American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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“Hey asshole.”
And much worse than that. Like everything else they do, SEALs
excel at foul language.
Jealousy, thy name is SEAL.
I’d wondered why I hadn’t heard anything from them over the
past few months. In fact, I was wondering why they were jealous—as
far as I knew, they hadn’t heard about anything I’d been doing.
Come to find out, my chief had been regaling them with the afteraction
reports of my sniping in Fallujah. They’d been sitting around
hand-holding the Filipinos and hating life, while I’d been having all
the fun.
They got over it. Eventually, they even asked me to do a little
presentation on what I’d done, complete with pointers and stuff. One
more chance to use PowerPoint.
FUN WITH THE BIG SHOTS
Now that they were here, I joined them and started doing some DAs.
Intel would find an IED-maker or maybe a financer, give us the intel,
and we’d go in and snag him. We’d hit them very early in the morning—blow
his door down, rush inside, and take him before he even had
a chance to get out of bed.
This went on for about a month. By now, DAs were pretty much
an old routine; they were a hell of a lot less dangerous in Baghdad than
in Fallujah.
We were living out near BIAP—Baghdad International Airport—and
working from there. One day, my chief came over and gave
me a chiefly grin.