Green Berets

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

These are the elite warfighting units throughout history that inspired modern American special operations

It can be said that the need to band together in groups is intrinsic to what makes us human beings. Long before the dawn of civilization, humans gathered together in like-minded groups in order to offer one another protection, defend resources, and share the mental and physical challenges of survival. Forming a cooperative group, or herd, may have been one of the earliest human advancements that would one day lead to the complex societies we live in today. But like today, whenever groups gather, conflict is never far behind.

Warfare, it would seem, was the inevitable result of humans living in groups. When one group had something another needed (or wanted), they sought to take it by force. What started as small skirmishes between tribes eventually grew into major battles between city-states, religions, and eventually, nations. The drive to fight and win wars led to countless technological developments throughout human history, but new and advanced weapons have never been the only element necessary to secure victory in a tribal spat or global conflict. Instead, finding and training the most capable war-fighters has always been a key element influencing who would go home the victor and who wouldn’t make it home at all.

Although modern special operations are, as the phrase implies, very much modern, the roots of America’s most elite war-fighting institutions can be traced back as far as warfare itself. In the Marine Corps, we would often liken the lessons we learned in combat training to those first established by the Spartans. Though our modern lineage might be more comparable to that of the British Royal Marines, our ideological ancestors hailed from another time entirely. The mindset employed by Spartan warriors, perhaps as much as their tactical expertise, set them apart from other militaries of the day—something many could attribute to the Marine Corps of today as well. Similarly, one could draw historical parallels between SOCOM’s specialized units and some of the most impressive, capable, and downright frightening warriors throughout human history.

Helmet plate depicting a dancing warrior and a bear warrior (Norse berserker)

Viking berserkers, recounted in Norse legend as men who would fight with a fury that seemed inhuman, often chose to forgo the chain mail armor of their day, instead adorning themselves with the pelts of predators such as bears and wolves or, often, wearing nothing at all. The bloodlust demonstrated by berserkers in combat granted them a far-reaching reputation, allowing them to sometimes skip the battle completely and instead simply accept an opponent’s surrender based on nothing more than their presence.

Courtesy of dynamosquito via WikiMedia Commons

The Immortals who fought for the Achaemenid Empire of Persia, depicted in the stylized movie “300,” were the special operations forces of Persia’s multinational military machine. The Immortals were designated as such, according to Herodotus, not only because they were the most fearsome and well-equipped soldiers in King Xerxes’ army, but also because their 10,000-strong unit would immediately field replacements for any Immortal who fell to battle or sickness, ensuring the mighty Immortals retained their 10,000-strong moniker at all times.

Rembrandt chose to illustrate the moment of the oath of the Batavia in the sacred grove, as described by Tacitus, Histories IV, 14. Civilis, with crown and sword. (WikiMedia Commons)

The Batavi were a warrior people who served with the Roman military (when not rebelling against Roman rule). Like modern American Navy SEALs, the Batavi gained a reputation not only for being fearsome and brutally barbaric warriors, but for possessing an incredible strength that allowed them to swim across rivers others saw as impassable, all while wearing their armor and carrying their weapons. This tactic enabled the Batavi to attack enemy armies that had used swift waterways as a natural barrier against attack, taking them utterly by surprise.

The classic cliché of black-adorned ninjas sprinting across rooftops may not have been accurate, but the ninja’s reputation for stealth, reconnaissance gathering, and guerrilla warfare tactics is well deserved. Often disguising themselves to blend in with the civilian populace, ninjas trained with a myriad of weapons and prized adaptability in their training regimens. Ninjas were most effectively employed in specialized missions, not unlike modern special operations units.

All of these elite warriors, and countless others, helped form a common fabric of tactics, strategy, and mindset that would one day be employed by America’s elite special operators. Considering that, to a large extent, one can truly credit the breadth of warfare throughout human history with planting the seeds that would later become our modern special operations infrastructure.

Feature photo courtesy of MaxPixel.net

Where does the term ‘operator’ come from?

Operator – someone who operates.

In the civilian world, that could be someone operating an excavator, a wheeled tractor, and other similar heavy equipment. Historically, the term applied to people who worked in the old-school telephone centers and operated the manual telephone switchboards that were necessary in order from someone to call another number.

In the military, conversely, the term operator has come to be associated with troops serving in Special Operations Forces (SOF). A Navy SEAL operator, a Special Forces operator, a Marine Raider operator has become standard nomenclature, even in official communique and statements.

But what’s the actual origin of the term? For many in the spec ops community, an operator is someone who is serving or has served in one of the Joint Special Operations Command’s (JSOC) Special Mission Units (SMU). This would apply to members of the Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, also known as the Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), 24^th Special Tactics Squadron (24^th STS), Intelligence Support Activity (ISA), or one of the other smaller, blacker SMUs.

The office of the U.S. Army Special Operations Command (USASOC) historian, however, posits that the term originated from with the Green Beret community. In support of this claim, there is a document from the late 1950s. Dated April 2, 1959, the document’s headline reads: “The Code For the Special Forces Operator.” It includes 10 provisions to which a Green Beret must abide to. They range from the volunteer and highly dangerous nature of Special Forces – during the Cold War, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alphas (SFODAs) were designed to remain behind enemy lines once the Soviet mechanized onslaught had been unleashed on Western Europe; their role, as it is today, was to organize, train, and lead indigenous forces in waging an Unconventional Warfare (UW) campaign against the Communists – to superb physical fitness, soldiership, and professionalism, among other things.

“I realize,” the document’s sixth provision states, “it is my responsibility as a Special Forces Operator to undergo more intense and more rugged training than is required of the average soldier of the United States Army.”

The document was signed by Captain Albert Clement, 1^st Company, 77^th Special Forces Group (SFG), and witnessed by John Hanretty. The 77^this one of the original Special Forces Groups and the predecessor of the modern-day 7^thSFG.

So, there it is. According to the existing historical evidence, it is the Green Berets who have the claim over the term “Operator.” Does a title matter, though? Not to those who operate.

This article was written by Stavros Atlamazoglou at NEWSREP

Feature image courtesy of the U.S. Navy

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.

By almighty God and with honor,
Geo sends

Feature image courtesy of YouTube

Deception and Low-Visibility Ops: Here are the three most interesting SOF courses

One of the indirect benefits of being a Special Operations Forces (SOF) unit member is getting the chance to attend a series of interesting schools. Such schools aim at improving the participants’ craft, whether he’s a shooter or an enabler (support guy).

Each component command has a number of schools tailored to the needs of its units. For example, Naval Special Warfare Command’s (NSWC) schools are mostly geared toward Navy SEALs. However, there’s a certain level of overlap, as both NSWC and the Army Special Operations Command (USASOC) have a sniper school. And it’s fairly common to see operators from a sister service while attending a course taught by a specific command—the Special Operations Combat Medic (SOCM) course is a paragon of this, as each class is certain to include SEALs, Rangers, Green Berets, 160^th Special Operations Aviation Regiment flight medics, and sometimes even Pararescuemen.

Here’s a list of the top three interesting courses offered by USASOC.

ARSOF Military Deception Planner’s Course

Taking place in Fort Bragg, the course is exclusive to Active Duty personnel with the rank of:

Sergeant First Class or Master Sergeant for non-commissioned officers
Chief Warrant Officer 3^rd Class or Chief Warrant officer 4^th Class
Captain or Major for officers

Classes last three weeks, with each course capped at a maximum of 24 students. Participants must have top secret clearance. There are three iterations of the course every year.

According to the course’s description, the scope of the class is to present students with the “knowledge to execute the deception cycle as the military deception officer of a special-operations force staff/conventional force staff during the conduct of an irregular warfare scenario in a problem-centered, active-learning environment.”

Upon graduation, students will be familiar with a range of concepts, such as the five-phase deception cycle, SOF targeting Psychological Warfare, psychological operations deception and denial, precision influence targeting, and social network analysis/dark networks. Graduates will also be able to plan, execute, and terminate joint military deception operations in the conventional and SOF level.

Special Forces Physical Surveillance Course (SFPSC)

The course takes place at both Fort Bragg and the National Capital Region. The SFPSC is open to Special Forces operators—who must be pre-selected—other U.S. SOF members, as well as selected allied forces. Class size is limited to 22 students, and there are four courses per year, each lasting eight weeks. American participants must have at a minimum secret clearance.

The course scope states that students are to “be trained and practice physical surveillance techniques to understand the capabilities and limitations of adversarial physical surveillance teams in both urban and rural environments. This training is designed to increase survivability, situational awareness, and the force protection posture for SOF personnel.”

Essentially, participants learn the dark arts of close-target reconnaissance, a highly-sensitive SOF mission that requires special traits—foremost the ability to blend in the environment and culture of the region they’re operating in. Because the course also takes place in the National Capital Region suggests that students conduct low-visibility surveillance and counterintelligence exercises, a practice pioneered by Delta Force during its early years.

Special Operations Civil Affairs Medical Sergeant (SOCAMS)

This course is designed for Civil Affairs active-duty operators with the ranker of Sergeant to Sergeant First Class who’ve already completed the notoriously difficult SOCM course. Lasting eight weeks, the course focuses on “the assessment, planning, collaboration, and execution of routine, emergency, veterinary, and preventive medicine civil-military operations as a Civil Affairs (CA) team medic in collaboration with host-nation government and security forces, non-governmental and civil society organizations and other U.S. Government agencies.”

The course is comprised of eight modules:

SOCAMS Operations
Public Health
Arthropod
Food
Veterinary Science
Water
Laboratory Knowledge
Agriculture

Often shunned, CA is a hidden weapon in USASOC’s arsenal. Its role is to support conventional and SOF commanders by working with local nation civil authorities and civilian populations. CA operators are deployed during peacetime, contingency operations, and war, and their main role is to identify critical needs in the local population—for example, power or clean water shortage— and try to ameliorate them. Essentially, hearts and minds.

There are a few courses with most intriguing titles, such as Advanced Special Operations Techniques or the Special Warfare Touchstone, but their coursework and details are classified and thus, couldn’t be added to this list.

Feature image courtesy of the U.S. Marine Corps

This article was written by Stavros Atlamazoglou at NEWSREP

The time my Special Forces team accidentally burned down a Korean forest (Pt.2)

Note: This is part of a series. Read part one here.

Dawn cracks in the Republic of Korea (ROK) and 10,000 roosters crow. My auditory senses are awakened. I stare at the olive drab of the tent canvas above my cot. Visual acquisition and, wait for it…wait for it…ah, there it is—olfactory perforation by rotton cabbage, coupled with burning rubber and feces. Gooooood morning, ROK!

My Green Beret A-team is housed all together in a cramped, general-purpose medium tent, one each. Most of us are sitting up now in our cots; swaddled in poncho liners, we blink at each other by the dawn’s early light. By now the click-clack-click of jungle boots on wooden pallet sidewalks indicates that morning chow is afoot. The wafting of green eggs and ham from the land of the big PX confirms that chow is indeed on, Sam I am.

In the chow tent, our “team sergeant,” Buck, tells us that we will have an opportunity to conduct some live fire and demolitions training on one of the Korean range fire facilities. This would be a good day. Something to do besides watch massive formations of Korean soldiers performing synchronized Tae Kwon Do katas, or work out with the Fred Flintstone weight sets that were ubiquitous in the ROK military. They were large, #10 soup cans filled with concrete on each end of a five-foot pole, and served as curl bars. You could really feel the burn around repetition 900.

We loaded a few vehicles with weapons and other kit, drove to the field-expedient ammunition supply point (ASP), and loaded a respectable consignment of blow to take to the demolitions range. As we loaded ourselves for departure on the short drive to the range, it appeared I would not get away without giving one more singing performance of the Korean national folksong “Arirang” to the new group of soldiers my buddy Sgt. Park had herded up to hear me sing. Damn me for ever learning it in the first place. I had become a measure of novelty to the Koreans, the round-eye who could sing Arirang. That or a circus freak of sorts.

“Let’er rip and lets get moving, Elvis!” someone called out. I cleared my throat and belted out the first verse of the folk song, which was followed by a token golf clap and appreciative nods. I felt like Side Show Bob as I mounted our Range Rover. Off then, to rock down to Electric Avenue and shake the Korean countryside.

Our first order of business was some demolitions training. We had, among other sundries in our load of blow, quite a stack of block C-4 “plastic” explosive, a high-explosive charge that expanded at a rate of 23,000 feet per second, and was regarded as a primary steel cutting charge. We had no steel, but plenty of timber in the form of deadfall and standing trees.

Of course, we all wanted to wad it up into one big ball and recreate the Big Bang, but Buck wouldn’t have any of that; the Buck stopped here. “Just treat these timbers as if they were steel pipes and cut ‘em, guys. Come on, let’s see some diamond and half-diamond charges and other cutters.” We split into two-man teams and assessed our surroundings with the greatest of creativity in mind.

Our company commander, who was still back in Fort Lewis, Washington, was unaffectionately nicked “Squeakers,” a titled he had earned during his tenure as our company executive officer (XO) for his propensity to report our many minor transgressions to the then-incumbent company commander. “He’s a rat, boys. He’s a rat and he bears watching,” Chief Richard R., our team warrant officer, warned.

I chose a diamond steel cylinder-cutting charge, which I molded from C-4 and wrapped around a fallen log. As I crimped my blasting cap around the time fuse, I couldn’t help but notice that one of our engineers, Mikey G. had created what to all the world looked like a human figure molded of C-4, and was plastering it to a tree trunk. “Hey, Mike…what kind of charge is that?” I puzzled.

“It’s Squeakers,” he said, “and now I’m going to prime him,” he continued as he inserted the blasting cap into what was discernibly the rectum of the figure.

Ka-RACK! went the Michael G. Squeakers timber-cutting charge in a shower of splinters and dark, pungent smoke. “Clean cut!” Mikey bragged. “Hell, that’s the most work Squeakers has done all year!”

We progressed finally to the known distance (KD) automatic weapons fire range down the access road, and proceeded to riddle impromptu targets with our team’s M-249 Squad Automatic Weapons (SAWs). As bad luck would have it, we soon ignited brush downrange with the tracer rounds from the SAWs. “Just let it burn, guys!” Buck urged. We obliged.

Before long, though, we had a formidable conflagration chomping at the bit, fueled by dry tinder and deadfall. “Cease fire!” Buck eventually called out. “We need to get this under control so we can keep training.” We pounced on the fire with shovels and what little water we had. We fell back soon, opting to dig a fire break to the burn’s front, to snuff it when it arrived.

There was the distinct snap, pop, whizzzzz of tracer rounds igniting and crisscrossing to our front. We decided to distance ourselves and let the spreading fire burn to the break. The blaze broke as planned, and smoldered slowly in the opposite direction for a spell. “Well, we’re done here for the day; let’s load up and head back to the FOB.”

Back at tent metropolis, we click-clacked our way to dine at the Canvas Cabana. “I’ll have an 11-ounce prime rib with horseradish sauce, pan-seared potatoes, and a sprinkle of kosher sea salt,” I announced matter of factly. Dr. Suess, the cook, didn’t bat an eye; he imparted a load of Spam, instant mashed potatoes, and instant IDK WTF onto my plate. With the deadest of deadpan expressions, he replied, “11-ounce prime rib with horseradish sauce, pan-seared potatoes, and a sprinkle of kosher sea salt…next!” This wasn’t the cook’s first day at smart-aleck remarks. You had to have a sense of humor. GBs are good at that.

“Hey you guys, you might want to come out here and see this,” one of the boys suggested from outside the mess tent.

Outside the tent, he chin-pointed toward an orange glow emanating from the location of the ranges. “OK, George, Guy, and Ed come with me; we’re going to have to take care of that fire ASAP,” Buck directed. As we bumped along the range road, we heard an unwelcome sound coming from the general direction of the range—BOOM. We looked at each other but said nothing. As we feared, the fire had erupted from smoldering ash that we caused earlier.

Once at the range, we were not prepared for what we saw. Korean troops to the tune of nearly 100 men had already been directed to respond to the range fire. As we stepped out of the truck, we saw a wounded Korean soldier parallel to the ground, face down, being carried by no less than 10 other soldiers, five on either side, each with their own little pinch of the stricken troop’s uniform, and they were trying to run. It was an absolute melee.

“Looks like a 203 round (40mm high-explosive tube-launched grenade) cooked off in the fire and bit one of them,” Buck assessed.

Screaming Korean soldiers massed around us. “OK, let’s get back in the vehicle right now, guys.” We pushed our way back to our truck, vaulted ourselves in, and locked the doors. ROK troops swarmed our vehicle and it began to rock. “Fuck this!” Ed shouted from the driver’s seat. He put the truck in gear and we parted the yellow sea en route back to the feeble defense of tent city.

“You guys pack your stuff and get ready to leave,” the freshly informed FOB commander told us. He was arranging for a C-141 Starlifter to fly us back to the States. Overreaction is the first thing that came to my mind, but then I didn’t know the extent of the afflicted Korean soldier’s injuries. Well, this stinks, I mused…but if you wanna dance, ya gotta pay in the ROK.

The next time the 10,000 roosters cried out and the reek of the atmosphere began to set in, we were still in tent city, waking to the click-clack of the boots on planks. Standing outside our tent waiting for the rest of the team to get out so we could go to breakfast together, we noticed a Korean soldier standing just outside the door of the nearest barracks. His left arm was generously bandaged and propped in a sling. His face was pockmarked with fresh scabs, and his head and left eye were also bandaged.

Our junior engineer, Abraham B., laughed and waved to him, pantomiming a person swatting at the flames of a fire, then suddenly jumping into the air as from an explosion. The Korean cracked a big grin, nodding vigorously, and mimed his own version of the previous night’s event. We gave him a thunderous round of applause peppered with enthusiastic “HOOAHs.”

“What’s for breakfast this morning, George?” Buck drawled. “Ah, today, Buck, there are Eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce, pan-fried hash-browned potatoes with capers and salsa, fresh-squeezed orange juice, coffee ground personally by Señor Juan Valdez, and sherbet—flavor of your choice. Just tell Dr. Seuss I sent you.”

And that my friends, you cannot make up.

Geo sends