by Dalton Fury
Nonetheless, one of the most memorable comments of my career in Delta came from the Unit command sergeant major, Iggy, who remarked as we entered the hot wash after snatching Gul Ahmed, “That’s one for the books, sir!”
Well said, sergeant major!
* Derek Leebaert, in his book To Dare and to Conquer, discusses when and where Delta planned to use the Trojan horse option during the eventually aborted rescue attempt of American hostages in Iran. The June 2006 edition of Tip of the Spear, a monthly magazine published by USSOCOM, discusses former MACV-SOG Dick Meadows’s participation in Operation Eagle Claw. Already retired from the military, Meadows was pressed back into action, and along with a few others infiltrated Tehran, Iran, to prepare for the arrival of the rescue force and confirm the location of the hostages. See http://www.socom.mil/TOTS/2006/TOTS_web-200606.pdf.
* The flying heroics of the 160th are well known throughout the world and several books cover their selection process and derring-do accomplishments. Retired CW4 Mike Durant, of Blackhawk Down fame, had authored two books on the organization. The first, In the Company of Heroes, covers his personal experience in Somalia. The second, titled Night Stalkers, recounts several previously unknown secret missions of the 160th. Also, David Tucker and Christopher Lamb describe the talents of the 160th in their book, United States Special Operations Forces.
2
Welcome to Delta
Don’t be late, light, or out of uniform.
—DELTA SELECTION AND ASSESSMENT CADRE
MEMBER, SPRING 1998
I am an army brat. My father served two tours in Vietnam, including time with the 173rd Airborne Combat Brigade, and spent months hospitalized in a body cast while his wounds healed. In the early 1970s, he was assigned to a new post in Frankfurt, Germany, and I attended a military community elementary school, played baseball, shot marbles, traded comic books and bubblegum baseball cards, and fought a thousand G.I. Joe battles. For cheap thrills, I enjoyed playing combat dodge ball behind the three-story whitewashed apartment building with my twin brother and the other kids.
It was there that I gained my first recollection of terror. The violent, left-wing Baader-Meinhof gang terrorized Germany in those days. In 1972, radical members of the group operating beneath the banner of the Red Army Faction bombed an American military headquarters building in Frankfurt, killing an American officer and wounding a dozen other people. I remember my mother coming around the corner of the apartment building to interrupt our sandbox battle and save the G.I. Joe with his lifelike hair from being crushed by a flying Big Bertha marble.
“Get inside,” she said. “The radio just announced some of the Baader-Meinhof gang have escaped from prison and may be in our neighborhood.” Terrorists were nearby, she said, and I, at eight years old, wondered “What’s a terrorist?” I begged her to let me stay outside, hoping that I might see one of those mysterious gang members skulking about, perhaps wearing a long, dark trench coat. No chance.
Dad was reassigned back to the States a short time later and we settled in a townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia, while he held assignments at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and the Pentagon. My adolescent love of G.I. Joe dolls waned, but my hunger for adventure accelerated as I grew older and I craved the excitement of competition, particularly the victory side of things,
We rode bicycles with banana seats and monkey handlebars, replayed Super Bowls with neighborhood buddies using Nerf footballs, rode skateboards around the lake in the summer and skated on it in the winter, and swam in the community pool. In a few years, we graduated to tunneling around the large labyrinth of an underground sewer system from one side of the neighborhood to the next, where old Playboy magazines were tucked away in a dry crack.
It was another magazine that had a critical impact on my young brain. I had always considered the U.S. Army to be just my father’s employer, and was too young to understand what it was really about. Like many who grew up after the Vietnam era, I viewed the military as a deadend profession. The army was the path taken by the rejects, the last guys chosen during neighborhood pickup games, or by deviants who were “encouraged” to sign up by small-town judges offering a venue other than jail, and by those uncertain of where they would fit into corporate society.
That attitude had begun to slowly change along with my weird affection for risk taking. One day as I browsed the magazine rack of a local 7-Eleven while sucking on a cherry-flavored Slurpie through a curly straw, I saw the cover of a Gung Ho magazine that featured a full-color picture of retired U.S. Army colonel James “Bo” Gritz. His dress uniform, heavily adorned with the shiny medals and colorful ribbons of a modern warrior, was propped on a chair near him.
After leafing through the periodical, I bought it, went home, and read how Colonel Gritz was in the fight of his life as he tried to explain a botched attempt to rescue American prisoners of war believed to have been left behind in Laos after the American withdrawal from Southeast Asia in 1975.
The journey that took Gritz and his small team of former commandos and adventurists through oceans of bureaucratic red tape and over administrative walls had ended without success. Regardless of one’s personal opinion of those raiders, their personal sacrifice and commitment were intoxicating.
The magazine remained in my small personal library over the years, unofficially filed under What I Want to Be When I Grow Up. But I was only about thirteen years old, and my career choices also still included professional football and baseball.
Before seeing that magazine, I honestly had not paid much attention to what my father did for a living. But now, when I occasionally looked into Dad’s closet, I noticed that some of his honor ribbons looked the same as those that Gritz had: Purple Heart, the Vietnam ribbons, and a Bronze Star with a V for valor. Still, that was not enough to make the military seem attractive to me as a profession.
I was not talented enough to be any sort of professional athlete, but I loved sports and, like all kids, dreamed of making the all-star team, scoring the winning goal, or sinking the buzzer shot. When I was fourteen, I returned a kickoff for a touchdown, and when I hit the end zone, I launched into a flamboyant dance like the pro wide receiver Billy “White Shoes” Johnson. My hips gyrated like a cheap pop star as I repeatedly thrust the ball into the air. My dad, who had volunteered to work the chains on the sidelines for that game, watched the whole pathetic display and was not amused.
His disappointment in my self-serving actions frustrated and confused me. C’mon Dad, lighten up a little. I just scored a touchdown here. What harm can a little victory dance do? His reaction and comments seared me to the core, but it would take a few more years for the lessons to fully register. Teamwork was more important than individualism, and selflessness was better than selfishness. The greatest lesson my father taught me was of humility.
In high school, my teammates voted me captain of the football team, and I thought it would be pretty cool to walk to midfield for a coin toss each Friday night. Other than that, how hard could this team captain stuff be? Again, my dad was there to puncture the selfish bubble. Being team captain meant that I was a leader, he said, so simply playing hard and fair, basic blocking and tackling, no mental mistakes, and enjoying the game were no longer good enough. More is expected of a leader. I didn’t understand that lesson for a while, either.
It was not until well into my army career that I realized that my personal success hinged much more on the performance of my fellow soldiers than on my own. If one hopes to be considered a leader in deed more than in just a word, he or she had better learn to deliberately and consciously shun the spotlight and embrace the humility of selfless service. After a while, learning to turn credit outward rather than inward begins to feel natural.
I entered college, but quickly determined that it was not for me. I dropped College Physics 102 and turned in my ROTC pickle suit after barely three months’ use. Armed with my Dad’s critical lessons in humility and teamwork, knowing a little bit about leadership, and havi
ng the distant memories of West German terrorism and Bo Gritz’s selfless adventures, I joined the army. Under no pressure at all, I simply chose to serve. I was not drawn to duty to defend Mom, the flag, and apple pie, but the lure of the risks involved, the possibility of going into harm’s way, was intoxicating. It was 1983 and I was nineteen years old.
I had found a home, and would serve for twenty years.
By the middle of October of that same year, just a week before the United States invaded the tiny Caribbean island of Grenada, Pvt. Dalton Fury found himself packed with about fifty other Airborne Rangers in the back of an MC-130 Talon aircraft, running an exercise.
I was part of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 75th Infantry (Ranger) and making the space even tighter was a pair of modified M-115 black gun jeeps strapped bumper to bumper along the centerline of the aircraft’s floor. Four 125cc olive drab green motorcycles were strapped near the tail ramp of the aircraft.
As we waited at the departure airfield, I looked out the back of the plane and watched two late 1970s pickup trucks hurrying toward us. The men in the trucks were strikingly different than the uniformed Rangers all around me. Some were much older, some had short, well-groomed hair, while a few had very long hair that blew in the wind. Others wore long and thick mustaches or goatees.
I was curious, but resisted the urge to wake up my team leader, who was catching a quick nap next to me. I knew better.
One of the trucks pulled up to the ramp of our plane and four men deliberately stepped down onto the tarmac. All wore blue jeans, one had a dark sweatshirt, another a tight T-shirt, and the remaining two wore plaid western-style shirts with big collars. In their hands were .45-caliber grease guns.
The mystery men grabbed small black bags from the truck, walked on to the plane, and took seats on the cold metal flooring without a word, a gesture, or even a simple hello. They didn’t check in with anyone. No, they just went about their business and pulled out a small tube of black cream. A few dabs on their palms, they slathered it all over their faces, as if applying sunscreen lotion. Two of them work black balaclavas—skintight thug hats that hid their faces while showing only the eyes and lips.
It was my introduction to Delta.
The very existence of Delta is officially classified by the Department of Defense. No open discussions of the Unit’s existence are entertained with the media. Very few former operators have chosen to violate the unwritten code against speaking about the Unit publicly, and very few unofficial sources are available.
Ironically, the first member of Delta to break the code of silence was the man responsible for its birth, and its original commander, Col. Charlie Beckwith, in his book Delta Force, written in the early 1980s. It provides factual insight and describes in tremendous detail the exhausting selection process that is used to find the right guy for Delta.*
Although published just seven years after the unit was officially established, Beckwith’s comments about the extensive training program to mold an individual, to hone and maintain his war-fighting skills to a razor’s edge, and teach him “how to think” and not “what to think” are characteristics that have stood the test of time. Above all else, Beckwith told the country what can be expected from someone who earns the right to call himself a Delta operator.
Opinions still vary as to just how factual Beckwith’s story was. Did he reveal sensitive information that could heighten the danger of already high-risk operations? Did Beckwith unnecessarily endanger future unit members? Or did he inform terrorists worldwide of the phenomenal abilities of the unit and what it can do to protect America?
As an insider, I’m convinced that Beckwith revealed no important secrets and that the Delta operators fighting the ongoing war on terror today, many years after his book was published, are still of the high standards that Beckwith demanded.
In the spring of 1998, I found myself with 121 other officers and sergeants at a remote camp in the steep hills and mountains of the northeastern United States. We had been especially recruited and had already survived numerous pre-tryout physical and psychological tests. For the next month, we would be further assessed mentally, psychologically, and physically for “potential service with Delta.”
I was by then a captain in the Rangers, and had decided before arriving that my definition of success was to make it through the entire month without getting hurt or quitting. If I was not selected, then okay. It would be a blow to my ego, but simply representing the Rangers as best I could and returning with my head held high would be my bottom line. I think most of those around me harbored similar feelings, because the odds of being around at the end of tryouts, and actually being selected for Delta, were extremely slim. We knew it would be difficult. We had no idea.
By the time I reached the final event, after enduring twenty-five days of hell, I was happy that I had not gotten my hopes up too high, for my performance so far had been sketchy.
It had rained all day and showed little sign of letting up. Huddled in the back of the covered truck, unable to see outside, we waited for our assigned code name to be called. Once it was, we scrambled out as gracefully as possible with minds and bodies already at their limits from twenty-five days of hell, and moved toward a nearby area that was faintly lit.
That night, we individually faced what we hoped was the last land navigation event. The lucky ones would cover roughly forty miles of mountain trails, pock-marked asphalt roads, and densely vegetated terrain that covered the hundreds of meters of elevation change. The unlucky would cover more distance as they self-corrected their march after a sleepdeprived wrong turn or two. The really unfortunate would either move too slow or fail to recover from their error in time to finish within the unpublished time frame. I fell into the middle category, the unlucky.
For the past three and a half weeks, our individual assigned code consisted of a color and a number that was changed daily. This night, however, the smooth-talking Delta assault cadre member named Hoov barked at us from the back of the camouflaged truck. “There are only two colors left—Blood and Guts!” he said. I became Blood 36.
I was the fourth of six candidates in our truck, and was called out just past 2200 hours, taken to a small shelter tarp tied to the trees, and given a short, scripted set of instructions. As the officer spoke, my mind seemed incapable of registering what he was saying. I was too pumped up, or too exhausted, and ready for the entire nightmare to be over. When he finished his short brief, he turned me around and pointed me in the initial direction.
It was pitch-dark, no moon yet, and the ground was soaked. Had I not been steered in the right direction, I might easily have walked off the edge of the earth. Armed with a rubber M-16 rifle, eight different map sheets, and a compass, and toting a sixty-pound rucksack, I was away on the first of what would soon seem like a lifetime’s worth of steps.
Trying to jog the trails at night was stupid. After three weeks of assessment, this was not the time to twist an ankle or blow a knee, both easy to do in the blackness on an unknown trail. I maintained my own desired pace for an hour, maintaining a good pace count so as not to miss a turn in the trail. One wrong turn could spell the end.
Incessant pain in my upper back helped keep my mind off the weight of the rucksack digging into my shoulders during the hour that passed before I came into contact with any other humans. Four or five candidates were whispering to each other as they huddled around the white light of a candidate’s flashlight that illuminated a rain-soaked map case. The trail had gone cold because heavy rains had flooded the low areas and deep pools of rainwater hid what I thought was the desired footpath.
The discussion centered on whether to go through the water in hopes of picking up the trail when the terrain rose, or steer around it by taking some other trail that was not seen on the map. I had stopped for a breather close by and tried to listen in to the verbal logic train. Just then, a Ranger candidate stepped from the darkness, breathing heavily. He was soaked up to his chest, and his rucksack still drip
ped water. His compass dangled from around his neck as he held his map and flashlight in one hand and weapon in the other.
He silently signaled to the huddled group that trying to ford the flooded trail was not an option. The Ranger then approached me and said, “No way, man. It’s too deep.” I recognized him them. Nitro was a seasoned Ranger squad leader from Savannah, Georgia, home of the 1st Ranger Battalion.
We were under strict orders not to talk to anyone during the exercise, but taking risks is what this business is all about anyway. Delta was not looking for choirboys. “How far did you get?” I asked.
“About twenty meters or so. It’s hard to tell.”
I looked at my map again, my hand wiping rainwater off the plastic case, but preventing me from seeing the important fine brown contour lines telling elevation and the blue dotted lines that showed an intermittent stream.
“I’m going for it,” I said quietly. “Can’t afford to go around. It will take twice as long to get back on the right trail.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t think you can make it.” Nitro’s opinion was not to be underestimated, but time was our enemy.
I glanced over at the group. Some were still debating the issue while others had already taken off to find an alternate route. Their flashlight beams could be seen faintly in the distance. We’re wasting time here, I thought.
“You can always go around if you want, or you can come with me,” I offered, “We’ll strike some high ground not too far past where you turned around.”
Nitro looked at me for a second, shifted his heavy rucksack around on his back and shoulders. “Alright, I’m with ya,” he said. Years later in Aghanistan, I saw Nitro’s courage firsthand in the face of enormous odds and ambiguous surroundings.
