Op-Ed

Stories from Delta Force: The time I worked submarine operations with US Navy SEALs

How does a man who is not a Navy SEAL manage to tag along with a SEAL team for a week of submarine operations? Mostly dumb luck, is my sterling response. I was a combat diver assigned to a Green Beret A-Team when my boss caught me in his crosshairs with an invitation from West Coast SEAL Team Five to join them for a week of submarine underway operations.

At that point my Green Beret team had only ever done extensive dry dock-side trunk operations—that is, we practiced submarine escape trunk operations but only on boats moored in port. None of us had ever been truly underway at sea. This, as I look back on my career, was the opportunity of a lifetime, and when opportunity knocked I always opened the door. “Never turn anything down but your shirt collar” was a personal policy of mine.

I reported to the SEAL team at NAB Coronado, California. I was there a day early and elected to hang out with them for a full day of their typical shore duty, to include their morning physical training session. I would have to invent a new language to describe how brutal that workout was, for I can’t find words in English to suit it. (Although the German words unglaublich schrecklichkeit fit nicely.)

The ground calisthenics were a real punishment, but the run in the sand of Coronado’s beaches was a great thrill in spite of the constant, ear-splitting sonic booms rendered by the speed of the pace. Much to my personal pride, I managed to remain firmly in the center of the pack—by no means up front where the gazelles lock horns.

After breakfast, lockers filled with Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns and SIG Sauer P-226 semi-auto pistols were brought out for cleaning. They had all been exposed to seawater and sand the night before. I was horrified that the weapons had been left for so many hours exposed to salt water, but I was in Rome, so I shut my big fat Roman pie hole and began cleaning.

Heckler and Koch MP-5 9 x 19mm submachine gun (Wikipedia Commons)

“Dude, you like, totally don’t have to do this, dude,” one of the SEALs offered in a dude sandwich.

“Dude, I’m like, totally fine with it, dude,” I returned as I broke down a gat. The salty brethren of ST-5 seemed to take a liking to me for helping with weapons cleaning, a detested task in special operations once you have done it 5,000 times.

They even chatted with me. Granted, most of it I didn’t understand, though I did nod often with enthusiasm, throwing in my own occasional “dude.” We cleaned and duded the rest of the afternoon, the scurvy bilge rats “cleaning” on average two to three weapons for every one I cleaned. I was wearing my non-Roman on my sleeve.

We chugged for a day and a night to get to our rendezvous with our boat, the venerable Sturgeon-class Fast-Attack USS Hawkbill (SSN-666). The number 666 was ominous enough, coupled with the fact that the night before we left I had watched “Das Boot,” a movie about the perils of a Nazi U-Boat during WWII. Yep, I could kick myself in the balls with the best of them.

Onboard the Hawkbill we schlepped metric tons of gear to the torpedo room where we slept and operated for the next week. It was crowded…my God, it was so crowded. It was so crowded in there you had to step outside of the torpedo room just to say, “It’s crowded in there!” And nudity—I have never seen such nudity in my life. The two pasty-faced torpedo room hands from the boat didn’t help, either, sharing their torpedo room humor as I passed by:

“Wow, Chucky…these SEAL fellows got some nice asses,” one of them began with a wry grin.

“I’m not a SEAL; I’m an Army Green Beret!” I protested, “But…thanks…man….”

USS Sturgeon-class Fast-Attack Hawkbill (USN-666) (Wikipedia Commons)

The climb up to the escape trunk was nuts. We had to stepladder our way up three levels of bunk beds with sailors sleeping in them to get to the escape hatch. There are only enough bunks for roughly half of the crew on a submarine, so half of the crew works while the other half sleeps, a practice called hot-bunking. We pipe-hitters slept on torpedoes under the pining gaze of the pasty-faced torpedo hands.

The trunk was crowded…my God, it was so crowded. At least I thought ahead enough to say, “It’s crowded” before I got in there. Thankfully, everyone was fully-clothed, which was of personal comfort to me. I mean, I appreciate a nice physique as much as the next person, just not from less than two millimeters away.

Looking up into the escape trunk from the lower hatch (Getty Images)

The trunk was flooded with seawater to just below the level of our noses. One by one we took deep breaths, submerged to pass through the escape hatch, and ascended to the sea surface. At the surface was a small inflatable boat tethered to the submarine. We floated in the water, clinging to the inflatable. I reveled in the glory of the view of the massive boat some 50 feet below us. It was majestic and imposing; I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off of it.

Suddenly an object came into view. One of the divers’ weight belts had come loose and it sank toward the boat. It was a wide nylon strap with a quick-release buckle and lead weights attached. “Bummer,” I thought for the man; it would be difficult for him to sink back to the escape hatch.

I shook my head at the glaring fact that the diver’s dive knife and emergency smoke/flare was attached to the belt. That was a safety violation, as nothing is allowed to be attached to the weight belt: It is the first piece of gear that is to be jettisoned in the event of an emergency. Now the diver had lost his most important emergency equipment to boot—his dive knife and signaling device.

The author’s photo of his own USN dive tool and Mark 13 signal smoke/flare

CRACK

The ensemble struck the hull of the boat. Oh, the captain of the ship was not happy about that and might scrub our dive operations for the day. Ship captains already hated this sort of lock-in/lock-out maneuver because a procedural error could, no shit, sink a boat. The belt scraped along as it slowly slipped down the curved contour of the sub until it fell away to Davy Jone’s Locker.

I knew the poor brother would get a double helping of grief because he had committed a grand blunder and because he had done it in front of an Army puke. I took it with a grain because, even though the team was driven by seasoned leadership, it was jammed with fresh recruits from the most recent graduation of the Navy SEAL’s BUD/S class—junior operators. That element would manifest itself again in mere moments.

All the men were taken back down to the escape trunk one at a time by a safety diver with a twin breathing hose (regulator) attached to SCUBA tanks. He could breathe from one and his passenger could breathe from the other. Our procedure called for each man entering the trunk to hold a regulator outside of the trunk for the next diver to transition to before he crowded into the trunk.

The safety diver passed me the regulator, which I clenched in my teeth. I saw that a hook had come undone on my life vest and struggled to redo it. Without giving a signal to submerge, the safety diver dove down toward the trunk. As both my hands were busy hooking my vest, I was dragged to the trunk by the regulator clasped in my teeth, my ears threatening to explode from the inability to equalize sinus pressure.

Again, without a signal, the diver pulled the regulator from my mouth and left. I was beginning to drift a little south of pleased by now, and furthermore, the last diver had failed to hold out a regulator of the ship’s air for me to breathe. I peered into the hatch to see a forest of thrashing legs. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer and bulldozed my way into the trunk.

When I broke into the air bubble there was loud panicked screaming from the men. The water line had risen too high and the trunk operator’s attempt to blow the water level back down revealed that the air blow pipe was submerged and creating a hurricane of wind, noise, and water spray in the small air space that remained.

Schematic of a nuclear submarine escape trunk (Wikipedia Commons)

Quickly, though, the water line blew down to the normal depth and the trunk operator, a well-seasoned senior SEAL, immediately grabbed control of the junior men. He got them to calm down and regain composure. I was just a spectator in awe. I cast zero judgments on these men. It was my first time too, but I had by that time been through enough insane situations that very little nudged me over the edge.

With the trunk drained and equalized in pressure with the boat, the inner hatch was thrown open and the men filed out. I was the last out before the trunk operator, who always remained behind to close out operations with the con over 31MC. In silence, I reached out my hand to George, the trunk operator. He smiled definitively and shook his head slowly as he rendered a spirited handshake.

Day one of high-risk operations with America’s elite was not at all a waste. I was pleased with how it all worked out, with all I did and did not do. After a stint in the restroom, I learned that the valve sequence instructions for flushing waste down the boat’s head was an even more cheek-clenching (no pun intended) experience than the escape trunk had been that day. And, speaking of cheek clenching, it was back to the torpedo room for more ass worship from the pasty-face deckhands.

United States Navy SEALs: when it absolutely, positively has to have its ass kicked overnight!

By almighty God and with honor,
Geo sends

What would John Wayne do? Finding the warrior spirit in fly fishing

I grew up watching John Wayne movies and idolizing his no-holds barred ‘kick open the saloon doors, knock out the bad guy, and kiss the lady before anyone know what the hell is going on’ way of doing things. John Wayne was more than an actor, more than an icon, he was a state of mind. A whirlwind of masculinity that screamed to go out and take this thing called life by the scruff of its neck and shake it until all the things you want in the world shake loose and fall at your feet. He’d ride into danger against the odds and just hope he came out on top. The Duke’s code of ethics is something I’ve taken into everything I do: from the way I walk, talk, play, laugh and love, I like to push the edge and go all out–and that includes the way I fly fish.

I suppose I got into fly fishing for the same reason many other anglers do; because I enjoyed the challenge. Trying to convince a fish to eat a jumbled combination of fur and feathers tied on a hook just seemed so much more testing than simply threading a worm on a hook. I started slowly, catching sunfish in farm ponds before graduating to bass in bigger ponds, and then eventually to trout on small streams. I was thrilled with every success, yet something in me wanted to push the envelope, to create a bigger challenge for myself.

One day I was having a slow evening during a mayfly hatch. I had heard of the big brown trout that were in that particular river, but couldn’t seem to find anything but a few eight inch dinks. I was taking a break on the bank when I saw a guy enter the river above me. He marched into the water without hesitation and started casting with what looked to me like an entire chicken attached to the end of his line. In two strips, he hooked up, landed and released a big 20 inch brown before I even had time to tell him that fly would never work. That day something was sparked in me, for it was the day I discovered streamers. Soon I found myself ignoring those rising trout in the middle of the stream and instead started ripping streamers through deep pools looking for a giant. I became a big fish junkie.

Streamers are flies made to look like fish as opposed to the more common flies made to look like insects. There’s the old saying of “big baits catch big fish,” and it’s incredibly true. While the classic imagery of fly fishing with dry flies certainly lands more trout, when they get to a certain size, the only thing they eat is other fish. When I started using streamers more exclusively, I started catching much larger trout than I had before. Streamers opened me up to other species as well, since every fish from, trout to bass, eat other fish. This gave me a new outlook into fly-fishing. I started buying flies with cool names like Kelly Galloup’s “Sex Dungeon” fly and Mike Schmidt’s “Junk Yard Dog.”

I also started coming up with my own streamer patterns, tying flies in a maddened frenzy with images of massive jaws clamping onto them as I pulled them from the vice. I started buying beefier rods too. The best streamer rod I have ever used is hands down the Orvis Helios 3D. From 7wts to 10wts, their rods that really get the job done when battling a sea monster.

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Every angler knows that moment where they hook a fish and send out a small prayer to an unseen deity: “Oh God, please let me land this fish.” That feeling, that moment is where I want to live every time I go out on the water. Targeting those fish that seem un-catchable, those fish that inspire legends told in hushed whispers around the campfire. The dark caves of big trout, the high towers of musky and pike, the unbreachable walls of steelhead.

These are my fish now. Hunting for them gives me the feeling of being a warrior. I have a sudden lust for battle, only found with a bent rod and a screaming reel. Hooking a big fish on a streamer is different. They aren’t always easy to come by. Big fish have to be worked for; they have to be earned. And when the take finally happens and you’re hooked up to some monster, a fear comes with it. A fear that after all that effort, the fish might still come off before you land him. That’s a hold on to your seat, nail-biting kind of fear that makes everything else in the world fade into obscurity. It’s a fear that makes me want to do one arm push-ups, go sky diving without a parachute, and eat a rare steak that I cooked with a flamethrower.

There is a lot of sacrifice to fishing this way. The lure of “the big one” has turned me into a slightly masochistic nut job. I sometimes go days, even weeks, without a bite. I must push myself into swinging one more hole, throwing one more cast even though my shoulders are on fire and my fingers are starting to bleed from stripping line. Many times too, I go through all this and still don’t manage to hook up. Or I feel true heartbreak, missing my chance by screwing up a hookset or only seeing the fish for a brief second as he charges my fly then suddenly turns and swims away. Often it feels like I’m trying to climb a mountain that could collapse beneath me at any moment.

Yet somewhere deep within me, I find the desire to carry on. Because I remember another little movie called True Grit. A movie about being tired and scared but saddling up anyway. So now, every time I get tired of casting, every time I get tired of standing in a cold seemingly fishless river, every time I lose my chance at that big fish, a tiny voice in my mind mutters, “What would John Wayne do?” and I carry on.

Getting your hands dirty: The practical value of impractical hobbies

You take a rusty piece of scrap metal, a hack saw, a file, and you get to work. After hours of cutting, grinding, and sanding spread out of a week’s worth of days, you’re left with a knife that’s probably not quite as good as one you might buy at Walmart for just less than you’d spend on a six-pack of beer. Somehow, you don’t see this is a waste of your time. Instead, you sit back and stare at your accomplishment with a sense of wonder — imagining how much better you’ll be able to do on the next one-armed with the stuff you were able to work out in your head by screwing up on this one.

And you’re proud of how you screwed up less this time than you did the time before.

I’m no knife smith. Likewise, although I’ve torn every gun I own apart a hundred times, replaced parts, modified others — I’m certainly no gun smith. All I am is a guy that spends the better part of his day at a desk. I use these two hands to press buttons, communicate thoughts, and make my living — and despite the real and powerful sense of accomplishment I get from writing something I’m particularly proud of, my profession is, at its heart, a purely intellectual one. I think, I communicate, others read and respond, and through the miracle of modern technology, a dialogue of thought occurs. My thoughts and yours congeal into something new: an argument about how I’m wrong, a nodded head about how I’m right, or the realization that my little piece of the analytical puzzle, combined with a dozen other pieces from other sources, can combine into a greater understanding that, although I may personally lack, I can play a role in helping you to discover. I’m honored to play my part in the song and dance that is our constantly developing understanding of the world beyond our personal horizons… but after ten hours of reading press releases and responding to emails, I find myself growing impatient with the slow march of progress that is our collective understanding.

There we all are, sitting at desks, answering phones, attending meetings and generally doing all the things that we have to do to keep our families (and society) afloat; there’s a nobility to a long day’s work, an honor in doing what needs to be done, but sometimes it all feels too ethereal. This imaginary society we’ve built in our minds and manifested into reality is a wonderful thing, complete with internet porn, kitten adoption centers and everything in between, but sometimes the role we play in that mammoth machine feels too small. Sometimes, a hard day’s work starts to feel inconsequential. Sometimes you just want to shape the world the good old-fashioned way: with your own two hands.

My next-door neighbor doesn’t have the internet. A Georgia boy, born and raised, he’s spent the better part of his sixty-plus years in the patch of woods we both call home, and aside from a stint in the Air Force during Vietnam and another in prison a few decades ago, he’s made his living with a welder in his hands and little concern for who the president was sleeping with or how diplomatic efforts were unfolding a world away. His worldview is, as he’d admit, smaller than my own. While I sit up at night, wondering to myself about the implications of the next Trump/Kim summit or about China’s growing influence on American domestic politics, he heads off to bed, content in knowing that where there was once just a pile of steel, there was now the frame for a machine, willed into being by his own two hands.

When I finally fall asleep, hoping that my work has played its small part in our ongoing global conversations, a part of me remains unsatisfied and anxious. What if I missed the mark? What if my analysis is wrong? What if I made a silly mistake in a piece and the internet wolves are going to tear it apart? My sense of accomplishment is inherently delayed, because my work doesn’t matter if nobody reads it. My thoughts don’t matter if I can’t translate them from fired synapse into coherent language and I can’t know if I managed that feat until I see the response from others.

My neighbor suffers no such anxieties. He finishes his work, takes a step back, and judges for himself. Yup, he thinks out loud past the toothpick he’s chewing on, this’ll do. He doesn’t need things like the internet to have passion.

I’m one of those guys that leads a charmed life. Despite all my best efforts to get killed, I’m still here and thriving. My profession and my passion are one in the same: writing is what I’ve always dreamed of doing, and somehow through the miracle of technology and the universe’s sense of humor, I make a good living doing so–but sometimes, I just miss getting my hands dirty. Every once in a while, I need to do something that’s just meant for me.

So, I yank a piece of scrap metal out of a pile, and I start to grind. I buy a new buttstock for my AK and set about figuring out how to yank off the old one (Pro Tip: use a C-Clamp or vice rather than a hammer like YouTube suggests if you want to salvage the old one). I don’t need another knife. I don’t need to fiddle with my rifle. Hell, I’ve got plenty of rifles, I don’t even need this one to begin with. What I do need is a chance to reconnect with the physical world; to make something and judge it not only on its merits as a knife, or a gun, or a car but based on me, and what I think I’m capable of.

Sometimes, I’m disappointed and know I can do better. Sometimes, I’m surprised at how well I do. Always, I feel better for having tried.

I’m sure I could come up with a good reason to have made this if I tried hard enough.

Here’s to our impractical endeavors. Whether you collect kids toys from the 1960s, tie your own flies for fishing, hunt deer, tinker with cars, or bake cookies, these things are more than an opportunity for us to busy our hands along with our minds, they represent a deeper connection to the world we live in.

Not the geopolitical world. Not the macro-perspective on humanity world, but the real one all around you. I love what I do and the world I operate in but I value my time spent in the garage, busting my knuckles open and shaping reality with my hands instead of my perceptions. If you, like me, are blessed and fortunate enough to get to live your life in both worlds, be grateful.

We’re the living bridge between the past and the future. We’re the real people lofty political ideas lose sight of. My impractical hobbies offer me a very practical anchor: luring me back from my global concerns and macro-perspectives into a small room beneath my house, where all that matters for the next 15 minutes is beveling this blade right in front of me just so, in time, I can step back and say yup, this’ll do.

Images courtesy of the author

Op-Ed: You should be eating wild game meat. Here’s why (and how)

I always have trouble grocery shopping. When I’m wandering down the refrigerator section, staring at what seems to be an endless supply of meat, trying to decide if I want a t-bone or a ribeye for dinner, I start to feel anxious. I stare at and sort through the meat menagerie, each piece wrapped in its cellophane packaging, glistening under fluorescent lights. I read about each non-gmo, steroid free, free range, grass fed, self contained little illustrations of protein in front of me and just feel overwhelmed. It’s because, like so much else in this modern world, in our constant striving to adapt our environment to suit our needs we’ve distanced ourselves from our past. By domesticating animals to make meat convenient for the masses to acquire, we’ve somehow made it over-complicated. Therefore, whenever I can, I go hunting, just to simplify my world and remember where meat should come from.

Hunting, killing, butchering, and eventually eating an animal gives you a whole new appreciation for meat in general. This is partially because hunting lifts this veil we’ve put in front of ourselves. It gives us a peek behind that curtain separating those cows we see in the fields on the way to work to the cheeseburger on our plate when we get home for dinner. Eating wild game allows us to feel connected. It helps us to see our part in the great big wheel of the world. Those oak tree’s in your back yard become more than just trees, because their acorns dropping on the ground fed the deer that fed you and your family the night before. Everything just becomes significantly more… well, significant.

Aside from its philosophical importance, wild game meat is also simply better for you in general. This is because domestic animals are raised to be fat, because fat tastes good. Cattle are moved from field to field to make sure that they have an ample supply of grass. Chickens and turkeys are kept penned in small cages and practically pumped full of corn. It’s no wonder obesity and heart disease are such a big issue in America. No one ever really thinks about how damaging it is to ingest all that fat we layer onto the animals we eat. The fact is that three ounces of even a lean cut of beef contains around 250 calories and 15 grams of fat. In turn that same three ounces of venison contains around 130 calories and only 3 grams of fat! Venison also has almost twice the number of vitamins and minerals per serving than beef does. Hell If you factored that in along with the amount of calories you burn to hunt a deer compared with the amount walking into a butcher shop for a steak, along with the cost of said steak per pound versus the cost of a box of 30-06 rounds, you’ve defeated any anti-hunting arguments you may have with simple math!

There’s also the act of butchering. It’s a skill that everyone should have. A lot of hunters I know simply take their game to a processor or a local butcher shop to be turned into chops, steaks, and ground chuck, that is then packaged and picked up at the hunter’s convenience. While it may work for some, I never do this, preferring to butcher myself. The process of seeing an animal that I hunted a few days before suddenly become meat on the dinner table, all by my own hands is, in my opinion, the best part of hunting. Home butchering is a much simpler process than a lot of people think it is, mostly involving learning how to skin an animal and how to separate the different cuts of meat from the entire carcass. A great butchery kit is essential to this process. I’ve had a couple over the years, but my favorite is the Outdoor Edge Game Processor. It’s a simple kit, has only four knives, a set of game shears, and a saw. These pretty much cover all my needs in home butchery. When first getting into it, I’ve found that the best way to learn how to break down a game animal is by starting on small game such as rabbits and gradually working your way up. Eventually you’ll find that everything from squirrels to bison are pretty much made up of the same cuts of meat.

People are often turned off from eating wild game because they worry about how it’s going to taste. Yet wild game meat when properly prepared can taste even better than anything you buy in a store and can be easily substituted into some of your favorite recipes. Small game animals like rabbits and squirrels, along with game birds like grouse and pheasant, can easily act as an alternative meat in your favorite chicken dishes. Animals like beaver, raccoon, mountain lion, woodchuck, and of course wild boar, make a great substitute for domestic pork. Venison from elk, moose, deer, and antelope is comparable to almost any cut of beef or lamb. The best thing about wild game is that you can experiment and find a tasty recipe for almost anything!

Hunting is something that has gotten a lot of scrutiny over the last couple years. With the advancement of social media, wealthy assholes shooting tame lions in national parks, and veganism running rampant, hunting carries a lot of negative connotations. The truth of the matter though is that if done respectfully and safely, hunting is a beautiful thing. It’s a way to reconnect with not only our past but our food, with what we’re putting in our bodies and what it takes to get it. Hunting wild game is the way to get away from guess and check at the grocery store and to truly know where your meat is coming from.

Former Delta Force soldier’s opinion on hand to hand combat and combat physical training

Editor’s note: This article was written by legendary Delta operator and personal hero of mine, George E. Hand IV.

(Feature Image: Delta’s Patrick A. McNamara, author of Combat Strength Training)

(Dedicated to my brother LPD256; love ya madly)

This essay we shall, for the sake of the political season, refer to as my ‘Concession Speech.’ I have received to date a common core battery of questions, the top subjects of which fall into either a ‘Weapons and Tactics’ container, or the other heavy hitter, ‘Combat Physical Fitness Training.’ To this point, I have conceded to proceed with my account of my own physical training regime while serving with the Delta Force.

I am a physically fit sort of fellow, that I am inclined to fancy of myself. I started a deliberate personal physical fitness program at the age of 13 years old, motivated by the prospect of learning a hand-to-hand martial art. In my case, Ed Parker’s Ken Po Karate, a Chinese system by claim, with a Japanese title by sheer dumb luck that some punk white kid in Arizona would know the difference and call them out.

My first lessons came from a high school mate who studied the Okinawan system of Sho Rin Ryu. My mate was not a fighter; he trained for the sake of perfection of technical form in kicks, strikes, and in Kata. His form was impeccable; he could lift his leg into a fully extended side kick, and hold it there, still, balanced, and awe-inducing.

geo-kik — Haircut-needing author locks out a side kick

I learned all he knew, just as he knew it. He and I found an opportunity to train with a reputable Black Belt Si Fu in the next city over. This guy was not about cool-looking, awe-inducing anything! He was about getting it on and mixing it up. We junked up on the first day and pounded the shit out of each other. I broke a toe, was pretty sure I did; fought anyway.

On the drive home my brother confessed that he didn’t have the heart for the fight, so he continued with the dance, and I continued with the Si Fu, training in full contact kickboxing, to eventually fight in the first ever full contact kick boxing match in the history of Arizona. This was a MARS rated event that would officially match fighters and allow them to progress up matrix to eventually fight for sanctioned city, state, and national championships.

I managed a pallid five wins, no losses record in AZ, winning one championship in the Black Best division of a tournament in New Mexico.

When I broke the news to my Si Fu that was going into the military, he surprised me with distressing reaction: he promptly offered me the next belt rank up the chain, which backfired on him intensely. So he is bribing me with a belt I didn’t earn?? That gesture, even back then, did not reside on the periphery of my standards.

My first two years in the Army Infantry were a high 90% waste of my time and effort. The regular peace-time army was nothing short of an insular penal colony inbound for the Island of Miss-Fit Toys. I was offered Airborne School as a route out of the Infantry, but suffer a clinical dread of heights. Before long I accepted the school, insisting that I would even jump without a parachute, if it meant getting me out of where I was.

Now, as with many of the skills I fostered in myself as a young boy, I was no longer shy to admit what I brought to the table. Special Forces respected it all. I was somebody, suddenly… I had a little bamboo umbrella in my Pina Colada. I was in the phonebook now, under ’S’ for ‘somebody’!

Hand Martial Art for me migrated away from the traditional wiz-bang ‘hide-the-tiger-missing dragon’ pomp. No jumping over houses backwards, no engaging multiple adversaries while juggling a large clay pot with the hands and feet… no gi sleeves cracking like bullwhips at the end of an air-punch. All of it was replaced by no-nonsense boxing and three staple kicks: front, side, roundhouse.

In my Green Beret qualification course the hand combat training program… well there wasn’t one. All we did was get paired up, junked up with gloves and head protection, and throw down in a sawdust pit. I think it was more for the entertainment of the cadre. I remember distinctly resolving not to be an ass and dump on my opponent. After all, I was coming from fighting in a kickboxing circuit, and should show restraint.

My opponent had an attitude that was a grand departure from my own, as he clearly proceeded to try to separate my Axis and Atlas Cervical Spine vertebrae, detaching my head from dominion over lower corporeal motor function. Having other plans for myself, I couldn’t accept that. I cheated the screaming fans of their round of bloody thrills with a short right hook to the plexus, solar, one each. It was like two cars colliding on the freeway, revealing instantly that I wasn’t missing out on anything skipping breakfast that morning.

Now in Delta, we were presented with an actual martial art program that was a structured and comprehensive body of instruction that was technical in nature, but was ineffective as a combat fighting impetus. That was ok, because when men get assigned to squadrons, all the brothers break out with their own experiences and training, having grown up fighting, as all good red-blooded American boys do.

Funny… kickboxing was a thing that my mother at least allowed me to pursue, though she did by and large thumb her nose at my potential. I recall the first organized martial art tournament that my instructor forced me to go to. I came home late that night, where my mother was sitting up watching TV. I walked by her with my trophy tucked under my arm like a textbook.

“What’s that?”

“Its a paperweight, mom.”

“What??? You won?? OMG!”

“Yes I won, mother… remember when you didn’t let me take Chinese in high school?”

“Yyyyeeeessss?”

“Good night, mom.”

I have an age-old philosophy (well, not THAT old…) that if people are not going to help you, then you have to be ready to help yourself. A variant of that is, if people are not going to entertain you, then you should be ready to entertain yourself. Then there is this other adage that I readily dispel: “There are just some things you can’t learn without a teacher.” I have proven that beyond tangible dispute. That sort of statement serves only to retard the personal desires and ambitions of us brothers and sisters; it bids us to quit before we even try.

poe1 — Author’s attempt to entertain self with obscure humor

As for me even bothering to ask my mother if I may take Chinese in school, I quote a magnificent American hero, Ranger Regimental Command Sergeant Major Greg “Iron Head” Birch: “The greatest failure, is the failure to ask permission to try.” He made that sarcastic remark in disdain, when our Squadron climbed North America’s highest peak, Denali, but were ultimately denied permission to summit, by a timid officer in charge.

moose — Operators sit short of summiting Denali, having a cold one prior to heading down; Moose [smart like crowbar; strong like tractor] gazes up in awe at the Denali peak, that he would never reach.

Combat physical training. I noted that in Delta there was a bifurcation of schools of thought among the men, whose physical training program was NOT dictated at any level of command, recognizing that the Unit was fueled by big boys, who played by big boy rules. The two schools I recognized as: those muscle heads who believed in cool-looking muscles and strength as their primary focus, and those who could run like Winged Mercury, otherwise lacking in a spirited upper body strength.

Sure the two schools poked and prodded and vied to prove their superior mentality for combat training. One of my favorite exchanges came from my good bud, the one-man wrecking machine Barten W, who shut down one of our jackrabbit runners with: “I’m not saying we don’t need guys like you; we need you to run ahead of the assault force and announce (panting heavily): “Hey fuckers, there are some really big dudes on their way here to kick your asses!”

My staunch belief, was: if I die in combat, or if anyone else in my team dies in combat because of me, it will be because I could not move enough weight fast enough to rescue my brothers or myself. That fear I truly did have, and it vexed me my entire ten years ‘behind the fence.’ That concern did truly steer my personal training regimen.

Enter all the personalities and opinions that reside between the meatheads, and the gazelles. Brothers, each in his own definition of where he honestly needed to be to fulfill his vision of the ideal warrior; combinations of strength, endurance, speed, and flexibility. The four pillars are rallied by a key mental/spiritual bond: temerity and determination!

Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, and later General George S. Patton said: “L’adace, l’audace, toujours l’audace” (audacity, audacity, always audacity.)

Master Sergeant George E. Hand IV said: “The Delta Force we will always have with us, as no amount of modern whizz-bang technology, will ever replace raw audacity.

Sum it all up, and you may recognize this word as the all encompassing adjective: DETERMINATION.

tee-gee — His Excellency George Edward V, at three years old pushes his tricycle non-stop up a gradual slope for over a mile.

As featured in the photo at the top of this essay, is in my mind one of the most well-rounded warriors to grace la Terre, Patrick McNamara, a great American and very good friend of mine for over 30 years now.

It is my stanch opinion that ‘Mac’ has achieved the most favorable and deadly blend of the four pillars of combat physical training as I have come to recognize them: strength, endurance, speed, flexibility.

I’m a writer, Mac is a trainer, training in a myriad of subjects is a passion of his, yet one passion in a sea of renaissance man passions. Mac is a leader in the field of firearms training, skilled in many forms of hand combat, and at over 50 years of age, maintains one of the most highly honed combat chassis on the planet.

Search out his many many YouTube video clips on physical and firearms training. Check out his latest of many publications on his subjects at:

www.CombatStrengthTraining.com

or, view the YouTube video featuring his latest book at:

Geo sends

Op-Ed: Say it ain’t so, Joe—the Army unveils another unnecessary badge

On Friday, June 14—coincidentally the Army’s 224th birthday—the Army unveiled its newest and most unnecessary badge: the Expert Soldier Badge. If you read this and are rolling your eyes, trust me, you are not alone.

According to a press release, the Expert Soldier Badge will recognize those individuals who demonstrate a mastery of physical fitness, marksmanship, and critical skills necessary for combat.

According to a quote from TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command), who was behind this latest fiasco, the Army wants the units to train for their warrior tasks and battle drills while in garrison or in peacetime. But shouldn’t commanders be doing that anyway? Isn’t that what their job entails? Or did we miss something?

“We wanted every soldier to make sure they understand that they are experts in their field,” Command Sergeant Major Edward W. Mitchell, the senior enlisted man of the Center for Initial Military Training, said. “Achieving the new badge…requires a much higher standard, just like its cousins, which are the EIB and the EFMB.”

Infantrymen, medics, and Special Forces personnel will continue to test for the EIB/EMB.

The testing will take place over a five-day period and consist of the new Army Combat Fitness Test (ACFT), qualifying expert on the range with an M16/M4, conducting day and night land navigation (read: compass course), passing individual testing stations, and satisfactorily completing a 12-mile rucksack march.

ESB testing stations include warrior tasks that will be specified once the ESB regulations are completed and may also include five additional tasks selected by the brigade commander from the unit’s mission-essential task list.

Each testing station will be assessed on a go/no go basis and will consist of 80 percent of the EIB/EMB testing. But soldiers, according to the press release, can still receive a few no-gos and still be awarded the ESB.

A few years ago, the Army, in their endless quest to make everyone “elite” and feel worthy, took the Black Berets from the Ranger Battalions and issued them to everyone. Every swinging Richard in the Army now wears a black beret. Rangers then adopted a tan beret similar to the SAS, while Airborne troops continue to wear maroon and Special Forces wear the Green Beret.

But they weren’t done there. It was decided that everyone should have a combat badge like the infantry’s Combat Infantryman’s Badge or the medical field’s Combat Medical Badge. Since other MOS’ weren’t eligible, the Army in 2005 decided to give them to all the other MOS’ and created the Combat Action Badge. However, unlike the CIB, the CAB can be given to any rank, even general officers, whereas CIBs were for just colonels and below.

The criteria for being awarded this badge? A soldier had to perform duties in an area where hostile fire pay or imminent danger pay is authorized, who is personally present and actively engaging or being engaged by the enemy, and performing satisfactorily in accordance with the prescribed rules of engagement.

Personally present? I would imagine that is a no-brainer, but perhaps not.

If you were also thinking that the new Expert Soldier Badge looks like the aforementioned Combat Action Badge, you would be correct. Just like the EIB/CIB of the infantry, the ESB has a wreath around it when it is awarded as the CAB. Obviously, someone worked tirelessly on that design and deserves an impact award.

TRADOC Command Sgt. Maj. Timothy A. Guden said in a statement released by the Army, “This is not a badge to award so that the entire Army now has an ‘expert’ badge to wear.”

“As it is now, not every infantryman or Special Forces soldier earns the EIB and not every medic earns the EFMB,” Guden said. “Keeping with the same mindset, this is a badge to award to those who truly deserve recognition as an expert in their career field.”

This latest move didn’t fool soldiers or veterans, who responded to the original idea that this is akin to a participation trophy—which is exactly what it is.

Mitchell shot back, as would be expected, that such assertions were false. “That is absolutely not the reason why this badge was created,” he said. “It’s just like the EFMB and EIB. It’s to find out who is the top one percent or two percent across the board.”

This is a ridiculous and a totally unnecessary participation trophy, indeed.

Having worked in many Third-World countries, I’ve always looked with amusement and much head-shaking upon the number of badges and ribbons some of our allies wear. We are rapidly approaching that Third-World status. Soon the only man who’ll be wearing more doodads than a chairborne staff guy will be the doorman at the Excelsior Hotel.

This article was written for NEWSREP by former Green Beret Steve Balestrieri