American sniper pdf download

He investigated the opportunity further and learned that there was no guarantee he would become a SEAL if he joined the Navy. He would need to earn the privilege. Kyle went through the application process, but the Navy disqualified him because of the pins in his wrist.

He felt his military career had ended before it began. He went back to work for Landrum and hoped to become a rancher. Shortly afterward, a recruiter called and asked if he was still interested in becoming a SEAL. Kyle's longest successful recorded shot was made from two thousand, one hundred yards or one thousand, nine hundred and twenty meters away outside of Sadr City. He had spotted an insurgent who was about to throw a grenade at a U. Kyle fired a single shot using a sniper rifle and successfully hit the man, killing him before he could cause any harm.

Sadr City was the last place Kyle was deployed, and this was where he saw the worst fighting. You may have read the book, but not have liked it. You may have liked the book, but not be a fan. You may call yourself a fan, but few truly are. Are you a fan? Trivia-on-Books is an independently curated trivia quiz on the book for readers, students, and fans alike. Whether you're looking for new materials to the book or would like to take the challenge yourself and share it with your friends and family for a time of fun, Trivia-on-Books provides a unique approach to American Sniper by Chris Kyle that is both insightful and educational!

Later, the mainstream media derided Kyle's heroism in Louisiana, claiming it was "preposterous" and "unverifiable. His job is to deliver highly accurate rifle fire against targets, which cannot be engaged successfully by the regular rifleman because of range, size, location, fleeting nature, or visibility. This e-book provides information needed to become an excellent shooter. It is organized as a reference for snipers and it leads through the material needed to conduct sniper training.

Subjects include equipment, weapon capabilities, fundamentals of marksmanship and ballistics, field skills, mission planning, and skill sustainment. Was Chris Kyle an American hero or a stone cold killer? Grab your copy now! But this description barely scratches the surface. Special operations snipers are men with stacked skill sets who have the ability to turn the tide of battles, even when they aren't pulling the trigger.

Snipers have played an outsized role in the War on Terror that has earned them the Medal of Honor, Navy Cross, and countless other honors. These are the most experienced warriors on the battlefield, oftentimes the units' best assaulters with years of door-kicking under their belt. These are the men who run ops in small teams across borders, or dress like locals and pull off high-risk vehicle reconnaissance and singleton missions in non-permissive environments.

This is their story. Sharp shooter is the less common term to describe snipers whose role in history started in the World War. Famous snipers have since emerged forming part of the elite Navy Seals. While some people refer to snipers as cowards because they do seem to not be actively engaged in combat they have been hailed as heroes due to the reduced misses during combat and the flexibility of their attack to rely on stealth.

American snipers have played a huge role in eliminating some of the terrorists bent on causing terror around the world. Snipers are originally meant to increase the chances of winning a war. They do this by neutralizing the most dangerous people in war from a concealed distance and thereby serve to provide an advantage to their side. Chief Kyle is a true American warrior down to the bone, the Carlos Hathcock of a new generation.

The Pentagon has officially confirmed more than of Kyles kills the previous American record was , but it has declined to verify the astonishing total number for this book. Army soldiers, whom he protected with deadly accuracy from rooftops and stealth positions.

A native Texan who learned to shoot on childhood hunting trips with his father, Kyle was a champion saddle-bronc rider prior to joining the Navy. He recorded a personal-record 2,yard kill shot outside Baghdad; in Fallujah, Kyle braved heavy fire to rescue a group of Marines trapped on a street; in Ramadi, he stared down insurgents with his pistol in close combat. Kyle talks honestly about the pain of war—of twice being shot and experiencing the tragic deaths of two close friends. American Sniper also honors Kyles fellow warriors, who raised hell on and off the battlefield.

And in moving first-person accounts throughout, Kyles wife, Taya, speaks openly about the strains of war on their marriage and children, as well as on Chris. Adrenaline-charged and deeply personal, American Sniper is a thrilling eyewitness account of war that only one man could tell. Top Download:. My first impression was that she was beautiful, even if she looked pissed off about something. When we started talking, I also found out she was smart, and had a good sense of humor.

But maybe she should tell the story; her version sounds better than mine: Taya: I remember the night we met—some of it, at least. This was all during a low spot in my life.

I was fairly new in town and still looking for some solid female friendships. And I was casually dating guys, with not much success. I remember literally praying to God before I met Chris to just send me a nice guy. Nothing else mattered, I thought. I just prayed for someone who was inherently good and nice. A girlfriend called and wanted to go down to San Diego.

I was living in Long Beach at the time, about ninety miles away. My friend wanted to go in but they had an outrageous cover charge, something like ten or fifteen bucks. She paid the cover and in we went. We were at the bar. I was drinking and irritable. This tall, good-looking guy came over and started talking to me. My mood was still pretty bad, though he had a certain air about him.

He told me his name—Chris— and I told him mine. He told me a bunch of other things. On e look at him and I could have told he was military. You see, my sister had just divorced her husband. So I told Chris. What was intriguing was how he responded. He seemed truly. I told him about my brother-in-law. We talked for a while more, then my friend came over and I turned my attention to her.

Chris said something like he was going to go home. I hung around. We were still there at last call. As I got up with the crowd to go, I was pushed against him. He was all hard and muscle-y and smelled good, so I gave him a little kiss on his neck.

We went out and he walked us to the parking lot. How can you not love a girl who loses it the first time you meet? I knew from the start that this was someone I wanted to spend a lot of time with. But at first, it was impossible to do that. I called her the morning after we met to make sure she was okay. We talked and laughed a bit. The other guys on the Team started ribbing me about it. You see, we talked a few times, when she would actually answer the phone—maybe thinking it was someone else.

After a while, it was obvious even to me that she never initiated. Then, something changed. I remember the first time she called me. We were on the East Coast, training. I took the call as a sign she was really interested.

I was happy to share that fact with all the naysayers. Taya: Chris was always very aware of my feelings. He is extremely observant in general and it is the same with his awareness of my emotions. A simple question or easy way of bringing something to light reveals that he is percent aware of my feelings.

I noticed it early on in our relationship. We would be talking on the phone and he was very caring. We are, in many ways, opposites. Still, we seemed to click. One day on the phone he was asking what I thought made us compatible.

I decided to tell him some of the things that drew me to him. And sensitive. I explained that I meant that he seemed to pick up on how I was feeling, sometimes before I did.

And he let me express that emotion, and, importantly, gave me space. I woke up one morning to her yelling. Wake up! Taya had turned on the television and jacked the volume. Part of me was still sleeping.

Then as we watched, an airplane flew right into the side of the second tower. I stared at the screen, angry and confused, not entirely sure it was real. Suddenly I remembered that I left my cell phone off. The sum total of them was this: Kyle, get your ass back to base. Down around San Juan Capistrano, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a set of red lights flashing. I pulled over. The cop who came up to the truck was pissed.

I understand you got to write me a ticket. I know I was in the wrong but with all due respect can you just hurry and give me the ticket so I can get back to base? I just told you I have to report. But I kept my cool. By now I was pretty annoyed. He took me as far as his jurisdiction went, maybe a little farther, then waved me on. My platoon would have to wait roughly a year before we got into action, and when we did, it would be against Saddam Hussein, not Osama bin Laden. Established during World War II, UDT frogmen were responsible for reconning beaches before they were hit, and they trained for a variety of other waterborne tasks, such as infiltrating harbors and planting limpet mines on enemy ships.

Every special operations unit in the U. Army Special Forces—also known as SF—does an excellent job training foreign forces, both in conventional and unconventional warfare. Air Force special operators—parajumpers —excel at pulling people out of the shit. Among our specialties are DAs. You might think of it as a surgical strike against the enemy. We still did all the things a SEAL is supposed to do—diving, jumping out of planes, taking down ships, etc.

But there was more emphasis on land warfare during our workup than there traditionally had been in the past. There was debate about this shift far above my pay grade. Some people wanted to limit SEALs to ten miles inland. The training, most of it anyway, was fun, even when it was a kick in the balls. We dove, we went into the desert, we worked in the mountains. We even got water-boarded and gassed. Everybody gets water-boarded during training.

The instructors tortured us as hard as they could, tying us up and pounding on us, just short of permanently damaging us. They say each of us has a breaking point, and that prisoners eventually give in. But I would have done my best to make them kill me before I gave up secrets.

Gas training was another kick. Basically, you get hit with CS gas and have to fight through it. You learn during training to let your eyes run; the worst thing to do is rub them. We went up to Kodiak, Alaska, where we did a land navigation course.

We started with basic instruction on keeping warm—layering up, etc. I prefer lightness and speed. I count ounces when we go out, not pounds. The lighter you are, the more mobile you become. The little bastards out there are faster than hell; you need every advantage you can get on them. The training was pretty competitive. We found out at one point that the best platoon in the Team would be shipped out to Afghanistan. Training picked up from that point on. It was a fierce competition, and not just out on the training range.

The officers were backstabbing each other. The competition came down to us and one other platoon. We came in second. They went to war; we stayed home. With the conflict in Iraq looming on the horizon, our emphasis shifted. We practiced fighting in the desert; we practiced fighting in cities. We worked hard, but there were always lighter moments. I remember one time when we were on a RUT real urban training. On this one exercise, we were working at a house. Everything had been carefully arranged with the local police department.

My role was to pull security outside. I blocked out traffic, waving vehicles away as some of the local cops watched from the sidelines. While I was standing there, gun out, not looking particularly friendly, this guy walked down the block toward me.

I started going through the drill. First I waved him off; he kept coming. Then I shined my light on him; he kept coming. I put my laser dot on him; he kept coming. Of course, the closer he got, the more convinced I was that he was a role-player, sent to test me. The next thing on my list was to throw him down. He started to resist, and reached under his jacket for what I assumed was a weapon, which is exactly what a SEAL playing a bad guy would do.

Whatever was under his jacket broke and liquid went everywhere. As the fight ran out of him, I cuffed him and looked around. The cops, seated in their patrol car nearby, were just about doubled over laughing.

I went over to see what was up. We wish we could have beat him like you just did. There are idiots everywhere—but I guess that explains how he got into that line of work in the first place. So when we got the word that we were shipping out to Kuwait, we were excited. We figured we were going to war. One way or the other, there was plenty to do out there.

Saddam was smuggling oil and other items both into and out of his country, in violation of the U. The U. Before we deployed, Taya and I chose to get married. The decision surprised both of us. One day we started talking in the car, and we both came to the conclusion that we should get married.

The decision stunned me, even as I made it. I agreed with it. It was completely logical. We were definitely in love. I knew she was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. We both knew that there is an extremely high divorce rate in the SEALs. So maybe that was what worried me. And of course I understood how demanding my job was going to be once we went to war. But I do know that I was absolutely in love, and that she loved me. And so, for better or worse, make that peace or war, marriage was our next step together.

The platoons are very tight-knit groups. New guys get the shit jobs. For example: on a training exercise, you work hard. The instructors kick your ass all day long. A new guy always drives. One night soon after I joined my platoon, we were out partying after a training mission.

When we left the bar, all the older guys piled into the back. I came out of that one with bruised ribs and a black eye, maybe two. I must have gotten my lip busted a dozen times during hazing. I should say that van wars are separate from bar fights, another SEAL staple. SEALs are pretty notorious for getting into bar scrapes, and I was no exception. Why do SEALs fight so much? Happens in every bar across the world. Most people just ignore things like that. In a lot of cases, the fights are the result of some sort of stupid jealousy or the need for a dumbass t o test his own manhood and earn bragging rights for fighting a SEAL.

We go in extremely confident. And, with us being mostly young and in great shape, people take notice. Or guys want to prove something for some other reason. Either way, things escalate and fights happen. And my wedding. We were in the Nevada mountains; it was cold—so cold that it was snowing. I had gotten a few days leave to get married; I was due to take off in the morning. The rest of the platoon still had some work to do. We got back that night to our temporary base and went inside to the mission-planning room.

Then he turned to me. When I came back in, everyone was sitting in chairs. There was only one left, and it was kind of in the middle of a circle of the others. The target will be in the center. We will completely encircle it.

I looked at the chief. The chief looked at me. Suddenly, his serious expression gave way to a shit-ass grin. With that, the rest of the platoon bum-rushed me. I hit the floor a second later. They cuffed me to a chair, and then began my kangaroo court. There were a lot of charges against me. The first was the fact that I had let it be known that I wanted to become a sniper. He thinks he is better than the rest of us. I turned to my defense attorney. A pretty big difference, except in this case.

Next charge! They got me pretty wasted before we even got to the felonies. At some point, they stripped me down and put ice down my drawers. Finally I passed out. Then they spray-painted me, and for good measure, drew Playboy bunnies on my chest and back with a marker. Just the sort of body art you want for your honeymoon. At some point, my friends apparently became concerned about my health.

So they taped me to a spine board completely naked, took me outside, and stood me up in the snow. They left me for a while until I regained some amount of consciousness.

By then I was jackhammering hard enough to put a hole through a bunker roof. They gave me an IV—the saline helps cut down the alcohol in your system—and finally took me back to the hotel, still taped to the spine board. All I remember from the rest of the night is being lifted up a bunch of stairs, apparently to my motel room.

Taya washed off most of the paint and the bunnies when I met up with her the next day. But a few were still visible under my shirt. I kept my jacket tightly buttoned for the ceremony. By then, the swelling in my face was almost completely gone. The stitches in my eyebrow from a friendly fight among teammates a few weeks early were healing nicely.

The cut on my lip from a training exercise was also healing pretty well. The amount of time we had for our honeymoon, though, was a sore point.

The Team was gracious enough to give me three days to get hitched and honeymoon. As a new guy, I was appreciative of the brief leave. Nonetheless, we married and honeymooned quickly. Then I got back to work. We got a tanker. I was soaked from the spray. An oil tanker loomed ahead. A helicopter had spotted it trying to sneak down the Gulf after loading up illegally in Iraq. I scrambled to get ready. Our RHIB rigid hulled inflatable boat, used for a variety of SEAL tasks looked like a cross between a rubber life raft and an open speedboat with two monster motors in the back.

Thirty-six feet long, it held eight SEALs and hit upward of forty-five knots on a calm sea. The exhaust from the twin motors wafted over the boat, mixing with the spray as we gathered speed. I went to work, taking a long pole from the deck of the boat.

Our speed dropped as our RHIB cut alongside the tanker, until we were just about matching its pace.

Once the hook caught, I jerked the pole down. A bungee cord connected the hook to the pole. A steel cable ladder was connected to the hook. Someone grabbed hold of the bottom and held it while the lead man began climbing up the side of the ship.

A loaded oil tanker can sit fairly low in the water, so low, in fact, that you sometimes can just grab the rail and hop over. By the time I reached the deck, the lead guys were already headed toward the wheelhouse and bridge of the ship. I ran to catch up. Suddenly the tanker began gaining speed. The captain, belatedly realizing he was being boarded, was trying to head for Iranian waters. I caught up to the head of the team just as they reached the door to the bridge. One of the crew got there at roughly the same time, and tried to lock it.

I ran through, gun ready. He made a run at me. Pretty stupid. I took the muzzle of my gun and struck the idiot in his chest. He went right down. Somehow, I managed to slip as well. My elbow flew out and landed straight on his face.

A couple of times. That pretty much took the fight out of him. I rolled him over and cuffed him. And in the lead-up to war during the winter of —03, that meant the Persian Gulf off Iraq. Smuggling took all sorts of forms. More commonly, tankers took on thousands and thousands of gallons in excess of what they were permitted in the U.

Oil-for-Food program. One of the biggest contraband shipments we came across that winter were dates.

Apparently they could fetch a decent price on the world market. Generally, we worked off a big ship, which we used as kind of a floating home port for our RHIBs. Half of the platoon would go out for one twenty-four-hour period. We would sail to a designated spot and drift in the night, waiting. With luck, a helo or a ship would radio intel about a ship coming out of Iraq sailing pretty low in the water. Anything that had a cargo would be boarded and inspected. A few times we worked with an Mk-V boat.

Built out of aluminum, it can haul serious ass—the boats are said to hit sixty-five knots. But what we liked about them were their flat decks behind the superstructure.

Ordinarily, we would load two Zodiacs back there. That beat leaning across the seat or twisting yourself around to rest on the gunwale. Taking down ships in the Gulf quickly became routine.

We could take dozens in a night. From that point on, the North Korean ship was literally a marked vessel. The 3,ton freighter had an interesting history of transporting items to and from North Korea. According to one rumor, she had transported chemicals that could be used to create nerve weapons. What she was really carrying were Scud missiles. The ship was tracked around the Horn of Africa while the Bush administration decided what to do about it. Finally, the President ordered that the ship be boarded and searched: just the sort of job SEALs excel at.

We had a platoon in Djibouti, which was a hell of a lot closer to the craft than we were. You can imagine how happy our sister platoon was to see us when we landed in Djibouti.

As soon as I got off the plane, I spotted a buddy. Grudgingly, they helped us prepare for the mission, then got us aboard a mail-and-resupply helicopter from the USS Nassau, an amphibious assault ship out in the Indian Ocean. They look like old-fashioned aircraft carriers with a straight-through flight deck. There are several ways to take down a ship, depending on the conditions and the target. Those wires would have to be removed before we could land, which would add time to the operation.

We started doing practice runs off the side of the Nassau with boats that had been brought out there by a Special Boat Unit. Among other things, the units are equipped and trained to make combat insertions, braving fire to get SEALs in and out of trouble. The freighter, meanwhile, continued sailing toward us.

We geared up as it came within range, preparing to hit it. But before we could board the boats, we got a call telling us to stand by—the Spaniards had moved in.

The Spanish frigate Navarra had confronted the North Korean ship, which had been fooling exactly nobody by sailing without a flag and with her name covered up. Of course, they used helicopters, and just as we had thought, were delayed by having to shoot out the wires. Our mission was quickly changed from taking down the ship to going aboard and securing it—and uncovering the Scud missiles. But in this case, they were nowhere to be seen.

There must have been hundreds of thousands. There was only one place the Scuds could be. We started moving cement. Bag after bag. That was our job for twenty-four hours. No sleep, just move bags of cement. I must have moved thousands myself. It was miserable.

I was covered with dust. God knows what my lungs looked like. Finally, we found shipping containers underneath. Out came our torches and saws. I worked one of the quickie saws. Also known as a cut-off saw, it looks like a chain saw with a circular blade on the front. It cuts through just about anything, including Scud containers. Fifteen Scud missiles lay under the cement.

By that point, the entire platoon was completely covered with cement dust. A few guys went over the side to clean off. Not me. That much cement, who the hell knows what happens when it touches the water?

We handed the freighter over to the Marines and went back aboard the Nassau. We stayed on the Nassau for two weeks.

So we played video games and pumped iron, waiting. That and slept. Unfortunately, the only video game we had with us was Madden Football. I got pretty good at it. That was probably where I got hooked. I think my wife still cusses my two weeks aboard the Nassau to this very day. A footnote on the Scuds: the missiles were bound for Yemen. In any event, the Scuds were released and went on to Yemen, Saddam stayed in Iraq, and we went back to Kuwait to get ready for war. The day kind of came and went without a memorable celebration.

They were small, radio-controlled toys that were just a blast to drive around. Some of the Iraqis working on base had apparently never seen anything like them before. Their high- pitched screams, coupled with sprints in the opposite direction, had me doubled over.

Cheap thrills in Iraq were priceless. Some of the people we had working for us were not exactly the best of the best, nor were all of them particularly fond of Americans. They caught one jerking off into our food. He was quickly escorted from the base. We stayed at two different camps in Kuwait: Ali al-Salem and Doha. Our facilities at both were relatively bare-bones. Doha was a large U. Army base, and played important roles in both the First and what would be the Second Gulf War.

We were given a warehouse there and framed-out rooms with the help of some Seabees, the Navy combat engineers. Ali al-Salem was even more primitive, at least for us.

There we got a tent and some shelving units; that was about it. I was in Kuwait when I saw my first desert sandstorm. The day suddenly became night. Sand swirled everywhere. From the distance, you can see a vast orange-brown cloud moving toward you. I remember being in an airplane hangar, and even though the doors were closed, the amount of dust in the air was unbelievable.