Chosen Soldier

by Dick Couch

  Late on the afternoon of day twenty, 915 is on the tarmac at the Camp Mackall Army Airfield, awaiting its turn with several other student ODAs for airborne insertion into Pineland. Parachute is not the only way into Pineland. Teams have gone in by truck and by mule. The classroom work, the planning, the gear preparation, and the briefings are all behind them. Now they’re going to war, inasmuch as war can be arranged in an unconventional-warfare training scenario. Captain Santos has checked each of his men, and a cadre jumpmaster has checked them all. Sergeant Blackman and Captain Childers, like two mothers getting their children ready for the bus for the first day of school, are checking everybody. The men are heavy—each of them has a hundred pounds of gear, more or less, plus the weight of the main parachute and the reserve. The only man who is light, equipment-wise, is Specialist Justin Keller. The parachutes have a training-load limit of 350 pounds, and he personally makes up 250 pounds of that weight. Some of his gear will be jumped in by his teammates, and he will recover it once they are on the ground.

  The weather is drizzly and the wind’s gusting up to fifteen miles per hour—marginal for Army airborne training operations. Bands of dark clouds march across Camp Mackall Army Airfield. It’s approaching dusk. “If the wind’s under thirteen and we have the ceiling, we go,” says Sergeant Blackman. “The rain won’t matter.” Aircraft land, take aboard student ODAs, and leave. Finally, it’s 915’s turn. Two Casas, small twin-engine transports, belonging to the Army Special Operations Command Flight Detachment, land to collect 915. The heavily laden soldiers waddle to the aircraft like a file of penguins, six on one aircraft and six on the other. As they board the aircraft, I race across Camp Mackall from the airfield to the Luzon Drop Zone in time to see two planes pass over the DZ in close formation. It’s raining, and all but dark. All twelve come out clean, and 915 is under canopy. One by one, the men drop their rucksacks, which fall to the end of a nylon tether. First the ruck, then the soldiers, slam into the DZ. Once on the ground, the men gather up their gear and parachutes, then make their way to the rally point on the northeast corner of the drop zone. They pile the chutes by the side of a road and mark them with a Chemlite for retrieval by exercise support staff. Then, after a head count and an equipment check, the ODA moves off in patrol formation to link up with the Pineland auxiliary.

  In the real world, as in Robin Sage, linking up with partisan forces on contested ground is chancy business, one that must be done with care and caution. This will be the first test for 915. Following 915 that evening are myself and two civilian Northrop Grumman OCE (observer, controller, evaluator) personnel—simply referred to as OCEs. Either these two civilian controllers or Captain Childers and/or Sergeant Blackman will be on-site or with 915 at all times. Both OCEs are retired career Green Beret sergeants. The primary linkup site for 915 is a small bridge that spans one of Camp Mackall’s lake-overflow gates. It’s a two-mile patrol from the DZ rally point to the linkup. Once we are close, Captain Santos puts the team in a security perimeter and sends Sergeant Tom Olin and PFC Tim Baker ahead to exchange recognition signals with the Pinelanders. Signals are given, but not returned. Olin and Baker move closer and signal again. Then the shooting starts. Santos can only recall his scouts and make for the alternate linkup point. But the alternate is only a half mile away, and is sure to be compromised by the shooting. So it’s on to the contingent linkup site.

  “I learned a lesson on that one,” Captain Santos later reflected. “You cannot have your secondary linkup within earshot of your primary. So I walked my team all night because I didn’t plan well enough.”

  And walk they did. The contingent linkup site is close to an eight-mile hike from the primary. So 915, carrying close to a hundred pounds per man, walks ten miles that first night, all of it in the rain. Nine-one-five, the OCEs, and the writer are pretty beat up when we arrive at our destination, an abandoned rural church just off Camp Mackall proper. It’s 0300, and 915 has been on the ground for seven hours. The team goes to ground for a few hours’ rest and the 18 Echos rig their PSC-5, find their satellite, and transmit their first situation. There’s a dedicated satellite that supports Robin Sage and the nineteen ODAs scattered across Pineland.

  Nine-one-five’s contingent linkup is scheduled for 0600 that morning. First Lieutenant Patrick Kwele and Specialist Antonio Costa change into civilian clothes for the meeting. Well covered by their teammates hiding in the woods, the two soldiers wait by the road in front of the church. Soon a pickup truck slowly approaches. Kwele and Costa exchange bona fides with two members of the Pineland auxiliary, then call in Captain Santos. After some negotiations and the exchange of 1,000 don, an agreement is struck for them to be picked up by truck later that morning. The auxiliary returns at the appointed time, this time in two old pickup trucks, and 915 clambers aboard. The truck beds are wet and dirty, but then so is 915. The soldiers are covered with heavy tarps, and the little convoy sets out to meet with the head of their assigned partisan group—their G chief.

  While 915 is making their final preparations for insertion into Pineland, I go out to visit its guerrilla base. It’s located a sloping piece of acreage populated by scrub oak trees, low vegetation, and an occasional pine, all surrounded by freshly planted soybean fields—private land made available to the Army by a local farmer. The ground is located several miles north of the town of Raeford. It’s rural North Carolina farm country. The cadre have set up their camp about a quarter-mile from the G base to support the 915’s exercise scenario, or “lane.” Here, well away from the G base, the cadre, OCEs, and additional role players will await events in the exercise play to unfold. I park my truck at the cadre camp and make my way down a dirt road that bordered a bean field, then take an overgrown path into the woods that meander down a shallow slope and into the G base. There, in a small clearing, I find a large tarp covering a fire pit with six to eight boxes and stools around the fire. A large store of wood is stacked nearby. Next to this gathering place there’s a small tent with a table that holds a modest supply of canned goods and MRE rations. A fifty-five-gallon drum is blocked up on a crude wooden cradle with a filler cap on the top. Scattered down the gentle slope are small tents and low shelter tarps tied in among the trees. These are the guerrilla “hooches.” It has the look of Andersonville. As I approach, a large man with a goatee, tan ball cap, and dark fatigues is addressing some two dozen men dressed like himself. All wear the same black field uniforms, but there’s a smattering of camouflage jackets and hunting vests.

  “OK, men. Thanks for all your hard work in getting the camp set up. For the next two weeks, you are no longer American soldiers in the United States Army. You are Pineland freedom fighters—living on the edge and suffering here in this guerrilla camp for the freedom of our beloved Pineland. In this camp, you’ll always address me as Colonel or Colonel Chissom, and Sergeant First Class Johnson here is now Sergeant Major Johnson. Our uniform is the black guerrilla fatigues of the Pineland freedom fighter and your civilian baseball caps.

  “Forget all you learned in the Army; you’ve had no formal military training. I don’t want to hear any Army slang. If you were a city boy before you came into the Army, be a city boy here. If you were a farm boy, you’re a farm boy again. You may know how to shoot a rifle, but you’re not a marksman, and you’ve maybe put a dozen or so rounds through your weapon. You may have seen a hand grenade, but you’ve never thrown one. This afternoon, I want you to study your Pineland packets and get in character. Do not get buddy-buddy with the SF students when they arrive; they’re here to learn, and they learn by interacting with you and by teaching you how to become soldiers.”

  Then Colonel Chissom lays down camp rules—trash in bags for daily pickup, only toilet paper in the latrine trench, keep the water barrel full, stay in small groups, take care of your gear, stay in character, and so on. “After today, I don’t want to hear any chatter about NASCAR, Jennifer Lopez, or current events. We live in Pineland, and we don’t have radios out here. I don’t want to se
e any Game Boys or earphone wires coming out of your ears.”

  Then Captain Garrett Childers seems to materialize out of the woods, as he and Sergeant Blackman would often do over the next two weeks. Colonel Chissom nods to him as Childers steps before the group to address them. “I’d also like to thank you for being here,” Captain Childers tells the guerrillas. “I know some of you may not want to be here, but well, that’s tough. It’s not the first or last time you’ll draw a detail you don’t like. Play the game while you’re here, and perhaps you can have some fun and learn something. Two things. First, be safe. If you’re not sure that a local you meet or who happens to come by is really part of the scenario, err on the side of caution. Identify yourself as a serviceman who’s participating in a military exercise. Show your military ID, if necessary. There are some good old boys out here who live in a very small world, and may not know who we are or why we’re here. Second, for the next two weeks you’re actors. This may surface a whole new career for some of you after you leave the Army. Again, I appreciate your help and count on you to stay in character in order for us to properly evaluate our candidates. Myself and my cadre’s time will be taken with the students, so take your direction from Colonel Chissom. Oh, and this is Mister Couch. He’s a writer and not part of the scenario, but will be observing you and the Special Forces candidates during this exercise.”

  After the meeting breaks up, I approach the G chief and introduce myself. “I guess, Colonel, that I’ll be taking my direction from you as well. Please let me know if I’m in the way at any time.”

  He laughs and offers me a firm hand. “Oh, I doubt that you’ll be in the way, sir, but I’ll let you know. Make yourself at home. Things are pretty informal here in camp, and as you probably know, some evolutions are preplanned and some of them will flow from the actions of the student ODA.”

  Bill Chissom is a retired Special Forces master sergeant from Clarksville, Tennessee. His dad was a career soldier, as was he; he’s been retired less than a year. This is his third Robin Sage as a G chief. Five of Chissom’s twenty-six years in Special Forces were as an instructor at the Special Forces Q-Course, so he knows Robin Sage well. The rest of his time was with the 3rd and 5th Special Forces Groups, where he made over twenty-five overseas deployment rotations. Chissom is a veteran intelligence sergeant and team sergeant. Now he’s a colonel in the guerrilla movement struggling to topple the current government in Pineland. “We need quality Special Forces soldiers in this war on terror,” he told me. “Nine-eleven should never be forgotten nor ever be forgiven—ever.”

  The two pickup trucks deliver 915 to a safe-house location on Camp Mackall near the main entrance, some seven miles from their contingency linkup point. The men are beat, and they look it as they file from the trucks into the clearing, where there’s a small cabin and a fire pit with log sections for seats around the fire. There, Colonel Chissom is waiting for them, along with Sergeant Major Johnson and three other armed guerrillas who stand on the periphery. Sergeant First Class (now Sergeant Major) Johnson is the senior enlisted soldier in Chissom’s guerrilla band.

  “Welcome to Pineland, Captain,” Chissom says, rising to greet Santos. “We’re glad to have you here to help us with our struggle.” They exchange greetings, and the colonel bids them to sit with him around the fire. “I’m not very happy about last night,” he says in a measured voice. “That cost me a lot of money. I had to pay drivers and bribe guards at the checkpoints. One of my men was killed, and now I have to take care of his family.” After a brief negotiation, Captain Santos gives him 30,000 don, almost a third of the money he brought with him. “What else did you bring for me? Food? Ammo?”

  “We brought both,” Santos replies diplomatically, “but we only have what we could carry. And that we’ll share with you. What we really brought are ourselves. I have with me a team of professional soldiers. We’re here to help you with your struggle. Your fight is our fight.”

  “Oh, that’s good, Captain, real good,” Chissom concedes, “but you have to understand, you’re outsiders; you’re gonna have to work your way in here. You see, my men have been fighting for a long time, and they’ve lost a lot—their homes, their families, their friends. They gave it all up for the struggle. We’re fighting for our land; we want our life back—we want to build a new nation and start new families. You say our fight is your fight? Tell me, Captain, why’re you here? Why did you come to Pineland?”

  “Those who have taken power in Pineland seized the government without a fair vote—without the permission of the citizens,” Santos replies. “They’re robbing you and your people; they’ve taken what is rightfully yours. We’re here to help you regain your land and your nation.”

  Colonel Chissom thinks about this and nods thoughtfully. “OK, I’ll buy that. How about you,” he says, pointing to Specialist David Altman.

  “I believe in freedom,” Altman replies. “And I believe in helping others fight for it.”

  “And you?”

  “Our great-great grandfathers fought for our liberation from England,” says Sergeant Daniel Barstow. “We’re here to help you fight for your liberty.”

  “I’ve learned that freedom and liberty are precious,” replies Specialist Justin Keller. “We Americans can’t enjoy our freedom if yours has been taken away.”

  “I’m a professional soldier,” says Sergeant Andrew Kohl. “I believe in what you fight for, and it’s my duty to fight alongside you.”

  Chissom appears satisfied with this. “All right, I’ll accept that. We’ll fight together, side by side. So, before we leave here and go to our camp, we’ll honor you with a small freedom-fighter’s ceremony. Since we are brothers in the same cause, we must share a toast to our fallen warriors. This is a sacred undertaking.”

  The particulars of this ceremony and the contents of the toast are omitted from this text in the spirit of preserving one of the mysteries of this Robin Sage training lane. I can say that what was served was not a gourmet offering—far from it. Yet the men in 915 soldier through this ritual because they really want to wear that Green Beret. After the meeting, while the team waits for the auxiliary and their pickups, Captain Childers takes Captain Santos aside.

  “OK, last night was a ballbuster, but that can happen, here and later on—down range. When things turn to shit, you have to focus on command-and-control issues, and the guys have to get past their misery and drive on. You have to refocus them—get their heads back in the game and on the mission. It’s combat leadership. Last night, they started thinking about their pain and forgot about the team and their job. Don’t let them do that. As a detachment leader, you’ll always have the tough choices: let them rest now when they really need a rest, or push them so you can get them more quickly to a safe place. They have to suck it up and follow you. A lot of Robin Sage is managing chaos and not losing your cool when things turn to crap. During the initial days of the Afghan campaign, it was chaos. But we got through it and accomplished our mission there. Only patience and persistence prevailed. It’s the same here. Robin Sage is designed to prepare you for this. Now, step it up. Take charge of these guys and make it happen, OK?”

  “Roger that, sir,” Santos replies, “and thanks. I guess I needed to hear that—again.”

  Nine-one-five arrives at the G base early in the afternoon. The rain has finally stopped, and there are a few sun breaks amid the passing clouds. Colonel Chissom points to an area of the camp where they can dump their rucks, then disappears into his tent. Sergeant Olin looks for Sergeant Major Johnson to talk about the camp duties and security, but he’s nowhere to be found. And there are no other guerrillas about. Santos and Olin walk the perimeter of the camp, talk about security, and wonder where everyone is. The other members of 915 set about stringing up some poncho shelters and lay out their gear to dry. By midafternoon, there is a rustling of activity about the camp as Colonel Chissom, Sergeant Major Johnson, and a few of the other Gs begin to gather at the fire pit under the large tarp near Chissom
’s tent. Chissom invites Captain Santos to join him by the fire.

  “Things seemed a little quiet around here this afternoon,” Santos offers in the course of the conversation.

  “It’s our custom here in Pineland,” replies Chissom, “to observe Rahaa between eleven a.m. and three p.m. During that time, the men are free to sleep, tend to their own needs, or meditate. It is a private time for us.”

  Later, Tom Olin will ask his team leader, “How the hell are we going to train these guys if they all take four-hour naps in the middle of the day?”

  “I don’t know,” Santos tells his team sergeant, “we’ll just have to figure out a way.”

  During the course of that first afternoon and evening, Captain Santos works to engage Colonel Chissom, and Staff Sergeant Olin tries to go one-on-one with Sergeant Major Johnson. Sergeant Olin and Sergeant Major Johnson are able to work out some shared camp-duty and camp-security issues between the Gs and 915. Things seem to be moving forward as more of the Americans are invited to join the fire. Then there is a dustup between Olin and Johnson. One of the Americans began asking about how the guerrillas train. That prompted Johnson to ask Santos, Olin, and the others in 915 to leave the fire. It seems they had begun talking about training without first observing the Pineland custom of engaging in small talk before turning to business. This is considered bad form in Pineland.

  “If you and your men are so anxious to work and train,” Colonel Chissom tells Santos, “then your men can take the camp security duty tonight and my men will sleep.”