Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

was a navy gunner in Vietnam. And in Texas, real men don’t sit on their money.
They get back out there, take risks, and when they hit it big, they just want to hit
it bigger. My dad’s a real man.
You could tell a lot about him just by the names he gave the ranches, big or
small — Lone Star Farms, North Fork Ranch, Shootin’ Star. Like he always said,
“I’d rather shoot for a star and hit a stump than shoot for a stump and miss.”
I cannot describe how poor we were during the time Morgan and I were
trying to get through college. I had four jobs to pay tuition and board and make
my truck payment. I was the lifeguard in the college pool and I worked with
Morgan on construction, landscaping, cutting grass, and yard work. In the
evening I was a bouncer in a rough local bar full of redneck cowboys. And I was
still starving, trying to feed myself on about twenty dollars a week.
One time, I guess we were around twenty-one, Morgan snapped his leg
playing baseball, sliding into second. When they got him to the hospital Morgan
just told them we didn’t have any money. Eventually the surgeon agreed to
operate and set the leg on some kind of long-term credit. But the anaesthetist
would not administer anything to Morgan without payment.
No one’s tougher than my brother. And he eventually said, “Fine. I don’t
need anaesthetic. Set the leg without it. I can take the pain.” The surgeon was
aghast and told Morgan he could not possibly have such an operation without
anaesthesia. But Morgan stuck to his guns. “Doc, I don’t have any money. Fix
my leg and I’ll handle the pain.”
No one was crazy about that, especially the surgeon. But then Jason Miller, a
college buddy of Morgan’s, turned up, saw that he was in absolute agony, and
gave him every last dollar of his savings to pay the anaesthetist. At which point
they put Morgan back together.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. When we were young, working the horses,
my dad was very, very tough on us. He considered that good grades were
everything, bad ones were simply unacceptable. I once got a C in conduct, and
he beat me with a saddle girth. I know he was doing it for our own good, trying
to instill discipline in his sons, which would serve them well in later life.
But he ruled our lives with an iron fist. He would tell us: “One day I’m not
gonna be here. Then it’s gonna be you two, by yourselves, and I want you to
understand how rough and unfair this world is. I want you both prepared for
whatever the hell might come your way.”
He tolerated nothing. Disobedience was out of the question. Rudeness was
damn near a hanging offense. There was no leeway. He insisted on politeness