Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic by Mark L. Donald, Scott Mactavish Read Free Book Online

really bad.”
    “Ummm” was all he said, with a slight hint of a smile as he looked at the rest of the room trying not to chuckle. Well, everyone except the second lieutenant. He looked at me and sighed, knowing that somehow he’d end up getting the brunt of it.
    “Mr. Donald, shall we get on with the rest of this?” asked ET1 Crain, my navy recruiter.
    “Sure,” I replied. Suddenly a naval officer came forward to swear me in. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much about him. I knew he was someone important from the local Recruiting Command but not much else. Top and the CO pulled strings to have him come to the company so I could have a personal ceremony instead of joining up with a group of strangers at the Military Entrance Processing Station, which meant a lot to me. I’m ashamed to say that I can’t even remember his face. I guess I still had the Corps mentality of being the best among the services. Marines may not verbalize it, but they all feel as if the Corps is the top dog. It’s a belief instilled in boot camp and maintained by having every marine, from the lowest-ranking private to the Commandant of the Corps, hold every other accountable to the Corps standards. I knew it, I loved it, and I missed it, even though I’d been out just a few short moments.
    *   *   *
    Shortly after the ceremony, I thought I was shipping out to the Naval Training Center San Diego to attend the Other Service Veterans (OSVET) training program, a crash course in navy culture for veterans entering or returning to the navy. I remember hearing the program was akin to a college course in navy etiquette and administration requirements, with none of the yelling or other pleasantries associated with boot camp. When I went to USMC boot camp, Staff Sergeant Sandoval dropped me off at the airport; this time it was my close friend Erik, from Delta Company.
    Erik drove up to the area marked DEPARTING FLIGHTS and in his typical sarcastic tone said, “I guess it’s time to get out of the car, squid,” using the universal derogatory term for navy sailors.
    “I guess so.” I started to open the door and step outside.
    “Are you sure that’s all they gave you?” he asked, referring to the few sheets of paper I carried in a folder.
    “That’s all I got,” I said as I closed the door.
    “Those squids are f***ed up. I don’t feel good about this. Get back in the car,” he said, craning his neck toward the window.
    I leaned on the window. “That’s the paranoid Erik I know. You never feel good about anything. There’s either something wrong or something about to go wrong.”
    “That’s ’cause there always is,” he said in his naturally sinister laugh. Then he got serious for a moment. “Mark, I support what you’re doing. I don’t like it, but I support it. Don’t worry about your mom or your sister; I got that, too.” It was his brotherly way of saying “I love and will miss you,” but moments like those don’t last more than a few seconds with him. “Now go get your squid on and get back here to take care of my wounds.”
    “Aye, aye,” I shouted and then watched as he drove off. I’m pretty sure he flashed a profane gesture, and I would have been disappointed if he didn’t.
    I scanned the meager collection of papers ET1 Crain had given me and realized I wasn’t told much of anything or given specific instructions, which is odd to a former marine. In fact, I was so busy saying good-byes that I never bothered to ask. This was very different from my first experience with the Marine Corps, which was meticulously planned on my behalf by the recruiters. Paperwork was packaged into a large envelope and sealed shut, with a page of step-by-step instructions stapled on the front. We knew precisely where to go and when, and how to act when the drill instructors got there. This felt more like my recruiter was being purposefully vague, as if to say, “OK, marine, let’s see how you do in my navy.” Regardless, I