Chris Kyle - American Sniper

Now, I was two rooms deep, with a screen in front of me, wearing a gray jacket over my SEAL camis. Maybe she hallucinated in her grief, or maybe she just said whatever she thought would give me grief.

We were recalled to base and the entire platoon put on stand-down. I was told I was not “operationally available”—I was confined to base while the 506th investigated the incident further.

The colonel wanted to interview me. My officer came with me.

We were all pissed. The ROEs had been followed; I had plenty of witnesses. It was the Army “investigators” who had screwed up.

I had trouble holding my tongue. At one point, I told the Army colonel, “I don’t shoot people with Korans—I’d like to, but I don’t.” I guess I was a little hot.

Well, after three days and God only knows how much other “investigation,” he finally realized that it had been a good kill and dropped the matter. But when the regiment asked for more overwatches, we told them to fuck off.

“Any time I shoot someone, you’re just going to try and have me executed,” I said. “No way.”

We were heading home in two weeks anyway. Aside from a few more DAs, I spent most of that time playing video games, watching porn, and working out.

Ifinished that deployment with a substantial number of confirmed sniper kills. Most happened in Fallujah.

Carlos Norman Hathcock II, the most famous member of the sniping profession, a true legend and a man whom I look up to, tallied ninety-three confirmed kills during his three years of tours in the Vietnam War.

I’m not saying I was in his class—in my mind, he was and always will be the greatest sniper ever—but in sheer numbers, at least, I was close enough for people to start thinking I’d done a hell of a job.

Taya:

We went out to the tarmac to wait for the plane when it came in. There were a few wives and children. I came out with our baby and I felt so excited. I was over the moon.

I remember turning to one of the women I was with and saying, “Isn’t this great? Isn’t this exciting? I can’t stand it.”

She said, “Ehhh.”

I thought to myself, well, maybe I’m still new to it.

Later on, she and her husband, a SEAL in Chris’s platoon, got divorced.

I’d left the States some seven months before, only ten days after my son was born. I loved him, but as I mentioned earlier, we hadn’t really had a chance to bond. Newborns are just a bundle of needs—feed them, clean them, get them to rest. Now he had a personality. He was crawling. He was more of a person. I’d seen him growing up in the photos Taya had sent me, but this was more intense.

He was my son.

We’d lie on the floor in our pajamas and play together. He’d crawl all over me and I’d boost him up and carry him all around. Even the simplest things—like him touching my face—were a joy.

But the transition from war to home was still a shock. One day, we’d been fighting. The next, we’d crossed the river to al-Taqaddum Airbase (known to us as TQ) and started back for the States.

War one day; peace the next.

Every time you come home, it’s weird. Especially in California. The simplest things can upset you. Take traffic. You’re driving on the road, everything’s crowded, it’s craziness. You’re still thinking IEDs—you see a piece of trash and you swerve. You drive aggressively toward other drivers, because that’s the way you do it in Iraq.

I would shut myself in for about a week. I think that’s where Taya and I started having problems.

Being parents for the first time, we had the disagreements everyone has about children. Co-sleeping, for instance—Taya had my son sleep with her in a co-sleeper in the bed while I was gone. When I came home, I wanted to change that. We disagreed quite a bit on that. I thought he should be in his own crib in his own room. Taya saw it as depriving her of her closeness with him. She thought we should transition him gradually.

That wasn’t how I saw it at all. I felt children should sleep in their own beds and rooms.

I know now that issues like that are common, but there was added stress. She’d been raising him completely on her own for months now, and I was intruding on her routines and ways of doing things. They were incredibly close, which I thought was great. But I wanted to be with them, too. I wasn’t trying to come between them, just add myself back into the family.

As it happened, none of that was a big deal for my son; he slept just fine. And he still has a very special relationship with his mom.

Life at home had its interesting moments, though the drama was very different. Our neighbors and close friends were completely respectful of my need for time to decompress. Once that was over, they put together a little welcome-home barbecue.

They’d all been great while I was gone. The people across the street arranged to have someone cut our grass, which was huge to us financially and helped Taya with the heavy load she carried while I was gone. It seemed like a little thing, but it was big to me.

Now that I was home, of course, it was my job to take care of things like that. We had a small, itty-bitty backyard; it took all of five minutes to cut the grass back there. But on one side of the yard were climbing roses that climbed up these potato bush trees we had. The bushes had little purple flowers on them year-round.

The combination looked really pretty. But the roses had thorns in them that could pierce an armored vest. Every time I’d mow the yard and come around the corner, I’d get snagged by them.

One day, those roses just went too far, tearing at my side. I decided to take care of them once and for all: I picked up my lawnmower, held it up about chest-high, and trimmed the mothers (the roses and the trees) down.

“What! Are you kidding me?” yelled Taya. “Are you trimming the bushes with a lawnmower?”

Hey, it worked. They never snagged me again.

I did do some genuinely goofy stuff. Having fun and making other people smile and laugh has always been something I like to do. One day, I saw our backyard neighbor through our kitchen window, so I stood on a chair and knocked on the window to get her attention. I proceeded to moon her. (Her husband happened to be a Navy pilot, so I’m sure she was familiar with such things.)

Taya rolled her eyes. She was amused, I think, though she wouldn’t admit it.

“Who does that?” she said to me.

“She laughed, didn’t she?” I said.

“You are thirty years old,” she said. “Who does that?”

There’s a side of me that loves to pull pranks on people, to get them to laugh. You can’t just do regular stuff—I want them to have a good time. Belly laughs. The more extreme the better. April Fools’ Day is a particularly tough time for my family and friends, though more because of Taya’s pranks than my own. I guess we both like to have a good laugh.

On the darker side, I was extremely hot-headed. I have always had a temper, even before becoming a SEAL. But it was more explosive now. If someone cut me off—not a very rare occurrence in California—I could get crazy. I might try and run them off the road, or even stop and whup their ass.

I had to work at calming down.

Of course, having a reputation as a SEAL does have its advantages.

At my sister-in-law’s wedding, the preacher and I got to talking. At some point, she—the preacher was a lady—noticed a bulge in my jacket.

“You have a gun?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said, explaining that I was in the military.