Delta

Know a SEAL from a Night Stalker: a breakdown of US Special Operations units

While it could be said that every unit which falls under the “special ops” umbrella is comprised of operators who can move, shoot, and communicate with lethal efficiency, different units developed to address specialized challenges.

As the years wore on, and particularly since the onset of the Global War on Terrorism, lines may have blurred a bit between specialties in many cases, allowing various units to conduct similar operations. But, the specific nature of each continues to inform the internal culture of divisions that fall under the command of U.S. Special Operations Command (SOCOM), honoring their heritage as well as the prowess their service experience allots.

Many people who understand America’s special operations apparatus are usually most familiar with the elements of one of SOCOM’s subordinate commands, the Joint Special Operations Command, or JSOC. Officially, JSOC is tasked with studying special operations requirements and techniques in order to ensure the best methods of unit interoperability are employed, while fielding new equipment and conducting special operations exercises, training, and missions in the best interest of our nation. To be succinct, JSOC has the “best of the best.” It might help to think of them as America’s war-fighting All-Star team.

Units of JSOC include:

The Intelligence Support Activity, commonly called “The Activity”
The U.S. Air Force 24th Special Tactics Squadron
The U.S. Navy’s Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) or the recently popularized SEAL Team Six
The U.S. Army’s 75^th Ranger Regiment: Regimental Reconnaissance Company
The U.S. Army’s 1^st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force

However, listing these names does little to clear up potential confusion, so allow me to elaborate briefly on three of these four units.

DEVGRU, SEAL Team 6, and whatever their current (and classified) operational title may be are all referring to the same group of elite Navy SEALs. Team 6 recruits from within, choosing only the best of the already elite Navy SEAL community. Delta is often compared to Seal Team 6 in terms of operational capabilities and grueling indoctrination and training, but differs from its sea-based brethren primarily in recruiting tactics: Delta operators may come from any branch, and are sometimes even former SEALs.

The Air Force’s 24^th Special Tactics Squadron (24^th STS) is perhaps the least recognized of the three, which may be because pararescuemen, combat controllers, and Tactical Air Control Parties deployed by the 24^th STS usually serve alongside DEVGRU or Delta teams, rather than fielding complete teams on their own. These airmen synchronize and control elements of air support or provide medical assistance to other special operators in the field.

Beyond the elite units housed within JSOC, SOCOM boasts a number of other special operations teams that may be best addressed by dividing them by their representative military branches.

United States Army Special Operations Command

Know a SEAL from a Night Stalker: a breakdown of US Special Ops units — (Photo: U.S. Department of Defense)

Special Forces (Green Berets)

The term “special forces” is often misattributed to any military personnel working within America’s special operations community. However, the phrase is actually specific to the Army’s elite group of soldiers who specialize in unconventional warfare, reconnaissance, internal foreign defense, anti-terror operations, and direct action combat. Green Berets are considered unique from other special operators for various reasons, most importantly being put to use in times of peace and conflict alike. Their motto, “De Oppresso Liber” translates to “Free the Oppressed.”

The 75^th Ranger Regiment

Like the Navy SEALs, a highly specialized company of Rangers falls under JSOC, but the rest of Ranger Battalion answers to the U.S. Army Special Operations Command. Rangers are specifically-selected soldiers who must first complete an eight-week long Ranger Assessment and Selection Program—which replaced the Ranger Indoctrination Program, or RIP, in 2010—before reaching their assignment within the regiment. Once there, they must complete the even more arduous Ranger School in order to earn their Ranger Tab.

The 160^th SOAR (Night Stalkers)

The U.S. Army’s Special Operations Regiment (SOAR) provides helicopter aviation support for special operations troops, often flying into extremely hostile territory to deliver and extract elite operators from combat zones. Aviators in the 160^th are among the most highly-trained pilots on the planet, and use the latest in new and modified military aircraft to complete missions often deemed too dangerous for many other aviation units. It was the 160^th that delivered JSOC operators to the compound in Pakistan on May 2^nd, 2011 to kill Osama Bin Laden.

Other units or personnel that fall under SOCOM include skilled civil affairs soldiers, military information support operators, sustainment soldiers, and the training cadre responsible for assessing, training, and educating the Army’s elite war-fighters.

United States Navy Special Warfare Command

SEALs

Navy SEALs are probably the most famous special operations unit in the world. Countless movies have depicted the heroism of SEALs, and even more books recount stories told by individuals who earned the coveted Trident. Unbeknownst to some, SEAL is an acronym that stands for Sea, Air, and Land—acknowledging the heart of the Navy SEALs’ role as a multi-purpose combat force. SEALs conduct operations in any situation or location, from clandestine reconnaissance to direct action missions.

Special Warfare Combatant-craft (SWCC) Crewmen and Enablers

SWCC Crewmen belong to Special Boat Teams often tasked with operating small surface craft for coastal operations and to support special operations missions. Primarily focused on aiding in the infiltration and exfiltration of SEAL teams, these Crewmen work where larger vessels cannot operate, providing close fire support and medical care to special operators on mission. Enablers, like the SWCC Crewmen, offer technical assistance to special operations personnel, including everything from cryptologic support to explosive ordnance disposal.

United States Air Force Special Operations Command

Special Tactics Airmen

Special Tactics Airmen offer a wide variety of operational capabilities derived through diverse areas of training and expertise. Combat controllers are certified air traffic controllers that infiltrate combat zones undetected to simultaneously conduct air traffic control and coordinate air support while also participating in direct action missions. Pararescuemen, or PJs, specialize in both conventional and unconventional recovery operations. The Special Operations Surgical Team offers a rapid deploying and lightweight medical element for trauma life support.

Special Operations Aviators

The men and women assigned to the Air Force’s Special Operations Aviators are considered some of the most exceptional pilots in the military. Flying in specialized aircraft, they conduct operations primarily under cover of darkness, and offer varying levels of support to special operations missions, including reconnaissance, infiltration and exfiltration, and command and control operations.

Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command

Critical Skills Operators/Special Operations Officers

Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC) recently reflagged with the historically-consistent moniker of Marine Raiders. They’re the latest addition to the SOCOM organizational structure. For much of the Marine Corps’ history, it operated without any formal association to SOCOM, instead establishing independent Force Recon units in a similar fashion while retaining organizational control. Since MARSOC entered the SOCOM fold, its operators conduct foreign internal defense operations, special reconnaissance, and direct action combat missions.

While this list offers a glimpse into the various facets of special operations units, it’s important to acknowledge that the nuanced differences in culture and conduct exhibited by operators within each can be difficult to quantify.

Each special operations group had to shed aspects of its parent branch in order to better integrate unique skill sets and capabilities with those offered by groups hailing from other branches. However, traditions and culture found within groups such as the SEALs or Marine Raiders remain intrinsically tied to their service birthplaces. There’s always been a fair amount of friendly competition between branches, but once a Soldier, Sailor, Marine, or Airman answers to SOCOM, they must work their way into the new combined culture of the service. SOCOM, in many ways, is an extraordinary beast all its own.

SOCOM operators come from all walks of life, and represent a variety of military occupational specialties established in each of the four branches of American service. Ultimately, these special operators are more than war-fighters: they’re diplomats, problem solvers, and instruments of foreign policy. Only by combining the best and brightest from America’s exceptional military infrastructure can they possibly accomplish so much.

When the ‘Spooge’ replaced flashbangs in Delta Force

“Spooge” somehow became the nickname for the cans of spray adhesive we used to stick paper targets, bull’s eyes, and the like to a target silhouette downrange. It simply was the quickest and most convenient way to quickly attach paper to cardboard and get on to the business of sending maximum rounds down range on almost a daily basis. In Delta, time is a valued commodity.

Spooge. That is simply the entry-level name as it was handed down to us trainees by the brothers of the training cadre. Why… I don’t even remember it ever being called anything different. If anyone had ever asked me for a can of spray adhesive, I would have blinked at them blankly. It was simply spooge; spooge is simply what it was — it was SPOOGE!

(A typical flash-bang grenade used by Law Enforcement; no fragmentation, just extreme loud noise and flash. Flash-Bangs are categorized as non-lethal riot control devices.)

Spooge was for sticking paper to cardboard. For attaching cardboard to a wooden target we prefered slat roofing tacks. Roofing tacks are a short nail with a very flat and wide head. It happened that when our Delta brother, Cuz, was hurriedly attaching a fresh target paper he noted his target backing and pulling apart from the wooden target slat.

(Just… a roofing tack)

Not wanting to lose the time to run the 150 meters back to the target shed to retrieve a proper hammer, Cuz decided that the spooge can already in his hand was of sufficient character to serve to pound in the tack. Within a few smacks on the roof tack with the bottom edge of the can it burst, completely engulfing his head and face — Warning: Contents under pressure!

Cuz’s ballistic eye protection was glued to his face, and his hair was covered. He staggered around blindly and calling out:

“Little help… a little help over here… aww, Jesus Mary and Joseph!”

We quickly engage in the attempt to pull his eye protection away from his face so he could see again, a ponderous and painful process.

The urge to laugh at the spectacle was non-existent; there would be plenty of time to laugh once we made sure Cuz was okay. That it was shocking was an understatement.

“Well, guys… that’s why we wear this safety equipment, you know?” he recited flatly, mimicking certain redundant preaching that was certain to result from the incident.

“Cuz, I think you better just head on straight home from here and see about getting that spooge out of your hair; there’s not much else you can accomplish here… unless you want to finish hammering that nail with a fresh can…” our Troop Sergeant joked, “Somebody go get Cuz another spooge can — HAMMER TIME, aha!”

“AH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… yeah I get it, man… funny! I’m not going to hammer with any more spooge cans… just a regular Bob Hope, yooz.”

(Bob Hope, comedian, actor, USO entertainer for countless U.S. soldiers stations overseas.)

As fortune would have it, Mrs Cuz was a hairdresser and knew just how to work the glue from out of Cuz’s hair and off his face. She did a remarkable job; when Cuz returned to work the next day there was not so much of a hint of the adhesive in his hair, a vision that I found truly extraordinary.

For sure I endure the nagging and pining need for a cartoon to portray the event. As bizarre as it was, it was sure to be a cinch to find the humor in a can of target spooge that blew up in Cuz’s face like a… a flash-bang grenade. There it was; the vision in my head of spooge cans replacing bangers in a tactical building entry, the bad guys glued to the walls, floors, and fixtures. I stuck a fork in it *cuz* it was done.

Soon enough I felt Cuz’s eye on me for a time, then he finally approached me when I was alone; I felt I already knew what was coming and was right:

“Yo Geo… this isn’t going to find its way into the cartoon book, is it?”

Oh, the shame! Yet again a man was missing the glory of being immortalized in the Unit cartoon book. I had to remind him; I had to remind them all that they WANTED to be in the cartoon book for the balance of time, though it might not be a glorious thing that they recognized immediately.

(The featured cartoon courtesy of the author.)

A flash-bang is a concussion grenade that does not produce primary fragmentation, only extreme sound and blinding flash that serves to stun an enemy momentarily upon a room entry. Depicted is a team preparing to enter a room of unknown threat posture, substituting the flash-bang preparation drill with a can of “explosive” spray adhesive. “Lid’s off!” replaces the usual “Pin’s out!” referring to the flash-bang’s safety pin whose removal is the last step before throwing the grenade. In the final scene, the threat is neutralized by the exploding can of “spooge” rendering the threat stuck to walls, floors, and other incapacitating postures.)

I had to explain to Cuz the same way I had to explain it to every candidate:

Just because you got hurt or injured or humiliated due to an unfortunate blunder committed while on the job… do NOT think you should get a pass for that from the unit cartoonist. That will not happen — “If you dance you’re going to have to pay the band, and if you have to pay the band you might as well make sure it plays your favorite tune!”

Recall if you will that the cartoonist has a measure of reputation to maintain with his public. The fact that you make the cartoon book is purely a business decision, one entirely devoid of any emotion or sympathy. It’s a cold, impersonal, heartless business decision — forgive me, Cuz! I am the cartoonist; I am the band — PAY UP!

By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends

Feature image courtesy of the U.S. Marine Corps

Why do Navy SEALs hate the SCAR?

For many of us from the conventional side of the military (or who never served at all) the FN Scar tends to carry with it a certain appeal. As a rifle designed specifically for Special Operations troops (SCAR actually stands for Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle), it’s hard not to look at the jagged angles of the rifle and bulky 7.62×51 magazines with a sense of envy. There we were carrying around our M4s (or often in my era, M16 A4s) chambered solely in 5.56, baby faced and feeling awfully standard issue, when a group of Special Operations bubbas came strolling by with slung SCARs and the sort of beards that could intimidate a bear. In our minds, everything about that life just seemed better. Better training, better grooming standards, and of course, better guns.

But maybe that’s not the case after all. If you’ve spent some time rolling rounds through a SCAR, you might have responded like I did my first few times firing one: by assuming your issues with the platform must have been operator error. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get to liking the SCAR chambered in 7.62 or 5.56, but because I’d seen it in the hands of so many prolific war fighters, I figured any issues I had with the platform must have been a result on my lack of familiarity with it. Sure, it occasionally misfeeds, it’s loud enough to hurt your ears through cheap ear protection at an indoor range, and I would hate to try to clear a house with such a long weapon (standard barrel)… but it’s hard to shake the assumption that it’s not the rifle that’s the problem, it’s got to be the shooter.

Over the years, I’ve spoken to a fair number of special operations veterans that shared my distaste for the SCAR (but with operational experience to pull from, rather than just being a range cowboy with it like I was), and I came to appreciate that despite lacking in the high speed training allotted to SOCOM’s best, a bad feed is still a bad feed, and provided you’re not putting pressure on the magazine or otherwise mishandling the weapon, the fault tends to fall squarely on the platform, not the shooter, when it tries to cram two rounds into the chamber at once.

So, maybe that’s why I enjoyed this video from Vigilance Elite so much — because it features shooters more qualified than myself nit picking the SCAR in much the same way I have in the past. In the video, former SEALs Shawn Ryan and Jeff Reid put a SCAR through its paces, discuss some of its strengths, and then break down exactly why they do not like the platform. Reid goes into detail about his experiences on deployment with the SCAR and how he (as well as many other SEALs) suffered through repeated malfunctions until he finally decided to switch back to the M4 despite often finding himself in 1,000 meter engagements. In his mind, the added range and accuracy of the 7.62 chambered SCAR simply wasn’t worth the headaches.

Check out the video below:

Feature image courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

Complacency Kills: Lessons from a Delta Force breacher

“THERE’S A FREAKIN’ FENCE OUT THERE. A CHAIN-LINK FENCE!” came the holler from our man in the doorway of the building we were in. That fence was blocking our route to a field just outside, to where our exfiltration help was already inbound. I already knew what was coming next as the assault team leader looked at me. I nodded and started for the door when he called out, “Geo, cut it!” I was carrying what we called a Python Charge or Fence-Cutter. It was really just a great general-purpose explosive charge, powerful as hell, and was a shaped charge, meaning it was a wicked cutting charge that focused all of its burn energy in a concentrated direction. It could cut through all kinds of metal and was perfect for blasting through a chain-link fence. In fact, the measurements of the charge were approximately eight feet long—specifically designed with a fence in mind.

The Python was a linear-shaped charge (LSC) embedded in a long foam strip with a heavy rubber band on top and a wire hook on the bottom. I carried it on my kit, rolled up into a flat disk. I dashed outside with a man covering me as I worked. I whipped the Python to unroll it. I hooked the rubber retainer over the top wires of the fence, and pulling it taught, I hooked the wire hook into a loop low on the fence.

At that moment I thought I heard Major Horton from “Band of Brothers” call out to me, “WHAT IS THE GODDAMNED PROBLEM, MR. SOBEL?”

To which I would reply, “A FENCE, SIR… A… A CHAIN-LINK FENCE!

Major Horton: “AWW, THAT DOG JUST AIN’T GONNA HUNT!”

Different strengths of linear-shaped charge set in flexible foam molds.

The tension of the rubber band helped greatly to slap the Python up against the fence. I did a final check to make sure the Python was facing the right way, because that would certainly suck when I fired it from a few feet away if it were facing me rather than the fence. I grabbed the firing system, an M-60 Fuse Igniter attached to a Nonel shock tube detonator.

M-60 fuse igniters: Just pull the ring outward to fire.

Three seconds was all the delay I had programmed into the firing system. I popped the M-60, announced “BURNING!,” took one large step behind the python, and squatted with my back to the charge and fingers in my ears like a little kid lighting a Black Cat firecracker. I could hear the thump thump thump of Black Hawk helicopter blades approaching when the Python let off an ear-splitting CRACK and a wicked-rude shockwave that pushed me forward onto my hands.

Positive that the sneaky rat bastard Mike Tyson had snaked up and clocked me a good one, I twisted back and gave a gander at the fence. What fence? It was blown open from north to south. You could have driven a Ford Fusion through it without scratching the paint…not that it would have been a big deal with a Ford Fusion. I mean come on. OK, a Lamborghini, then. You could have driven a Lamborghini untouched through the hole the Python left in that fence!

I crouched by the opening, letting my team pass through to the exfil chopper. Each man gave me a “good job” slap to the shoulder as they ran by. A litter team jogged by with the asshat terrorist we had come to remove from leadership. He was strapped down tight, all beat the hell up, and looking totally disenchanted with his current state of affairs. Plus, he had crapped his pants. Every person we ever nabbed crapped their pants. Even general officers. They all crapped their pants.

“Last man!” I was told by the last assaulter to run by. My turn. I raced off to take a seat on the helo. I thanked the creator that we had a decently short flight, because even in a banshee-howling Black Hawk with both the doors removed, I could still smell that clown’s shit pants from where he lay strapped to the litter. I had to grin.

That was a good time. Everything went well—very well. To flip that coin, though, we all know that some of our best-laid plans may take a southern excursion of their own at times. Such was the case with Moses Bentley and the Bentley Blaster (BB) charge he had created on his own.

The BB charge was, in my opinion, more of what we called a “trash shot.” That is, it was just a wad of all of the explosive tailings, odds and ends, left over from making explosive charges. Pieces that wouldn’t really fit into another charge. We would typically take the trash shots downrange and blow them up once a month. I have used the term trash shot to describe a good number of people in my day, too. Perhaps some have used it to describe me?

The next mission called for explosive entry through an exterior door. Think of the front door to your house. It is probably the most no-nonsense, strongest door in your house. All interior doors are likely much lighter and weaker. Moses was the breacher for this target. He was hell-bent on using his BB charge, and use it he did.

We two, Moses and I, crept to the front door while the rest of the team stacked up just around the near corner. I had Moses’ back while he worked, just like my mate had my back at the Python. Moses fired the charge but did an odd thing: Rather than back away from the charge, he turned around quickly and ran around the corner.

The delay on the firing system was five seconds. I cleared the corner with the team as the charge detonated. MY GOD…it was so loud! I thought. I was stunned and flipped around 180 degrees. My ears rang like the Notre Dame Cathedral, and I wasn’t completely clear what I was even doing or even where I was.

An assault team in a stack just around the nearest corner from the blast of the breach point.

As colors slowly returned to my sight I could see now that the front door had not blown up. We had blown up. When Moses turned after firing the charge, his holstered M1911 had hooked the charge, stripping it off the door, dragged it back to the assault team stack, and…BOOOOM!

Moses was upside down, with his body slumped against the wall and his head anchored into the ground, neck bent at an impossible angle. You simply could never have manually placed a human in such a bizarre and morbid pose. Well, maybe if you were Jeffrey Dahmer.

The man behind Moses lay face down with his uniform trousers completely shredded, his bare legs bleeding from a hundred tiny holes. He was getting up slowly. I ran to him and grabbed his shoulder. He looked up at me with a horrified expression.

“Cos!” I said his name. His face changed completely and he grinned and shook his head a bit, exclaiming, “Whew…I’d hate to see what that door looks like now. WHEW!”

Moses had just come-to from his upside-down unconscious state and immediately got into a pissing match with our team leader, Daddy-Mac. “Well, Mos is OK. That’s what he normally does: argue!” Mos would be fine, but he was certainly NOT fine. He was badly burned, with black and red on his pelvis and legs. Some flesh was blown away and he had holes in both legs. His sidearm was destroyed and likely saved his life.

I could see his junk—which was completely disgusting—where his kit and clothes were blown away, and I was vicariously glad for him that he was still intact. He was out of action for weeks but came in occasionally to argue, because that’s what Mos did: argue.

Moses Bentley’s slightly damaged assault uniform.

An in-house investigation performed by The Unit’s master breacher gigged Mos for two faults: The first was the unauthorized use of a non-standard explosive charge, the Bentley Blaster; the second was his failure to follow egress procedure after firing the charge. Remember, he turned 180 degrees and hooked the charge with his pistol. If he had just backed away from the charge once he’d fired it, none of the carnage would have occurred.

The Unit could have let him go for that but didn’t. I’m thankful for that. Mos took his medicine from the master breacher like a man, but only after one hell of a long, drawn-out argument with the guy. Because that’s just what Master Sergeant Moses Bentley did. He argued.

By almighty God and with honor,
Geo sends

From a cartoon book maintained by the author depicting various events in a humorous manner. Depicted here is Moses Bentley himself acting as the explosive door charge.

Ongoing selection in Delta: The first thing you know

(Dedicated to Recon6)

Riiiingggg… riiiingggg… riiiingggg… (this is a sound that phones made in the day, back before we could we could select Poison by Bell Biv Devoe as a ring tone)

Jesus H. Christ, it’s only 0230… and oh-no, there can be only one good reason my home phone is ringing at this hour. I fumbled the phone receiver to my ear upside down.

“Hello, this is geo”

Nothing. I felt the phone cord on top, flipped the receiver around and tried again.

“Hello, this is geo”

“Master Sergeant Hand, what’s the first thing you know?” quizzed the remote voice.

Oh geez… well phuk me runnin’ in the rain in Rio, I thought as I was suddenly wide awake.

“Ol’ Jed’s a millionaire” I replied weakly. And without another word the connection terminated. Time to make the donuts, me thought to meself, and I left the bedroom to collect my go-to-work kit: a heavy nylon day-and-half-pack, a kit bag presumptuously designed, when packed thoughtfully, to maintain you operationally for some 36 hours.

Mine was black and heavy-duty with all sorts of modifications on it. It was hardly more than just a pile of zippers and velcro. In it no two items were ever in contact; every item was isolated in its own compartment. Ridiculous? Yes, absolutely. But once oriented in my mind, I could feel my way through it in the dark to any single item.

I envisioned my bag configured like a RAM board on a computer, with every byte of memory in its own cell, waiting to be called out by motherboard. Once used and no longer needed, the byte was sent back on its residence address line to stand by in its cell until further needed.

A song played in my head, one that would terminate and stay resident in my brain for an agonizing most of the day:

Come and listen to a story ‘bout a man named Jed
Poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed
Then one day he was shootin’ at some food
When up from the ground came a bubblin’ crude
(Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea)

The phone exchange had been a bonafide used in the day to notify an individual to report immediately to the Staff Duty dest for further instructions. It was any fool’s guess what the reason could be. I could find myself peeling potatoes in the mess hall kitchen or have a seat on the next Space Shuttle. The only guarantee is that it would be a mystery… until it was completely over.

Well the first thing you know ol’ Jed’s a millionaire
The kin folks said: “Jed, move away from there”
They said: “Californi is the place you oughta be”
So he loaded up the truck and he moved to Beverly
(Hills that is, swimmin’ pools, movie stars)

I cruised the back forest roads toward the Unit. I was in no hurry. The stage was completely black, save that which my high beams compromised. I just wanted to take my time to see absolutely nothing. But what are the chances my next instructions include catching a flight out-of-state, or even out of the country? Knowing the Unit, they would barely give me enough time to catch the flight. Suddenly I was very much in a hurry, as my gas pedal sank to the floor.

At the Unit, I parked in the usual squadron designated area, but in the best spot closest to the building, since there was nobody there. I turned to give the cars another visual, to see who else’s car might be parked there, and somehow involved in this same operation.

Excluding the cars whose owners I already knew were TDY, I recognized Paul’s car was already there. Hmmm, I wonder where Paul is heading this morning. I would indeed run into Paul under the most unanticipated circumstances.

I fast-paced it down the long spine of the building to the Staff Duty office, all the while wondering what I would be doing next: herding goats in Scotland, screaming out bids on Wall street, teaching spelling to a class of first graders, driving a phony UPS truck, lighting candles at the Vatican?

My answers made me grin because they reminded me of one of those silly tests they give you that is supposed to gauge what type personality you have. I think they are officially titled the “Utter Waste of Time Battery” by institutes of higher learning:

Which would you MOST like to do (circle one)
1. Host a Tupperware party
2. Try to fit a cue ball in your mouth
3. Be in a play about Moses
4. Smash bottles against a school building

Which one would you LEAST like to do (circle one)
1. Be cross gendered and torn by the dilemma that you want to use the mens’ room but know for
a fact that the womens’ rooms will be cleaner
2. Take a pottery class with estranged housewives
3. Pass out towels at a gay bath house
4. Smash bottles against a school building

I always just answered ‘B’ to every question, because it’s not like those tests were ever going to mean anything to anyone ever. I just wrote, “I’m an ass” under my name and turned them in… because I’m an ass. I accept that and freely admit it. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and type it out 500 times just to remind myself that I am not guilty of any pretense.

“Good morning geo” my fellow A squadron brother greeted shyly, playing the game.

“Top o the marnin’ to yeh laddie Patrick!” I returned Gaelic-ly, but thoroughly devoid of any enthusiasm.

Patrick dialed a five-digit number, so I knew he was calling inside the building.
“Principal has arrived,” Pat said over the phone and hung up.

So as to avoid an awkward stare down, I turned my back and pretended to read the commanders policies on issues that mattered to nobody hanging on the billboard in the hall, as I whistled the tune to the Beverly Hillbillies softly. The tune drew eventual cackles of laughter from Patrick and his runner.

“Hey geo” came the voice of our Operations Officer rounding the corner from the spine into the Staff Duty office. He handed me a large envelope with his left hand and extended his right for a hardy handshake of good luck. Without another word he broke gaze and marched out, leaving me to finish the final chorus of Beverly Hillbillies before I bolted back down the spine to my team room.

In the team room, I ripped open the envelope and sorted through the various papers until I found it… an airline ticket. All I wanted to know was what time the flight was. There it was. I had plenty of time. I sat now and sorted through the papers in order, taking in all instructions carefully. I was going to Seattle.

Reading through my instructions, I had time and was able to adjust my kit to accommodate the small piece of the mission as I thought I understood it. Well, this was just a transport leg. This tells me nothing really, except that it’s going to rain on me. I mean, I don’t know if this is a real-world mission that is going to take me overseas for some heinous act of insanity, or if I will be required to smash bottles against a school building.

Preferring the latter, I begrudgingly stuffed a light rain parka in my day bag. I raced through a mental inventory of everything I had in my bag, for fear that I might accidentally leave something in there that would trip the TSA inspectors. I mean, they always raised a brow at my menacing-looking kit and ran it through twice for X-rays… I just didn’t want anything that might get the Bomb Squad alerted, and my day bag blown in place.

Say… this mission sounds like a job for ‘The Shirt’! The Shirt was an ordinary shirt hanging in my locker that had $20.00 bills meticulously folded and sewn into the seams. Only me and my team bro Sam Foster knew about the shirt, and we vowed that whoever got called out on such a mission would be welcome to take the shirt. The missing shirt would also be a way that we communicated to each other that one of us was gone, and why.

The shirt was my first go at failsafe-ing a mystery mission call out. A second attempt, and after much thought, I took to taking several $100.00 bills, painstakingly folding them lengthwise until they gave the appearance of needles. I sewed those into the much narrower seams of my day-and-a-half bag.

If that were not enough, I awoke one night with a sudden epiphany. Yes, yes of course… a child could understand it, a child could! In my agonizing over the best way to failsafe a mystery deployment, I pieced together bits of leaked scenarios and rumors from guys who had been on them. In this particular night, in my sleep, it dawned on me that everything could be taken from me… everything that is, except my SHOES!

You see, the single common denominator in every leaked story and rumor was the fact that you had to walk constantly every day for many miles. For that reason I felt very strongly that they could not possibly take my shoes away! I would soon enough find out that I hit that nail right smack on its steel head.

The next day I pulled threads from the tongues of my hiking shoes, the ones I wore only to and from work, ones that I would be certain to take with me on such a mission. With the threads carefully pulled, I parted the material of the tongues and inserted $100.00 bills in each, ensuring I restitched the threads back in the holes they came from. They looked a flawless product.

Cruising easy to the city airport I wiggled my toes in my most valuable hiking shoes, and gave myself a reassuring nod in my rearview mirror. “High adventure” said I to anyone that would listen. “High adventure, be it potato peelings or Earth’s orbit, it invariably will be high adventure.”

geo sends

Photos courtesy of MeTV.com, SpilnoTV.com, and Wired.com

Stories from Delta Force Selection: When not to dance

se·lect
/səˈlekt/
verb
1. carefully choose as being the best or most suitable: “he has been selected to take part”

Every one of us inherently wants to be selected. “Oh…PICK ME, PICK ME!” We bustled on the school playground forming up for games. Doesn’t it seem like you can hardly just go participate in a thing anymore without being selected first? “The specially selected elite,” “select cuts of meat,” “they were selected on the basis of their superior ability.” Most of us want to be selected for something, but until what? Until there is nothing higher to be selected for?

Selection for me during my adult years began with the (no kidding) Army infantry. Mind you, selection was a requirement to get into the military in my day of the between-wars, go-nowhere, do-nothing Army, in a day where a pulse and arched feet meant a checkmark in the selection box. I was nonetheless selected by the Army and did my victory dance out in the parking lot of my recruiter station.

Regular Army ground infantry soldiers patrol the streets of Ramadi, Iraq.

There wasn’t much selecting going on in the Army for the next two years of my enlistment. Most of the selecting entailed guard duty, garbage management, bodily excretions disposal on bivouac, and other heavenly, exalted tasks. And yet, “They chose…ME! I was the chosen one, the one selected!”

I heard the paratroopers were selecting men; theirs was a selection I originally forewent due to my monumental fear of heights. But after two years of serving in the regular “leg” infantry, I was ready to jump even without a parachute just to extract myself from my hateful environment.

I tried out for and was selected to become Airborne easily enough, save a broken pinky finger knuckle I got when I punched myself in the face upon landing from a 250 jump training tower at Ft. Benning, Georgia.

“KEEP THOSE ELBOWS TUCKED IN TIGHT, LEG…YOU ALMOST PUNCHED YO’SELF IN THE FACE, LEEEG!” Blared the ground cadre over a loudspeaker.

“Yeah, well the joke’s on you, asshat…because I DID punch myself in the face. HA!” I sure told them. Boxer’s fracture notwithstanding, the Airborne selected me and I ushered in a personalized styling of my victory dance there in the red clay of Georgia.

Parachute training conducted from the 250 practice towers at Ft. Benning, Georgia

I then went the way of the Green Berets and their nearly three-month-long selection course. I mean, three months is three months; it’s even hard to sit on a sofa eating bonbons for three months. I passed the Green Beret’s selection course and was proud enough to jig-up my victory dance in the pine forests of Ft. Bragg, North Carolina.

Special Force operators conducting a rural, cross-country land navigation exercise.

To my dismay, the GBs were not nearly what I had expected them to be. I think the fact that I was on a combat dive team was a saving grace that enabled me to remain in the GBs for so long as I did. It was, in spite of everything, a team of the very best men the regiment had to offer. The fact remained, though: I was afraid to find myself in combat with the GBs of the day.

I was ready, then, to be selected by the next great band of brothers. But alas, I had a great handicap blocking that path. I doubted, quite frankly, that I could perform on a level that would even remotely catch the attention of the Delta Force.

Bros of mine (in civilian clothes) protect Commanding General Norman Schwarzkopf during the First Gulf War.

I was not being overly humble. I tell you, truly, my resolve was largely devoid of all emotion; it was simply a mathematical equation that I calculated in earnest, and its dividend demonstrated that I was not capable of performing to their standard. If I attended their selection, it would be a mere percent of probability that if Delta looked for me in a specific place and time in the West Virginia wooded mountains, they would actually find me.

“The greatest failure is the failure to try,” said a genius once, so I tried.

Getting into long-distance marching shape where I lived at the time in Key West, Florida was a problem. The only long distances out there were along major roads and highways. The only elevations to “climb” there were about three feet above sea level, and the occasional hump bridges over water flows. I took to climbing fire escapes on the tallest buildings I could find.

Cartoon made by the author, depicting himself before and after a long march along the highway in preparation for the Delta Force Selection and Assessment course, and his friends’ waxing and waning confidence in his ability to pass.

I garnered unwanted attention as well, me rucking along the highways as I did daily. In a Safeway grocery store of all places, a tormented person just had to approach and ask, “It’s you. You’re him. You’re the guy I see every day racing up and down the highway with a backpack on. Why do you do it?”

“Oh, no big deal, really. I just got my license suspended for a DUI.”

My own A Squadron in the Iraqi desert, hunting for SCUD missiles. No officers were present during this operation—only non-commissioned soldiers.

Creative? Maybe, but it served me well. I made my way to the Delta Force Selection and Assessment course in West “By God” Virginia. I recall the last remark my mentor James N. Sudderth (KIA) said to me as he convinced me to try out for selection. I’d lamented that my body couldn’t physically handle it. “It’s OK if your body can’t make it, George, because it’s an out-of-body experience. Just go!”

So I just went. James was, of course, correct in much the same way that he was correct about most things regarding life—both in and out of the Army. Now he’s gone and I miss his mentorship. As I have often said and will say again, “If you no longer have a mentor, then you’d best get busy being one to somebody.”

I remember the day well, as it was the last day of selection. The last of 30 days of nonstop humping miles and miles of mountainous, forested terrain. On this last day, we had already dragged off the last few centimeters of our dicks in the dirt. For that we were awarded this fine opportunity to hump five or six times the distance we had ever humped before on any previous day. Sounded legit. This was no time to dance; it was time to pay the band.

I remember the day but not the exact hour when my body collapsed in complete failure on a muddy trail. A river ran through it, right down the middle of it—the entire unending length. I closed my eyes there where I lay in it. How hard I had tried to avoid it for so long, to keep my feet dry for some 10 miles or so. Now I lay in it squarely and hoped it would wash my body down that murderous mountain into some tranquil meadow.

Then I saw him. He was just below me at a full gallop. I had somehow taken to a lofty point just above and behind him, watching him run, and my, how he did run. He ran right down the middle of the river on the trail. He was strong and sure-footed, fast as a strong wind by my estimate. I wanted to cheer him on loudly, for he had kept on in the fight where I had just failed.

His strength and speed were a thing I marveled at. I didn’t hang on bitterness for my own personal failure; I had done my best and hit my wall, but I still had pride and sympathy for those who still had blood in their hearts. He was my hero for that; he could never die. “GO, MAN, GO! KEEP IT UP, POUR IT ON!” I was just so, so damned proud of him, whoever he was.

Later, I lay on my back with my head on my rucksack as a pillow, my boots and socks at my side, my bare feet near a blazing fire. Next to me, left and right and all around the fire, like spokes of a wagon wheel, were my brothers who had also made it through the course. There were more men around that fire than had ever passed the selection course in the history of Delta.

We had sandwiches of bologna and cheese in one hand, and a cup of hot “Long Walker” in another, gifting us a mild whiskey buzz. We looked at each other with wry grins but said nothing, the looks saying it all. It had, after all, been an out-of-body experience for each brother. It took us all a hot minute to crawl back into our destroyed bodies.

I thought of my victory dance and judged it a good thing to defer to a later time. Looking back, I realize that, in all the frantic fast-train of life in Delta, I never actually took the time to do that dance. But all in all, if I had actually done that dance back then, it wouldn’t have been an act of audacity, but of foolish arrogance.