American Wife (14 page)

Dear Chief Chris Kyle,

By way of introduction, I am an editor at the William Morrow imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. I'm writing to ask if you've given any thought to writing a book about your personal experiences in the military as a sniper. It's my understanding that you have a superb reputation and an outstanding service record that might be of interest to a wide audience. I hope we can be in touch further if this is an opportunity you'd like to explore at this time.

Many thanks.

Best regards,

Peter

Peter Hubbard

Senior Editor

HarperCollins Publishers

Chris's response:

I would be very interested in talking with you. I am packing right now for an antelope hunt my company is putting on for several wounded vets. I will be back Wednesday, and I will reach out to you then. Thank you for your email.

Chris Kyle

They talked. Chris told Peter that Peter would have to talk to Scott, who represented him as attorney and agent on the book deal and, later on, the movie. Scott kept the original contract in place, even though he wasn't going to write the book; in addition to taking 30 percent of the proceeds, he got his name on the cover as an author and ended up on the copyright. (Harper looked at a sample he had prepared and made it clear they wanted a professional writer. Scott's material was not used to prepare or shape the book.)

Peter recommended Jim DeFelice as the writer. Jim had collaborated with a number of other men on memoirs, and was a bestselling fiction and nonfiction writer. Among his partners was Richard Marcinko, the “father” of SEAL Team 6. That was actually not a selling point for Chris. Jim prepared a vision for the book talking about finding the deeper themes and insisting on a raw, no-holds-barred story that would be in Chris's voice and tell people what war was really like.

Chris talked to Jim by phone a short time later. Chris explained that he was reluctant to do the book at all but had been persuaded that another book was going to be done, and so he'd decided to go ahead.

“Why do you want to write the book?” Jim asked.

“I want to honor the guys who fought with me.”

“Tell me about them,” Jim said, not knowing whether to believe what might be a stock answer.

Chris talked about the two men who had been shot while under his command—Marc Lee and Ryan Job—and how he wanted to honor them. He was so sincere and open, that before five minutes had passed they were set. Within a week or two—even before there was a formal contract with HarperCollins—Chris and Jim were working.

Chris and Jim's process was deceptively simple. Basically, the two men talked. And talked and talked and talked. The phone bills must have been outrageous. They also worked together in person on a ranch a friend of ours owned; Jim also stayed with us in Texas, and we stayed with him and his family in New York.

From the start, Jim wanted me to be part of the book. He argued that my contribution would make the book truly unique: to that point, no one had included the family in a military memoir, certainly not one involving a SEAL. But Jim and then Chris argued that the family went through their own kind of war while their loved one was away. Just as Chris felt that his story was every veteran's story, telling my side would illuminate what spouses go through during a deployment.

I was nervous, though. I wasn't sure about it for several reasons. One question was the kids' privacy: Would people—the enemy Chris fought abroad—be out to take revenge against Chris by harming his children?

Chris assured me that wouldn't happen. My other objections were more personal. Frankly, I didn't think people would care about me. In fact, I was still undecided in mid-December 2010, when I drove out to the ranch where Jim and Chris were working.

“We think it's a good idea,” Chris told me over the phone when I called on the way to say I was having second—or by that time, third or fourth—thoughts. “It will give people a better idea of what families go through.”

Still unsure, I went in and met the writer. Before I knew it, we were sitting in front of a fireplace and talking. It seemed incredibly natural, even when the topics became heavy.

We were all in. Before I knew it, Chris was needing a drink, and Jim was taking a lot of notes.

The book took the better part of a year to write, even though they were working every day for stretches.

Or at least they claimed to be working—I have a rather incriminating photo showing them playing Xbox. Maybe it was for research.

Chris wanted to come across in the book the way he was in life—humble, not bragging. He didn't want to seem as if he was full of himself, or making too much of what he'd done. That was a tricky proposition, given that the book was in his voice and about things he had done that were, by any measure, heroic.

One of the criticisms that came up later was the fact that, because he was a sniper, Chris was always “safe,” since he was shooting from a distance. Of course, if you actually read the book, you know that's not true: he often fought “on the ground,” and in fact snipers were primary targets for the enemy—the guys they all wanted to kill.

He also was worried that some of the stories—like the one where he shot the terrorists who were swimming across the river—might make him look like a monster. But the stories were real, and in the end, he decided to tell them without spin and let people make their own judgments.

One thing Chris and Jim—and the publisher—discussed quite a bit was the number of kills to use in the book. The number that is published—over 160—is the “official” number, and is technically correct, but it's short of the actual number by quite a bit. The Navy demanded that he
not
use the actual number, claiming that a large portion had come on missions that were tangentially involved in classified actions, and therefore shouldn't be published.

Jim and Chris debated quite a lot about that. Chris reasoned that the number was so high largely because he happened to be in a lot of battles; many other snipers, Chris claimed, were just as good as he was, but didn't have the opportunities. Nonetheless, some number had to be used; otherwise there would always be questions about Chris's record.

Chris never dwelled on the number of kills, though it was common knowledge in the SEAL community and something that others often mentioned. What was important to him was the lives he was saving—and the two lives that ultimately he couldn't save, the lives of his friends Ryan Job and Marc Lee. If it were up to him, Chris wouldn't have used any number at all. But as the publisher pointed out, there had to be some number in the book, to show what he had accomplished.

Finally, they decided to use the round number the Navy uses, which itself is higher than any other American sniper has been publicly credited with. They explained that the actual number is more, though few people pay attention to that part, let alone Chris's reasoning on why the number itself isn't important.

As far as I know, Chris still has the “record,” if you want to call it that. One thing that he always made clear: the number did not mean that he was the best shot ever. On the contrary, he considered himself only a good shot, often pointing out that his brother Jeff was better. His number of kills was due primarily to his “luck” of often being in combat.

Another thing to note: even Chris's unpublished “real” number doesn't represent the number of people he killed in combat. That number was much higher—he shot people before he was a sniper, in actions when he was “on the ground,” and even as a sniper a kill was only recorded when a combatant's death was recorded by a witness.

A lot of people died because of my husband's skills.

A lot of people die in war. Machine gunners in World War I, artillerymen in World War II, bomber pilots in both wars, all killed hundreds of enemy soldiers. There are endless examples, and the truth is, compared to some of those tolls, Chris's exploits were modest.

The difference here was that there was a specific record and acknowledgment of each kill. Somehow, that offended some people's sense of propriety.

While Chris was proud of the job he did and certainly knew the exact number, to him, the significance was that he had saved other people. Every one of those kills represented one, two, three, twelve—countless lives that were protected. And given that more Iraqi citizens were killed by terrorists than by American soldiers during the conflict, most of the people who owe him their lives are Iraqi, and Muslim. So when he's called a racist or anti-Islam, I just shake my head.

Chris knew and worked with Iraqis and Muslims in Iraq. Following the war, he happened to meet a man who had acted as an interpreter for SEALs and other American and Iraqi forces in Iraq. Johnny Walker—that's a pseudonym he adopted to protect his family—had been helped to immigrate to the U.S. by SEALs after his life was threatened several times.

Chris publically thanked and praised Johnny at a book event. He then persuaded William Morrow to publish a book about Johnny's experiences. Written with Jim DeFelice's help,
Code Name: Johnny Walker
talks about what it was like to be an Iraqi during the war. Johnny praised Chris—and other Americans—freely in the book, and continues to do so.

Certainly Chris hated the terrorists and insurgents he was fighting. But that hatred didn't translate into blind rage against all Muslims.

A lot of people have asked if writing
American Sniper
helped Chris heal.

No!

If anything, it reopened many old wounds, maybe including some Chris didn't even realize he had. But once he decided to do something, he was committed. If he wanted to quit at any point, he never told anyone, including me.

The beauty of
American Sniper
is that it is raw. Chris was upfront about his flaws. And it reflects his viewpoint on the war, one that wasn't polished or buffed, let alone made “politically correct.” I think that was an important reason people were able to relate to it.

Anyone who has served in the military and writes a book about their experience is supposed to submit the manuscript for a legal and security review before it is published. Many, many authors ignore that requirement, but Chris insisted that the book be submitted. And so it was.

The Department of Defense coordinates the formal procedure, sending the book to other agencies and services, then passing judgment on the legalities and making formal recommendations.

The Navy did its own review and came up with their own “suggestions.” Chris thought a few had nothing to do with classified missions—he had been very careful not to mention any, even in cases where reports had already been published. Possibly he didn't have to agree with all of the “suggestions,” but he had agreed to go through the process, and so he made the changes, deleting material at their request.

Chris and Jim finished working on the book in the fall of 2011. Except for blocking off some time to do an interview or two for the media the following January, Chris put it out of his mind and concentrated on his business. There was more than enough to keep him busy.

I had had my own dream of writing. The dream stayed with me on and off, and with Chris working on his book, he encouraged me to work on my own.

But my time was tight. I was volunteering at the kids' school, helping Chris, and just being a mom. Finally, Chris pushed me to get going.

“Couldn't you run to Starbucks for a few hours when I get home and work on it?” he asked.

I did that for a while. I'd make dinner before I left, then go out and work. Unfortunately, it was still very hard to be consistent—the kids might get sick, or there were just other interruptions and things that had to be done.

Finally, I got to the point where I thought, God is telling me you'll do it, but not now.

Now that I've gained some distance from it, I've realized that putting it down temporarily was actually a blessing. Not only have I gained a perspective on what I was trying to say, but I've also gotten more insights into people and situations that are similar to those I was trying to write about.

And I wouldn't trade the time I spent with Chris for a dozen novels, all of them bestsellers.

Since coming to Texas, Chris had begun visiting with veterans who were having trouble readjusting from the war. Many were disabled; others just needed to talk to someone who knew what they'd experienced.

Chris's attitude was to treat them all absolutely the same, as if they were regular guys hanging out together—because in his eyes, that's what they were. He went out a few times on organized “retreats”—trips to ranches in the area where vets could spend weekends hunting or shooting or just chilling.

He also spent time talking to people informally. Guys he knew and some he didn't would call him up and just need to talk. I remember him leaving the house one night at eleven thirty after a call when he thought the guy was close to committing suicide.

Chris was never much of a talker, but maybe that's why people felt they could talk to him. He'd been through the war and the transition to civilian life. He knew what it was like. He also wasn't the kind of person who would gossip about you to others—what you said to him would stay with him.

He had a soft heart, but you could trust him, too.

The conversations would start casually:
Have you ever had bad dreams?

Yes, Chris would answer, then simply listen. There were certain topics that I'm sure hit him very hard—like the guilt one feels after a buddy dies, or the conviction that you might have done something more to save other lives. Mostly Chris would just listen, nod, and add a word or two of encouragement. Sharing with someone who knows what you're going through is sometimes the best medicine you can get.

BACON AND OTHER SILLY STUFF

Among the many veterans Chris helped was Omar Avila, who'd been badly wounded in an ambush and IED attack in Iraq in 2007. Burned over 75 percent of his body, Omar managed to largely recover from his wounds, but even three years after the attack was still suffering psychologically. Chris met him after a friend invited him to hang out with some disabled vets at a ranch for a weekend. It was an informal gathering—the kind Chris liked the best. Most of the guys were going hunting, but Omar didn't feel much like hunting that weekend. He was, he said later, in a dark hole.