Special Forces

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

UK Special Forces breakdown: The Special Air Service (SAS)

The Special Air Service (SAS) is the British Army’s most distinguished and renowned special forces unit. From the moment operators of the 22 SAS emerged on the balconies of the Iranian embassy in London in 1980, the SAS became famous both at home and overseas. Their motto, “Who Dares Wins,” has become an influential and recognizable quotation the world over.

Over the years, the regiment has conducted every type of warfare: counterterrorism, counter-narcotics, high-profile raids, covert operations, training nations’ militaries, and, at times, serving as straight-up guns for hire. The SAS is widely considered among the finest SF regiments in the world today. Many countries around the world have modeled their own special forces on the SAS or have had the regiment develop theirs for them.

Special Air Service Organization

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment includes four active ‘saber’ squadrons—A, B, D, and G—each of which is made up of around 60 men. Each squadron contains up to four troops, with each troop specializing in specific areas of expertise.

Two reserve regiments, 21 and 23, are staffed by civilians. One of the more famous writers and a member of the infamous Bravo Two Zero patrol, Chris Ryan, began his army career in the territorial regiment before passing selection for 22 SAS. A small group of regular 22 veterans and civilian volunteers make up L-Detachment, a reserves element assigned to 22 SAS. The mystery operator from the Nairobi mall attack belonged to this unit and is most likely a former 22 operator.

Roles of the Special Air Service

The regiment has a wide range of responsibilities, each requiring specific training. Sabre Squadron is responsible for counterterrorism duties. Maintaining a team on a constant state of alert at all times, squadrons rotate through this role on a six-month basis.

Sneaking into enemy terrain to collect intelligence about military strengths and movements is not as sexy as leaping across embassy balconies, but intelligence gathering is still a vital facet of the regiment’s responsibilities. The regiment utilized this skill set to great success in the desolate highlands of the Falkland Islands and the shrubberies of northern Ireland. Later, the SRR would take on this role, though the SAS are still involved in carrying out their own reconnaissance operations.

Surgical attacks behind enemy lines and sabotage were among the first roles fulfilled by the regiment at the onset of World War II. They’d carry out daring sabotage missions behind German lines, originally in North Africa and later deep in the European theater. The regiment continues to uphold that practice and are professionals at infiltration far into enemy territory.

The regiment also has a mastery of close protection (CP) duties, having established many of today’s standard protocols themselves. In current times, much of U.K. military CP work is undertaken by specialized military police components.

Over the years the SAS has shared their expertise with friendly nations, helping them to develop their special forces. These are known as team jobs within the regiment. The U.K. government finds these efforts to be beneficial from a political and financial perspective, and they also bolster the prestige of the regiment. In recent times, this responsibility has shifted to either the Special Forces Support Group or the 21 and 23 reserve SAS.

Smaller elements within the SAS

Counter Revolutionary Warfare (CRW) Wing: The CRW Wing is a specialized group established during the 1970s to train the SAS for its counterterrorism responsibilities. CRW developed advanced pistol shooting skills, explosive entry methods, and room-clearing drills for the anti-terrorist team. This wing is responsible for teaching whichever squadron is on counterterrorism standby duties.

Operations Research Wing: The Operations Research Wing involves two or more mature SAS guys whose duty it is to evaluate and improve new equipment, weapons, and capabilities. Working with MOD technicians and scientists, the cell came up with the concept of the stun grenade/flashbang.

Revolutionary Warfare Wing (RWW): The RWW or The Wing is an elite organization of individually selected SAS operators tasked with supporting Secret Intelligence Service operations. They’re joined by detachments from other elite forces: the Special Boat Service, Joint Support Group, and Special Reconnaissance Regiment. This shadowy group is often referred to as The Increment.

Special Air Service History

Lieutenant Colonel Sir Archibald David Stirling designed the Special Air Service in 1941 and developed it as a desert raiding force. The regiment inserted behind German lines in North Africa, carrying out sabotage missions and wreaking destruction along Rommel’s supply channels. The SAS has a long, esteemed history, but perhaps the most crucial piece of information about the unit is this: They’ve been involved in almost every major conflict since 1941, and they are hard as f*&^.

Feature image courtesy of the UK Ministry of Defence

Article written by Jamie Read for NEWSREP

Delta Force’s James Nelson Sudderth – Conan the Barbarian

Prologue:There a two men who I credit, or blame, for bringing me to the Delta Force from my state of uncertainty and lack of self-confidence: James Nelson Sudderth and Matthew Loren Rierson. Both are departed. Both deliberately approached me and asked me to come to Delta Force.

First it was Matt who asked me ‘when I was coming’, coaxing the gears in my head to turn and engage. From that I felt a distinct lean forward that I merely nursed for about a year. Then came James, who TOLD me with a knife hand to my chest to come. That’s how James conveyed messages of all sort, with knife hand to chest. The lean forward became a jog ahead, and then a run. I ran right into the Delta Force, never looking back, no longer just Jenny on the block.

Forward:
I’m an SOF Combat Diver by trade, or at least I fancy myself one. I was assigned to the Combat Dive Academy as a Senior Instructor/Writer from 1989 to 1991. One of the courses we offered to the SOF community in the day was titled the Waterborne Infiltration Course (WIC). I attended the very first pilot course of WIC as a student. It was quickly and unaffectionately nicked: ’Ranger School on Water’.

WIC was six weeks of, grueling, finning, Zodiac-driving, Klepper kayak-paddling, over-the-horizon navigating, ass-whipping training on every tactical aspect of SOF waterborne operations, with the exception of underwater events! Underwater operations were a completely different animal, and required a specially select man to perform them.

special-forces-dive-team — Special Forces in the WIC course; long range navigation and infiltration with a Zodiac F-470 Combat Rubber Raiding Craft (CRRC)

WIC only ran for several iterations, and then it was dropped from the Key West curriculum for ‘lack of support by the Special Forces Groups’. That is a polite way of saying guys didn’t want to come to the WIC because it was just plain TOO HARD!

I could go on about how much harder the pilot WIC I attended was, as it was executed to find out how much was too much for us mere mortals… but this essay is not about me; it is about a man that I only ever imagined I was as good as.

Helocast operations; Special Forces troops cast from the back of a CH-47 helicopter as it flies ~10 MPH, and ~10ft above the surface of the water.

Meet James Sudderth:
WIC students occupied the tarmac adjacent to the dive academy equipped with hoses and brushes, vigorously washing and rinsing salt water from Zodiac F-470 Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, and other personal and team equipment. These men had been dropped by CH-47 helos some 16 nautical miles from the shore of key west the night before.

At that distance you are ‘beyond the splash line’ or Over the Horizon (OTH); that is, you have traveled so far from shore that you can no longer see land due to the curvature of the Earth’s round service. With no visual reference, these men had to perform instrument approach back to shore using compass, and route calculations that they had done in prior mission planning, to defeat Mama Nature’s tides, waves, and ocean currents.

The men worked brilliantly on their post mission stand down. Some shirts off, some on, some in shorts, some combat fatigues, some sandals, mostly barefoot. I looked down at the bare foot of one senior student, who I recognized very early on as being an irresistible leader, and powerhouse participant in all aspects of the training. His foot had a big toe, a little toe, but was missing his middle toes; it looked like it was rendering a perpetual Vulcan salute—live long and prosper.

“Sergeant First Class…” I barked, and the student looked up at me: “Yes Sergeant?”

“You appear to be out of uniform, Sergeant.”

“How so, Sergeant?”

“Your foot…” I continued: “You are missing several of your digits; you are of course aware that you are required to report to training daily with ALL of your equipment?” I joked.

The student grin an obligatory grin, one that is frankly forced, but offered as a gesture of respect, though he was sick of hearing jokes about his missing toes. I was immediately regretted my pallid attempt at humor, but the damage was done. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking of that one, dumbass!

Another Instructor who happened to be in earshot, Chuck “Chuckles” S., sidestepped and leaned in to say: “Hey, that Delta’s James Sudderth, lost his toes in a chopper crash rescuing Kurt Muse from Modelo Prison in Panama. If you want to go ahead and just open your mouth a little wider, I’ll shove your foot in for ya.”

Little Bird Helicopter — The MH-6 Little Bird helo wreckage that took James’s toes

Have you ever been walking along in public and suddenly tripped over your own feet, and tried to do that cool-guy recovery? You look back behind you at the imaginary thing that ‘made’ you trip, with a pissed-off and pensive glare? You do that not for yourself, rather for those that saw you, so they will understand that you actually had a Fred-Astaire-kind-of cool going on… but then some villain piece of unconscionable shit made you trip in front of all these nice people.

Well I didn’t do any of that. I kicked off my shoes and grabbed a hose and starting squirting down UDT Vests, paddles, and whatever.

“Hey, James… sorry that that last remark; sometimes it’s like my mouth is falling down the stairs.”

“Heh-heh… yeah, don’t worry about it.” And so it went.

Over the years it had been suggested to me time and again: “You should try out for Delta; you need to go to Delta…” Perhaps, but I wasn’t by far guilty of any pretense. I wasn’t fraught with typical excuses: “Well, I’ve got a bone in my leg, I just don’t want to live in Fayetteville, this trick knee of mine, allergy to sloped hills, my wife, my ankle, my toe… MY ASS!” I did not go, for my one lone survivor reason: I did not believe that I could make it.

At the end of every course at the academy, the students and instructors get together and treat themselves to an end-of-course party. Everyone migrates back to Sergeants’ and officers’ status, and just have a jolly ol’ time for a few hours over a cookout and brew-ha-has.

Invitation to try out for Delta Force Selection
“James Nelson Sudderth is headed my way with a beer in his hand, coming right at me so I’ll step aside. Da-fuq, he intentionally turned and is still coming right at me. There is going to be a collision if he does not alter his course! And with James, well, you can bet there are going to be some knife-hand pointing to the chest.

“Sergeant Hand I need to talk to you.” Just call me George, and sure.” James nudged me to walk about to the other side of the building where there was privacy.

“It’s that shit I said about his foot… aw man, I knew it!! He’s going to twist me like Chubby Checker!”

And so James began: “George, you need to try out for Delta. Now, listen to me…” and he wiped the beer from his mouth, walked a quick two steps away to set his beer down on the academy building’s front porch, and then closed back with me. I totally got it, he was distancing the beer from the conversations in a it’s-not-the-beer-talking gesture, demonstrating his attempt at honesty.

“I tried to follow the Unit’s published train up guide lines, and I am not capable of carrying the loads over the distances and times it indicates, James.”

“George forget about that paper; you really, you just have to go and try out.”

“How can I when I can’t pass the entry-level standards??”

“You can do it George, if you just go and try. Trust me, it is an-out-of body experience; your body won’t be able to do it, but your mind will.”

I was nodding my head and pursing my lips, and thinking about how I met Delta’s Matthew Rierson, with whom I attended the basic dive CDQC with years ago. “When are you coming over, George?” Matt matter of factly asked me, and expected and answer, but never got one.

Still nodding I finally: “I’m going to do it. But just one question…”

“Send it.” James challenged

“At the end of selection, do we really have to live lift a 200 pound caldron of red-hot coals with just our forearms branding them with a lion and a dragon?”

“James flash a genuine grin, and kept his face pointed toward me so I could keep seeing his grin as he retrieved his beer. “Yes, yes you do, mother fucker, but you WILL do it!”

We walked back about the building to join the brothers in the throes of rejoice for their accomplished six weeks of smoke on the water. James walked with his arm over my shoulder, like a big brother. James was three months younger than I was.

I trained for selection my fist time, grossly over doing it, and wrecked myself; I had to wave off West “BY GOD” Virginia for the time. I regrouped and refit, and trained my second time for selection, and by God I made it through the course my first time around, flaming cauldron, scary tattoos and all… ok, no Kwai Chang Caine test of manhood. But it was definitely time for me to leave the temple and hang my hat down the spine.

Geo sends

James Nelson Sudderth (far right) hunting drug cartel kingpins in South America

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

WATCH: How to pass Special Forces Assessment and Selection

The journey to becoming a Special Forces soldier won’t be easy. Special Forces training is rigorous and highly selective, but the courage and strength you will gain as a candidate will stay with you your entire life.

In addition to Basic Combat Training, soldiers must have completed Advanced Individual Training and U.S. Army Airborne School to be eligible for Special Forces training. To learn more about training requirements, visit the qualifications page.

Special Forces Training Modules

Special Operations Preparation Course (SOPC)

This two-week course, held at Fort Bragg, N.C., prepares prospective Green Berets for Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS). This course focuses heavily on physical fitness, but candidates are also expected to demonstrate a proficiency in land navigation, one of the most important skills of a Special Forces soldier.

Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS)

Special Forces Assessment and Selection is designed to test your survival skills, and places an even stronger emphasis on intense physical and mental training. This is considered the first proper phase of Special Forces training. Phases II-VI continue during the Special Forces Qualification Course (SFQC).

Special Forces Qualification Course (SFQC)

Qualification consists of five phases (II-VI), lasting approximately 61 weeks. Each phase is designed to foster an expertise in the following areas: small unit tactics, advanced Special Forces tactics, survival skills, language and cultural training, unconventional warfare, survival, escape, resistance and evasion and advanced combat survival tactics.

Small Unit Tactics

The tactics phase, which lasts 9 weeks, drills candidates in advanced marksmanship, counterinsurgency, urban operations, live fire maneuvers sensitive site exploitation and other Special Forces skills. Soldiers will also take part in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE) exercises.

MOS Training

During the MOS Qualification Phase (III), you will receive training for your newly assigned Special Forces Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). Training for this phase lasts about 16 weeks, and covers additional language training, Special Forces common tasks, Advanced Special Operations Techniques (ASOT) and interagency operations.

Collective Training (ROBIN SAGE)

Robin Sage (Phase IV) is the training phase that serves as the litmus test for Soldiers hoping to earn the Green Beret. Candidates are organized into squads and inserted into a fictional country, known as Pineland, which is made up of several counties spanning North Carolina. Pineland is rife with political turmoil, and candidates must navigate the region and complete a specified mission.

Language And Culture

During this 25-week phase (Phase V), candidates will fine-tune their skills in the language to which they have been assigned. Languages include French, Indonesian-Bahasa, Spanish, Arabic, Chinese-Mandarin, Czech, Dari, Hungarian, Korean, Pashto, Persian-Farsi, Polish, Russian, Tagalog, Thai, Turkish and Urdu.

Graduation

All of the major work and training is completed by phase VI, the graduation phase, which involves a week of out-processing. Candidates will finally don their Green Berets as Special Forces soldiers.

Feature image courtesy of the U.S. Army

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