Bolivia

A Very Crazy Special Forces Thanksgiving in Bolivia

During Thanksgiving, we all give thanks for spending time with our families, friends, and loved ones. We enjoy food, football, and spend time reminiscing. Early this Thanksgiving morning, I spent some time reading some excellent posts on Thanksgiving experiences and what the holiday means.

We had a conversation at our home over morning coffee sitting outside enjoying a nice cool Florida morning about how many holidays were spent away from home… and there were many. Some were spent in schools (NCO Academy during my enlisted days) and others at SERE School which I wrote about a while back.

That One Thanksgiving

One particular Thanksgiving stands out, thanks to what transpired in a typically bizarre set of circumstances that always seemed to make life interesting and funny in Special Forces. But first, a bit of background information.

Back in the day, the 7th Special Forces Group was supporting the U.S. Andean Ridge counter-narcotics policies by sending A-Teams throughout South America to work with and support DEA teams (Snowcap). The DEA teams were trying to eradicate cocaine labs and processing and stop the drug from making its way to the United States. One can argue whether those missions succeeded or failed, but for years we constantly had A-Teams in areas all over Bolivia, Colombia, and Peru.

One such area was the “lovely little village” of Chimore, Bolivia. Then-Captain Charlie Cleveland was the first A-Team commander who carved out a little base in Chimore. The base was in the strategic spot where the Chapare River intersected with the highway (Highway 4) that ran from the Chapare Valley where the majority of the coca-growing (and illicit drug labs) were being farmed. The drugs were transported to the capital of La Paz through Cochabamba to the west or Santa Cruz to the east. Cleveland later became a lieutenant general and headed Special Operations Command.

The 7th SFG built up the camp at Chimore and expanded it where a battalion of UMOPAR (Unidad Móvil Policial para Áreas Rurales), counternarcotics paramilitary police was then stationed. Ostensibly, the UMOPAR fell under the Bolivian Special Anti-narcotics Force (Fuerza Especial de Lucha Contra el Narcotráfico — FELCN) of the Bolivian National Police (Cuerpo de Policía Nacional). But the reality was much different. The UMOPAR really worked for the DEA and to a lesser extent the U.S. military.

Successive A-Teams under Operation “Red Dragon” and “Stonebridge” continually built up the base. It ended up including an airstrip that would handle C-47/DC-3 aircraft that the U.S. sold to Bolivia as well as UH-1Hs as the U.S. provided the Bolivians with their own rotary-wing capability, called the “Red Devils.” Later, more A-Teams would do some great work just down the road in Villa Tunari as they’d be co-located with folks from the Narcotics Affairs Section (NAS). There are some great stories from there…

As Chimore grew, it became the major DEA hub in the area. Eventually, the embassy and the MILGP wanted to cut the SF advising group from an A-Team to just two-three advisory teams. I had been there with an A-Team and then found myself back as part of the two-man team with my bud Dave O.

Our Life Gets Better

Special Forces in Bolivia — The old SF living quarters (shacks) behind the haul of a night raid where about 80-90 pounds of uncut cocaine and precursor chemicals lay. (Courtesy of author)

The living conditions became much better. The A-Team lived in small plywood shacks that were hot as all hell during the day. When Dave and I got there, we moved into a small house on the Bolivian side of the base. It was run by NAS and our liaison (a great guy who wasn’t Bolivian but Paraguayan… go figure) did all the logistical work to keep the base running smoothly. He could and did get us anything we asked for… within reason.

Our house that we lived in with our NAS liaison was fairly austere by conventional standards but was the Taj Mahal by what we lived in with the A-Team. We even had a housekeeper/cook. Life was pretty darn good for being in the middle of nowhere in the jungle. During the days leading up to Thanksgiving, we asked (frequently) for us to get a turkey since we weren’t getting any football (the internet was science fiction for Bolivia at the time). We were told that the turkey was coming but it might be a bit late… fair enough.

Thanksgiving came and went (we ate roasted chicken and fish caught in the river) and we were happy enough.

A couple of days later we were preparing to spend a long day at the demo range where Dave was going to teach the UMOPAR troops, cratering, and steel-cutting charges.

I was getting dressed sleepily in my room dying for some coffee when I heard a commotion in the kitchen and our cook screaming in Quechua, the indigenous Indian language.

I walked out and saw that she had cornered a large armadillo in the kitchen and was beating it to death with a broomstick.

In between whacks, she asked me “Would you like some coffee and breakfast?” “Ah no thanks,” I replied, “we’ll just skip that this morning.” Such was life in the jungle camp.

We stayed on the range all day and the troops had a ball. There is something about blowing sh*t up that brings out the little kid in all of us. Morale was high. We ate MRE’s for lunch and were still out there as the sun was beginning to set.

Be Thankful!

Around mid-morning, we got the great news from our NAS guy that the turkey was supposed to be arriving on a DEA plane ASAP. And sure enough soon after we saw it swoop in over at the airstrip…We must have mentioned turkey for dinner about 10 times during that day. We just hoped our cook would know enough to prepare it right.

About 5-6 p.m. we cut the UMOPAR boys loose for their evening chow and headed for the little casa that was home. Upon opening the door, a delicious smell came upon us… that was a plus. Our cook told us that dinner was almost ready. Since we were waiting for our NAS guy (his name escapes me), I jumped in the shower to wash some Bolivian funk off me, and got ready to eat.

We all sat down. Dinner was served and my first thought was…what the heck had she done to the bird… It was quartered but roasted with potatoes and veggies… ah well. As soon as I took a bite, I was taken back by some awfully nasty taste. She totally f**ked up our post-Thanksgiving turkey.

A few more bites didn’t improve matters. It was then our NAS bud asked our cook about the “pavo,” the Spanish word for turkey in Quechua. “No, no, no,” she said and rambled on in her native tongue for a few moments. “What did she say,” Dave and I asked in unison?

Our NAS started laughing. “She said no turkey came in on the plane, we are eating the armadillo,” he said.

Is it an armadillo or a Bolivian turkey? (Wikimedia Commons)

I could feel the color drain from my face. I wanted to hurl. Knowing that armadillos carry leprosy, I immediately imagined that in a few months Dave and I would look like the guy in the village in Papillon who gave Steve McQueen the boat.

So, the next time a family member complains about your turkey being dry and overdone, remind them that it is better than a freakin’ armadillo!

“We Keep Rucking Until Our Leg Falls Off…Right?

There are times in Special Operations where you just have to stand back and say WTF just happened. And it seems to crazy that it can’t possibly be true…but it is and then you just have to laugh. He’s a funny rucking story for you guys this morning.

Many years ago, while our Special Forces team was on a counter-narcotics MTT to Bolivia, the 7th SFG guys did what they always have done, they worked themselves out of a job. For years we had been sending A-Teams to Chimore and Villa Tunari for the “Red Dragon” deployments. Then came the “Stonebridge” deployments, along with teams that trained with other Bolivian units in Riberalta, Cochabamba, Santa Cruz and the Bolivian Rangers (the Manchego Bn), the unit that captured and executed Che Guevara after being trained up by Pappy Shelton and the 8th SFG from Panama.

The SF guys trained the UMOPAR, Unidad Móvil Policial para Áreas Rurales (Mobile Police Unit for Rural Areas) the Bolivian para-military counternarcotics police. They wore camouflage uniforms, carried M-2 carbines and M-79 grenade launchers and worked alongside the DEA Snowcap personnel.

As we were getting ready to leave after our six-month deployment, the MILGRP commander and the Country Team made it clear that they felt the UMOPAR training no longer needed an entire (or at times piggybacked pair of A-Teams) to train them up. In fact, they were looking for the DEA to have their own strike force that would remain on the books for the Bolivian government but would be trained and answer only to the U.S. They asked us how it should be trained and put together. We threw together a quick concept and gave them an outline for that.

Fast forward a year later and my partner Dave and I are back and starting the training for this new UMOPAR unit. The first group of guys who were supposed to be the best troops in the UMOPAR for this new unit. The guys, mostly Bolivian campesinos were a mix of city guys from La Paz, Sucre and Cochabamba and the Indian tribes from the countryside who spoke Spanish as a second language.

They were really short but were good natural runners but their rucking skills were in the neophyte stage. So we decided we’d start with 35-lb rucks and not the standard 45-lb that U.S. Special Operations troops begin with.

So for the first cadre-led ruck march PT session, we lined up in the dark about 4:45 in the morning. They were bitching in formation like all soldiers do about being up so early. Our concept was simple since we were just a two-man training team. I’d set the pace up front and Dave would be the “pusher” in the back, keeping the stragglers from falling too far behind. This should be easy…right?

So we trudge out the gate of Chimore with a few guys having chemlights attached to their rucks on the back, just in case the odd driver would be traveling the highway at that time of morning. The pace was easy for the first half-mile, we had already done a test run with just ourselves and had the route marked out.

I started picking up the pace and it wasn’t long before I’d hear the all-too-familiar sound of one guy behind me begin to shuffle and then that sound echoing as the slinky effect took hold.

At the Mile-2 mark, I picked up the pace even more and now the sound of small, intermittent pattering of Bolivian feet became a steady shuffle to keep up with the gringo up front. About two minutes later, from the middle of the formation behind me, I heard something I didn’t expect to….laughter. I turned to see where it was coming from but in the near pitch darkness, I couldn’t see more than one or two guys behind me.

“Well,” thinks I. If they’re finding so much humor in this, let’s get this party started. I picked up the pace even more. Now the shuffling was accompanied by heavy breathing from our candidates as we were moving out with a purpose.

A moment later, more laughter from the Bolivian troops, this time followed by Dave’s voice, now far behind me, “¡Conejo”, “¡Carajo!” Good I thought, Dave is kicking their asses back into the formation.

This sequence repeated two more times and each time, I’d pick up the pace even more, on the way back to base as we approached the bridge that led up to the gate, I started running and urged them to tighten it up and away we went. I ran the last 300 meters or so and then into the compound to where we had our formation. The sun was just beginning to rise and the inky blackness of night was giving way to that grey dawn where everything looks like it is in black and white.

As the formation slowed to a stop, the heavy breathing of the troops was intermingled with more laughter and good-natured shit talking of the troops to one another. I was totally unprepared for what I saw next. Dave looked like he’d run over by a semi. His uniform was tattered and covered with mud, and he was really pissed off…at me.

“What the hell happened”, I asked him? He was hot but kept his voice low, “didn’t you hear me yelling in the back” he asked? The strap on my leg snapped and the f***ng thing kept falling off, and I must have wiped out about five times.”

Dave had lost his leg below the knee about three years earlier. And back then an SF guy or any army guy missing a limb still on active duty was a rarity. There was only three that I knew of. Dave, Carlos Parker, a Sergeant Major from 7th SFG who lost his in Vietnam and Major Dunford, who was our XO at SFAS and then lost his leg when his Hummer rolled over a mine during the first Gulf War.

The Bolivians in the dark had no idea that A. Dave had only one leg and B. that is was falling off during the ruck march. They thought he was just stumbling and falling in the dark. We would get to that in a moment. But first, we had to set things up properly.

We explained to the troops that they’d be carrying more weight and equipment than the average UMOPAR troops and they’d be getting better kit once we got the unit manned. But, they’d have to learn how to move and move fast with all of that gear.

So with that, I asked if there were any questions. And sure enough, one smart-ass in the back said, “It is easy for you guys to move that fast, you have legs twice as long as ours.” There was the cue.

I nodded to Dave, who slid his leg out of his pants and tossed it in front of the formation. It landed perfectly with the boot down standing at attention. There was a gasp from the formation, most of the Bolivians had never seen a prosthetic limb before and they were shocked into silence. “Your legs may be short, but at least you have two of those,” Dave said. You could hear a pin drop.

He leaned in and whispered to me, “that got their attention, I’m grabbing a shower”, and with that, he hopped on one foot into our building. I stood there for a moment longer. “Any other questions or comments?” There were none. I turned the formation over to the local commanders for showers and breakfast. As the troops left they were all coming by and staring at the leg before resuming their grab-assery on the way to their barracks.

We left Dave’s leg there until after breakfast, he had a spare with him and as the regular UMOPAR dudes were doing their morning chores they’d pass by our building and stare at this metal leg with a US jungle boot attached and then stare inside. Dave sent his broken prosthetic back up to Walter Reed and rather than fix it, they sent him a new high-speed version to the Embassy (that’s a story for another time).

Dave became Sargento Terminator to the troops and they asked a few times if he had any more metal parts. I told them his member was made of steel and they rolled on the floor and said that he must be popular with the ladies…if they only knew.

As we progressed with the training, the Bolivian guys never got great at rucking but they improved. One morning we told them we were going on an 8-miler. We told the troops we would be setting a quick pace thru the entire ruck march.

The Bolivian sergeant major looked at me and smiled. We keep rucking until our legs fall off, right?” he asked. That’s called motivation boys and girls.

So when you’re rucking to prepare for your own Selection and your legs begin to tire, remember…you’ve got two. DOL

Photo: DOD

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