Murder trials. War crimes. Drug abuse. The Navy SEALs want to redeem themselves.

Gator Boulevard. A street like no other. Stout buildings line one shoulder — two-story, military-issue boxes. Unremarkable from the outside except for their signs:

SEAL Team 2

SEAL Team 4

SEAL Team 8

SEAL Team 10

This stretch of asphalt is commando capital on this side of the country, the headquarters of the nation’s East Coast Navy SEALs, lined up in a powerhouse row on the base at Little Creek.

The scene is a solid reminder that Hampton Roads is a major hub for special operators, who come and go so discreetly it’s easy to forget they’re here.

But the past year has brought unwelcome limelight to a force whose trademarks include working in the shadows.

The SEALs have been rocked by a string of scandals — murder trials, drug use, war crimes — that has not only stained the storied ranks but toppled some of its leaders and even entangled the White House.

What’s happening with America’s SEALs? Are they cracking under the weight of today’s endless war on terror?

Since 9/11, they’ve been at the forefront, seemingly invincible, untouchable heroes bearing the brunt of behind-the-lines missions.

But roughly 100 SEALs have been killed since then, lost to accidents during grueling training or to enemies in countries like Iraq, Somalia, Libya, Syria, Yemen. Half of those died in action in Afghanistan alone.

And bad behavior has claimed careers. Even in war — brutal, hazy, full of split-second decisions under hostile conditions — civilized nations expect their troops to adhere to a code of honorable conduct.

Since 2011, more than 150 SEALs have been stripped of their Tridents, the hard-earned, gold-colored pins signifying membership in the elite tribe of fighters.

“We’ve been at war for almost 20 years and it’s putting a huge strain on our warriors. It’s putting a huge strain on their families.”

Those words came from Thomas Modly, acting Secretary of the Navy, during an address to the Hampton Roads Chamber of Commerce in early December.

The toll on the special warfare community is “unsustainable,” Modly said, and it’s impacting “our culture. As you know my boss lost his job over an issue related to culture."

Modly was referring to Richard Spencer, who served as Secretary of the Navy until November, when he was forced to resign after sparring with President Donald Trump over the discipline of West Coast SEAL Eddie Gallagher.

Gallagher was accused of stabbing a wounded captive to death in Iraq, but was ultimately only convicted of posing for a photo with the teenager’s corpse.

[ More coverage: Anguished Navy SEALs recall Chief Edward Gallagher as "freaking evil" and "toxic" ]

Continuous deployments, Modly said, can turn war zones into the only place soldiers feel at home, convinced that conflict is the only thing they know how to do.

"We need to heal the special warfare community,” he said, find ways to help ensure its members can live up to the force’s own ethical standards.

“But it’s a hard, hard challenge,” he said, when the battle they’re expected to wage has been going on “for this amount of time.”

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Silent majority

Loyalty to Country, Team and Teammate

Serve with Honor and Integrity On and Off the Battlefield

Ready to Lead, Ready to Follow, Never Quit

Take responsibility for your actions and the actions of your teammates

Excel as Warriors through Discipline and Innovation

Train for War, Fight to Win, Defeat our Nation’s Enemies

Earn your Trident every day.

The SEALs have multiple creeds and mottos. Capt. Mark Schafer wears this one around his neck, a small card tucked alongside his ID badge.

Schafer is the commodore of Naval Special Warfare Group Two — one twig of a massive military tree that’s so thick with divisions and acronyms it’s hard to follow.

Bottom line: He’s in charge of the SEAL teams at Little Creek.

Schafer won’t discuss the individual cases providing grist for the recent swarm of bad press. He’ll only say they’ve left him “disappointed that our teammates let us down. We are so much better than that.”

It’s frustrating, he says, that he can’t share all the “good work” SEALs do.

“Ninety-five percent are out there grinding it out,” Schafer says, working in rugged locations, cultivating partnerships in Third World corners, coaching friendly forces in the midst of “dangerous environments, places where you need skilled people with their head on a swivel — places I can’t talk about.”

Sitting around a conference table with Schafer, it’s understood — considering the clandestine nature of most SEAL missions — that there’s plenty he will not divulge.

The basic framework is no secret. The Navy has 2,700 active-duty SEALs, formed into teams that are folded into a handful of larger groups.

Group One, based at Coronado near San Diego, typically has the teams with odd numerals in their names, like SEAL Team 3.

Teams with even numerals usually answer to Group Two at Little Creek.

Among the exceptions: SEAL Team 6, which is based in the area but falls under the NSW Development Group at Oceana’s Dam Neck Annex.

Team 6 made headlines in 2009 for rescuing the captain of the Maersk Alabama from Somali pirates, and in 2011 for killing 9/11 mastermind Osama bin Laden. Plenty of SEALs were uncomfortable with the publicity, but at least it was positive.

“If we’re doing it right,” Schafer says, “it usually goes unseen.”

Schafer, 47, is a 25-year SEAL, a veteran of at least 15 war-zone deployments. Trim, pressed and squared-away, he comes across as calm, methodical, easy going. Rambo does not come to mind.

Yet, inside:

“I became a SEAL because I wanted to do something hard, something tough,” he says. “I wanted to be around the kind of guys who are always hungry. Always sharpening the ax. Always tuning up.”

Schafer took over his latest post in August, just as higher-ups were calling for a review of the entire force’s culture and ethics. A SEAL Team 7 platoon had recently been sent home from Iraq after allegations of sexual assault and drinking. SEAL Team 10 was being investigated for cocaine use and faking urinalyses. Charges had been filed against two SEAL Team 6 operators for the hazing death of a Green Beret in Africa.

Schafer leans back in his chair, finished with an unclassified power point he’s been using to help outline the organization.

“The one silver lining,” he says about the rash of negative attention, “is it’s forced us to look inward.

“We’re determined to take back our reputation.”

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Under the radar

That reputation was forged in Vietnam.

In 1962, President John F. Kennedy had ordered each branch of the military to create its own brand of commandos. The Navy’s evolved from the underwater demolition units that had cleared beachheads in World War II.

They were christened with an acronym that conveyed a new universe of skill sets: SEALs — sea, air, land. Boats, parachutes, combat weapons, explosives, guerrilla tactics.

Back then, there were only two teams — one from Little Creek, the other from Coronado — made up of a few hundred men distilled from a notoriously punishing boot camp.

Some worked as advisers to South Vietnamese forces. Others patrolled rivers, swamps and jungles — unconventional units that largely went their own way, shunning standard-issue uniforms in favor of Levis to better deal with the harsh conditions.

They proved themselves effective — gathering intel, ambushing Viet Cong, targeting enemy leaders, sneaking into camps and freeing prisoners.

In the decades that followed, SEALs became a go-to force, inserting into places like Grenada and Panama ahead of invasions, dropping onto Middle Eastern tankers to seize vessels defying oil embargoes, conducting countless covert operations when only a stealthy, surgical strike would do.

Their exploits since 9/11 have made them seem almost mythical. Send in the SEALs. They’ll get it done.

“Maybe we are stretched too thin,” Schafer says. “One inch deep, everywhere.”

That’s no excuse for breaching code.

“We’ve got to get it right,” he says. “But, at the end of the day, we’ve also got to be good.”

It’s a balancing act with a fine tipping point.

Use enough aggression but not too much. Obey normal laws but do what it takes to win. Always answer the bell but admit when it’s time to tap out, when mind or body have endured too much.

Are we expecting the impossible?

“SEALs are volunteers,” Schafer says. “They have made a promise to be professionals.”

In the wake of 9/11, the budget for special forces across all military branches has mushroomed — the 2020 request is for nearly $14 billion — and the once-sleepy base outside Schafer’s windows has doubled its population.

It takes a legion to support Little Creek’s four deployable SEAL teams — specialists focused on transportation, equipment, intel, communications and logistics. One detachment is devoted solely to training.

A SEAL team typically works in 24-month cycles, rotating through four phases that have one team always on deployment. Six months downrange are followed by a six-month “professional development” phase — a period of relative downtime. The next year is spent ramping back up, with six months in “unit level training” and another six of “task group integration training” before a team heads back out to take its turn on duty.

Much of that training includes travel. Arizona’s reliably good weather makes it best for parachute practice. Florida’s clear, warm water is ideal for scuba. Cold climate survival exercises take place in Alaska.

A lot of training, however, happens right here.

SEALs have their own gyms, nutritionists and sports medicine experts, just like pro athletes. Platoons jog along base streets or dangle from ropes beneath hovering helicopters or assault a retired cargo ship used for honing boarding techniques.

In the woods, commandos infiltrate fake villages, made to look more authentic with the help of Hollywood set designers.

In a state-of-the-art, live-fire shooting house, they creep through an ever-changing, prop-filled labyrinth of scenarios and settings gleaned from the theaters where they’ll operate. Darkened rooms. Unfamiliar architecture, furnishings and obstacles. A sound system adds running footsteps, barking dogs or the echo of a woman’s scream. A scent system injects the smell of cooking oil or sewage or decomposing bodies.

Teams are timed, videotaped and critiqued by observers from a catwalk above. Find the bad guys. Don’t hurt the good guys. Emerge with all your teammates intact.

"Other services might call us zealots, say we train too much,” says Warrant Officer Eric Karp, who works closely with Schafer. “But we need folks who can make good decisions in really ambiguous environments. Navigate through uncertainty and solve the problem.”

Resiliency presents its own challenge. By the time an operator becomes truly seasoned, other things are often breaking down. Knees. Spirits. Marriages.

Divorce. Suicide. Alcohol abuse. PTSD. Emotional numbness. The special warfare community wrestles with more than its share of such demons.

Now, Schafer says, there’s pressure on leaders to put more emphasis on “tactical-ethical training.”

A program, called Preservation of Force and Family and launched throughout the special operations command, lays out four realms that must be tended: Physical, psychological, social and spiritual.

Random drug testing is being enforced. Chaplains are delving into the “just war” theory, an ancient doctrine defining the parameters of “morally justifiable war.”

And strategies are being re-examined. Maybe SEALs can’t be expected to cover every hot spot on the planet.

"Bring them in,” Schafer says. Regroup. Hash out what might work better.

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In the glare of recent reports, Schafer says, the SEALs may seem “broken” — no longer a “credible, reliable, trustworthy force.”

It’ll take awhile to rebuild their image. Guys like Karp “resent” the disgrace brought by a few.

The best news in their business is none at all.

Got to get back under the radar.

No headlines.

Staff reporter Brock Vergakis contributed to this story.

Joanne Kimberlin, 757-446-2338, joanne.kimberlin@pilotonline.com