Tom Sileo (28 page)

          
—Brendan

That Friday an instructor walked up to Brendan and told him what he thought of his Hell Week performance.

“Looney, you crushed Hell Week,” he said. “You beasted it.”

Brendan, who never wanted special attention, simply said “hooyah,” nodded his head in acknowledgment, and headed back to barracks to spend the next few days resting and sleeping. His mom, Maureen, had timed a cross-country trip to help Brendan and Sarver recover before they resumed the first phase of BUD/S training: another month of difficult conditioning exercises. After first phase they would move on to the second and third, which focused on combat diving and land warfare, respectively. Each lasted about eight weeks.

The weekend after his mom's stay, Brendan welcomed Amy to San Diego for her only visit of the summer. She arrived in Imperial Beach on a Friday night, anxious to see her boyfriend not
only because she missed him, but also because she wanted to discuss where their relationship was headed after he became a Navy SEAL.

After a nice Saturday night dinner at an ocean-view restaurant in nearby La Jolla, Brendan asked Amy to join him on the beach.

“I had some time to think after Hell Week,” Brendan said. “That's when I realized that I couldn't think about my life without you in it.”

“So I really wanted to ask you something,” he continued. “I've been trying to do this all night.”

Kneeling in front of Amy, Brendan pulled a box out of his pocket.

“I got you this ring,” he said. “Do you think you would marry me?”

“Yes,” Amy said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too!” said Brendan, awash with relief. He then kissed his new fiancée.

When Brendan and Amy got back to Imperial Beach, Sarver was waiting to congratulate them. After opening the bottle of champagne that the elated couple had bought on their way home, Sarver proposed a toast to his two friends, who he said were perfect for each other.

After Sarver went to his room, Brendan told Amy about a conversation he had had with his mom while she was in town after Hell Week.

“I told her that after Travis died, I realized there was no reason for you and me to wait any longer,” Brendan said to Amy. “Life is short. . . . Just look at what happened with Trav. I don't want us to have any regrets.”

The next evening, Amy left San Diego sporting a smile big enough to light up the entire harbor. Although moving from Maryland to the West Coast would be challenging, she couldn't wait to start her new life. But first, Brendan would have to finish training to become a Navy SEAL.

At BUD/S, officers train alongside enlisted personnel, which gave the Naval Academy graduate a chance to start blossoming as a leader. Before grabbing paddles and starting boat exercises, Brendan would underscore what the instructors were always hammering home: teamwork and paying attention to the small things. Whether it was lacrosse, football, the classroom, Iraq, or Korea, Brendan's experience helped guide other candidates through the choppy seas. Even Sarver, who knew Brendan better than any other trainee, marveled at how instinctively his roommate adapted.

Before embarking on long beach runs through the island's chilly morning wind, guys would sometimes gripe, understandably, about lack of sleep, persistent hunger, or physical exhaustion. One time Sarver himself was commiserating with a group of SEAL candidates about the consistently tough training conditions.

“Okay guys, it's time to shut up,” Brendan said. “Let's get started.”

During the third phase of what seemed like six years of BUD/S training rather than six months, Brendan once joined his team on the beach for a morning “ruck” run, during which each SEAL candidate would carry forty pounds of gear in his backpack. Brendan, who had been up more than thirty straight hours after working his administrative job all night, didn't have time to pack his bag before the five-mile run started at 5:30 a.m. Instead, he arrived at the beach a few minutes early and found a huge rock that he thought would satisfy the ruck's weight requirements.

As he had done in his races through Annapolis with Travis, Brendan ran as if his life depended on it. The ocean breeze didn't affect his tired eyes, nor did the wet sand slow his aching feet. When Class 265 crossed the five-mile mark, Brendan finished first, standing at the finish line shouting words of encouragement to every fellow SEAL candidate who followed.

“Looney, what the hell is in your pack?” one fellow trainee asked.

“It's a rock,” Brendan said. “I didn't have time to pack up.”

“Well that's one big fucking rock!” said another classmate, who thought the rock looked much heavier than forty pounds.

Though downplaying his own toughness, Brendan grinned and admitted that the rock felt “pretty damn heavy.” When a few of his teammates later put the rock on a scale, it weighed fifty-five pounds.

“Hooyah!” the guys shouted.

For instructors and trainees, the easiest part of BUD/S was determining who would finish at the top.

“Now we will announce the Honor Man of Navy SEAL BUD/S training Class 265,” an instructor said. “This award goes to a leader who not only excels in physical training, but makes every Frogman [as SEALs are nicknamed] around him better. I'm proud to name Brendan Looney the Honor Man of your class.”

After twenty-four weeks of a meticulous, exhausting regimen that had encompassed physical conditioning, diving, and land warfare, Brendan, who had almost missed the chance to train at Coronado because he was colorblind, received the ultimate recognition from his instructors and peers.

All fall 2007 graduates of BUD/S would almost certainly go to war at some point in the next few years after completing SEAL Qualification Training (SQT) and receiving their tridents. Brendan and Sarver would have to wait longer than the enlisted BUD/S graduates to complete their twenty-six weeks of SQT, however, as all SEAL officers are held back one class to complete the required Junior Officer Training Course (JOTC). But as the valiant men of Class 265 gathered one last time on BUD/S Beach, they applauded Brendan for not only overcoming the loss of a close friend, but also inspiring all of them with his sheer willpower, ability, and character.

“In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our nation's call,” the Navy SEAL ethos and creed begins. “A common man with an uncommon desire to succeed.
Forged by adversity, he stands alongside America's finest special operations forces to serve his country, the American people, and protect their way of life. I am that man.”

Brendan said only “thank you” when he received the rare, coveted award, and he didn't even tell Amy until she later discovered the “Honor Man” plaque in a drawer. When she asked Brendan what it was, he said it was “no big deal.”

Since he was a little boy, when his mom would find ribbons and tests with A+ grades crumpled up in his backpack and trophies hidden in his drawers, Brendan had never been interested in recognition. Sure enough, when Amy later asked some of her husband's peers about the Honor Man award and discovered its significance, Brendan had already mailed it to his parents' house in Maryland.

The Honor Man of BUD/S Class 265 sent his plaque home as a symbol of appreciation and respect. In Brendan's mind, no award was ever his; it belonged to the people who had sacrificed to give him a chance at success. Indeed, there was no one prouder of what Brendan overcame the odds to accomplish than Kevin and Maureen Looney.

Though also proud of Brendan, those same six months were brutal for Tom and Janet Manion. Since Travis's death they had attended two more funerals for US service members killed in Iraq. The first was for First Lieutenant Colby Umbrell, the Doylestown soldier who had died four days after Travis, and the second was for a Marine and Naval Academy graduate who was killed in Baghdad less than two weeks after their son.

Major Douglas Zembiec, the “Lion of Fallujah” from Albuquerque, New Mexico, whom Travis knew, worked out with, and deeply respected, was killed on May 11, 2007, in Baghdad. Due to his already famous battlefield heroics, Zembiec's death received a high level of attention inside and outside military circles.

“After the Battle [of Fallujah], he said that his Marines had ‘fought like lions,' and he was soon himself dubbed the Lion of Fallujah,” Defense Secretary Robert Gates said to a large group of Marines on July 19, 2007. “He volunteered to deploy again, and was sent back to Iraq earlier this year. This time, he would not return to his country, or to his wife and his one-year-old daughter.”

Gates, who had been nominated by President Bush to replace Donald Rumsfeld at the Pentagon less than a year earlier, paused before continuing. He was clearly moved by the thirty-four-year-old Marine's courage.

“In May, the Lion of Fallujah was laid to rest at Arlington, and he was memorialized at his Alma Mater in Annapolis,” the defense secretary said, his voice cracking with sadness. “A crowd of more than a thousand included many enlisted Marines from his Beloved Echo Company. An officer there told a reporter: ‘Your men have to follow your orders. They don't have to go to your funeral.'”

Gates concluded his speech with a touching tribute.

“Every evening, I write notes to the families of young Americans like Doug Zembiec,” he said. “For you and for me, they are not names on a press release, or numbers updated on a Web site; they are our country's sons and daughters.”

For Tom and Janet, the months after their son's death were filled with devastation and daily reminders of their enormous loss. They were lifted up, however, by the many visits from Travis's friends and Marine Corps brothers.

The Manions were also getting hundreds of messages on a
Legacy.com
page set up to memorialize Travis. During many late, sometimes sleepless nights, Tom, Janet, Ryan, and Dave would scroll through the words of support, and they were particularly moved by posts from men and women inside the circle of 3-2-1 MiTT:

       
I was with Travis when he was killed. There is no doubt in my mind that he saved my life and the lives of all of us that were there that day. Know that Travis is missed and remembered. He
was one of the best Marines and men I have ever had the luck to meet and I'll never forget his gift.

             
~1st Lt. Jonathan Marang

             
I've been getting stronger. I see the progress every 2–3 weeks or so. I'm pushing to get back to full duty status before April [2008] is over. I know that when I take the PFT [Physical Fitness Test] I'll think of what we talked about, of how we could look back on the days spent in Iraq and know that we did our part. We wouldn't be the ones wondering about whether we had an effect or not.

             
R.I.P. brother,

             
~Ed (“Doc”) Albino

             
I served with Travis during his first tour in Iraq as his battalion surgeon. Last year when I heard of his death I was deeply saddened due to the loss of an exceptional man and Marine.

             
Travis built our gym in Fallujah and this is where I had most of my conversations with him.

             
Every day I work out now, even in a gym far away that he has likely never been in, I remember Travis and am grateful to have had an opportunity to know him.

             
~Reagan Anderson

             
I am the wife of 2nd Lt. Scott Alexander, a member of Travis' MiTT team and his great friend. I want to let you know what joy Travis was able to bring to the team. Scott called last night and for an hour relayed stories of all the ways Travis would make the guys laugh and keep up the morale of the team. Throughout the deployment he spoke of Travis with the utmost regard and he was a true mentor, friend, and brother to my husband. Thank you for raising such a wonderful young man, I know he impacted each one of our guys out there and is now watching over them. My sincerest apologies for your loss.

             
~Catherine Alexander

Although her husband made it home safely, Catherine Alexander, who served in the Navy Reserve, would lose her brother,
Marine Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Budrejko, almost five years later on February 22, 2012, in a helicopter training accident near Yuma, Arizona. Six fellow Marines were killed in the crash, which along with tragic events in Afghanistan, Iraq, and around the world, served as a painful reminder of the military community's continuing post-9/11 sacrifices.