Among Heroes: A U.S. Navy SEAL's True Story of Friendship, Heroism, and the Ultimate Sacrifice (20 page)

As time passed, my father struggled for more to hold on to, asking me again and again: had I told him everything. And finally I said to him, “Maybe all I know about Paul is that he was a fine fisherman.”

“You know more than that,” my father said. “He was beautiful.” And that was the last time we spoke of my brother’s death.

Greg likened Glen to the Brad Pitt character and said, “So we will tell you now, while you are still here, that you are beautiful.”

During the party Greg pulled me aside and said, “Hey, Glen’s doing some pretty heavy shit out there. I’m worried about him. Tell me he’s going to be okay.”

“He’s solid,” I assured him. “Glen has his act together, and it’s a good outfit he’s with. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Now I wish I could bury those words in the deepest mineshaft.

Arab Spring was five months away.

•   •   •

On June 19, 2012, not long after returning from Africa, Glen was hit by a car while riding his road bike—a nearly exact replay, strangely enough, of an accident that had injured Sonja five years earlier while they were going through their divorce.

The event seemed almost designed to put Glen out of commission. Not kill him or injure him badly, just take him out of circulation. The impact broke one arm, and the
resulting fall badly injured his back, one knee, one wrist, and both elbows. Any normal person would have been laid up for a few months. But this was not any normal person. This was Glen. It barely slowed him down.

The next day he reported on e-mail:

Got hit by a car riding my bicycle yesterday. Loopy on pain meds and typing with one hand so will be off the grid for a day or two. Could have been way worse. Only broken arm, jacked back/knee/elbows/wrist.

As the weeks wore on, he grew more and more frustrated at how long it was taking to recover. He wanted to get back into the action. In order to go back to Africa, he would have to take a fairly rigorous recertification process security agents are required to undergo every few years, which involved a physical test and a shooting test. He taped up his damaged arm, went in, and aced the test.

At lunch one day with me and another friend from the teams, Glen told us he was headed to Africa, then added, “This is my last run.”

He’d been saying that for years, but it was finally starting to sound like he meant it.

We were working with two editor friends on a new edition of our book, and on August 17 Glen e-mailed us to cheer our progress:

Very happy with the way all has been going. I don’t know how to say thank-you enough. Healing has been slow, probably cause I’m so fucking OLD! Frustrating. Really frustrating. BUT, could have been way worse, and I’m
going to Africa in three weeks, injured or no. I’ll look forward to when we can all get together and toast the new opus.

On September 5, Glen and I talked on the phone, figuring we wouldn’t get the chance again for a while, since he was heading over to Africa the next day. We talked about him coming to team up with me at SOFREP, which by this time was soaring.

“You’re a damn good writer, Bub,” I said. “And there’s no one I trust more. You know how well you and I work together. I know this thing is a winner, and I really want you to be a part of it.”

Shooter and spotter. We’d always made an unstoppable team, and we both knew it.

“We’ll talk when I get back,” Glen said.

Even with all the options he’d been looking at, especially over the past few months, I’m not convinced that letting go of his sheepdog duties and
not
going to Libya was ever really on the table.

Tucking in hours when he could find them to work on edits on our book, he e-mailed again a few days later:

I am fighting my way through the manuscript . . . finding stuff to fix, little things here and there. Should be done by the end of the weekend.

Hope all is well.
Best, Glen

On September 11, while Ambassador Chris Stephens’s compound in Benghazi was being attacked, Glen was safe and
sound in Tripoli, about six hundred miles to the west. When they got the news of what was going down, he and a fellow agent instantly knew they had to go help. Two Special Operations soldiers and a few case officers joined them. Told there were no flights available, they hit the airport anyway and managed to find a plane and a pilot who would get them over there immediately.

By the time they arrived in Benghazi, Stephens and defense attaché Sean Smith had both died, and the hostilities had migrated to the CIA compound in Benghazi. Glen and the others arrived at the place and Glen ran straight up to the roof, where the firefight was at its most intense. Reaching the roof, he saw Ty Woods, an agent he knew who was already at the CIA compound there. The two friends high-fived, and Ty yelled to the others, “Hey, guys, this is
Bub
!”

Everyone’s best friend.

Within minutes mortar rockets had taken them both.

•   •   •

In an interview, Kate described her first moments after hearing the initial vague reports of trouble in Libya.

I was home with my three children when my brother’s best friend [Sean] called me, concerned: Glen was in Libya, working as a security contractor, and he may have been at the U.S. consulate that had come under attack.

My first instinct was not to panic: I was used to his being in dangerous corners of the world—in and out of Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico City—and he had always come home. His friend and I told each other
not to worry. We agreed to talk again as soon as we knew anything.

I got on my computer and sent Glen an e-mail. “I’m worried,” I said. “You better e-mail me this very second.” I started pacing around the house. Then I called a friend and told her, “What I need you to tell me right now is not to worry—it will all be fine.” And that’s what she did. I wanted to hear that and I believed it. Glen was so larger-than-life, so smart, so good. He would be fine.

•   •   •

When the news first broke that something bad had happened in Benghazi, a handful of us started shooting e-mails back and forth to see who knew what. There were still no details. I hit “reply all” and wrote, “He’s not on the state security detail, so don’t take this as gospel, but it’s probably not him.” Then I boarded a plane from New York to San Diego.

The moment we landed in California I called one of my CIA buddies just to make sure. He didn’t pick up, but he texted me back immediately:

Bad news
.

A minute later he called me. The family hadn’t been notified yet, he said. It was a short call.

I took a breath and called Sean, Glen’s childhood friend. After all these years, they were still rooming together. I’d rather have him hear it from me. Got him on the first try. He didn’t want to believe me at first, but he could tell from my voice that this was for real.

After we hung up, I sat in the parking lot of the San Diego airport and cried like a girl for fifteen minutes.

•   •   •

On September 20, I made the flight from the East Coast back to San Diego once again, this time on my way home from Glen’s memorial service.

The night before the service they held a wake. Thousands of people showed up, and they finally had to turn people away as it poured rain. It felt like the whole state had turned out to mourn Glen, and even the clouds had joined in.

When Mike Bearden fell from the sky in 2000, I’d been out of town and didn’t even find out until weeks after the service. When Dave Scott and Matt Axelson and John Zinn and all the other friends I lost over that decade perished, I still had not gone to a single memorial.

This time I went. It was impossible not to.

Now, twenty thousand feet over the heartland somewhere, I wrote the following words, my own memorial to Glen, which appeared the next day in full in the
New York Times
:

Glen,

I still can’t believe you punched out early on me, but glad to hear from the guys that you fought like a hero—no surprise there.

You should know, your efforts resulted in the rescue of over twenty Department of State personnel. They are alive today because of yours and Ty’s heroic action.

I know you hate funerals as much as I do, but the service in Winchester was humbling and inspiring. The people of Boston are amazing. I had to choke back the tears as me and
the boys rolled through town and thousands of people lined the streets to honor a hero and our friend and teammate. Seeing American citizens united around a hero, if only for a brief moment, restored my faith in humanity and that there are other things more important in life than killing each other.

Your family is and was amazing. Their poise, patience, and the dignity they displayed was incredible to witness. Your mom, Barbara, stood by stoically for hours to ensure she greeted everyone who came to pay their respects. She was an inspiration to everyone who watched. Seeing your dad, his sadness and how proud he was of you, made me give him a big hug, and reminded me to work harder at patching things up with my own father.

Greg delivered one of the best talks I’ve ever heard under the most difficult of situations. What an amazing brother; I hope to get to know him better. His speech made me reflect on my own life choices and how important our relationship with friends and family are. I’m going to work harder at embracing my friends and family the way you always did.

Katie gave such an awesome toast at the wake with all the Bub lessons to live by, I smirked secretly to myself knowing that I’ve heard them all before and will never forget. “Drive it like it’s stolen!” and “Kids don’t need
store-bought toys; get them outdoors!” and all the rest.

Your nephews are amazing and so well behaved. Great parents, of course. FYI, I told them I’d take them flying when they come out west. They were beaming when I described all the crazy flying adventures me and their uncle went on. I told them how you and I would fly with my own kids and take turns letting them sit on our laps to get a few minutes at the controls. I’ll do it up right and let them each have a go at the controls.

Sean has been steadfast in his support role and has handled everything thrown at him. Helping him this last week really showed me why he was such a close friend of yours. He’s solid, and I look forward to his friendship for years to come. You chose well having him execute your will, he’s solid.

We are all dedicated, as you explicitly indicated to us all, to throw you the biggest effing party we can, and to celebrate your life as well as our own. Done deal; Sean and I are on it.

Most of SEAL Team 3 Golf Platoon showed up in Boston. It was great to see how guys like Tommy B. just made stuff happen, no matter what was needed. Things just got handled like men of action handle them, no questions asked and no instructions needed—just get it done in true SEAL fashion.

One by one the Tridents were firmly pounded into the mahogany as the guys paid their respects. Mike and I handed the plank to your mom, choked back tears, and kissed her on the cheek. We both told her how much you’ll be missed by us all.

Afterward, the Team guys, Elf, Steve, Sean and others tipped a few back in your honor. In good Irish fashion we drank whiskey from Sean’s “What Jesus Wouldn’t Do” flask, hugged each other like brothers and said goodbye, each in our own way.

We are planning the yearly surf trip to Baja in your memory. We share Steve Jobs’s philosophy on religion and tolerance, but if you can arrange it, please talk to whomever and fire up a good south swell for me and the boys.

My kids will miss their Uncle Glen. I told them it’s okay to cry (we all had a good one together) and to be sad but not for too long. You wouldn’t want that. They will grow older and, like the rest of us, be better human beings for having known you.

You definitely lived up to the words of Hunter S. Thompson:

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a ride!’”

When I skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke myself I’ll expect to see your smiling face handing me a cold beer.

See you on the other side, brother. You are missed by many.

—B.W.

•   •   •

The thing I remember most about Glen was that he was happiest around a group of his close friends—and he redefined the meaning of the phrase “close friends.” Most people go through life making friends along the way, but those friendships come and go. Not with Glen. He never let go of a friendship, ever. In his forties, he was still running around with the guys he knew when he was three.

The more I knew him, the more I realized that this wasn’t something that just happened. He
worked
at it. “Friendship is like a garden,” Glen told me once. “It needs attention if you want to maintain it and grow it.” And Glen was a master gardener. He had a little black book he kept with him always, with probably several thousand names and numbers in it. Anytime he was sitting at the airport in between flights, or in a hotel stopover on a long trip, he would pull out the book and start going down the list, calling all his friends just to check in, say hi, and see how they were doing.

He taught me that true friendship is sacred, and that we should nourish it to the fullest extent possible.

No wonder thousands gathered at his memorial to celebrate his life and see him off to a better place.

There’s one more thing you should know about Glen: He
specifically requested in his will that in the event of his death, there be no funeral held for him. He was quite explicit about it. Instead of a memorial, he wanted us to throw “a big fucking party.” I laughed when I heard about that, and have since updated my own will to reflect the same request.

I knew we had to do the funeral anyway, for his family’s sake and for the sake of the thousands of friends who showed up. There was no getting around it. But I knew secretly that Glen would be privately cursing us all.

Still, the fact that we held a memorial didn’t mean we couldn’t also give Glen that big fucking party he wanted. And that we did.