Tasmanian SFG: Welcome to Hell

by C. R. Daems

  “Luan why wasn’t that a good move by Owen?” he asked.

  “A successful leg sweep is a difficult move against a trained fighter. It requires speed, balance, and surprise. Owen was tired as we all are after this past week’s activities; therefore, his reaction time was slower, balance wobbly, and I wasn’t distracted so the move wasn’t a surprise.”

  “Owen wasn’t distracted when you used that technique on him during the knife fight,” Avery said.

  “Oh, yes he was. His total focus was on hitting my face with his knife and how good it would feel. Hate, anger, and other strong emotions are a major distraction in a fight. In Owen’s case the emotion was excitement and fantasizing on the outcome.”

  “Luan is right. That’s why we suggest you get your opponent angry. It usually makes him overly aggressive and therefore careless. Enough. Frank, Foley, you’re up.”

  Again, we didn’t finish until well into the evening and again had an early morning obstacle course exercise.

  * * *

  This time we were driven to the Tasmanian firing range after our morning run and given a brief explanation of the targets which popped up, in, and out, and moved for several meters. There were more than ten stations and each appeared to have a different configuration of moving and stationary targets. We were taken to station one and each given fifteen minutes to acquaint ourselves with the targets and then tested. Waiting for my turn made for a boring day. I was fifth and scored fifty-one, forty-eight, one—fifty-one bullets in the kill zone, forty-eight in the wound zone, and one miss. When everyone had finished, I was fifth of the eleven remaining candidates

  “Luan,” the chief called and waved for me to join him some thirty meters at the far end of the range. When I did, he handed me a CheyTac M200 sniper rifle. I’d like to see how you do without a spotter or electronic equipment for distance and wind for those three targets. The rifle is currently set for a distance of three hundred meters and no wind.”

  Since I had learned to shoot with an old Russian Berdan II rifle without a spotter, it didn’t bother me. I sat for a long time calming myself then took a prone position, judging the distance to the first target at three hundred meters and a crosswind to be around ten kilometers per hour. I adjusted the scope for the wind, took aim, slowed my breathing, and slowly squeezed the trigger. Then without asking if I had scored, I estimated the second target at six hundred meters, adjusted the scope for the new distance, slowed my breathing, and slowly squeezed the trigger. Then I did the same for the final target at what I estimated to be close to one thousand meters.

  I ejected the third round, stood, and handed the rifle back to Chief Simon.

  He smiled. “You will need practice, but I think you’ll qualify as a sniper. You’re a natural.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Shiva: The Purge

  The next day was a free day to everyone’s surprise and no one rose until late afternoon.

  “Why?” Paul asked the question we all had on our minds.

  “It’s the end of our second month, if that has any significance,” Frank said with a slight shrug.

  “It might,” Slater said. “The last two weeks have felt like an examination, a kind of midterm.”

  “Meaning they will probably put a few of us out of our misery. Several people told me the Tasmanian school made the Ranger school seem like an amusement park. I think that was a pretty accurate assessment,” Frank said. “What do you think, Jolie?”

  “I agree with Thomas. The last couple of weeks were designed to evaluate us when we were exhausted. We have never had more than four hours’ sleep and sometimes far less on many days,” I said, just as Chief Simon entered the barracks.

  “Luan, my office,” he said, and with me following he walked back to the main building where he had an office. “Shut the door.”

  The office was small and spartan. There was a small bookcase which appeared to hold mostly military manuals and books on weapons and equipment. Several were on physiology, philosophy, and psychology. The desk was standard military metal with a wooden top but the chair looked comfortable and well worn. A plain steel chair sat in front of the desk. The walls were a light gray and the floors wood. Both looked old and worn, frozen in some long-ago age. The only concession to being occupied was several pictures of men and groups of men—Tasmanians.

  Simon sat and opened a brown folder with several sheets of white paper, some printed and some handwritten, and photos. “Luan, no woman should be able to pass this school. It was designed for young men in excellent condition, double the normal testosterone, and a working brain. Women don’t have the strength and aggressiveness to compete against men, aren’t driven to prove they were the king of the hill at any cost, or to endure the prejudices that most candidates and instructors will demonstrate. Not to mention the conditions they will have to endure on a typical Tasmanian assignment. Yet, you seem to thrive here much to the annoyance of the senior army officers. Your father must be a remarkable man. His Gong Luan training is unique and he produced an exceptional daughter. You will be allowed to continue training.”

  * * *

  “You ten constitute one of the largest groups allowed to continue training for the final two months. Congratulations.” He paused and looked at each of us. “The focus during the first two months was for us to evaluate your potential and for you to prove you were Tasmanian material. That is what the Tasmanian school is all about. Finding men who can keep going and remain physically and mentally functional when any normal person would have dropped from exhaustion. The focus in the final two months changes. For us it’s to determine where you would best fit in the Tasmanian SFG and for you it’s not to screw up.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Shiva: Tasmanian Business

  “Well, Chief, does she stay or go?” a tall, wiry man asked. He was one of the thirty-plus Tasmanians who had been selected to participate in the last phase of the Tasmanian qualification school. The ten candidates remaining had proved to be the best of this group of candidates. They would now be tested and judged by Tasmanians.

  “The army brass doesn’t appear to want a woman in the Tasmanians,” said a muscular man of average height.

  “The real question is when you’re standing knee deep in shit and surrounded by savages who want your head mounted on a pole who do you want protecting your back?” Simon asked.

  “That’s easy,” a tall, muscular man in his thirties said as two others nodded their heads, “a Tasmanian.”

  “Correct,” Simon said. “So the only question is whether each candidate is Tasmanian-grade material or not. I don’t care what the army brass thinks. They not only won’t be protecting my back when the shit hits the fan, but they would appoint one of their worthless political buddies to lead us if they could. Those we allow to wear the Tasmanian fur flash on their beret are family, persons we would risk our lives for, and can be relied on to do the same for us. By long-standing tradition, Tasmanians choose who will wear the fur.”

  “I heard Zimmerman ordered Smitty to ensure candidate Luan failed the interrogation exercise,” another Tasmanian said.

  “Yes, and that will never happen again. Whoever the senior Tasmanians appoint to be the chief for the current school session is in charge, not Zimmerman or his replacement or their superiors. They claimed they were concerned about our image—bullshit. They were playing games and concerned about their own image. Our image has been and always will be based on the individuals we allow to wear the fur.”

  “Taarah, taarah,” rang loud and clear from the assembled men.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Planet: Delphi: Fort Shiva: A Reality Check

  “I hope you’ve had a good rest,” Chief Simon said as the ten of us fell in for morning roll call. “You have met our search criteria, but you aren’t a Tasmanian until we believe you are a good fit. For the next two months you will be working with Tasmanians not on assignment learning the Tasmanian way: our tactics,
what we expect from every member of the Special Forces Group, and finding you a specialty. If each of you are qualified in one or more specialties, the unit can be smaller, making it more mobile, independent, and responsive.” The chief smiled. “Today you will get your first introduction to battle-hardened Tasmanians. You can think of yourselves as cowboys getting ready for your first ride on an angry two-thousand-kilo bull.” He laughed at some image he didn’t share. Just then ten men came walking up to Simon. “Sergeant Martin, take them through their exercises and a ten-kilometer run ending at the self-defense area.”

  The Tasmanians were dressed exactly like us in army fatigues with no rank or insignia showing. The only difference was our berets. Except for me, the other nine candidates had maroon berets with their Ranger beret flash designating their currently assigned battalion. I wore the army’s black beret with the standard army flash as I wasn’t officially assigned to any specific unit. That got me the full range of stares, frowns, and smirks but no verbal comments.

  After our exercises we took off on our run, where the Tasmanians set a moderately fast pace that I surmised was their normal running speed. I thought it interesting that the Tasmanians were participating in our exercises and run, indicating a normal day at work.

  “Rankin, Elliot,” the chief barked and Paul and an average-size young man stepped in the fighting area and waited for Damon to drop his arm to signal start. The Tasmanian didn’t smile or express any emotion. He was all business—a professional facing an unknown opponent. Paul moved his right foot back into a solid forward stance and a good position to kick. But the second he began to move his leg, Elliot shot forward. Paul attempted a straight punch to the face but Elliot’s left arm deflected the punch as he slammed into Paul with a right elbow to his chest followed immediately by a back fist to his head and a front kick to his chest. The kick lifted Paul into the air and he landed on his back. He didn’t move. The Tasmanian stood looking down at Paul without emotion.

  Three more matches produced much the same result. The Tasmanian’s attack was quick and powerful, overwhelming his opponent within seconds. Then it was my turn in the shredder.

  “Luan, Bowman,” the chief shouted and we entered the ring.

  Bowman was average height, which meant he was a head taller than me, muscular, with straight brown hair and an angular face with brown eyes that were appraising me like a strange bug. Surprisingly, he wasn’t displaying any emotions. I was expecting some macho remark or a smear or…something. Nothing. He was obviously taking me seriously. When Martin dropped his hand, he made a quick half step toward me then stopped. I had been prepared but hadn’t moved. Then he lunged, driving his shoulder toward my chest. I dropped into a split as an elbow brushed the top of my head and drove a fist into his groin. He dove over my head and rolled to a crouching position and stood taking slow deep breaths. I decided he was wounded and dangerous as I jumped to a standing position.

  “Hey, Al, the pussycat has claws,” one of the Tasmanians said loud enough to be heard. Al didn’t respond as he slowly approached me. He put a left foot forward and threw a roundhouse kick with his right foot aimed at my head. I knew just blocking it was going to throw me off balance and could break my blocking arm so I moved to face the oncoming leg and blocked with both forearms, letting the force of the impact move me toward him. As my body touched him, I drove an elbow into his ribs and again dropped into a split and twisted, hoping to knock the one leg he was standing on. He had anticipated the move and rolled over me to a standing position. He attacked with a fake front kick which turned into a side kick at my stomach. I twisted ninety degrees changing my profile, but I had been a bit too slow and his foot grazed along my stomach. Before I could use my right arm to lift his leg he launched into the air with a left kick to my chest. I spun back, blocking with my left but again not fast enough, and his foot grazed along my chest with enough power to spin me to the ground. Thankfully, we were wearing protective gear. Although only partial contact, they were powerful thrusts which could break bones if landed solidly. He dove in my direction and I knew an elbow strike was coming. I rolled to my right just as he crashed into the space I had been occupying. Dirt flew out in a cloud and we scrambled to our feet and stood facing each other. After a minute, he changed tactics. He had the mass and strength to win a slug fest and began throwing combination punches and kicks. I block most and got in a few of my own but was losing the contest and couldn’t disengage without giving him an advantage. In an all or nothing gambit I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist and drove successive elbows at his head. It worked for a few seconds until he dove forward. I landed on my back and the air exploded out of me as his eighty-eight-kilo mass landed on top of me, and my lights went out went when his elbow made contact with my head.

  We each had several fights that day and were each black and blue and nursing some part or parts of our bodies at day’s end. The Tasmanians hadn’t been hostile or acted superior, just indifferent. I surmised the day had been intended to show us that we not only weren’t Tasmanians but had a long way to go to be accepted.

  “That was interesting, if I ignore the bruises and pain. They certainly put a damper on my elevated pride in my fighting skills,” Paul said with a wry grin.

  “I think that was the point of today’s lesson, i.e., you won’t fit in until you can hold your own with a Tasmanian,” I said. It was obvious that self-defense contests and life-and-death confrontations with the enemy were not the same and required a different approach. The Tasmanians made each fight an all or nothing, life or death clash.

  The next day were matched against Tasmanians in knife fights. To me they had that same life-or-death clash—lightning quick and a deadly approach. It wasn’t as though basic techniques had been abandoned but that they had been stripped to the essentials. They weren’t contests. They were survival duels.

  My first Tasmanian was a short, stocky man with a square face and only a few centimeters taller than me. I folded my knife along my forearm as I waited for Martin to signal the start to the match. When he dropped his arm, my opponent charged me with his knife pointed at my heart. As I dropped into a split I realized he had been expecting me to execute a split and his knife was at my throat level. I managed to lean away and bring my right arm around in time to block the cut to my neck. My right arm struck his right wrist with my blade, which would have cut through to the bone and severed the artery. My left arm then blocked his right arm from advancing while my right swung right, hitting his left leg where the femoral artery lay. I lost two of the next three fights and only managed a tie in the third one.

  “That Tasmanian in my first fight was ready for me to execute a split. I think they had a debriefing after our session yesterday. And since these are new faces, I wouldn’t doubt they are considered the best knife fighters,” I said at dinner that night. “I think this has been carefully choreographed for our benefit.”

  “That maybe, Luan, but they are still better than us,” Frank said.

  “Yes, they are veterans and have experience. But I think it’s what Chief Simon said, a change of focus. In the first half we concentrated on mastering the techniques. In the second half we are stripping the techniques to their basics. In war you don’t have time for two- to three-minute contests. It’s two- to three-second clashes—kill or you could be discovered, wounded, or killed.”

  “You beat your first opponent using techniques you learned,” Paul said, playing devil’s advocate.

  “But it wouldn’t be good in war. That technique would take my opponent a couple of minutes to bleed out. During that time, he could still fight and shout a warning.”

  “I think Luan is right,” Foley said. He was a tall, wiry man who never talked much. “This half we are going to learn what makes the Tasmanians the feared warriors they are.”

  * * *

  We spent the next week on hand-to-hand combat with an emphasis on killing with and without weapons. The techniques were the same but wounding wasn’t the ob
jective; speed and killing were the goals. We not only learned the places that would kill the opponent but how long it would take your opponent to die. A cut artery would cause a person to bleed out and die, but it would take a couple of minutes before he would be too weak to fight and several more to die. It became obvious that had been the Tasmanians approach during our initial workouts—a fast and decisive win.

  The following two weeks we spent in the jungle area with Tasmanians. Half the time we were the enemy waiting in ambush and the other half as an invading force. We learned the traps and diversions they typically used and under which circumstances they were employed. Some were best used when stealth was necessary and others when time was a factor. For me, the Tasmanians were the most interesting. They were close to emotionless and patient. They could lie in mud with bugs crawling over them without a discernable twitch, just like they were asleep having a pleasant dream. And they never taunted you or gloated over a win. Winning and losing evoked the same response—bland acceptance. At first, I thought it was for the candidates and to some extent it might have been, but I concluded it was a Tasmanian characteristic. Emotions could get you killed, get your fellow Tasmanians killed, and blow the mission. I had yet to learn what they were like off duty, whether they could turn it off and on like a switch. I doubted it could be completely turned off.