Free Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic by Mark L. Donald, Scott Mactavish Page A

it, albeit with reluctance and a healthy dose of anxiety. The majority of the class joined the navy specifically for the opportunity to become a SEAL, and that meant passing Hell Week. We had worked hard for months to get to that point, and although Hell Week was the biggest obstacle we would face over this twenty-four weeks of basic training, most of us just wanted to get started.
    Our class proctor, Phil Jannuzzi, came into the SEAL Teams post-Vietnam but was trained by the men who had cut their teeth in the Mekong Delta. They knew the costs of war and had instilled this knowledge in him through intense training that demanded complete focus and 100 percent dedication. Needless to say, Phil would go on to live a storied career in the teams, protecting our country in ways the vast majority of Americans will never read about. Like many teams guys before him, he had returned to his roots to serve as “Instructor Jannuzzi,” and Instructor Jannuzzi wasn’t about to let standards drop.
    Like all the other instructors, he had his own quirks, and his was to bellow to the class during the most difficult training times, “The Chinaman doesn’t care, boys, he just doesn’t care.” At first no one really understood what that meant. I thought perhaps it was his way of reminiscing about his training days, going through BUD/S with instructors that battled against China’s support to the North Vietnamese, but it was just a guess that seemed like a good enough explanation at the time. All we really knew was, when we heard those words training intensity would pick up tenfold, and by the end of the evolution at least one more student would ring out.
    Over time we figured out the statement’s meaning and how clearly it defined the BUD/S mission, so we couldn’t help but adopt it as our class mantra. I once had to explain the meaning to my mother when the phrase slipped out of my mouth during a conversation. Growing up facing racial and sexual prejudice as a Mexican woman, she really didn’t like the sound of it, so I tried to explain. “Mom, it means the enemies we’re going to face won’t care if we have to travel thousands of miles in just a few hours. They won’t care that we’ll be inserted by physically exhausting methods so as not to be detected, or that we’ll be carrying a load that would make a pack mule cringe. They won’t care if we’re cold, wet, haven’t slept or eaten for days. They’ll only care about one thing—sending us home in flag-covered caskets, and we can’t let any of those circumstances affect us. Our resolve to accomplish the mission must be stronger than theirs.” She understood it but liked it even less after hearing my explanation. So I made sure never again to let the Chinaman leave my lips anywhere near my mother.
    Decades later I, too, found out how much the Chinaman, or, as I came to know him, al Qaeda, didn’t care, but neither did we—nor do the SEALs who are still out there defending us today. For any terrorists wishing to do harm to America, I want you to know it means you can run, you can hide, you can even build up your defenses, but no matter how long it takes or what extremes we must endure to get to you, if we are called upon to take you out there’s not much you can do to stop it. It means pain and discomfort are recognized as just being part of the job and neither will hinder or prevent American special operations from completing its mission.
    Instructor Jannuzzi knew the physical difficulties of operating all too well and reminded us that whatever we faced during Hell Week would be minor compared to what we would endure defending our country. He also knew it was the responsibility of the BUD/S instructors to weed out those who lacked the ability to overcome adversity, and he wasn’t about to let the community down. From our first day of training to the last Friday before Hell Week he conducted mandatory end-of-day remedial training sessions, which we affectionately called