bob look good—and in fact, that was a big part of our motivation. We
wanted
to make him look good.
But Bob wasn’t the problem that was gnawing at me now. The problem was that Bob wasn’t there anymore. When I said, “In the short time we worked together,” I meant it. Barely a month after Eric and I arrived at the course, Bob called me into his office and let me know he was moving on to another billet. Then he told me who his replacement would be: a master chief named Harvey Clayton.
“
Harvey?
Shit, Senior Chief Nielsen! You have to be kidding me.” I knew Master Chief Clayton by reputation,
Marcus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stared at his brother and said, “What are you talking about?
Nothing’s
worse than BUD/S.”
Morgan stretched out his long limbs, groaned, and said, “Man, it’s a different kind of suck.”
Marcus could not wrap his head around this. “What do you mean, ‘a different kind of suck’? I’m a SEAL; I know what the definition of ‘suck’ is.” A few months later, when he went through the course himself, Marcus understood exactly what his brother was talking about. “Please, God,” he remembers muttering, “let them kick me out of this frigging course—I can’t stand it!”
Matt was having just as hard a time as Morgan. His mother remembers him calling home one day and saying, “Oh, man, I only got a sixty percent today. I’ve
got
to get my average higher if I want to make it through this course!” He was consumed with worry that he was going to flunk out.
I understood why he felt so much anxiety about it. Every sniper student did. But he had no reason to worry. At no time was he ever at serious risk of failing. He and Morgan ended up finishing at the top of their class.
As I said, observing the way Matt held himself to the highest standard possible goaded me to hold
myself
to an even higher standard. I didn’t know it then, but within months this would push me into one of the riskiest decisions of my years on the teams. In fact, it would take me within a hairbreadth of ruining my career.
• • •
When September came, Matt and Morgan returned to their platoon, and Eric and I were on to our next class of new students. Except that it was
not
business as usual. Axelson’s presence in the course that summer had hammered home an ironic fact about our sniper course that was gnawing at me and making my life increasingly miserable. It had to do with
my
mentor.
Throughout my time in the Navy I saw striking examples of good leadership, mediocre leadership, and terrible leadership. When it was good, it was life-changing. Nobody exemplified that more than Bob Nielsen, our division officer.
In the short time we worked together, Bob was a tremendous role model and mentor for me. We talked every day, not only about the changes in the course and how that was going,but also about my life and my career. Bob knew that sooner or later I had a decision coming: whether to continue working as an instructor; or try out for a top-tier unit, as he had done; or get out of the service altogether. This fork in the road wouldn’t come for a few years yet, but I was thinking about it. Bob knew that, and he served as a wise and solid sounding board.
The greatest thing about working for Bob was that he completely empowered us to run his course. “You guys are it,” he told us. “You’re the experts; I trust you.” When someone you look up to and respect so highly puts his trust in you and gives you the mandate to act, that’s the greatest feeling in the world. Our hard work made Bob look good—and in fact, that was a big part of our motivation. We
wanted
to make him look good.
But Bob wasn’t the problem that was gnawing at me now. The problem was that Bob wasn’t there anymore. When I said, “In the short time we worked together,” I meant it. Barely a month after Eric and I arrived at the course, Bob called me into his office and let me know he was moving on to another billet. Then he told me who his replacement would be: a master chief named Harvey Clayton.
“
Harvey?
Shit, Senior Chief Nielsen! You have to be kidding me.” I knew Master Chief Clayton by reputation,
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