The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  They were correct.

  On Thanksgiving weekend 1993, the survivors finally fell to the promised five-percent.

  It had started off innocently enough, with a promised turkey lunch in the small Quonset hut on the pine-laden western range of Fort Bragg. After a morning of intense physical training, and no breakfast, the thirty one soldiers of class Bravo-212 were famished. The long tables were arranged beautifully, centered around three large birds, each mouthwateringly dressed and ready to be devoured. Just as Gage had been about to stuff the first bite of succulent bird in his mouth, the alarm sounded. The dreaded assembly alarm. Each man, knowing they had been had, dropped their forks and sprinted to the ready line in the small quad. It was there they received their literal marching orders. They would road march—nothing more than a painful run in boots—tactically to a spot on a map approximately eighteen kilometers away, and they had only two hours to do so. Normally, such a task wouldn’t be all that tough, but lined up across from them were their rucksacks, and they were oddly shaped because of the bricks they contained.

  “Or you can quit and go eat,” the instructor said. “Got turkey, stuffing, cakes and pies in there. I’ll even pour you some egg nog and good cheer, if’n you want that.” He surveyed the formation of tattered men. No one budged. “Alright then,” he said, motioning to the rucksacks before lifting his Timex and touching the center button. “Haul ass.”

  The entire squad made it, with each man humping a hundred and twenty pounds of bricks, sixty pounds more than they typically carried. Hardened, calloused feet, more than used to the brutality of the selection process were now bleeding, rubbed raw from the physical forces of the weight grinding their flesh against the leather of their boots.

  At the checkpoint, each man was given one half canteen of water. The instructor again informed them that anyone wanting to quit would be whisked back to the hut and allowed to sit in the heat, watching the Dallas Cowboys on television, eating all the Thanksgiving dinner he wanted.

  No takers.

  “Fine, then,” he said, displaying a small degree of pride. “Here’s your next point,” he said, handing the map to the soldier next to Gage. “Another eighteen klicks, hillier route, and this time you got ninety minutes. Anyone a second late is an automatic bolo.”

  Three men dropped out upon hearing the distance and speed required. Physically, they stood no chance.

  Twenty-eight remained.

  Hell ensued.

  Twenty made it to the checkpoint.

  Gage arrived fourth, his right foot bothering him, making him worry he might be getting a stress fracture: the dreaded curse of the marching soldier.

  It was fully dark by that time. The instructors, knowing they had an iron-forged group of men remaining, upped the ante. “This next one is thirty klicks, and you got two and a half hours.” Most soldiers can run a seven and a half minute mile with no problem, but to be able to do so in bloodied boots, with a hundred and twenty pounds strapped to your back, during the night, over uneven terrain, without nourishment, after months of unrelenting torment is nearly inhuman. And certainly inhumane to be made to do so, but the remaining twenty didn’t think that way.

  It took Gage three miles to get going and, although he could feel his foot swelling, he wouldn’t quit unless the damned thing fell off. The competitive spirit of the men, individually, was gone—they were now pulling for one another—a kindred spirit that only months and months of hellacious treatment could bring out in a group of such diverse people. When Helms and Gilder dropped back, it was Gage and another buddy who urged them on, even taking on bricks from their packs and physically pulling the men. But that type of help only lasts so long and, by the time the last man reached the truck, there were only seventeen remaining.

  The soldiers were delirious, so in need of food and water that they struggled to comprehend what was happening. They were like robots, moving forward only because that was how they were programmed. After reaching the truck, one of the remaining soldiers mumbled something to the others that made him sound as if he was speaking in tongues. The lone instructor allowed them to drink a canteen of water but insisted they remain standing. He stood perched on the truck’s tailgate, holding a steaming canteen cup of coffee, toasting them with it. “You guys are tougher’n leather—I’ll give you that. And you’ll need to be because this next leg’ll take you to daylight. Fifty klicks, four and a half hours. That’s more than a marathon, gentlemen. Then we’ll see who’s left standing.”

  It was a shame. As soon as the words were out of the instructor’s mouth (and comprehended) the seventeen men became eleven. Six men, their uniform blouses stained with sweat-diluted blood from the rubbing of their straps, dropped their packs, staggering to the truck for more water and nourishment.

  The instructor, lit by a ring of glow sticks on the tailgate, shook his head as he watched them, asking the rest of the haggard group if they wanted to join them. Wavering only from their physical battering, each man’s boots stayed planted on the ground.

  He lifted his arm, starting his stopwatch again and telling them they’d better haul ass. Gage was feverish and dizzy, but he turned left and began his stagger, feeling the broken metatarsal in his right foot as it again began to rub against its other half, grating like two sharp rocks being scraped together—it had finally given way midway through the last segment, snapping like a dry twig. And while it was painful, Gage had come too far to stop. He attempted to zone out the pain; he was going to keep moving forward. He had to.

  The soldiers, now too tired to even encourage one another, plodded along as fast their weary bodies would allow; the sharp straps of the packs and the friction of their boots were lubricated by sweat and slick blood from their blisters, aiding them in a hideous slice of Army irony. After a half kilometer, as the group was crossing a low bridge, floodlights flashed on, blinding them as they jumped into the creek on both sides, thinking it might be a simulated ambush. As their eyes adjusted, they saw every cadre member standing in the road, silently waiting.

  Each of the eleven men was too depleted, too confused, to know what to do. Had they screwed up? The commandant’s voice boomed as he stepped into the roadway, motioning the men up from the water.

  “Congratulations, men!” He waited a moment, letting reality sink in. “You eleven have passed the physical test.”

  There was no celebration. No real reaction at all. Gage later learned his class’s reaction was normal. They’d been deceived too many times to feel relieved.

  “It’s really over, men…no games this time. I’m sure you feel for those who didn’t make it, and you should. But you did make it. You persevered.”

  The men began to reassemble on the road. Grimaces gave way to relieved smiles. Tears ran down several faces. One soldier fell to his knees, holding his arms open to the sky.

  “You’re each gonna get a good night of sleep, then a week of easy classroom block while you heal up. After that, it’s on to the peninsula in California.” The commandant shook hands with each man, looking him in the eye, congratulating him by his full name.

  The instructors walked behind every soldier, relieving each of their pack and leading him to the medical tent where he was given multiple IVs. After three bags each, the men were led to a large tent where they were allowed to finally eat their Thanksgiving dinner as the sun came up outside. After the feast, each man was allowed to sleep on a cot for as long as he pleased. One selectee managed to sleep for a full day before he finally awoke.

  They had made it through the physical portion. Gage endured it with a broken foot. Afterward, he hid his injury for three more days, gritting his teeth with every agonizing step. Finally, when he learned it wouldn’t keep him from attending the language school, he allowed a doctor to schedule a simple surgery for a few screws and four weeks in a cast.

  Gage excelled in language school at Fort Ord, in Monterrey, California. The eleven selectees were no longer a unit, many chosen for a different language, and ther
eby another group. Due to his sandy hair and European heritage, Gage was selected to learn both Russian and German. Following language school, he spent four months in training to be an 18-Bravo: a Weapons Specialist. On the next to the last day, when all that remained of his training was a month of Operation ROBIN SAGE—essentially a simulated, full-scale war—Gage was summoned off the rifle range to a cinder-block room on a dusty field next to a copse of Fort Bragg woods. It was late afternoon, the small building illuminated only by glassless windows and hollow lines in the battered tin roof. As the afternoon sunlight blared in, Gage ate sunflower seeds, enjoying the smell of gunpowder on his hands. He waited for a full half-hour, not knowing why he had been beckoned, and not caring. It’s the Army way—hurry up and wait. Finally, he heard the rumble of a diesel engine as a vehicle stopped outside. The door opened and a full colonel stepped in, introducing himself simply as Hunter. Gage popped to attention before the colonel waved him down, shaking Gage’s hand instead.

  “How’s the foot, Sergeant Schoenfeld?” Hunter asked, using Gage’s name at that time.

  “Fine, sir.” Gage answered almost robotically. They spoke briefly, with Gage recounting the harsh training without a trace of fatigue or regret.

  The colonel wore the badges of Special Forces and the Rangers. His hair was iron gray, cut short and flat on top, contrasting with a deep tan that could only be achieved by decades in the sun. Affixed to his chest were five rows of medals indicating Vietnam and other foreign service, as well as a few Gage didn’t recognize. He was tall and fit; Gage guessed his age as late forties or perhaps fifty.

  The colonel sat on a steel fifty-five gallon drum and twirled his green beret on his index finger. “I’m going to talk to you about something highly confidential, sergeant. If you ever utter an unauthorized word of it to anyone, I’ll ruin your life—or worse—and that’s a promise.”

  To hear such a blusterous threat would typically be amusing, but the look in the man’s blue eyes demonstrated that he wasn’t kidding at all. Gage nodded, still trying to determine what might be so sensitive as to warrant his death if he ever spoke of it.

  “I command a small, very select force of men from all branches of military service. There’s only about thirty-five of us, and we’re highly skilled at a number of unusual activities beneficial to the U.S. and her allies. Very few people know about us, including President Clinton.”

  “Delta, sir, or something like it?” Gage asked, referring to the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly known as Delta Force.

  “Not Delta, no…but not too unlike Delta, Sergeant Schoenfeld.” The colonel removed a tin of Copenhagen snuff and slipped a pinch inside his lower gum. Gage politely refused. Hunter took Gage’s sunflower seed cup and spit before continuing. “Delta is an essential group, able to do all kinds of things.” He narrowed his eyes. “Public things that CNN and FOX News know about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We can do all those same things, and a few more, without the public ever knowing who it was.”

  “Like what, sir?”

  Hunter’s eyes smiled. “Like blowing up a cocaine-laden ship off of South America. Like inserting silently into Iran and vaporizing a few undesirables. Like sometimes even neutralizing card-carrying American citizens when they threaten our freedoms and our people.”

  Gage paused a moment, feeling Hunter’s scrutiny of his reaction. “I understand.”

  Hunter nodded, seemingly pleased. “We recruit one or two or three men each year, using a pretty complex process on how we choose our candidates. There’s no additional schools or anything like that. You’ve already proven that you can hack it and have the juice to get things done. If you choose to come with us, the rest, well, you’ll learn it along the way. Hell, I guess you could say every day is a lesson.” The colonel removed his jacket and laid it over the drum. He stood above Gage, the late afternoon sun making his left side appear to be on fire.

  “Sergeant Schoenfeld, do you want to join our team?”

  Gage’s mind had gone in ten different directions. “Why me, sir?”

  The colonel nodded as if this was the expected question. “Lost your family a few years back. Tragedy like that is awful, but a soldier with absolutely no strings is the first thing we look for. Have to have it, no exceptions. No wife, no kids, no dogs…nothing like that. And once you join us, well, as you might imagine, you’re vowing not to add any of those things during your term. And that term’s ten years, son. Ten long years.” He spit into the cup and leaned against the block wall. “Still listening?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The other requirement is the physical and mental characteristics, which you’ve already shown. Phase-two cadre had you graded as the toughest bastard in your class; commandant said you’d die silently before you quit.” He twisted his mouth. “And you’ll have to die, in a sense, if you want to come aboard with us.” The colonel shifted, lifting his head as he seemed to be recalling the dossier. “The weapons school has got you pegged at number two, and then you graded out in two tough languages at Monterrey with marks of what would be cum laude at a damned good university.” He pointed to Gage. “I been through every file, son. You’re the guy I want.”

  Gage’s eyes darted back and forth, realizing that this insane man wanted a decision immediately. “How long do I have to decide, and what will it mean to my career and future if I—”

  The colonel held up a hand, his jaw set. “Yes or no, son. My number two choice is at Fort Sam right now, and I got a still-running bird at Pope to take me there. I don’t have time to dick around.”

  The noise of squealing subway brakes jolted Gage from his trance.

  He refocused his eyes, watching the train’s doors open as his mind came back to the present. What a day that had been. He had accepted the offer, of course, changing his life forever. He hefted his backpack from the floor (only about ten pounds, these days) exiting the subway at the Hauptwache stop near the center of Frankfurt, Germany.

  Gage removed his sunglasses, blinking, checking the headache. It had passed. He dropped the glasses into his pack.

  Upstairs, in the locker whose combination he had memorized earlier, Gage found the small bag with the items he needed. Either Jean, or someone who worked with him, had placed it there, just as Jean had said they would. His watch read nearly 6:30 p.m.—Gage needed to find a place to wait at least another two hours. After taking the U-bahn to the Westend station, he found an empty restaurant, nibbling on a brötchen, sipping water, and reading the remainder of the newspaper to occupy his time.

  ***

  The Keisler building was an architectural masterpiece, and would have been stunning had the landscaping been taken care of after the Americans vacated it during the late summer. Situated to the south of the famed I.G. Farben building (famous because General Eisenhower had ordered the cutting-edge building spared during the Frankfurt bombings, later conveniently claiming it as his headquarters) the Keisler building, much less conspicuous, was three stories tall, built of gray stone and granite. It had an expansive entrance, the portico rising the entire height of the building. To the side was a botanical garden, unkempt at the moment. In warmer months, beautiful foliage spread around the entire property. Rare blooming bushes from Australia. A row of hedges from Japan. American trees. Dutch flowers. The building’s land, occupying one half of a city block, was surrounded by a spiked wrought iron fence, and the two entrances had modern-looking, bolstered mechanical gates.

  As Gage casually reconnoitered the building, he saw a familiar sight on the ground near the front gate. Known as a Stolpersteine (“stumble-stone” in English) they could be found throughout Frankfurt, and all over Germany. It was a memorial inserted directly into the stone sidewalk, an inlaid cross of a different stone color. In the center of the cross was a heavy brass plate adorned at the top by a Star of David.

  Translated, the stone read the following:

  Heinrich Morgenstern and family


  Taken from here November 11, 1938

  Father, killed, November 11, 1938

  Mother, killed, Buchenwald, November 14, 1938

  Gage read the engraving, pausing to imagine the horror, the shattering of lives on that November day when the Morgenstern family had been robbed of their dignity and their lives. There was no mention of the children, so hopefully they lived. But what would life have been like for them afterward? Ruined, probably.

  A snippet of pain, surging forward from the rear of his brain. Gage’s face twitched.

  Children.

  Crete.

  Damn.

  He steadied himself with deep breaths, turning away from the stumble-stone. Not Crete, Gage…not now. There’s work to do. The thought passed, shaking him like a speeding train might have had he been standing inches from a crossing.

  He credited the Germans for their exhaustive efforts to recognize the brutalities that had taken place during the Holocaust. He thought about those in the government and military—the good people—wondering how they could have participated—even unwillingly—in such barbaric and subhuman groupthink—and then followed through with it for a number of years. The Nazis were the modern example of practiced genocide, but history proved they were not alone. It scared Gage to consider what human beings were capable of and, unbeknownst to him, he would receive firsthand experience of such brutality in the coming days.