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  In Memory of a Great American

  My Daddy

  Edwin G. Thornton

  A Husband, Father, Grandfather, Mentor

  My Hero

  MIKE THORNTON

  Dedicated to the families and loved ones of those brave men who gave their lives in the rescue of Bat 21.

  They were the true heroes.

  And to all those who serve today to keep us free.

  TOMMY NORRIS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  This is a true story, though some names and details have been changed.

  FOREWORD

  Tom Norris, Mike Thornton, Dick Couch, and I are all friends. We are about the same age. We all served in the United States Navy, volunteered for Underwater Demolition Training, and were selected to be Navy SEALs. We all came of age in Vietnam. Other than having comparable respiratory, digestive, and central nervous systems, we have little in common. By that I mean, they conducted multiple SEAL combat operations. I managed to get wounded after only a few weeks in Vietnam, so my time in that war was relatively short.

  I left the University of Nebraska School of Pharmacy in June 1965 and went to work. I finished the six hours remaining to earn my degree through a correspondence program and a course on the Bible at a small college on the Iowa side of the Missouri River. This prompted the federal government to change my draft status, give me a free physical exam, and inform me I would soon be offered an opportunity to serve in the United States Army. To be drafted into the Army was ticket to a year of duty in Vietnam—sometimes a one-way ticket.

  I had just finished reading Herman Wouk’s World War II classic, The Caine Mutiny. I fell in love with the idea of commanding a destroyer at sea and volunteered for service in the fleet reserve of the United States Navy. At Officer Candidate School I was introduced to Underwater Demolition Teams and volunteered immediately, mostly for the challenge and the possibility that my stock would rise with women my age. I was naive about a lot of things, including the notion that women would be attracted to a Navy frogman.

  All of this is to say I became a Navy SEAL by accident, not by intent. And were it not for the rapid escalation of the Vietnam War and a growing demand for SEAL team platoons that coincided with my completion of Underwater Demolition Training, it is unlikely I would have seen duty with SEAL Team One. That I would later be selected to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor was a confluence of the fortunes of war, a combat operation that did not go as planned, and the need to recognize the contributions of Navy SEALs in Vietnam. I was the first SEAL to be so honored.

  My time in the war was measured in weeks before I was wounded and sent to the Philadelphia Naval Hospital. What I know about war I learned recovering from those injuries; my teachers were men like John Zier, Jim Crotty, and Lewis Puller Jr. They taught me a great deal about courage, resilience, and the tragedy that is war. Along the way I became an expert on pain management and rehabilitation. It was a much longer and more difficult journey than becoming a Navy SEAL. Past that, I will leave the war stories to men like Dick Couch, Mike Thornton, and Tommy Norris.

  Thanks to Dick, we have two great stories from that ill-fated war. Two stories, two heroes—and the actions for which these two SEALs went above and beyond in their service to their nation and to their brothers in the close fight. And their gallant service came in the waning moments of a war that was all but lost. In war, the moment of retreat can sometimes be more dangerous than during an attack. And in 1972, when these two stories took place, America was in full retreat in Vietnam.

  Tommy Norris’s heroism is remarkable to me because his actions were taken to save lives. He didn’t suddenly rush across a field to save a friend; mortal danger was not unexpectedly thrust on him. He planned and executed three exceptionally risky operations knowing that the odds were not in his favor and knowing that if he succeeded, it was unlikely the story would ever be told. These were dangerous missions, excursions behind enemy lines that called for a courageous volunteer. Having succeeded in saving one downed airman, he could have elected not to return; he could have said it was too dangerous, too risky. But he went back again—and again a third time. He did much, much more than duty required. And he preferred the secrecy that kept most from knowing what he had done.

  Tommy Norris doesn’t tell his story as if the war were only about Americans. He correctly places a higher value on the sacrifice and heavy burden borne by our South Vietnamese allies. He says about them that “they’d known nothing but war for their entire life, and this mission, difficult as it might be, was just another day for them.”

  Mike Thornton’s extraordinary bravery is more muscular, and like Mike himself, bigger than life. He saved Tommy’s life and the lives of two Vietnamese frogmen who were also wounded during a reconnaissance of the naval base on the mouth of a river that was the legal boundary that separated North and South Vietnam. I know of no other individual who could have or would have done what Mike did that day. As Mike’s story unfolded, I kept asking myself, “Holy shit, how did he do that?” Mike, Tommy, and those Vietnamese frogmen should all be dead today. They aren’t, because Mike Thornton did the impossible. Whenever I read or hear the phrase “a man among men,” I think of Mike Thornton.

  This book, their stories, has caused me to reflect back on my war and the men I was privileged to call my SEAL brothers. I went off to war and came home very quickly. Dick Couch completed his SEAL deployment and left the Navy. In 1972, while I was still in rehab and Dick was a young case officer at the CIA, Tommy and Mike were still fighting—Tommy on his second rotation, Mike on his third. Had the war lasted several more years, they would have gone back again and again. Like their South Vietnamese allies, they were committed for the duration. Only war’s end or their combat wounds could keep them from returning to the fight. In the words of James Michener from The Bridges at Toko-Ri, “Where do we get such men?” They are indeed true warriors.

  Both Tommy and Mike received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Both richly deserved it. But there was something about Mike’s mission that caught my attention beyond the details of his heroism and the gallant fight that he and Tommy waged that terrible day. They got into serious trouble because they were lost. Of course, these were the days before GPS and satellite phones and smart bombs. But they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had limited ability to call for help. This caused me to wonder if this one battle wasn’t a pretty good metaphor for the entire war.

  —Bob Kerrey

  Medal of Honor recipient

  Former governor and senator from Nebraska

  PREFACE

  I’m honored and proud to call Tommy and Mike my brothers. The term “brother” is used often by those of us who serve in the special operations community. “Brother” in the special operations world has a singular
meaning because only those who’ve answered that calling can know and understand the sacrifices made by special operators and our families on a routine basis. Much like our blood brothers and sisters who know us well, such as our vulnerabilities and weaknesses, battle buddies also know our strengths and weaknesses. Those of us in the Medal of Honor Society often refer to each other as brothers, because no one else can imagine what it’s like to wear the Medal of Honor or, more to the point, the burden of wearing it. We share the knowledge of the strengths and weaknesses of our fellow recipients. Tommy and Mike can certainly call themselves brothers—brother SEALs and brother MoH recipients. Yet they have a third qualifier. They shared the danger and mixed their blood on the battlefield; they faced death and came through it together, as brothers should.

  I met Mike in the early 1970s soon after he received the Medal of Honor from President Richard Nixon. Mike was not just the latest recipient from the Vietnam War; he was one of the youngest. Since I had received the Medal more than two years before and was at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I thought I should help him become acquainted with the ways of the Medal of Honor Society. In those days the SEAL community probably consisted of fewer than four hundred in only two teams—SEAL Team One on the West Coast and SEAL Team Two on the East Coast. Because I knew so many of the older SEALs and operated with them in Vietnam and elsewhere, I thought I would lend a special welcome to Mike. We became good friends, or should I say brothers, because we shared the same experiences in the special operations community. Now we were brother recipients and members of the greatest and closest-knit organization in the country, or perhaps in the world—the Medal of Honor Society.

  A very unique characteristic of the society is that except for the few older recipients whose World War II stories were in movies and had become part of our upbringing, not many of us were aware of the actions for which other recipients had received their Medal. At society events, we seldom sit around and tell stories, at least not about ourselves. Only when Tommy finally recovered from his extensive head wounds and was able to come to the Medal of Honor convention in Houston did I learn his and Mike’s story—that Mike had received his Medal for saving Tommy’s life on that ill-fated mission along the Demilitarized Zone in Vietnam. At the time of the Houston event, Tommy had been approved for the Medal of Honor, but it was not yet public knowledge. Tommy, though he was and is shy and reserved, fit right in.

  What became immediately apparent to me in Houston was that the term “brother,” when Mike and Tommy use it in referring to each other, went much deeper. For the first time in modern history, the Medal of Honor was awarded to a recipient for saving the life of another recipient. These two men were brothers by having served together in high-risk combat; now they share the honor, and the burden, of wearing the Medal of Honor. This unique distinction alone makes their story compelling and, after close to a half decade, well worth the read. And what each of them did on the battlefield was simply incredible.

  Now for the first time in print, we can learn about the incredible lives of these two exceptional men. Like true siblings in any family, they are so very different. They don’t need to live near each other to be close. Each has gone his own way; each has lived on his own terms. Yet their lives are connected like those of true blood brothers. Each has experienced life’s ups and downs and met its challenges head-on. Each knows the other’s weaknesses and strengths. And, as brothers, between them there is trust and love.

  I never served with either Mike or Tommy in combat, even though I would have been honored to have operated with these two Navy SEAL warriors. I have been around them enough over the years to know that to go on an operation with either of them would be one hell of a fight. And I’d be honored to fight alongside them. But that was another time, back in the day.

  No matter what we accomplished in our distant past, the measure of a true hero is what you do with your life after you receive recognition. Tommy and Mike are true heroes, not just for what they did so many years ago but for what they are doing for the men and women who are serving us today. They gave of themselves in close combat, and they continue to give of themselves today.

  I’m proud to call them my brothers.

  —Drew Dix

  Medal of Honor recipient

  Drew Dix is one of my personal heroes. During the Tet Offensive of 1968, then Staff Sergeant Dix rallied the defenders of the provincial capital of Chu Phu in defense of the city. He repeatedly led South Vietnamese forces and an element of Navy SEALs to rescue civilians trapped in the city. In close to three days of intensive fighting, he saved a great many lives and helped to drive the enemy from this provincial capital. His actions during the defense of Chu Phu led to his Medal of Honor, the first enlisted Special Soldier to be so recognized. Drew is the author of The Rescue of River City and cofounder of the Center for American Values in Pueblo, Colorado. He continues to serve his nation. For more, see DrewDix.com.

  —Dick Couch

  INTRODUCTION

  MY ROLE

  On the cover of this book it says “with Dick Couch,” and this is an apt description of my relationship with Tommy Norris and Mike Thornton. I was with them as SEAL teammates going back to the late 1960s—back when few people had even heard of Navy SEALs. I have been with them over the intervening years and as aging warriors we have periodically met to relive the battles of our youth in that long-forgotten war. But what these two American heroes did should never be forgotten. Their individual acts of courage are timeless, and they continue to serve as role models for today’s operational SEALs. Therefore it is with no small sense of purpose that I am privileged to serve as narrator and help them tell their story. It’s the story of two selfless American warriors who went back.

  GOING BACK

  It is deeply ingrained in our military culture that we leave no one behind. At great risk and against all odds, we will do anything and everything to save a fallen buddy or a captured comrade. Within the Navy SEAL teams, it is a sacred covenant. From day one in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, those aspiring to join this elite band of warriors are taught that you never, but never, leave a man behind. In a training regime that is demanding in the extreme, SEAL cadre instructors reserve their harshest punishments for a man who becomes separated from his swim buddy. In the SEAL teams, and indeed all special-operations components, it is axiomatic that a brother warrior is never abandoned.

  The Congressional Medal of Honor is our nation’s highest military decoration—reserved for those who at great personal risk go above and beyond the call of duty. It is no wonder that a great many of those who receive the Medal of Honor have earned this distinction because they went to the aid of another in peril. They went back.

  This is the incredible story of two Navy SEALs who went back. One for a buddy, the other for a brother warrior he had never met. The actions of both represent the pinnacle of courage and selfless service.

  THE MEN

  In 1974 I was living in Northern Virginia just south of Old Town Alexandria. At the time I was a young case officer at the Central Intelligence Agency, risking my life daily—not spying for my country but commuting up the George Washington Parkway to CIA headquarters in Langley on my motorcycle. My wife and I had just bought an old home that needed a lot of work. For most of that first year I had a boarder who lived in the spare bedroom and helped me with the renovations in exchange for a place to live. He was only with us periodically, as he was in and out of Bethesda Naval Hospital for cranial reconstructive surgery. His name was Tom Norris.

  Tom and I first met in the fall of 1968 when we were two officer trainees enrolled in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. He had come from naval flight training, and I had come from duty aboard a Navy destroyer. We were both junior grade lieutenants, or “JGs.” Following training, he went to SEAL Team Two, and I, after a short tour at Underwater Demolition Team 22, joined SEAL Team One. I got through Vietnam without a scratch. Tom was not so lucky. In the course of a running firefigh
t along the so-called Demilitarized Zone that at the time separated North and South Vietnam, Tom was shot in the head. The round went through the orbit of his left eye and took out a good chunk of the left side of his skull. A mortal wound for sure, had it not been for a SEAL petty officer named Mike Thornton, who fought his way back to Tom’s side and spirited him to safety. Mike and I were teammates at SEAL Team One.

  One evening I asked Tom about the events of that day. We were both combat SEALs and for us, this was shop talk. Still, the details of a running firefight are difficult to recall, even without a serious head wound.

  “We were being hard pressed by a large North Vietnamese Army force—probably a battalion. We’d been fighting for an hour or more among a series of sand dunes along the coast. I’d been on the radio trying to get some naval gunfire support, but I wasn’t having much luck. I had one LAAW [light antiarmor weapon] rocket left and was getting ready to fire it. Then things went dark. The next thing I knew, Mike was by my side, kneeling over me.

  “‘Can you run?’ he said to me.

  “‘I can run,’ I told him, ‘but I can’t see.’

  “‘Then let’s go. We can’t stay here.’”

  Through a hail of enemy fire, Mike managed to get Tom off that beach, into the relative safety of the South China Sea, and into history.

  While Tom was in and out of the hospital, and helping me to rebuild my house, Mike was awarded the Medal of Honor for his rescue of Tom. When Tom was later awarded the Medal of Honor for his previous rescue of two American airmen shot down behind enemy lines, these two gallant but separate combat actions became unprecedented. Never in the modern history of American combat arms and the storied lore of the Medal of Honor had a soldier, sailor, airman, or marine received the Medal for saving the life of another recipient.