Chosen Soldier

by Dick Couch

  At Hoffman, the candidates live out of their rucks for five days and five nights. The only concession for their comfort is a line of Porta-Pottis and a water buffalo to refill their canteens. They live in designated patches of woods and assemble near the command truck for orientations and briefings. Meals are MREs. On the first afternoon at Hoffman, the candidates are briefed on the area—what areas are inbounds and what areas are out of bounds. The inbounds area consists of several thousands acres that the students will crisscross in search of their navigation points. Often their route will angle back and across the area in a star pattern, which gives the final nav problem its name.

  Following their initial briefing, the candidates are given an area familiarization to acquaint them with the terrain they will have to negotiate on the Star. This orientation is the Hoffman stakes course, a four-point land-nav course with points just one to two thousand meters apart. It allows the candidates to once again calibrate their compass bearings and pace count. This is an ungraded evolution—simply a practice exercise for the benefit of the candidates. They walk the stakes course in the daylight and once again at night. It’s a good final validation of their navigation skills, and, for many of the candidates, a confidence builder—a last opportunity to refine their navigation technique. But it’s also time on their feet. These men are getting tired and worn down, and this fatigue is a cumulative condition. This is by design. The Hoffman stakes course will walk them, with their rifle and seventy pounds of gear, for another four to six miles, also by design.

  “How’re you holding up?” I ask my candidate on the stakes course.

  “Pretty well, sir. I’ve got some blisters I’m concerned about, but otherwise I’m good to go.”

  It’s raining lightly, so we both get soaked as I follow him around the course. My candidate this time is the senior soldier that came to selection with this group of X-Rays. He’s a staff sergeant and a former Ranger. He served a tour in the Army and left to join his family’s retail business. After three years out of uniform, he’s back. He chose the X-Ray program as a way back into the Army and into Special Forces.

  “Two things brought me back. The first was 9/11. The second was my life on the outside. I’m just not cut out to be a nine-to-fiver. My family couldn’t have been better about it, and my brothers are doing a great job at home helping mom and dad with the business. My family doesn’t need me, but my country does.”

  We arrive back at the base camp area soaking wet. I go to the fire to dry out and get warm. It’s a mild afternoon, but I’m teeth-chattering wet. My candidate strings up a poncho, Ranger style, to get himself and his gear out of the rain. He changes into a dry uniform and then sets about retaping his feet. A few hours later, we’re back out on the stakes course—same course, still raining, only it’s dark. We finish the course just before midnight. The next day, the candidates are allowed to sleep in. Reveille is a leisurely 0700, breakfast is MREs. The morning and early afternoon are given to gear preparation, drying out, a land-nav review, and Star briefings. Each candidate is given two MREs, and at 1430 that afternoon, they board trucks that take them to their Star starting points. At the starting points, they’re on their own time to sleep and ready themselves for the Star. At 0130, the candidates are given their first set of coordinates. At my initial Star point, I watch as they plot their first point on their terrain maps and, one by one, disappear into the woods. I do not walk the Star. This is a final exam, and no candidate needs the distraction of a writer/straphanger on this important evolution.

  The Star navigation course is run three times on three consecutive days. Each time window is the same—they begin at 0130, and end at 1200, or noon. Given the number of points, there are endless variations on how a candidate might be asked to get through his four points. The individual courses or lanes are computer generated, and each lane is between ten and eleven miles. The good land navigators will walk perhaps 15 percent more than that to find their points, most will add 25 percent to the straight-line total, and those having trouble can walk as much as 40 percent farther. A Star course will take a candidate and his seventy-odd pounds of gear over some thirteen to sixteen miles of terrain. If he’s moving through the course well, most of it will be at night.

  It’s a long night for the cadre as well. They rove the area in pickup trucks as safety observers and to ensure the candidates remain off the roads. On the first Star, I ride with one of the cadre. It is a long night as we bore holes in the woodlands of North Carolina over dirt roads. Sometimes the cadre sergeant coasts slowly using only his parking lights, thus preserving his night vision; other times, he parks on a shallow rise affording a vantage to see the road. Candidates are allowed to cross the roads, but they must move quickly from one side to the other, and at no time can they walk along the road. That’s cheating and an honor violation. Men caught moving on the roads or going out of bounds on the Star course become involuntary withdrawals. We see several candidates crossing properly, but none who are walking on the roads. Other cadre do. Five candidates are taken off the course for walking along the roads or being out of bounds. My cadre sergeant does, however, give two candidates a ride back. Just after sunup, we come upon two of them sitting by the side of the road.

  “What’s the problem, guys?”

  “We’ve had enough, Sergeant. We want to VW.”

  “OK, fellows, put your gear in the back and climb aboard.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant.”

  We take them back to the base camp area and continue our patrol in the daylight.

  The first iteration of the Star course begins a curious division within Class 8-04. About 80 percent of those who entered the phase two weeks ago are still in training and began the first Star navigation problem. It takes until midafternoon to get all the candidates off the course, accounted for, and back into the base camp area. Of these candidates, 40 percent go four-for-four while some 50 percent, roughly half, reach three or less. About 10 percent decide they’ve had enough and VW. The remaining candidates are cut into two groups—winners and losers. The larger group of unsuccessful candidates bivouacs in an area near the command center truck, draws more MREs, and begins to rest and prepare for the next Star evolution. Sergeant Cara and some of the other cadre navigation instructors roam among these candidates.

  “If you didn’t get your four points, let us know why. If there is a problem, let’s try to get it fixed before you go back out there tomorrow morning. What can we do to help?” Several candidates seek out these cadre sergeants to go over their routes to review their mistakes.

  I find my X-Ray Ranger candidate in this group, and am surprised to see him there. “I screwed up,” he quickly admits. “I plotted my second set of coordinates wrong, and by the time I figured it out, it was daylight. I ran the rest of the course, but got to the last point five minutes late. Jeez, was I pissed. I’ll get ’em all next time—guaranteed.”

  “How are your feet?” I ask.

  “Not good, but I’ll still be back out there tonight.”

  There’s a second, much smaller grouping of the unsuccessful Star candidates off to one side in an area marked by pink surveyor’s tape. This was the VW/IVW holding area, much like the one I had seen on the nav courses at Fort Bragg during the 18X Pre-SFAS Course. This is a sad lot of soldiers, and I hesitate to intrude. I catch the eye of one of the X-Ray candidates I’d spoken with at Fort Bragg, so I approach him.

  “I’m sorry to see you here,” I venture.

  “It’s OK, sir. I’ve done my best, but this is just not working out for me. I hurt all over and my feet are killing me. I don’t know if I’ll come back, but if I do, I’ll know what to expect and be prepared for it. Right now, I don’t belong here. It’s time for me to go.”

  I wish him well and make my way across an open meadow to a separate, wooded bivouac area, well away from the base camp. It’s a wonderful place called Andersonville.

  Andersonville was a prison in Georgia where Northern POWs were interned during the Civ
il War. It was a dreadful place, rife with disease and dying soldiers, and, at the time, one of the largest cities in the Confederacy. Old tintypes of Andersonville show it as a shantytown with bearded soldiers idling under canvas tarps. The Andersonville at the Hoffman training area near Camp Mackall resembles its namesake only in the scattering of poncho shelters strung up in the wooded bivouac area. This is the winner’s circle where the candidates who went four-for-four on the initial Star course are bivouacked. These soldiers will not have to go back out; they’ve passed the navigation portion of SFAS. It’s a very happy place. The eighty-some successful candidates sleep, lounge, sit by a fire, or simply bask in the warm glow of accomplishment.

  It’s hard to put into words, but I know this feeling from my SEAL training, way back when. It’s an emotion, or sense of being, that is given to few in the military and, from my experience, far fewer in civilian life. It’s a feeling one gets after a hard-won rite of passage. In the case of the Star, it’s an evolution that demands a certain amount of intellectual skill and a maximum physical effort. It’s a personal victory over what you previously thought of as your own limitations. It’s also a powerful engine for future growth. Those who train to become SEALs, Rangers, Air Force Special Tactics Team members, and Special Forces all know this feeling. It’s a delicious sense of fulfillment and accomplishment. It’s also fleeting. For that’s the nature of all special operations training—attaining one difficult, seemingly impossible goal and moving on to the next. This aura of accomplishment in Andersonville was so thick you almost had to swim through it.

  The second night I journey around to visit with a few of the point sitters and to watch candidates pass through, get their point recorded, and plot their next set of coordinates. Midmorning, I stay with a point sitter to watch the final hours of the second Star. Twelve candidates are slated to be at that location as their fourth and final point. Four make it in time to go four-for-four, while one other comes through to make his third point with a good chance to get to his fourth. Two others come for only their second point; one has time for a chance at his third. The first man to arrive at my location to get his fourth point has over three hours to spare. He carries his load easily, tired but not as exhausted as I’d seen other candidates on the course.

  “Congratulations,” I say, offering him my hand. “Good job, and you had a good time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replies as he shucks his pack and takes out a canteen. “I’m very glad to have this behind me.”

  “You seem pretty fresh,” I tell him. “What happened to you on the first Star?”

  “Well, that’s a little embarrassing.” He smiles and shakes his head. “Took a wrong bearing and missed my second point—walked way past it. By the time I got sorted out and found the point, it was too late. Never missed a single point on the land-nav practicals at Camp Mackall, and then I get lost on the first Star. Go figure.”

  “Where are you coming from?” I ask.

  “I was just detached from the 101st Airborne.”

  “Why Special Forces?”

  “It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a plebe at West Point.”

  There is no way to tell he is an officer; he wears no rank and has only a number over his nametag. He is First Lieutenant Matt Betters. Betters had grown up in Annapolis, Maryland. He turned down an appointment to the Naval Academy because he didn’t want to go to college in the same town in which he was raised. He is Ranger qualified and has seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  “So what’s next?”

  “Next month I report to Fort Benning. There’s a six-month course there for new Army captains. Then, after Benning, assuming I’m selected, I’ll be back here to continue with Phase II sometime in the spring or summer.”

  “Are you in for a career?”

  “Yes, sir. Hopefully a career in Special Forces.”

  Later that day, another increment of men, including First Lieutenant Betters and my Ranger X-Ray candidate, achieve the magic four-for-four and made their way into Andersonville.

  There are two ways to pass the Star course and the land-navigation requirement at Special Forces selection. A candidate can pass any one of the three Star evolutions by making all four points in the allotted time. Or he can make it to at least eight of the points during all three Stars, thus going eight-for-twelve (or better). Some of the grittiest men I observed during Phase I were those tired souls who shouldered their rucks and set off for their third Star evolution.

  While the men in Andersonville don’t have the heavy burden of the men still on the Star course, they are not given a day off. “We take the winners out for an eight- to ten-mile ruck march in the afternoon,” one of the cadre sergeants told me. “They’ve passed the navigation portion of this phase, but they still have the team events. We want them all tired and a little foot-weary going into the team events.”

  Yet as I walk around the cluttered, poncho-strung ghetto, I meet nothing but smiles. Each man is told to bring one book with him to Phase I and keep it with him in his ruck. When they aren’t sleeping, eating, talking, or tending their blistered feet, I find many of the Andersonville residents reading. The most popular book is the Bible, followed by books written by Tom Clancy. I note more than one copy of Shadow Warriors and The Teeth of the Tiger. I also see To Kill a Mockingbird, Red Badge of Courage, Gates of Fire, and Black Hawk Down. I even find a candidate with a novel by Dick Couch. There is one candidate sitting by the fire, reading a book with Cyrillic writing on the spine. He’d gone four-for-four on the first Star. When I approach, he scrambles to his feet.

  “Good afternoon, sir. You must be the writer.”

  “I am. Glad to be here?”

  “Yes, sir. A little bit of time to heal up and get ready for the team events.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Alex Lawson, by the way.”

  He has a firm grip, and I don’t recognize him as one of the X-Rays. “What were you doing before you came to selection?”

  “Well”—he grins self-consciously—“that’s a bit of a story.”

  “Hey, that’s what I do. Have a seat.” We both sit by the fire. It is now late September and damp, and most of the poncho groupings have at least one fire.

  Alex Lawson is a slender, dark-haired soldier with a shy but confident manner. I learn he was a National Guard officer assigned to the 20th Group with a National Guard unit out of Charleston. Within months of his high school graduation, he had married and joined the Marine Corps. Four years later, he was single and an ex-Marine infantryman. Armed with his GI benefits, he plunged into college. He worked part-time and joined the Army National Guard for the extra money. In another four years, he had a degree in Russian studies from George Washington University and gained admission to Georgetown University’s law school. Along the way, he completed Officer Candidate School. With his law degree, he became a full-time staffer on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and remained a part-time soldier. He had recently moved to Charleston and established a practice that represented contract security firms. He was only recently promoted to captain.

  “I guess you know you’re not going to have all that much time to practice law.”

  “That’s true,” Lawson replies. “My unit is scheduled for deployment early in 2006. If everything goes as planned, I’ll be able to get back here to complete the Q-Course in time for that deployment.”

  I make a quick mental calculation. “So that means you can validate your language requirement?”

  “That’s my plan. I’d like to do it in Russian, but my Russian is only fair.” He taps the book. “I read it a lot better than I speak it, but I’m fluent in French.”

  “Obviously, you have options, in or out of uniform. Why Special Forces?”

  He tilts his head and is silent for a moment, as if he is reviewing a well-worn line of thinking. “I think on balance, it’s the challenge. Special Forces offers the chance to lead men in a very difficult and challenging environment, and to operate independently with
out the close supervision of the regular Army chain of command. The senior SF sergeants in my National Guard unit are sharp guys, very intelligent and very experienced. I admire them. My goal is to deploy as a detachment leader with these men. It’s a leadership challenge and a cultural challenge. I guess that’s why I’m here.”

  “Career soldier or a career lawyer?” I ask.

  “We’ll see,” Captain Lawson replies. “Perhaps neither. My real passion is Russian literature. It could be that I’ll want to get an advanced degree in that area and teach. Right now I have to focus on getting through selection, then get back here to finish the Q-Course.”

  On the afternoon of the third Star, another increment of successful land-nav candidates joins their classmates at Andersonville. Though they will only be there a short while, they’re overjoyed. At a holding area near the command truck, there’s a group of close to thirty candidates. Those soldiers who have quit or been involuntarily withdrawn from selection have all been taken back to Camp Mackall. These remaining candidates are the men who, for one reason or another, didn’t find four points on any of the three Stars and found less than eight points on all three evolutions. They are quietly attending to their gear or sitting dejectedly on their rucks. A few have taken a seat without taking off their rucks. They’re levered back on their packs, passed out from sheer exhaustion. Some are talking quietly among themselves, but most are silent. In the background is the drone of the generator that serves the command-center truck. A lone figure makes his way over to the unsuccessful candidates.

  “OK, guys, bring it over here and bring it in close. Yeah, wake that guy up and get him over here.” First Sergeant Billy Sarno ducks under the pink marking tape so he can be with them in the penalty area. A candidate nearby is struggling to rise and Sarno offers him a hand, pulling him to his feet. He is in a fresh set of utilities, and the bill of his starched fatigue cap rides characteristically low, close to his nose. Sarno surveys the sad group a long moment with his arms folded across his chest. Then he removes his cap. “Men, I gotta take my hat off to you. None of you quit; you gave it your best shot. You didn’t make it through the Star, and that means your training here is over. Right now, it’s just not for you, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and I want to thank you for trying. If it works out, come back next year or after your next deployment and try again. Very few people in this man’s Army can do what you’ve just done. As you go back to your units or to a new assignment, you can walk with your head up. You’re not quitters, and I’d be proud to soldier with you anytime, anywhere. I love you guys. Thanks for being here.” Sarno replaces his cover, comes to attention, and salutes them. One or two manage to return his salute. “Good luck to each of you. The trucks’ll be here in a few minutes to take you back to Camp Mackall.”