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When Leftist Students Wearing Che Shirts in Bolivia Want a Title Shot

As one can guess from the title of this, it isn’t going to end well. I have a built-in bias against anyone wearing a Che Guevara shirt. Every time I encountered this, it usually ended in an ugly fashion.  Sorry, but there it is. And I’ll spell out my experiences below.

One of the biggest paradoxes I’ve encountered during my time in the military was the love affair of the Bolivian college students with Che Guevara. He was a murderer, a racist and was trying to export his revolution to Bolivia where he met an untimely end in 1967. The Manchego Ranger Battalion, with training and advisory assistance from the Special Forces men from Panama and the CIA routed his merry little band of guerrillas. In truth, Che’s idea of “revolución” resonated little with the Bolivians.

And yet back in the heady days of massive Special Forces and DEA support during the 80’s and 90’s when there was a constant influx of SF guys and SEALs all over the country, Che was everywhere. At the big university in the capital city of La Paz, there was a huge mural of Che Guevara on the wall of one of the buildings covering about 3 stories. Che’s likeness was on every other building it seemed. And the college students, who went to the very anti-American, leftist universities there, all wore Che t-shirts, as if it were a badge of honor, rather than someone who invaded your country trying to start a revolution where one didn’t exist.

Naturally, they didn’t take very well to the Gringos who they all thought were part of the DEA. And in those times, the SF and SEALs didn’t look like regular soldiers with the short military haircuts and the “I’m on TDY orders” method of dress. Whenever the Americans from the embassy there, and it was a big staff back then, would find a place like a popular disco or nightclub, the leftist college kids would begin to flock in the place and once the odds got what they felt were in their favor, say 8 or 10-1, they’d get brave, very brave. It never ended well for them, and more than once we left a pile in our wake as we got out of Dodge and tried to avoid a “diplomatic faux pas.”

But the leftists’ biggest targets were the Marines.  Being a Marine Corps Embassy Guard is a cush assignment for the young kids in the Corps and because of their strict standards that they maintain 365 days a year, they stood out like a sore thumb. They all had white-wall haircuts that screamed US Marine wherever they went. And as a result, whenever the Detachment was downtown, there would invariably be an issue, that they didn’t start but would finish. As a result, the Marines were restricted to their house, which was a beautiful palace that served as home and that had its own bar. At least one weekend night every week, the embassy staff would pile over to the Marine house and at least they’d get to have somewhat of a social life.

It was a shame, they were all great kids and didn’t want any trouble, they just wanted to get out and see the city and countryside just like we did, but weren’t allowed to. Being assigned to MILGP (Military Group in the embassy) in Bolivia, my partner Dave Ortiz and I became fast friends with the Marines and they had us over for a Detachment Dinner at their house which was an honor. They had a rough job and many of the diplomats treated them badly. But they had a job to do and they did it well. And were always polite and maintained a sense of humor about the crazy situation that was La Paz in those days.

The Marine guards also had quite a few good athletes and three of them played on our Embassy softball team. Baseball was out in Bolivia. We had to play fastpitch softball on baseball fields because of the altitude. La Paz is 12,000 feet above sea level. If you ever watched baseball from Denver, with the Colorado Rockies, you’ve seen how far a baseball travels in the Mile High City. La Paz is two and half times the altitude of Denver. I’ve hit a restricted flight softball in La Paz farther than I’ve ever hit a baseball in my life.

The games were always a fun outing for the La Paz embassy staff as they were pretty isolated up there in the Andes. Many of the embassy staff with their families would trek out to the games, mostly at the Bolivian military academy and cheer us on. Since so many diplomats were there, the Russians with their “discreet” surveillance guys would always nose around to see what’s up with all of these Amerikanskis. Dave would always do his best DeNiro impression on the way to the ballfield. “Hey f**kos, let’s go for a ride.”

The Embassy ball team was always winning the championship of the Embassy circuit. We played Japan, Korea, Dominican Republic, Venezuela and a couple of Bolivian teams as well as a couple of other American teams every season. The Cubans had a team that desperately wanted to play but their government wouldn’t let them because we were in the league. They were afraid that being too close to the Gringos would cause them to defect. But on Saturday’s after our games, the Marines weren’t allowed to imbibe in a few libations with the rest of the guys if we went out after a game unless we went to someone’s house. This one particular week, we were playing Venezuela for the championship (again) and were good friends with the players from their team. We planned on going out that night to celebrate. So I had a brainstorm.

Embassy ball team minus the Marines who weren’t allowed to play after a certain incident. (author photo)

Dave and I went up to see the Ambassador on Friday afternoon to plead the Marines’ case. We explained that the ball team and a bunch of family members were going out that night to celebrate the team’s upcoming victory (yes we won). That if he’d let the Marines out, there would be plenty of senior SF NCOs and Officers present. Plus the Navy SEAL Commander and the Air Force Major from the MILGP.

The Ambassador was reluctant but agreed, telling Dave and I that he didn’t want to hear about any problems this weekend. I uttered the soon to be prophetic, “Sir, what could go wrong? Everything is going to be fine.” Oh, how wrong I was.

After dinner and drinks with a huge crowd of us and the Venezuelans at a Brazilian Steak House, we went to a disco where some rock band was playing that was supposed to be very good. It was in the basement of this large brick building and you had to take this steep staircase down into the bar. The Venezuelans took off because they didn’t care for the music. But there were about 25 of us Gringos with almost half of those women from the embassy or wives/girlfriends. The band was indeed pretty good and we were having a good time. That’s when the specter of Che appeared.

I was talking to the Gunny of the Marine guards, he had his wife there, and the three of us were making small talk when I saw his eyes flash to the door. Three punks wearing Che shirts come into the bar. Two tried to be nonchalant and lean against the wall while the third disappeared up the stairs. We knew what was coming next. The Gunny immediately called their drivers to come and pick them up and told them to pull up on the side street. Dave and I told the Gunny that if any crap started, for him and the Marines to get out and get his wife out of there. He wasn’t having any of that. “No F**king way Chief! We’ll deal with the fallout later, we’re not running and leaving you guys here.” I don’t know if I ever told him, but at that moment, I loved him like a brother.

Sure enough, about 20 or more of these university kids came pouring the n door and a few of them were pulling bandanas around their faces. On a side note, what is it about chicken punk bitches that makes them feel that a bandana makes them a bad ass? Whatever.

One of the Marines, Sammy was at the bar with his girlfriend when a Bolivian kid whipped a whiskey glass and hit Sammy right in the back of the head. Game on.

In an instant, we cut a swath thru those kids making a beeline for the door to get out of there knocking out anyone in the way. We got to the door and got everyone (women first) out. One unfortunate Bolivian kid got tossed thru the window at the corner of the bar, who knew there was a 10-ft drop to the ground?  He didn’t master the art of the PLF (parachute landing fall). Getting to the top of the steps were about 7-8 more kids spoiling for a fight. Dave, the Gunny and myself were the last three up the stairs.

The rest were charging up the steep ass stairs trying to get the last three Gringos. But they forgot two very important tenets of Unconventional Warfare (UW), never conduct a frontal attack when the opponent has the high ground. And never mess with the one-legged man. Dave had lost his leg a few years before and was one of only three men missing limbs on active duty then. Now there are plenty of guys who remain on active duty with prosthetics which have become quite high-tech. Back then, Dave had a plastic molded leg, cast over a car’s leaf spring to give his foot some flex. If he kicked you, it was the equivalent of getting hit with a Louisville Slugger.

Back in those days, Dave, when back at Ft. Bragg worked out with Jim West, who many of our SOFREP readers know from his self-defense classes that he posts on our site. Jim’s one of the baddest men I ever met. Dave used to spar with him (for fun).  Four idiots tried to take the stairs and were kicked in the teeth…good night Irene. We got to the stairs and there were kids knocked out everywhere on the sidewalk. We got the hell out of Dodge, before the Bolivian cops and the press arrived, ensuring we had everyone and immediately went to the Marine House.

Other than Sammy having a huge knot on the back of his head, we were in good shape. The Gunny was justifiably nervous and reported the incident up the chain, as he was supposed to do. We told him, that since we left before the cops and press arrived, no one could really point to the Marines having even been there. That theory lasted until Sunday morning.

The Bolivian rags had color photos of about 5-6 knocked out dopes strewn about the sidewalk on the front page of their Sunday papers with the headlines, “US Marines Invade Bolivia”, “Marines Beat Up Peaceful University Students” and the like. Captain, later Colonel Stu Bradin saw the newspapers first and gave us fair warning. “Stevie, you and Dave told the Ambassador that nothing was going to happen….Brother you guys are so f**ked.” Thanks brother…I know.

Dave and I arrived early at the Embassy on Monday morning waiting for the inevitable call which came promptly as the Ambassador arrived at 7:45, yes he’d like to see you two….now.

I’ve had my ass chewed by NCOs and Officers, but never by a diplomat. He had a way with words that, if I wasn’t the one getting my butt chewed, I would have had a voice recorder on since it was beautifully put. He did have a way with words…I guess that’s why they paid him the big bucks. We did our explaining and finally, he seemed to understand that the last thing we’d do is look for trouble with wives and girlfriends with us. Some of the State Department girls had already passed the word thru their people which got to the Ambassador before we got there and he knew the deal.

But the newspapers were the issue. “How the hell am I supposed to explain this to Washington?” he said pointing at the pictures of the newspapers. I was floundering, “Sir, we did what we had to do to get out of there safely with the women. Dave, my partner, my brother, Mr. Tact himself said, “hey sir, we didn’t start anything, F**K them.”  The first thought to come to mind was, “they can’t shoot us for this can they?” We were given the boot out of the office. The Ambassador later cooled down and understood that it wasn’t the Americans but the Bolivians who started the mess. No adverse action befell the Gunny or the Marines. Or any of us. After that, those punks decided discretion being the better part of valor…gave us a wide berth. But the Marines were restricted to their house ….again.

That’s why even today after all these years, whenever I see a Che Guevara shirt, it immediately puts me on edge.  And when the person wearing it has a bandana to boot…. the back of my neck gets as hot as a two-dollar pistol.  Che was a murderer and a racist and was everything that these kids claim to hate. But the more things change… Now I see an entirely new group of people wearing Che shirts…if you think it is cool to wear a Che shirt, do some research before you do. Besides, the last thing we need is for the Marines to “invade” another place.

Photos courtesy: Wikipedia, author

How NOT to Attend Warrant Officer Candidate School (WOCS) Pt. 2

In the first segment of this piece, we talked about the initial trip down to Ft. Rucker and we introduced our readers to retired CW4 Wade Chapple, one of the bigger characters I came across in my time in the military. Wade and I served in 1st Bn. 7th SFG(A) together, went to the Warrant Course in the same class and got assigned to 3/7 down in Panama after graduation.

We were roommates at Ft. Gullick (Espinar), and to jump ahead a bit, when we arrived in Panama the housing office wouldn’t let us move in until work that was being done was finished. Well, we just really needed a place to dump our stuff and deploy anyway, and it turned into a fiasco but Wade convinced the housing office to let us move in and they were free to finish work. We lived in what was known as “the pit”, with all DOD school teachers as our neighbors.

We were just down the hill from the pool and our work schedule prevented us from using it during normal hours. The MPs were always trying to catch anyone in there at night, and Wade wanted to get his Scuba legs going so every other night, we’d sneak into the pool when we were around and swim laps and hide under the surface when the MPs would drive by. Of course, if they’d caught us, the explaining to the Bn CDR why the two new officers were trespassing would have been a good one. Never a dull moment. But I digress, and it is back to Ft. Rucker. The cadre members of the WOCS had given the SF guys the $hit detail of cleaning their offices one night. We had some of the kids helping out and in reality, it wasn’t hard.

But between Chapple and Brian Bewley we made it a UW exercise in sabotage. Bewley got a bunch of those old flash cubes that would go on top of those old film cameras. I know you younger people are like “what the heck are those?” He started wiring all of the TACs desks with the flash cubes and batteries with one of our other SF guys, a tall guy from Bad Tolz whose name, unfortunately, escapes me after all these years. Must be CTE/TBI.

However, as soon as they would open their drawer of their desk, poof! A big flash would greet them. No harm, just a startling reminder that the freedom fighters of Pineland were in their midst. As they were doing this, Chapple took an Exacto knife and started cutting around a large wooden hand that each of the TACs had outside their door. The usual procedure was for the candidates to enter the office and pound three times on the hand before entering their respective TAC’s office for the weekly counseling. Most students didn’t really pound it but would open palm it to make a loud slapping sound which would suffice. Chapple wanted to make an entrance for our next morning counseling, and he neatly cut the drywall all around the hand. Everything was set. We finished the cleaning and headed off to bed.

The TACs normally arrived about 15 minutes before the students were woken up at 4:15 a.m. for early morning PT session. By four we were all awake and dressed and looking out the window at the TACs building. They all arrived at about the same time and entered the office. Making small talk in the hallway, no one had entered their offices yet.

Finally, they sat down at their desks. Our biggest nemesis, our own “Rat-Face” a CID warrant, opened his top drawer ….POOF! He jumped back and yelled WTF!. The others came quickly. He explained what happened and opening the drawer, they found the flash cube. The others began laughing (very surprising), they encouraged him to open another drawer….POOF!. So now they were all involved going from office to office opening desk drawers laughing like kids at a park. Pressed against the glass across the street, that wasn’t the reaction we were expecting. We filed out for PT, the TACs came out and said nothing and we PT’d like any other normal day. While we were running, as one of the flank road guards, I stopped at an intersection until the class passed. One of the TACs, young Aviation CW3 stopped beside me jogging in place. As we were running to catch back up with the front, he said, “Hey,…. nice job last night.”

All of that benevolence was soon to be a thing of the past thanks to Mr. Chapple. We filed into the offices for the craziness that was the weekly counseling. I was in the office of the most bizarre Guamanian CW4 ever. In between telling/nearly yelling that I was never going to pass the course, had no leadership potential, that I should quit now, yada, yada, he kept stopping to offer me a banana on his desk. He kept saying that with the heat and the all the sweating we were doing, I needed to eat more bananas for the potassium which he pronounced “Potash-um”. It was crazy. He’d go off on a rant and stop himself and then say, “Please…take the banana…is good for you.”  I was barely listening waiting for Chapple who was on deck to go next door. That’s when all hell broke loose.

When a candidate entered the TACs office, he was supposed to make himself heard…no wimpy knocks. When Chapple hammered the wooden hand, the drywall that he’d cut the night before easily gave way and the wooden hand flew thru the wall and into the TACs’ office and landed on his desk. He went ballistic. Wade was doing pushups on the floor in the hallway. The students “bracing the wall” that knew what was happening, were trying to stifle laughter, the ones who didn’t stared in total open mouthed amazement.

I was quickly booted from the other office to join him in the hallway. We were sent outside and they commenced to smoking us for a good amount of time. The sweat was running down our faces and nobody was offering me a banana now. I guess my “Potash-um” levels didn’t mean squat anymore. Throughout the smoke session, they’d ask us if we wanted to quit. Chapple kept saying, “You can’t beat me up.” Finally, one cadre member said, “What do you mean? Nobody is laying hands on you.” Wade responded, “When we leave here, we’re going to SERE School and they’re going to beat us up. This isn’t that bad.” That ended that.

Coincidentally, it was the last time we were tasked with cleaning the offices.

The flag detail mentioned in the first piece was interesting. We got tasked to do it and having never done it before, we asked the TACs for a manual which they gave us the night before. Bewley, I believe it was who took charge and assigned everyone a task and we rehearsed it once or twice. We filed over to the flagpole outside the Post Cdrs’ office. The first time went off without a hitch, it looked smooth and it turned out the General wasn’t in his office.  The second time, we could see him checking us out. He had a reputation as a stickler for this particular ceremony and had the reputation as chewing out the detail and the cadre members if they messed it up.

We did…if I don’t say so myself, a bang-up job. There was no messing around here and we mustered all of the drill and ceremony pomp we could. We were pretty pleased with ourselves when the General’s aide, a young Major came out and asked us to standby because he’d like to talk to us. We didn’t know what to expect so we stood there and waited. The General came over and had a big smile on his face. “As I was looking out the window, I was thinking, these guys don’t look like the ordinary flag detail from the WOC course,” he said. “All Special Forces guys?” he asked. “What was this, some kind of punishment?”

We were all quiet and Brian said, “Ah we thought so sir, we were told that you regularly chew out WOCs at the flag detail.” The general laughed and said that wasn’t happening today. He told his aide to send a note to our cadre that the flag detail for that Friday was the most professional he’d seen since becoming the Post Commander. “So,” he asked, “Are we stealing all of you guys for Aviation?” When we told him we were candidates for the SF Warrant Program, he shook his head. “I didn’t think they’d let that many of you guys come our way.” He made small talk, asked us about some of the deployments we’d been on and wished us all luck. Who said that guy had a stick up his butt?

As mentioned before, the classes during the day weren’t anything earth shattering in terms of learning new material, for us, with an average of about 10 years of service, it was all just a rehash of things we’ve had before. One of our classes was a writing class that we had at the Instructor Training Course at Ft. Bragg. It was taught by a civilian, an older woman who looked like she was in the dictionary listed under Sweet Grandmother. She spoke slowly, softly and talked to everyone like we were her favorite grandkids.

Chapple asked her from our seats in the back row if indeed we had to have this class since we had it at Bragg. She smiled and said that we did because it was part of the WOCS curriculum. No problem, Wade said, we were just asking. And then let out another one of his tremendous burps. Grandma was shocked and her mouth made a perfect “O”. When it came time to read some of the stuff we had written, Wade read his in perfect Spanish like he was teaching a class down south. She looked at me, as she’d taken a seat in the back row. I smiled and she just shook her head. “That was very nice Mr. Chapple but can we do it in English perhaps?” she asked. Grandma was the one person Wade couldn’t rile up, not that he wanted to with her.

At the end of the WOC course, you have one final inspection, done by a group of cadre officers from another battalion so that there is no bias involved. The last two weeks that is all everyone talked about, students, TAC officers …everyone. And even though they were supposed to rotate the leadership positions every week, the cadre picked the two guys with “no leadership potential” to be the class leader and student first sergeant. That’s right Balestrieri and Chapple,…Heaven help us.

The course was winding down and the BS got put to the side, now they wanted everyone to graduate and move on. There was one thing that they didn’t play around with and in this case they were right. There was a method of rolling a tee shirt tightly when wet, then putting it on a lamp covered with a towel, called baking. It would make your shirts tighter than the third monkey on Noah’s Ark in the rain, but it also would ruin the shirt and was a huge fire hazard. And in the WWII buildings, they wouldn’t tolerate it at all. Anyone caught doing it was immediately given the boot.

My stuff hadn’t been touched in ten days, so the last few days were kicked back with just formations, PT, and chow. I was in our building when someone came and got me. Some of the kids were panicking. Worried about the final inspection, many of them were baking t-shirts. I called an immediate class formation. The switch to the SFAS cadre came right back on. This was the last thing we needed to deal with.

I cut loose on the class, telling them that anyone who was in panic mode after all these weeks was a sorry MFer and doesn’t need to be in the farkin’ course. One of the brown nosers who correctly assumed the cadre were watching, told me that Candidates were not supposed to use foul language while a student. “If my language offends you, Fuck You,” I said. We’re talking about getting at a minimum getting a student and his bunkmate booted from the course, not to mention a fire. Then winding it down, I said, we’d all got to that point, if we continue to play the game, every one of us was going to walk across the stage and graduate. I was just about to release the class when from behind me the Senior TAC appeared. He made it clear…loudly so, that this wasn’t a game and it was serious business and for me to relay that ..and then dismiss the class.

“I stand corrected,” I told the class. “This is not a game and will be treated accordingly.” The senior TAC was going in the head shed. “So, continue to participate in the sport, and you will graduate. Dismissed.” I was the only one doing push-ups that afternoon.

The CW4 who did our final inspection was a Special Forces guy from 1st Group. He was busted up and walked with a cane. But he knew Bewley and was going to play a practical joke on him. He and two of his officers came in the barracks during breakfast. And they filled Bewley’s laundry bag with a ton of contraband.

When the class filed back from chow we started the final inspection. Everything was going smoothly until Bewley’s turn came and when they dumped his laundry bag, extra belt buckles, boots, belts, and a nip of Jack Daniels came tumbling out on his bunk. The silence was heavy. “Something you want to tell us, Candidate?” Bewley’s face went red. “Obviously that was planted by someone who wanted to watch me go down in flames.” They all cracked up.

At the end of our inspection, we were all passed…imagine that. The SF warrant told us, our orders had changed and we were needed at Bragg early because SERE school was starting early.  We approached the cadre and they got us out-processed quickly. But they still wanted us to go for the final “victory run”, followed by a 10 a.m. ceremony. The other guys had a noon flight that would put them in Fayetteville early. But Chapple and I were driving and that was going to take longer.

We talked it over. Wade said, “Well, we got our diploma, we are already out-processed, I say screw that…let’s sky out of here at 4 a.m.” So when everyone was woken up, he pulled his truck on the company street and we commenced to packing it up. The cadre were staring at him, knowing he really wasn’t leaving he was just loading the truck and putting it back in the parking lot. Nope. I said goodbye to a few guys and walked outside. Wade started the truck and snapped a perfect salute to the cadre who stood there staring at our tail lights going down the street. He even left on his own terms. Chapple 2 WOC Cadre 0.

A few weeks later, we were in the middle of SERE School, in the final phase, and I don’t have to tell you what happens, you’re made “uncomfortable”. We were paraded about with bags over our heads and were made to kneel in the gravel. One by one the “bad guys” were going down the line and hitting prisoners and asking some silly question. When it was my turn, I was only hit a glancing blow. “That didn’t hurt,” I thought I said to myself. But it was out loud. That got remedied quick, and yes it hurt.

As I was trying to kneel again, they popped the guy next to me and asked him, “Where are coming from?” Even with a bag over his head, I’d recognize that voice anywhere. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to go where that MFer next to me  (meaning me) is going”… he was “chastised” many times by the guards for constantly asking them “What time is it?” in a subtle bit of turning the tables on them and a “small victory” for us.

Chapple 1 SERE 0.

Photos Courtesy: DOD, Wikipedia

How NOT to Attend Warrant Officer Candidate School (WOCS)

I spent the better part of Saturday afternoon on the phone with one of oldest and dearest of friends. My buddy Wade Chapple is a retired Chief Warrant Officer CW4 from 7th SFG(A). He’s also one the funniest guys you’d ever meet and an absolute character. We spent the entire time remembering the good, funny times of our careers and my sides literally hurt from laughing so hard.

Wade was one of the most tactically and technically proficient officers I’ve ever known. After a short time as A-Team XOs in 7th Group in both Panama and Ft. Bragg, we both were team leaders as at that time there was a dearth of Captains in SF Branch. He later moved on and was the American advisor to the two Colombian Special Forces Battalions, that were co-located at the site of the Lancero School and the NCO Academy. We’ll feature more of that in a later date.

But back when we were just a bit younger, we attended the Warrant Officer Candidate School (WOCS) together. The Army in its infinite wisdom decided that SF NCOs who are transitioning to the Warrant program need to go back to a sillier time and learn how to roll t-shirts the size of a Coke can, stand numerous inspections and step back in time for grade school antics. Our class was filled with about 50 high school kids who wanted to fly helicopters. There were six SF NCOs and a couple of CID agents. We had known each other in 1st Bn. 7th SFG and got orders to go to Ft. Rucker for the WOCS. Rather than fly commercial, Wade was going to drive his truck and was looking for some company. “Awesome,” I said. “This should be fun.” Little did I know …

Putting two smart-assed Yankees together on a road trip to the south should be a piece of cake right? We drove down to Rucker, got on the base about 3 in the morning and were searching in vain for the Student Company. You’d think there’d be a sign right? Wrong. After driving around aimlessly for 30 minutes, we saw a huge black dude with a shaved head and carrying his luggage. Pulling over, I yelled, “Hey buddy, are you going to the head shed to sign in?” He turned and said, “Are you, two students?” …Suppressing my smart-ass response, since we needed an answer, I said, “That’s right pal, students.” “Second door on the right,” he said. “The one that has a light on.”

We pulled into the parking lot, walked up to the door and signed in. We got our stuff out of the truck and made our way to the barracks, an old Army WWII building at the end of the street.

Our very first student formation set the tone. A bunch of Warrant Officer TAC-Officers descended on the formation, trying the old intimidation game. It scared the hell of the high school kids, for us it was like …meh, whatever. Then the door to the Tac Shed burst open and the big black dude appeared. He wasn’t a student but a CW3. “Oh this ought to be good,” Wade said. The warrant was scanning the crowd and sure enough, he spotted us at the back. He tore thru the formation looking for you know who. “You find your way BUDDY?, PAL, BROTHER? ” he screamed in my face. “Yes thank you, sir.” My response wasn’t good enough for Wade. “Hey, at least we asked the right guy…er Sir.” The TAC almost laughed then caught himself and promised to keep a close eye on us two. It wouldn’t be hard.

They broke our company up alphabetically, which means that four of the SF guys, Ross Andrews, Brian Bewley, Chapple and myself were in one squad. Four E-7s and a bunch of kids right out of basic. Ross was a quiet guy with a wry sense of humor who often wondered, I thought, what did he do to deserve going with us. Brian was a former 3/7 guy who came from 1st Group and is a super dude. It was a marriage made in heaven. In fairness, the WOCS cadre had no idea then (the SF Warrant program was still fairly new) on what to do with us. The course was really designed for the high-school-to-flight-school kids. The chicken$hit harassment and games they played had the opposite effect on us. Truth be told, the kids were in awe of us. Older guys with SF. Ranger Tabs, EIBs/CIBs, Master parachutist wings, Combat Diver, HALO badges….you get the idea.

If the cadre were smart, they’d have encouraged the SF guys to mentor the young kids and show them the way. Instead, their mission was to “break and belittle” the SF guys in an attempt to get the kids to fall in line. It failed miserably. We were constantly harangued in front of the other students as having no leadership potential and were singled out constantly for the usual chicken$hit infractions. Their mind games were amateur stuff, I had just come from being a cadre member of Selection where the mind-f**k is an art form. Shortly after submitting my WOCS packet in 7th SFG, I came under orders for the Special Warfare Center, SWC. And SWC sat on my packet until they got nearly 18 months out of me. Ah, the joys of the school house. We finished a class four days before Chapple and I left for Rucker. Talk about changing hats quickly.

Our first Company run, they made the SF guys the six road guards. Four flankers and two in the front, where the pace was set. Chapple and Bewley were Combat Divers and anyone who has been to Key West will tell you that they love to run and do so fast. As the run was progressing, they kept oh-so-slowly kept picking up the pace. When we came down the company street the formation was stretched out like a snake. The TACs were pissed. We pushed Ft. Rucker’s landscape down a few inches after that.

The daily inspections were always comical. You’d come back from class to find the barracks tore up at times and it really wasn’t a big deal. The kids freaked, so you picked up your stuff and put it away…what else was there to do? Someone had told us, use Neutrogena soap, it dries with no bubbles and won’t get gigged on inspections. Sounded reasonable enough. Except that Wade decided that it looked too pretty in his soap dish, so just before leaving for the class he bit his bar of Neutrogena leaving a full set of teeth marks visible in it. He got extra demerits for biting his soap. Little did they know that this just encouraged more shenanigans.

The only peace was during the day when we went to class. The vast majority of the instructors were very laid back and good teachers. Many of the instructors would ask the SF guys to interject with any comments or experiences that could be useful. For the most part (more to that later), our times in class were largely non-eventful. But then there were the inevitable meals. Three times a day we went to the mess hall where the WOCS ate. I can say with absolute certainty that the entire system there with the “disciplined dining” rules is a pain in your fourth point of contact and served no earthly purpose for creating a better Special Forces Warrant Officer.

What it did do, however, was to create a weight loss program for WOC Steve B. I lost almost 20 pounds at Ft. Rucker. When returning to Ft. Bragg, people asked, “Is Rucker that tough?” No, it isn’t. But I rarely if ever finished a meal there. Because my good buddy Wade invariably got us tossed out of the mess hall. I’m not going to get into all of the details about the WOCS idea of disciplined dining. There were many, perhaps it teaches attention to detail, discipline and a ton of other attributes that make great pilots. I don’t know. I thought it was a load of crap. As for my buddy, he thought it “unseemly for a barrel-chested freedom fighter” to resort to such unmanly ways to eat. He immediately set out to make a statement. As per the norm, I was beside him all the way. Chapple would invent new ways to piss off the cadre in the dining hall every day. And every day we’d get tossed out with a meal, half or less eaten.

 

Strict silence was imposed, the WOC will not talk during meals. The mess halls were quiet except for the sound of knives and forks on the plates. Welcome to 7th  Special Forces Group dining rules as dictated by Wade. He made it his mission to push against the rules every day. And nearly every day we’d get tossed out of the mess hall, for the inevitable push ups outside.

On Day 2 we were eating lunch and across the table, from me, I see that old, devilish grin and know something is about to go down. Wade chugs a glass of milk and then another. Which wasn’t too out of the ordinary as that time of year, late August – early September is hot in Alabama. But then he unleashed the loudest belch possible. It was one of those five seconds, “Revenge of the Nerds” burps that reverberated around the room. All motion stops, all eyes go to our table. Every student at our table is trying their best to stifle laughter save for Wade, who calmly munches a piece of bread. Outside we were invited to go and begin to push Ft. Rucker halfway to China.

It wasn’t long before Bewley and Andrews, our other two SF buds in the squad began getting to the back or front of the line to stay away from the floor show and eat in relative peace. They were in retrospect the smart ones.

Each class had a board in the mess hall with these little hooks like you’d hang your keys on. Each class had a color (ours was Gold), and the board had different categories, Disciplined dining, pig rights and dessert rights. Being the junior class, we were stuck in disciplined dining. At the end of flag detail which they saddled the SF guys with (again more to this later), we finished and arrived at the mess hall about five minutes before the class did marching from the classroom. Wade decided a little celebration was in order. “Hey I think we did a great job on the flag detail and the class should get pig rights. “Pig Rights” was eating like a normal person, slouching back in the chair, talking in low tones but more like a regular mess hall in the Army. Wade walked into the mess hall, walked straight over to the board and moved the Gold class tag to the column under the pig. He then walked outside and smiled….”alrighty then.”

The class arrived and as they entered the mess hall and standing at parade rest while waiting to get a tray, everyone caught sight of the disk dangling from the pig rights hook and thought the cadre were giving us a treat. The class sat and conversed without a care in the world. None the wiser. Our cadre looked over incredulous, everyone in the class was talking. Our TAC’s head snapped to the board and there proudly dangling under the pig was the Gold disk. The other TACs immediately had a huddle and thought the Senior TAC authorized it….nope just the senior SF guy.

The Senior TAC showed up as the class was filing out. A quick conversation ensued and the TAC officers waited until the class was assembled and then commenced to reading the riot act. They wanted to know why the class was using pig rights and the students said because the board said it was so. We all knew who they suspected but the flag detail although first to arrive was the last in the chow line. They stopped short of accusing anyone since no one actually saw the disk moved.

Fast forward about 10 days later, once again the senior NCOs (Read SF guys) get the flag detail in front of the Post Commander’s office. It goes off without a hitch. In fact, the Major General who was the commander of Rucker at that time was a stickler for the flag detail and liked to watch it. After it was over, his aide came out and told us to stand fast the general wanted to speak to us. Needless to say, he was surprised to see all those SF tabs there. His first comment “I thought you SF guys hated doing drill and ceremonies.” He told his aide to send a note to the WOCS that the flag detail on this day was the most professional he saw during his time there.

On the way to the mess hall, Wade thought it was time for another celebration. As we marched over, he jogged ahead to ensure he beat the class there. We turned the corner just as the class was arriving from the class building. A few seconds later Wade appears at my elbow. “It is ice cream time.” We all cracked up. Sure enough, the Gold Class had dessert rights. As everyone filed in they noticed the disk and headed to the soft-serve ice cream machine. Our TACs were livid. And our nemesis, who we nicknamed “Rat Face” made a beeline for our table. “Candidate”, he said looking at me. “Did you give the class dessert rights?” I made the most innocent face I could make up. “How could I do that?” I protested. “I don’t have the authority.” He looked skeptical. “Chapple, did you give the class dessert rights?” “Sir,” he said. “I am aware of no such action or activity…however, if I were, I would not be inclined to discuss it.”

Rat Face looked ready to blow a gasket. Just then the note from the General’s aide arrived…in a nick of time. The CG sent a message to the Senior TAC that we should be rewarded. After marching back to the barracks we stood there for 10 minutes waiting to be dismissed. The TACs finally emerged from their building and said that for the remainder of the class, the Gold Class would not be granted either Pig Rights or Dessert Rights in the mess hall without a TAC officer specifically telling us so. In the battle of psychological operations, don’t mess with the men trained in Unconventional Warfare. Chapple 1 WOC Cadre 0.

In our next segment, we’ll look at the rest of the course…and what a strange trip it was.

Photo Courtesy: DOD

Civic Action Projects Very Important in Special Operations Missions

When mentioning Special Operations missions, the talk generally centers around those direct action missions, the raids on suspected terrorists’ locations, and the like. Everyone likes those linear, tangible missions and the results are much easier to gauge the success or failure from. But in the Unconventional Warfare or Counterinsurgency environment, the results are harder to pinpoint and the missions are of a much longer duration. Here is where Civic Action Projects are a tremendous boost to mission accomplishment.

Special Operations Forces (SOF) are at their best when the build long term relationships with partner nations. They integrate and enable not only with conventional forces but interagency as well (State Department, Agency for International Development, AID) and others. Many times this type of long term planning will prevent wars before they start.  

Civic Action projects are part of those long-term operations, in Afghanistan, it plays a role in Village Stability Operations, where the poverty level of Afghan civilians hovers around 80 percent.

Back in Vietnam, the role of civic action projects was key for Special Forces troops that set up Civilian Irregular Defense Group (CIDG) camps along the border regions of South Vietnam.

In the Horn of Africa and in Latin America, civic action projects work hand-in-hand with FID (Foreign Internal Defense) training, Counternarcotics Operations and nation building.  In these poor, austere environments, the host nation governments have economic, social, and security problems that affect the day-to-day life of the people and the government’s ability to rule properly.

Special Operations Forces ability to operate in small independent teams, having cultural familiarity, language capability and the long-term mindset makes them perfect partners in assisting developing nations.

In Latin America, the SOF teams used civic action projects to boost the host nation and US image in many of the poor destitute countries in the region. Especially in the Andean Ridge nations where poverty rates were very high and the host nation governments were trying to combat illegal narcotics trafficking.

During the long civil war in El Salvador between the years of 1982-1992, the US MILGP helped the Salvadoran government established civic action projects, civil affairs units and ran Mobile Medical Training Team, that treated both military and civilians.

In neighboring Honduras, a latent insurgency was thwarted with the help of many civil action projects. Run out of JTF-B (Joint Task Force Bravo) at Palmerola Air Base, the US built roads and schools, dug wells, and conducted numerous medical, dental and veterinary clinics. Special Operations Forces had a constant presence in providing training and assistance of the Honduran military.

After the conclusion of combat operations in Operation Just Cause in Panama, the follow-on mission, Operation Promote Liberty continued for five years as the US helped the new government of Panama conduct refugee operations, road building (Fuertes Caminos), reconstruction and medical activities that boosted the host nation friendly government’s image for the people.

Our own experiences with civic action projects were included in almost every mission during that era. They were never glamorous but were big-time rapport builders with both our host nation troops and the civilian populace that live in very close proximity to the bases (cuartels) in Latin America.

Often, it was improving their fresh water supply, digging a new well or improving the system that was in place. Special Forces engineers were masters at building things on a meager budget and many a well or school was put in place using an SF engineer NCO leading a project of host nation troops and/or civilians.

Two particular projects stand out, on the first, my partner Dave Ortiz and I were training CN (Counter-Narcotics) troops in the Chapare Valley. In one area, the entire economy of the region operated mainly on the river. The locals had small boats, houseboats and every contraption known to man to haul goods up and down the river.

During rainy season and the expected flooding, a number of trees washed downstream and had blocked the river. The locals, who due to the CN efforts of the Bolivian troops and the DEA were not on good terms with the Americans. But they reached out and asked if “the gringos” could help.

Taking a boat to the area where the trees had choked the river, we decided that it could be done but would be a good mission for our demo students (luckily teaching a course at just the right time). Dave showed the troops how the use C-4 (explosives) packed in the right spot with det cord wrapping around what they could reach. A Bolivian TV news crew pulled up in another boat and was filming the entire thing. More and more C-4 was wrapped up in the trees and the look I got was “don’t ask no questions!”

A fuse was lit and we retreated to a sandbar that was much too close for comfort. The explosion blew the trees and limbs high into the sky with a deafening roar. A tree trunk about three feet in diameter flew in the air just past us sounding like a freight train.

So the two”gringo DEA men” as the tv station reported blew the obstruction in the river and were helping the poor Campesinos after all. We got a call from the Ambassador who watched it on television and asked, “You think Dave used enough explosives?” On the small screen, it was even more impressive.

On the second a Special Forces A-Team from 7th SFG was conducting a six-month counter-narcotics mission in the Chimore base area of Bolivia. Training was going to cease for 14 days over Christmas where the SF team was looking forward to a break from the austere jungle camp and enjoy a break in Panama on the beach.

But just before Christmas, the American Ambassador had been kind of roped into agreeing to repair a school in the mountains of Sucre. The school ran around the clock with elementary school early in the day, high school in the afternoon and adult education in the evening. To do the necessary repairs USAID estimated would take close to $200,000. They had a budget of $70,000, the Ambassador asked SF to take a look and see what could be done. Having no engineering experience, I asked for my senior engineer to fly down with me and we’d take a look.

After poking around he said, the work could be done but only for the materials, the labor would be very high and the time would take at least 8 weeks. Relaying our findings by telephone to the Embassy, that is when they asked if the team would give up Christmas to fix the school. To a man the team agreed. The embassy sweetened the deal and put everyone up in the nicest hotel in town which had a pool but no beach.

We contacted the local government officials, the School’s admin staff, and the tv news again to put the call out to the civilians to help out. We couldn’t pay for labor but would furnish lunch for volunteers as the teachers cooked for everyone. The project had to be done in two weeks when training resumed.

No one knew what to expect, the US’ image wasn’t great there but this was a project that was to help everyone in town. On the first morning, we got to the school just at sunrise to see 350 volunteers to help with the labor.

The engineer NCOs were the true commanders of the project, I just ran interference and tried to stay out of their way. All of the work was done, including the re-wiring of the school which wasn’t on their list of issues to get re-worked. The classrooms were ripped out and replastered, the bathrooms were gutted and new ones put in, including a new fresh water tank. The patio which was broken up and a constant headache for the teachers as children at recess were falling and getting cut constantly was ripped out and replaced. Everything was repainted. Chairs and desks repaired, chalkboards were replaced.

And it was done for $65,000. The hundreds of Bolivian civilians who turned out to help were instrumental in getting it done. Working together with the SF team, by the end of the project, the rapport made during those two weeks would have taken years in the conventional method. Workers were bringing their families over to meet the “Norte Americanos” and no longer the “gringos.”

Our senior engineer could have run for Mayor that year and won easily. These anecdotes aren’t the exception, they were the rule that SF lived by during that era. One of the reasons 7th SFG was so successful in Latin America was because of the rapport with the local populace.

As you embark on your journey in the course, you’ll gloss over the Civic Action mentions…we all did. But it will make missions much more successful in conjunction with the typical training and advisory tasks that SOF always do. Robin Sage used to end with a day of Civic Action projects for the SF students. It was a way of giving back to the people of North Carolina who supported the course but it also taught a valuable lesson on taking care of the populace in a UW environment. I hope that they still do that. It is a worthwhile endeavor.

Photos US Army, author

12-Mile Rucksack March Nothing To Worry About in Selection?

Well, this sounded like a good idea at the time… “Somebody” had the bright idea to conduct and then write about a 12-mile ruck sack march and then putting the results in our training blog with the whole encouraging headline for our prospective Special Operations readers, that it is STILL a piece of cake.

After all, since starting at SpecialOperations.com and SOFREP, I’ve had the pleasure of writing the “SOF Selection PT Prep” pieces every day. And not just writing them. It has been fun to strapping on a ruck again and doing some shorter distances with my fat bulldog keeping me company in the cool, pre-dawn air. It brought back many pleasant and some not so pleasant memories of carrying the pain pill while a member of a Special Forces A-Team and as a cadre member at Selection. And after following my friends and SF brothers doing the length of the Appalachian Trail, in a fundraising effort for the Green Beret Foundation, it got my motivation up to as high as it can get and I thought, a 12-miler for time with a 45-pound ruck shouldn’t be hard for this steely-eyed ole snake eater right? Hindsight can be a mother…

I had a couple of advantages that you kids in Selection do not. Number 1 is I knew where every mile marker was so I had instant feedback as to my time and distance. I had mapped a trail on flat ground along railroad tracks and a bike path so there was none of the element of the unknown as to time and distance. Which, is a part of the mind-fuck the course plays on you.

My second advantage is I wasn’t carrying a weapon on this, just a walking stick, my staff of Ra if you will. If someone had seen me in town carry a rifle down the road at my 3 a.m start time, you’d have read about the old SF guy being shot by the police for doing something shady, because no sane person goes out rucking at 3 a.m. for fun.

 

The author with his SFAS walking stick, the Staff of Ra, which a snapping turtle made the ultimate sacrifice for. Image courtesy of the author.

And my third advantage was having my iPod charged up. Having music blasting in your ear is a great motivator. And nothing kills the boredom of a long hike like music. Loud, metal. Metallica is a good choice, We’ll start off with S&M and then the Black Album.

Of course, I had a couple of disadvantages as well. Having blown my back out in SF, and having two surgeries that ended my career is never a plus, the resultant arthritis that crept in there is always a joy early in the morning. That and having two knees that the same. Two surgeries, arthritis…ain’t life grand? So things kind of evened out. Plus it has been ….. Ok, it has been a very long time since my days as a cadre member at Selection so that isn’t a plus…at all.

I got up, put on an old pair of fatigue bottoms from my days as a contractor with that god-awful ACU camouflage pattern. Whoever thought that shit was good? Stretched well and got ready to head out. My bulldog lifted her head and sensing it was much too early for this, looked at me with a “WTF” look and literally flopped over and went back to snoring. Maybe this was an omen…

The first mile wasn’t great as my knees were barking a bit with the cool, damp temps and they were a little bit stiff, but the last bit, I started to get loose and was feeling good. So far so good. Miles 2 and 3 were much better, I was loosened up and had a good sweat working and my stride was getting back to that nice, long, lope that eats up the distance and allows for a quick time. Going down one of the few downhill areas of the course, I stumbled for a second but kept my balance and turned it into a jog for a quarter-mile until the terrain flattened out. Those two miles went by quickly and a quarter of the way in, I had a very good time going, around 40 minutes which was better than I expected.

Having much more energy than I expected, I felt like it was a good time to kick it up a notch. Having nice flat, hard-packed terrain for the next few miles I set a pace that would have sufficed back in the day for the entire march, but for about two and a half miles the ground was falling by the wayside easily and I was making terrific time. Knowing where the mile markers were helped a great deal and having “No Leaf Clover” one of my all-time favorite Metallica songs made it a breeze.

Trying not to burn myself out too quickly, I backed off slightly in Mile 6, but at the halfway point, I still had a lot of energy and was feeling great. Hitting mile marker six, with “Until it Sleeps” blaring in the ears,  I finished off one of the water bottles I was carrying. I took the time to do a bathroom break, take the rucksack off for a minute, and stretch out some more. Time at the turn around point was 1 hour 17 minutes and 40 seconds… I’ll take that all day long. That wasn’t a bad time back in the day, so I’ll take it.

Having a ton of confidence now and energy, I kicked it back into gear for the trek back.

Hitting the good hard-packed terrain for the two miles going back was another easy leg of the trip. I hit the eight-mile mark with still an excellent time, well under the standard and the weight of the 45-lb ruck, which was fitting nice and snug was negligible. That’s when things began to get tough. Stopping for a moment to catch my breath and taking a long pull from my water bottle, that old familiar ache in the knees began to kick in. Not good. Doing a couple of stretches with the ruck on didn’t help so I just continued to drive on.

The energy level was starting to taper off quickly, so to keep up the time,  I lengthened my stride some more in an attempt to keep my time up. Between miles nine and ten, that downhill slope was now an uphill one. Going uphill the pace began to slow considerably. My energy was waning fast but I still hit Mile ten in excellent shape time wise. Between Miles ten and eleven, a couple of coyotes crossed the railroad tracks ahead of me about 75 to a 100 yards to my front left. They stopped and did a long take in my direction. After about ten seconds they bounded off into the woods near the highway.

Now it was a slog rather than a speed march. Knees aching, it was an effort to keep going. I was never so happy to see our town’s cemetery which meant I was a mile from the finish. The sun was coming up and I could hear the traffic picking up on the road to my right. After crossing the railroad trestle (thankfully no train was coming) I was on the downhill side. My feet were getting sore but no blisters (thanks, Merrell) but by now my pace was almost a crawl. I finished 12 miles (sans weapon) at 2 hours 48 minutes, 36 seconds to the perfect ending song of the Black album, “Wherever I May Roam.” Not bad for a former action guy, but a good 28-30 minutes off my old times, albeit many moons ago.

So for you young guys considering the course, many have asked questions concerning the 12-miler and other long range movements and have voiced concerns over them. If the old guys can still do it at this point, you can do it too. You may even see us out on the trail, look for the old greybeard with the big staff bouncing along to Metallica.

The biggest difference between now and then was back in the day, after putting my feet up for an hour or two and getting something to eat, I could do it all over again. Today, I’m beat and not embarrassed to admit it. The thought of crossing the room for the remote is a debate in my mind to which, as my wife leaves the room, sure Dr. Phil is fine. I think I’ll just nod off here for a while….who’s bright idea was it to do this stuff again anyway?

Featured image courtesy of DoD

Former Green Beret Medic Still Making a Difference

As a former Special Forces soldier, sometimes you never see the final results of the hard work and sacrifice that you put into a mission. For Phil Melcher, a former medic in the 7th Special Forces Group, he met the results of a life-saving operation face-to-face.

Melcher had served all over Latin America but found himself in a very difficult dilemma while serving in Colombia. But as SF medics have done for the past 65 years, he found a way to save two lives and got a nice surprise much later.

Melcher, an Army Green Beret, was serving in the South American country when he was woken up at 2 a.m. to deliver a baby. When he got to the mother, the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. With no hospitals or modern technology available, Melcher had to perform the high-risk delivery without any help.

“When I delivered the child he wasn’t breathing,” Melcher said. “I had to resuscitate the baby and start CPR. After 45 seconds of CPR, the baby started coughing and screaming and spitting in my face. I was more excited about getting baby spit on me than at any other time in my life.”

Eight years later, Melcher was coming out of a commissary when a young boy ran into him. The boy’s mother yelled at the boy in Spanish, “Phillip, what are you doing?”

“And I looked and it was the mom and it was the kid,” Melcher said. “And I looked at her and she looked at me and we both started to cry and I’m like, ‘you named him after me?’ And she said yes, that she’s always told him about the man that helped him.”

He delivered 32 kids in some pretty extreme conditions. One of the other deliveries came to an indigenous tribe in Bolivia, where the baby was literally born on the jungle floor.

“I was a medic in the Special Forces before I became an operations and intel guy,” Melcher said. “In Special Forces you’re always a shooter first and you’re specialty is kind of a secondary thing, but you do whatever you need to do. Whenever a team goes into deployment, there are no doctors there. You’re the doctor.”

“The Special Forces medical course is unlike any other kind of medical training. It’s basically a cut down version of medical and physician’s assistant. You receive dentistry and animal husbandry training. It’s literally everything rolled up into one because you have to operate in any environment.”

Green Berets have to be as intelligent as they are physical. Melcher speaks three languages, helping him to fit into many cultures to operate seamlessly.

Melcher’s unit was assigned to Central and South America. His unit performed various peacekeeping operations, especially between Ecuador and Peru over Amazon River access. It also performed counter-narcotics operations, working against Pablo Escobar’s cartel.

Today he’s the Director of Security for the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. “I have to make sure I’ve got everything scheduled right, making sure staffing and secondary support from city police is adequate at each game,” he said. “I make sure there are security checks around the stadium.”

And Melcher teaches Cyber Security as an Adjunct Professor at Webster University.

To read the entire article from St. Louis Today, click here:

Photo courtesy Phil Melcher

Roger Donlon Awarded Medal of Honor, Nam Dong, July 6, 1964

In 1964, the United States wasn’t yet fully immersed in Vietnam and our commitment at that time were just advisors. Roger Donlon was the Commander of A-726, a Special Forces A-Team from the 7th Special Forces Group. His team was placed in Nam Dong, a strategically placed village 30 miles west of Da Nang and 15 miles east of the Laotian border.

Donlon’s actions during a two-day battle July 5-6, 1964 would ultimately result in him being awarded the Medal of Honor. He was the first US soldier to be awarded it during the Vietnam War. There were also two Distinguished Crosses awarded as well as four Silver Stars and five Bronze Stars to the team members. Nine team members were awarded the Purple Heart.

A-726 at Ft. Bragg before deploying to Vietnam.

Later, in 1968, the John Wayne film, “The Green Berets” had a scene where a Special Forces A-Camp (A-107) was sieged by the Viet Cong. It was loosely based on the battle at Camp Nam Dong.

The camp was on a major infiltration route for the North Vietnamese along the Ho Chi Minh trail, located on a finger of terrain that extended from Laos. Donlon’s team consisted of 12 Americans, an Australian Warrant Officer Kevin Conway and an American anthropologist, Gerald Hickey who was studying Vietnam’s indigenous tribes. The Green Berets were assigned to train and advise 311 Katu Tribesman along with a South Vietnamese SF team and 60 Nung (ethnic Chinese) mercenaries at the camp.

Nam Dong was situated on a rise in a valley and encompassed about 5 acres of territory. The Green Berets and their trusted Nung mercenaries would control the inner compound while the South Vietnamese would protect the outer compound with the tribesmen who were broken down into three strike force companies.

Donlon’s team had been in-country only about a month but they already suspected that many of Vietnamese strikers and army troops were Viet Cong (VC) sympathizers. Later, it was revealed that nearly a third were VC.

Donlon and the team sensed what was coming. A three-day patrol returned with the news that the VC had executed two village chiefs that had been friendly with the Americans. Throughout that Sunday afternoon, tension ran high in the basecamp, culminating in a confrontation between members of the Vietnamese strike force and the Nungs, ethnic Chinese mercenaries who served as bodyguards for the members of Special Forces in South Vietnam. Donlon later said that the confrontation was started by VC sympathizers inside the camp’s strike force.

Captain Roger Donlon at Nam Dong before the battle

SSG Merwin Woods was writing a letter home to his wife before going to bed on the night of the July 5th. “All hell is going to break loose here before the night is over,” he wrote. He was right.

Donlon was checking the camp’s defenses at 0230 and getting ready to relieve Conway who had been on duty. As he reached the door of the mess hall to get some coffee, the roof exploded in a blinding flash. VC mortar gunners had expertly targeted the mess hall and the command post with white phosphorous rounds. The fires were a beacon for VC incoming fire to pepper the camp.

VC mortar fire peppered the camp, the camp dispensary was hit but the medic, SGT Thomas Gregg made it safely with his pump-action shotgun. He blasted three VC who tried rushing in from the gate area.

Many of the Vietnamese were VC sympathizers including the South Vietnamese camp commander and the Intelligence Officer. Many in the strike force killed their Vietnamese counterparts while they slept or once the battle commenced.

The team’s radio operator, SSG Keith Daniels was radioing Da Nang when the Commo Bunker was hit. “They had superb planning,” Donlon said after the battle. Machinegun fire and grenades raked the camp as 800 VC of a reinforced battalion were beginning to assault the camp.

Donlon and MSG Gabriel “Pop” Alamo were trying to douse the fires while retrieving weapons and ammo from the command post. Alamo was burned badly but quickly joined SSG Ray Whitsell and SGT Michael Disser at their 81mm mortar pit near the main gate. It was one of three mortar positions, along with two 60mm mortar pits, ringing the inner perimeter. Disser was firing illuminating rounds that revealed hundreds of VC swarming through the outer perimeter.

“It was the most frightening sight of my life,” Disser was quoted in the book “Vietnam Medal of Honor Heroes.”

That is when Conway was killed. He was bounding down the steps of the mortar pit slowly in an effort to bolster the confidence of the young SF troops when he took a shot between the eyes. He lingered for a half-hour unconscious but died despite being given what little first aid was available. He was the first Australian soldier to die in Vietnam.

SGT John Houston saw more Viet Cong inside the inner perimeter and rushed to meet them headlong. He was behind a berm where a new command post was to be put in. The SF troops called it “The Pool.” Donlon was going to help him when he was hit by shrapnel from a mortar round. The blast took off all of his equipment, leaving him with no boots and just his AR-15. He was wounded in three places.

The youngest member of the team, Houston dueled with VC troops lobbing grenades at him for over two hours before his ammunition began to run out. He still refused to leave his position telling other soldiers to throw him ammo. He was then mortally wounded by the enemy that continued to advance.

In the mortar pit, the tube was glowing red-hot from the constant use of shells and illumination rounds that were being fired. Pop Alamo with an AR-15 and 1LT Jay Olejniczak, the XO of the team with an M-79 grenade launcher also kept up a steady rate of fire.

Alamo saw the VC attempting to breach the main gate. He rushed from the pit under heavy automatic weapons fire and bolstered the defense there, despite suffering a serious wound. The team’s situation was rapidly becoming untenable.

Donlon and Alamo covered the rest of the men in the pit as Donlon ordered them back to a safer position in a ditch. When it was their turn to leave, Donlon helped Alamo to his feet just as a VC mortar round hit the edge of the pit. The blast killed Alamo and wounded Donlon a fourth time. He had wounds to his face, arm, leg, and a quarter-sized hole in his stomach. His fingers were numb but it didn’t stop him from carrying the 60mm mortar and ammunition back to the men in the ditch.

He made three trips while treating the Nungs who were badly wounded and distributing ammunition and rallying the men. Donlon was seemingly everywhere. He made his way to SSG Woods who manned the other 81mm mortar pit. Woods was nearly knee deep in brass and empty ammunition tubes. He was wounded in his feet and had a perforated eardrum.

At just after 0400, Donlon heard the drone of an approaching aircraft which would drop flares and then the airstrikes would follow. He expected the VC to make a final all-out attempt to take the camp. Then the unexpected happened.

The team heard a voice shouting something in Vietnamese over a megaphone. The sound echoed in the darkness, and for a moment both sides stopped firing. “What’s he saying?” the Americans asked their interpreters.

The Vietnamese interpreter was visibly shaken by the words that the voice was shouting. “He say lay down weapons. V.C. going to take camp and we all be killed.”

After a pause, the voice shouted over the loudspeaker again, this time in English. “Lay down your weapons! We are going to annihilate your camp, you will all be killed!”

In the mortar pit, SGT Brown feverishly started dialing the knobs of the mortar tube trying to pinpoint where the sound of the loudspeaker came from. He dropped 10 rounds in succession. Enemy machine guns answered, but the loudspeaker had been silenced.

“In my mind’s eye, I see Brownie’s mortar rounds dropping directly down that megaphone,” Donlon said in an interview in 2003.

The arrival of air support turned the tide. VC fire began to dwindle. At 0600 Donlon finally was able to reach SSG Beeson’s position. He’d been firing his mortar all night long with his Nungs keeping him supplied with ammo. No one else on the team had been able to reach him. But the sight of his commander, now wounded all over his body, shocked the NCO. It was then, only because Beeson had to threaten Donlon that he’d knock him down, that the Captain allowed his own wounds to be treated.

By 0700, the VC withdrew. They left behind 154 dead and probably carried many more away. Then the wounded were treated and withdrawn from the shattered camp. Two Americans, Alamo and Houston were killed as was their Australian counterpart Conway. Nine more were wounded.

Both Alamo and Houston had pregnant wives waiting at home in Ft. Bragg. Upon hearing about his death, Alamo’s wife had a miscarriage. Houston’s wife gave birth to twins. One died at birth. The other, Houston’s son has stayed in close contact with Donlon thru the years.

On December 5, 1964, all ten surviving members of Detachment A-726 were in attendance at the White House where President Lyndon Johnson presented Captain Roger H.C. Donlon with the Medal of Honor. It was the first of 248 such awards to be presented for heroism during the War in Vietnam. And one of 18 Medals of Honor bestowed upon the Green Berets during the war.

Donlon’s portrait hangs in the Special Warfare Center’s Hall of Heroes.

Alamo and Houston were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross posthumously for their bravery, while Olejniczak, Brown, Disser and Terrin received Silver Stars. Bronze Stars for Valor were awarded to Beeson, Daniels, Gregg, Whitsell, and Woods. Nine of the twelve A-Team members received Purple Hearts.

Donlon later commanded the 3rd Bn. 7th Special Forces Group in Panama and retired as a Colonel. He and his wife live in Kansas.

Photos courtesy US Army

Special Operations Forces Strategic Success Takes Total Effort

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of SOFREP.com nor of any agency of the U.S. government.

Recently I’ve been reading some articles about the United States Special Operations Forces and their lack of strategic successes as the authors spin their own yarns in trying to tell the story. While certainly entertaining, and no doubt bolstered by countless FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) requests, the results are myopic and in many cases, just not true.

But first, to get the cat out of the bag, Special Operations Forces are not a panacea for every security issue facing the country. Yes, it is true. The USSOCOM Commander said so himself at the recent SOFIC (Special Operations Forces Industry Conference) about six weeks ago in Tampa.

The use of Special Operations Forces (SOF) itself, “by, with, and through” indigenous allies are always limited by the need to manage the interests of all parties involved. That takes a total effort by the US. Military, political and economic elements all have to be working in concert for strategic success of any kind to be realized.

SOF success, strategic success, relies on a total commitment to US policy, not just the deployment of Navy SEALs or Green Berets to advise the local military or police units in the country. And no one understands this more than SOF. SOF Truths were published when the command was in its infancy and one those reads. “Most Special Operations will require non-SOF Support.”

But to say that there have been no strategic successes ignores the truth. El Salvador was a country on the brink in the early 1980s. The FMLN (Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front) controlled vast areas of the Morazán and Chalatenango Departments of the country during the civil war.

The US, fresh off of the Vietnam experience, limited the SOF to just 55 permanent advisors for the military although other SOF units could enter the country on very short TDY (Temporary Duty) deployments. After the FMLN’s failed attempt at overthrowing the government during a 1989 offensive designed to take the capital of San Salvador, the US’ initiative at finding a peaceful solution worked. The FMLN was forced to negotiate a peace treaty and a deal was struck just three years later.

The US helped rebuild a shattered US economy and the US Ambassadors to the country deserve a tremendous amount of credit in negotiating a very tricky situation there.

The successful Salvadoran example also helped stabilize and secure what was a shaky Honduran government of the time. They were dealing with a latent insurgency of its own that was brewing just under the surface. And US SOF involvement with a solid political and economic effort was enough to stop it in its tracks.

Colombia was another nation in chaos in the 1980s and 1990s. Civil war with the FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, along with narco-terrorism rampant in the streets, had the Colombian government also teetering on the edge of collapse.

The US government sunk billions of dollars into the military and police as well as the infrastructure to the country. It was a long drawn out civil war there but the government was ultimately successful. The FARC laid down their arms and have disarmed themselves.

As for the illegal drug trade? SOF troops have been involved for over 30 years with the Colombian (and other nations) forces trying to eradicate the production of illegal drugs (Cocaine) in the country. It is a tricky proposition as the growing of coca plant in many areas of the Andean Ridge countries (Colombian, Bolivia, and Peru) is not illegal as there is a legitimate market for the crop. Finding the illegal precursor chemicals that are used in the production of cocaine as well as the illegal drug labs was a difficult proposition as anyone who ever worked in the jungles there will attest.

While one can argue the success or failure of the policies governing the eradication programs, they’ve certainly done their jobs in helping the Colombians in taking down countless illegal drug labs that dotted the landscape.

It was with amusement I read that in the same article that drug use in the United States, particularly cocaine is rising. As if the SOF operators were at fault for the people of the US wanting to use that and other illegal drugs. That is a failure at home and has zero to do with the troops trying to stop the flow. A common complaint among the Colombians during the 1990s was as true then as it is now.

“You say WE don’t do enough to stop the flow of cocaine to your country,” a Colombian general told me in Bogota. “And yet most of the cocaine from Colombia goes straight to the United States. I watched the Mayor of Washington D.C. smoke cocaine (crack) with a hooker on CNN. You people need to get your own house in order.”

And it was true. Blaming rising drug use on SOF’s lack of success in eradicating all of the drug labs is laughable. As long as there is a demand on the streets of the US, someone will take the place of every Colombian drug lord. And now the illegal drug use of choice has swung back to heroin and opiates. These are issues which need to be solved at home by Washington and not by SOF operators.

Another strategic success was in Peru. During the 1980s the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) guerrillas controlled vast areas of the southern and central areas of Peru, especially in the Upper Huallaga Valley. Under the command of leader Abimael Guzman (aka Comrade Gonzalo) they waged a brutal civil war that took an enormous toll on the civilians.

Through a long and concerted effort by SOF, the Peruvian SOF units were able to capture or kill most of the Sendero Luminoso leadership, including Guzman in 1992. In this case, the loss of their senior leaders caused the fracture and disintegration of the organization. They are no longer a viable threat to the country and have been nearly totally defeated.

Likewise, the SOF operations in the Philippines with low-visibility and total government cooperation took 13 years to see success. Now, the government of the Philippines is facing a new threat with the Islamic State terrorists and the use of foreign fighters. The threat is being addressed with US support.

The threat in Afghanistan is more of a political failure at the policy level in Washington than that of the SOF operators that continue to put themselves in harm’s way. The country removed the Taliban from power with just a handful of SOF and CIA personnel along with US air support. But just as with the earlier failed US involvement with the mujahideen and the efforts of US Congressman Charlie Wilson, the US quickly tired of it and left.  Wilson stated after the US helped oust the Russians and then lacked the foresight to see it thru, “These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world… and then we fucked up the end game.”

Therein lies the crux of the issue. Patience and the ability to see things through even when US control is not what it could be has always been the major failure of US foreign policy. We as a people want a solution, today, right now, yesterday to the problems facing the country.

As a result, Washington has grown increasingly in love with its SOF units as if they can magically transform all of the problems in one swing of the axe. Then they grow frustrated by the limitations that SOF has. While SOF will generate the tactical and operational successes on the battlefield, the overall strategic success requires that our leaders in Washington be educated on what SOF can, should, and should not be doing.

America’s SOF units are doing tremendous work in all corners of the globe. Strategic success will come from a combined effort however and not just from our operators. And you don’t need a FOIA request to see that.

Photos courtesy DOD

“Those Green Berets Sure Taught You How to Shoot Straight”

“No, sir. This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

Sometimes having a reputation can work against you and then there are others when you just do your job and move on. And then there are those times you get treated like a rock star, say nothing and smile at karma .  How so? Read on.

Back in the day, I was on a Mountain Team in the 1st Bn. 7th Special Forces Group. Our company was going on a deployment to Honduras. And our team’s mission was to train the Anti-Tank troops of the Sexto (6th) Infantry Battalion that was deployed near the border of Nicaragua. The Hondurans had requested our support specifically for this unit.

These troops had a real-world mission as the threat of Nicaraguan invasion was very real in those days. In fact, they had a few border skirmishes with their neighbors as the borders were slightly ill-defined. The Nicaraguans had crossed the border inadvertently on several occasions while hammering it out with the Contras. (Remember them? See Ollie North, Iran/Contra) And yes it was inadvertent. We were there for the “invasion” during Operation Golden Pheasant.

Since the Nicaraguans had armor, the Anti-Tank troops were the first line of defense. They were constantly being tested had recently put on a firepower demonstration for the Estado Mayor (General Staff) of the military with their Vietnam-era M-40 106mm Recoilless Rifles that were combined jeep mounted and fixed on the ground and fired 50 rounds down range and hit nothing…not one single target.

Our guys who visited the base for a site survey didn’t get to meet or talk with any of the Anti-Tank unit. They’d been alerted en masse and were sent to the border. They only spoke with the Battalion’s commander and training officer. That was a big detriment to mission planning.

We were told to expect a nightmare. The anti-armor unit that can’t hit water out of a boat with a 106mm. For those unfamiliar with the M-40 106mm RR, it was a great short-range weapon that was actually a 105mm but the designation changed during the Korean War because the ammunition was not compatible with the failed M-27 design.

The M-40 had an M-8C .50 caliber spotting rifle attached to the top. The spotting rifle fires a round whose trajectory is nearly that of the 106mm round and gives off a puff of smoke on impact with the target. The system used a spotting rifle because the back blast of the main gun left such a signature, that a first-round hit was essential.

On the left (gunner’s) side, there is an elevating wheel, in the center of which is the trigger wheel used to fine adjust the elevation and at the same time firing the spotting rifle when pulled, and the main gun when pushed.

The weapon is mounted on a tripod, but the front leg has a wheel. On top of the mount is a traverse wheel. On the center of the traverse wheel is a locking wheel, when the wheel is down, the rifle is locked in traverse, and can only be moved right and left with the traverse wheel. When the wheel is raised, the rifle can be traversed by hand.

The 106mm RR fired HE (High Explosive), HEAT (High Explosive Anti-Tank), and an APERS (High Explosive Anti-personnel) that fired flechette rounds. There were other types of ammunition but no other type was available for the Honduran troops at that time. The rear end of the cartridge case is perforated, to allow the propellant gas to escape through the vented breech, thus neutralizing recoil. The 106mm RR could penetrate 12 inches of cold rolled steel at 300 meters. The .50 caliber ammo was not the standard issue for the M2 machine gun. But was shorter and specially designed to mimic the flight path of the main gun ammunition.

The weapon was bore sighted by using a cut-down 106mm round with a subcaliber .30 caliber round inserted. This would come into play much later.

The team prepared by making some coordination with JFKSWC (Special Warfare Center) Weapons Committee. They gave an excellent block of instruction on the 106 and got every member of the team up to standard on the operation, maintenance, and crew drills. We could each perform all the functions of a crew member, boresight the weapon and were then each comfortable enough to teach it to the Honduran troops.

We got to spend a couple of days on the range and put some steel on targets. Range control got really pissed when they specifically told us that an old school bus was danger close and off limits to us shooting at. And of course, one of our guys (I’ll never tell), put a flechette round into it. When the range control guys returned, the bus was still smoking and looked like Swiss cheese. Range Control was hot enough to spit flames at our team leader, but sometimes it is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

We were ready. Our team nearly filled a C-141 with 106mm ammo with a slew of .50 caliber spotting rounds and we flew down to Honduras to get the mission underway. After a day or so to get settled in and get trucks to pack all the ammo and gear up into the mountains, we were underway.

Our initial training schedule had a couple of days for crew drills since we expected them to be pretty sloppy. We began by doing a quick inspection of the guns and they were all in very good to excellent condition. The troops obviously took very good care of them. Which was an encouraging sign.

Next, we broke down the unit into their mounted (Jeep) and fixed gun crews and had them walk thru their crew drills. They then went thru their crew drill at normal (combat) speed. I was on the gun crew next to the one our team leader was with and we made eye contact with one another. His eyebrows went up and without saying anything, I could tell he wasn’t expecting this. These guys looked incredibly smooth, much better than any regular Honduran line unit we had worked with, especially on Day 1.

After running them thru the crew drills a few more times, we had the crews bore sight their weapons and once again they did it without the slightest hitch. We broke for an early lunch at the range and would commence live fire after their break. Our weapons guys were surprised at how smooth they looked and at they seemed to have their act together, which for the Honduran army back then was no easy feat. And we wondered aloud why these troops couldn’t hit the side of a barn. Our questions would soon be answered.

After lunch, the crews broke down with their respective guns and we readied to see how well they could hit their targets. The targets were dugout areas on the side of a ridgeline 400-500 meters away and had logs laid into the 4’ x 6’ area and were painted white for easy identification.

The first gun crew was readying to fire when our senior weapons leader stopped them. “What the fuck are you doing,” he asked?  The crew wasn’t loading spotting rounds for the .50 caliber but the .30 caliber device for bore sighting. “We don’t have .50 caliber spotting rounds,” they said. Apparently, according to their Lieutenant, they hadn’t had any in years.

Some visiting straight-leg officer from the US MILGP (Military Group) in the US Embassy who had zero knowledge of the M-40 had told them in lieu of spotting rounds, the sub-caliber device for bore sighting could be used as a spotting round. Mystery solved. For any target farther than 100 meters, you wouldn’t hit jack shit.

We went into the back of our truck and broke out the spotting rounds and they loaded them up (for the first time) into their spotting rifles. The first gun crew fired the spotting round dead center of a target on the ridge in the distance and then fired their main gun. The target exploded with a direct hit. The unit cheered like they just scored a touchdown at the Super Bowl.

After ensuring that each crew had spotting rounds we spent the rest of the afternoon live firing the 106s and there were very very few misses. These guys were just lacking the proper ammunition for their spotting rifles and taking what an American officer had told them at face value. They did what they were told and had failed miserably. After the first day, their morale was sky high. For most of them, this was the first time, they hit a target with their assigned weapon.

Our training outline would have to be changed…obviously. And we got into more advanced training than we ever envisioned we would be able to accomplish. The support guys who set out the targets were told to start making them smaller. The lesser profiles were much harder to hit.

The mounted jeep sections were quickly getting adept at hitting their targets while racing between firing positions. And the others were getting their guns into action much faster getting them off-loaded from trucks.

Two months later, the Estado Mayor were once again called out to the range. They were briefed on the upcoming scenario, on the ridge line in the distance of 400 meters away was an enemy attacking force of armor. But the targets weren’t sized 4’ x 6’ but just 55-gallon drums painted white and much harder to hit.

The jeeps drove up quickly from the dirt road and took up firing positions. They engaged the first line of “tanks” and quickly destroyed every one of them. While they were moving to their secondary firing position, the fixed guns, which had been camouflaged using the brush and unseen from the VIPs opened fire quickly, covering their movement and destroying many more targets on the opposite hill.

The vehicle mounted sections again hit their targets decimating the remaining 55-gallon drums on the far side. As a final scenario, the Honduran LT called out an infantry attack coming up the draw, 150 meters to their left front. That was simulated by having about 50 rifle silhouette targets on a skid. The first gun sections depressed the barrels and gave them a salvo of flechette rounds. The silhouettes disappeared in a flash of dust and debris. Not a single target was left. What a difference from their earlier disaster just a few months earlier.

Was it great training on the SF part or just getting them the correct equipment? We knew the answer. But the LT begged our commander not to say the real reason why as it would make them look bad he said.

The Estado Mayor approached our Team Leader and asked to address our team. They were very pleased they said with the training. They could see the difference in the soldiers’ confidence and attitude. “A few months ago, they couldn’t hit a thing. Now, they can handle anything that comes at them and we thank you for that. Our border area is now safer thanks to you.” He then told our Captain not to let the Anti-Tank unit fire any more flechette rounds. “Save them for the “perro cacerros” when they cross the border.

They then addressed the Lieutenant. “You and your men did a fantastic job today. We can see how hard you’ve worked.” And then with a smile, he added, “Those Green Berets sure taught you how to shoot straight.”

______________

A sad footnote was that less than a week later, while responding to another alert on the border, one of the jeeps carrying a 106, took a corner too fast and rolled. The gun crushed one of the crew killing him and seriously injured two others.

Photos courtesy Author, US Army

When Special Operations Training Takes a Step Back in Time

When Special Operations guys enter the units that they’ve worked so hard to get into, they all have a burning desire to use that newfound knowledge and go out and do great things. Those type of operations that they’ve envisioned inside the recessed part of their brain but never publicly spoken about for fear that it would ‘jinx” their chances.

But sometimes the operations that you’ll get tasked to do won’t be those “high-speed”, high visibility operations using the state-of-the-art gadgets from Q-Branch, but using very necessary and forgotten knowledge from generations before. And now, with the operators of all the services conducting missions in all kinds of austere environments, those forgotten lessons are once again…thankfully being taught at the schoolhouse.

My first team that I was assigned to was a Mountain team and I was thrilled. After high school and while in college, I took up rock climbing and the Northeast has several superb areas to practice your craft. I spent a ton of time climbing in the White Mountains of NH, the Adirondacks of NY including the world famous “Gunks” as the local climbers call the Shawangunks and Crow Hill State Park in Leominster, Massachusetts.

Crow Hill is just minutes from Ft. Devens, MA, which in those days was the home of the 10th Special Forces Group and they frequently used Crow Hill for training and I ran into quite a few of them back in the day as they conducted their training much to the chagrin of the local climbers who bemoaned (from afar) their use of pitons in the cracks rather than using “nuts” which didn’t scar the rock. The SF guys could care less.

So as the new guy on the team, I was anxious to show, at least in the climbing realm, I already had a lot of experience and would be a definite bonus to the team. And when we got the word that the mountain team was getting alerted for a mission, I had visions of getting the best alpine gear and going on a climbing expedition to the Andes or some exotic locale.

Well imagine our surprise when our team leader announced we were going to mule packing school. Now back then, the JFKSWC (Special Warfare Center) didn’t have an advanced mountain school or have any course where animal packing was done. We’d learn from civilians in Arizona. The Army hadn’t done serious mule packing since the days of Merrill’s Marauders in Burma. A friend of mine from the SF Reserves in New York sent me an Army Mule Packing Manual from the early 1900s.

We had very strict guidelines in what was to be packed and carried by the pack animals and we set off to learn and to experiment on what worked, what didn’t and how we’d go about in altering the pack saddles and panniers to fit what we need to tote along.

We took our mission to Honduras and the mountains in the interior of the country, far from prying eyes. Working with the Airborne battalion in Tamara and the 6th Infantry Bn. home of “The Centaurs” at Ojo de Agua, commonly known as Ojo de Nada would provide our host nation troops. Some of them had pack animal experience, but most did not.

The animals were a mixed bag, having only a few mules, we worked with tiny burros and horses which aren’t as good as mules when it comes to carrying a heavy load as well as their footing but we used what we had. We spent days working up a solution to what needed to go in a specific load, putting it on an animal, and marching them around the compound. Then take it the pack saddle off, readjust the load and the lashing and do it all over again.

We were basically learning on the fly and everything we tried and tested was put on the computer or filmed as to help the next guys who would get tasked to run this type of operation. Our team Warrant Officer, Rick B. probably was the SME (subject matter expert) on pack animal operations in the military at that point. It truly was a forgotten art at that point in time.

Finally, we were ready to take a mule train across the mountains. We loaded up our rag-tag group of 20 mules, horses, and burros and loaded them down with food, water, mortars and mortar ammunition, Stingers as well as our rucksacks. We’d carry our vests and weapons.

Author with “Samurai” horse getting a drink in a mountain stream

Almost immediately, problems arose. The pack saddles, sized for big Tennessee mules in the states, were too big for their smaller Honduran cousins. Loads were slipping and sliding after a short few steps and the train stopped constantly. Rick was everywhere, moving up and down the train, helping everyone get their loads straightened out. As soon as one would get fixed, another would slide and need fixing.

After pushing out of the battalion soccer field at 0700, by dark, we made about 500 meters…and were still in view of the base guard towers, who shouted out good-natured insults to their soldiers working with us.

The second day started off much the same way, the first few hours were once again spent constantly fixing the shifting loads before everything started to fall into place. By noon time of Day 2, we started trucking and we covered about 20+ kilometers, which thru the mountains was no easy task. The animals handled their loads, once they were properly loaded, without any problems at all. Days 3-4 we blazed across the mountains and reached the point we had initially picked to reach on Day 5 before our problems surfaced at the start.

Our mission was a success and the lessons learned on our mission were turned over to the proper people who needed that expertise in another part of the world. That mission proved to be successful as we watched it unfold from afar and the military took notice.

Pack animals are now used in many places by our Special Operations troops where vehicles can go or are not available. A few years later we watched as a group of 5th SFG (A) and Air Force Special Operators made the first mounted horseback charge in over 100 years.

The JFKSWC’s Senior Mountaineering Course and the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training School both teach the finer points of using animals including horsemanship, animal packing instructions, equipment maintenance in their curriculums.

A Special Forces soldier leads his pack mule down a trail Sept. 18 during the Special Operations Animal Packing Course at Fort Bragg, N.C. The course prepares special operation troops for extended movement in undeveloped areas where motorized transportation is not an option. (Photo by Cpl. Kyle J. Cosner, USASOC PAO)

Graduates can go back to their units and be the subject-matter experts in tactical military operations in mountainous terrain, lead untrained and indigenous forces over mountainous terrain, as well as conduct pack-animal operations.

Sometimes, the “high-speed” isn’t in the equipment being used, but in the manner that the operators use the old ways and tailor them to modern missions.

Photos courtesy of the author, US Army