Old 01-25-2004, 16:11   #1
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
SFAS-The Experience

This will be the first of what may be several installments of the SFAS experience of our own Basenshukai.

I have reviewed his story and find it particularly insightful as a successful SFAS student wrote it, and I have cross-checked it against my experiences and observations as a cadre member.

This story will not give anyone an unfair advantage by reading it, since the course evolves constantly and specific events, distances, times, etc. have been removed. Several events and conditions have changed, but the overall impressions are very accurate.

I think the most powerful lessons to be gleaned from this monograph is the difficulty of the course, the "Big Boy Rules" of operating alone in the woods without knowing the standards, ability of man to overcome adversity and that your mind can control your body. Well-written and an excellent read.

Feed back will be instrumental in deciding whether to continue this story or not.

Thank you, Basenshukai.

TR


A Full Company Of Men:
One soldier’s journey into the US Army Special Forces Assessment and Selection

By Basenshukai


[Note to the reader: This is a general recollection of my experiences in SFAS. Some information has been modified in order to not betray the scope of the course. In order to make the reading a bit easier, all military-specific jargon has been defined in a glossary that has been included at the end of this work. Italics will identify terms that are defined in the glossary the first time that they appear on the text. These are not official US Army definitions, but are instead intended to bring a general understanding to the uninitiated. The concepts expressed in this work are the views and opinions of the author alone and do not reflect the official views of any branch of the US government, including the Defense Department, and the US Army, any of its subordinate commands, nor any other individual who serves in an official capacity.]


The Genesis

The LMTV truck was packed with more men than it was probably safe to load. We were so crammed with our gear that men were literally sitting on top of other men. The ride to Camp Mackall was noisy, at first. Many cracked jokes about the previous briefing we had just received from one of the civilians that worked for Special Operations Command. There were soldiers from all around the globe sitting nervously around each other trying to keep the anxiety from showing. It was close to 2000 hours and darkness had fallen. A short drizzle of rain accompanied our bumpy ride to the Colonel Nick Rowe Special Operations Training Center at Camp Mackall. Soon, as the ride brought us ever closer to Mackall, we grew silent; each man lost in his own thoughts. Many put their heads down and attempted to sleep. Some were successful. I was not. As I looked back through the rear opening of the truck, I wondered what awaited me.

Our arrival to Mackall was quite unceremonious. Unlike the Ranger Course, there weren’t any instructors just waiting to harass us the moment our feet hit the ground. In fact, there was a very jovial and relaxed instructor there, from the 19th Special Forces Group we learned later, who took us through the initial area orientation and “dos and don’ts” of the course. We filled-out some administrative paperwork and were assigned temporary quarters. Our new homes consisted of simply built World War II style open bays with about seventy bunks to a building. The mattresses displayed all manner of stains and some were even ripped open at the sides. The conditions were Spartan, at best. It was obvious that the focus here was hard training. We were free to “rack-out” by 2300 hours. After a hopeful prayer, my sleep came fast.

My internal clock went buzzing about 0400. For some reason, I seem to automatically revert to “stand to” times when I’m in a school of this sort or in the field. I guess it was a habit built-in during the Ranger Course. I looked at my digital watch in the dim light that was pouring from the outside floodlights and anxiously waited for an instructor to come in and yell that it was time for our wake-up. The instructor did not come. After a half hour, I succumbed to sleep once more. Wake-up was finally at 0600. I found this quite odd. There was no yelling, no screaming and no sense of urgency anywhere. I wasn’t the only one worried. The anticipation of the “official” start was eating away at some of us. The mood was very ambiguous and it is in ambiguity itself that Special Forces expect its soldiers to thrive. We cleaned up and shaved and held a loose formation that would probably make any sergeant major want to murder us. After getting a head count, we moved to the dinning facility for morning hot chow. Shortly after this, we returned to our beds and lay there, trying to stay awake, hoping that the rude awakening would come swiftly. The rude awakening didn’t come by lunchtime. We held another loose formation, executed a head count and moved out to the dinning facility for lunch. The only physical aspect to our day thus far was that we had to double-time everywhere we went on the compound. The area where the candidates sleep is known for its copious amounts of gravel. This hard, yet pliable material wreaks havoc on blistered and sore feet, as we were later to find out.

By 1300 many of us had decided that much was not going to occur today and, as we didn’t see many instructors around, we slept. The day came and went with more and more candidates showing-up. In all, we totaled about 270 candidates by the end of the day. Lights out came at 2200 and most of us just added to the 13 hours of sleep we already had. This would be the last time that we would have such luxury for the next 24 days.

(To be continued)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 17:28   #2
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part II

Gates

What I would consider “Day One” began with administrative activities, such as the checking of our medical records and our orders. We were broken down alphabetically and then assigned numbers in ascending order. We were issued, among other gear, red numbered pinny shirts, which you wore over either the Army Physical Fitness Uniform shirt or the brown T-shirt. This became our identity for the next three and a half weeks. For the next two days we took exams that measured our intelligence, our problem solving abilities and our psychological make-up. We were briefed, and welcomed, by the cadre, course commander, course first sergeant, camp commander, camp sergeant major, group commander, and finally the overall commander of the Special Warfare Center.

Our Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT) was held at the beginning of this first week. There was nothing new about any of the events; it was all standard Army practice. What was different, however, was that there was to be no encouragement of another candidate, as this was an individual event, and the strict adherence to form during the execution of each exercise. Each push-up had to be slow and deliberate and each sit-up had to break the perpetual “plane” with one’s upper-back coming to ninety degrees with the ground. Most of us did well. Others had a really hard time as they had developed bad habits back at their home stations. The cadre had set up a nice two-mile run track with a very gradual incline and decline. It was essentially a large loop on the Camp Mackall Airfield. I came in at the middle of the pack on the run. All in all, this was not a bad first day. Incredibly, about 30 people failed the APFT and had to retake it the next day. Of those, about five soldiers made it to join the rest of the class.

The APFT may have been the first real gate into the course, but it was also the green light for the instructors to punish us with physical activity should this become either necessary, or part of the weeding-out process. Collectively, I think we all understood this and the regular formations became a bit more organized. We would form-up just outside of our huts, which is what we called our living quarters. We now had enough candidates to occupy four huts. Because of where my last name fell on the alphabet, I became part of Hut 4, our last man being candidate roster number 269. This meant we were intuitively placed at the end of almost every task. Chow came last to us more often than not. But, it also meant that we were not the first hut that was called upon for menial work details. The instructors communicated to us in two ways: harsh language and a dry erase board placed just outside their shed next to a clock with the official SFAS time. Strangely, this clock seemed to change just about every day, so we were forced to reset our watches time and again. What this ended up doing was ensuring that we appeared about fifteen minutes early to each formation. As the instructors made it a rule to write the next events on the dry erase board, each hut sent out a man to look for changes to either the clock, or the board’s contents about every fifteen minutes. This way, a thirty minute warning for an event really meant just about fifteen minutes to inform everyone, put on the newly prescribed uniform and be outside fully accounted for. To aid this, the cadre assigned a temporary leader to each hut, as well as an overall leader for the whole class. These positions rotated about every three days and did not seem to follow a pattern of rank, or experience. When an inexperienced leader got to the helm, everything seemed disorganized. The troops would not listen and would shout back suggestions to the hut leader. The position of hut leader can be quite intimidating. Most of the candidates in any one hut were anywhere from Private First Class (PFC) to Captain (CPT). Some came from the Ranger Regiment, the National Guard Special Forces Groups, while others boasted recent combat experience in Afghanistan.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 18:46   #3
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part III

Meet Nasty Nick

The first real physical test came in the way of an obstacle course known simply as “Nasty Nick” (named after the late Colonel Nick Rowe). The obstacle course boasts some pretty high rope climbs as well as some obstacles that measure a candidate’s equilibrium and courage. The SF cadre is interested in finding out how a man reacts in unfamiliar terrain. We each live in our own comfort zones. We have these individual shells of protection that we utilize to avoid the outside world from exposing our softer insides. The cadre works to observe our performance in each obstacle and assess our hesitation when confronted by the danger of falling and possible maiming. There was no cadre around each obstacle waiting to catch you if you fell. There were enough of them around, however, to document your success, or failure, at most obstacles. Looking at some of these architectural nightmares, I appreciated how close one could come to a life changing physical paralysis should one fail to pay attention to detail, follow instructions, or was too weak. If one fell from an obstacle, whether it resulted in a compound fracture, or just a bruised ego, a cadre member would just stand over you with a pen and clipboard and with a monotone voice say: “Candidate you have failed to successfully complete this obstacle. Would you like to try again?” And that was that. No emotion, no encouragement, no alarm. Of course, if the injury were serious enough, an SF medic would check you out and decide whether it was unwise for either SF, or the Army, to allow you to continue. In this case, you were Medically Dropped (Med Drop – see IVW) from the course and were given another chance at it in the future, provided a doctor’s note in your medical records stated you have healed completely.

With this happy thought in mind, I headed into the obstacle course. By now, just after the first week, we had lost enough people to consolidate into just three huts. Our last man was now roster number 257. I was one of the first ten guys, from my group of 69 men. Naturally, Hut 3 was the last hut to tackle the obstacle. We were required to wear olive green, or yellow, Protec hockey helmets in order to protect our gray matter. The first obstacle, some horizontal poles that needed vaulting-over, presented no problem for me. However, in my excited state, I noticed that I felt as if I had just sprint a 100-yard dash. I reminded myself to calm down and breathe normally. The next obstacle was an impressive rope climb. One merely had to climb a rope and touch the knot at the top of the obstacle. Then, one was to slide down an angled rope to an anchor point down at the bottom. The rope was most likely about twenty-five feet up. It sure felt like it was thirty-five feet up; I was not sure. I began using a rope climb technique that used the assistance of my legs in concert with my arms. It was supposed to save energy throughout the course. Somehow, on the descent, I felt quite drained. It took me about three other successful rope obstacle climbs to realize that my technique was flawed and I was actually doing more work with my arms than I should be doing. After leaping onto logs of varying height, crawling under barbed wire, inside underground tunnels, traversing long “monkey bars” similar to those found in kids’ jungle gyms everywhere, I came upon my last vertical rope obstacle. One had to jump on a horizontal log, attain a second or so of balance, jump to a vertical rope in front and climb its length to the top, touch the knot, climb over the horizontal log onto which the rope was tied, walk along a support beam, suspended about twenty to twenty-five feet off the ground, walk over a one-rope bridge without loosing balance, and walk another plank to a fast rope and finally, descend in a controlled manner at the other end.

By this point I was totally spent. I hardly had anything else left in me. But, I knew that quitting was not an option. This was not to be that last obstacle, however; there were about three others. But, this would be the last hard one, in my estimation. At the top of the obstacle I noticed an instructor shouting instructions to the candidates below. He also held a clipboard and that meant he was assessing this particular obstacle. Any hint of hesitation on my part would be recorded.

I double-timed up to the horizontal log and jumped on it. I leaped to the vertical rope and found my arms were totally exhausted of energy. I climbed up and by the time I got about eighteen inches from the vertical log at the top, I totally ran out of energy. I gripped the rope in what must have been sheer internal panic. I was not afraid of falling, or sliding down. I was afraid of failing. My whole career could come down to this very obstacle, if at the end it cost me enough points to cause me not to be selected for the Special Forces. The idea of returning to the regular and conventional Army made me cringe. I was but a few feet from the instructor but was even closer to not completing the obstacle. I was full of mud and sweat and grass and snot blew out of my nose like when a hockey player is hit just a bit too hard. I wondered what I must have looked like to the instructor standing just three feet over me. Other candidates kept sliding down the rope on their attempts up. Their arms must have failed them too. In a moment, I took a deep look inside myself and all around me became eerily quiet. I looked at the log down below over which I would break my spine should I fall from this height. I looked up at the log that was just about eighteen inches from my reach, but yet seemed so far. I recalled a move that rock climbers do when trying for a handhold beyond their reach. I have seen it on the Discovery Channel a few times. The climber re-chalks his hands from a bag he has attached to his waist; he would then muster all his strength and release his current hold while leaping for the one just out of reach. It was amazing that these guys put that much faith in their skill and training, but each time I’ve seen it, they’ve pulled it off. I looked up at the log, and back at the vertical log beneath me. The decision had been made. I would not slide down this rope, for I surely did not have the strength to climb back up. I silently recited a quick prayer and released the rope as I simultaneously pushed up with my legs. I stretched as far and as high as I could towards the log above me. Time seemed to stand still until I felt both the knot and the log on my hands. Thank God! I climbed over the log and looked at the instructor for further guidance. He motioned behind him with his pen and said, “Ok, candidate, make sure that you climb under the next log to the rope bridge … and be careful.”

The next three obstacles were relatively easy to accomplish. The only difficulty came with another set of monkey bars that had become wet and muddy from the attempts of other candidates from Huts 1 and 2. I slid from the bars twice, but I was able to complete them on the third try. The very last event was a sprint to the finish line which was some distance away. Another candidate from Hut 3 was neck and neck with me on this one. We arrived at the finish line just seconds from each other. We were totally exhausted. The only words either one of us could muster were “This really sucked!” I’m not sure which one of us actually said it but I was definitely thinking it. There was an instructor at the finish line that calmly noted our arrival. He communicated further instructions in a conversational tone, “Ok candidates, pick up your gear from the formation area and head for the huts. Conduct personal hygiene first with the hoses outside the latrine.” We simply nodded in unison and walked to our hut formation area just outside the entrance of the “Nasty Nick” to pick up our gear.

We learned later that we lost three candidates to the obstacle course. One nearly died of heat exhaustion with his core body temperature going as high of 107 degrees Fahrenheit. He was quickly evacuated by helicopter to the nearest medical facility. The other two suffered from dehydration and heat exhaustion. These events must have shaken-up the cadre a bit as it resulted in several stern discussions with the SFAS course commander as well as several warnings from the cadre regarding proper hydration. We were instructed to unblouse our pants from our boots and to loosen the cuffs of our uniform tops for better ventilation. We were also provided with Oral Rehydration Salts (ORS) that were to be mixed with our water to ensure we replenished lost electrolytes. To say that ORS made our water taste funny would be an understatement. I wasn’t sure what it made it taste like. But, from past experience with ORS and dehydration, I knew that this stuff worked and I was not afraid to ask for seconds. ORS can get one out of a tough fix.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 19:10   #4
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part IV

We spoke of one particular event with the same dread that we spoke of the Ranger Course’s Malvesti Field Obstacle Course, otherwise known for its “worm pit”. This event was the dreaded log PT. Although, log PT would be just a one-day event, it was one of those things that we spoke of in hushed conversations hoping the cadre would not hear us. Perhaps we felt as young school children do; if the teacher is not reminded of the previous night’s homework, she might not assign any today either. Our logic didn’t quite make sense, but we spoke of the log PT as if the mere mention might make logs magically descend from the sky along with instructors with whistles and clipboards. Well, it didn’t quite happen that way. We were actually the ones that descended on the logs, and the cadre was already there with the whistles, clipboards and, curiously enough, a digital camcorder. Not only were they going to record our performance on the clipboards, they were going to film it and study us later.

We performed all manner of exercises with the logs. We pushed them over our heads, did squats, sit-ups, push-ups, and some varieties of back exercises. The strangest of all exercises was an exercise known as the Star Jumpers, which was essentially a jump squat. This exercise we did without the benefit of the logs. The curious thing here was that we were required grab fistfuls of sand when we were at the starting position and fling the sand up in the air as we leaped upwards. This had the effect of creating an abrasive blizzard of sand that got into every orifice in one’s body. We had to essentially do the Star Jumpers with our eyes closed as some of us were already blinded by the fistfuls of sand. Then, a couple of us got the bright idea of flinging the sand forwards, towards the instructors, as opposed to up, or backwards, towards ourselves. This novel idea seemed to spread quickly and soon enough we sent some instructors for cover. It was a simple and short-lived victory, for which we paid dearly in subsequent log drills. But, it was, more importantly, a sign that we had jelled into a cohesive group.

Land Navigation

Log PT was followed by two timed runs and two timed rucksack marches. All four events were several miles in length each. We were never really sure as we were not allowed any watches on these events and were not told the distances we covered. We simply had to do our best and hope it was enough. The runs and rucksack marches all happened on separate days and helped to speed along the week. This led us into some classroom instruction in land navigation. Land navigation is the test bed the instructors use to assess candidates’ commitment to mission accomplishment. Besides it being a cornerstone of SF infiltration methods, land navigation challenges one’s decision-making process as well. For instance, if one is given an objective to which one is to arrive as fast as possible, and it turns out that it is just five kilometers away, as the crow flies, would one use the terrain to one’s advantage and choose the proper routes to expedite the movement? What if there is a huge draw between the objective and the start point? Would one try to avoid the draw completely and move around a much longer route, but with better terrain? How does one measure the pros and cons of a route? Also, the land navigation goals begin to expand. One can begin with a seven-kilometer movement only to arrive and receive coordinates to a twelve-kilometer movement, and so on. The distances get longer, and eventually, the weight gets higher. Many candidates quit, or got injured, during these exercises.

There was a prescribed minimum weight of forty-five pounds for the rucksacks. The instructors had numerous portable scales that they would bring throughout the training area to ensure that all candidates were carrying the correct amount. If the rucksack were lacking in weight it would be considered “light” and the student would loose any points gained during that particular exercise. Also, he would be reprimanded for an honor / integrity violation for trying to gain “an unauthorized advantage over other candidates”. The rucksacks are not the most well designed weight distribution medium the Army has come up with. The straps put undue stress on the shoulders and the weight of the rucksack strains at the muscles on the lower back. If frequent rain wets the feet early on an exercise, it softens the skin, which promptly breaks, or blisters, if not well conditioned. Will the candidate persevere through all this and continue? Or, will his times continue to deteriorate and cause him to be unsuccessful in completing all movements? Most movements began at 0300. This meant that darkness would occupy about half the time one spends out in the woods. Some candidates were not used to the sound of rattlesnakes in the dark, or the shadowy movements of water moccasin snakes in the waters of certain crossings. Unknown howls in the dark, large spiders perched on webs strung-up at about head level, or the mere confusion of moving with poor illumination and rain; all these things got to some people. It wasn’t long before less than one hundred and thirty men were left in the course.

Some of these conditions brought out the best and worst in some; some times at the same time. A captain broke his foot during the second land navigation exercise known as “The Star” and continued with the course until the end. He was selected. Another soldier lost his weapon during one of his land navigation movements. He realized later, several kilometers away, that he didn’t have his weapon. In the dark of night, he navigated back to the very spot he was last time he remembered having his weapon, found it, and continued on to successfully complete that day’s land navigation exercise by finding all his points. The instructors didn’t know about his incident with the weapon, but he did not quit when the situation seemed hopeless. He was also selected. It is that quality of never quitting, regardless of how bad things get, that SF is looking for. Many miles are covered, per “Star” exercise. We executed four of those. Two of them we performed back to back with virtually no sleep for two days. After the last “Star” we were given essentially a day off during which we were subjected to Rifle PT (Log PT, only replace the log for our individual rifles and increase all repetitions). Later that day, we received several briefings and additional communications gear, weighing an additional twenty-three pounds, to prepare us for the last, and most important land navigation exercise in the course, the Long Range Individual Movement (LRIM), better known as “The Trek”.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 19:43   #5
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part V

Long Range Movement

The LRIM was essentially described to us as a “gut check”; a test meant to measure a person’s commitment to life in the special operations arena. It is a long-range movement that is designed to physically and psychologically tax a candidate’s endurance to its very limit. Any injuries that occurred during any of the “Star” exercises would, no doubt, surface at this time. Anyone that was merely surviving the events up to this point would be forced to face himself in a contest between his body and his mind. There is much lore surrounding the LRIM. Some measure success, or failure, based solely on whether, or not, they made it through this part of the assessment. I was certainly happy to be among the few who would begin this journey.

The LRIM would cover all of the training area surrounding Camp Mackall. We would be allowed to utilize the unimproved, improved and some hard surface roads as long as we crossed them quickly and at a ninety-degree angle. There was to be no use of paved roads, or other roads that were made known to us during our LRIM briefing. We would be afforded the luxury of crossing two main bridges, so as not to risk us swimming over two large bodies of water. As always, we were not allowed to communicate with any other candidates during the exercise. We would have maximum time of 48 hours in which to complete the LRIM. Everyone was encouraged to finish as fast as they could. As it is customary in most Army events involving a rucksack our official weight minimum was to be 45 lbs. This weight did not include any water, or food, and it certainly did not include our 12 lb rifle and our load bearing equipment (LBE) suspenders and their cargo. So, one starts out with 45 lbs. Then one adds about five pounds to ensure that if any of the scales are off, one would be on the safe side of things. Four MREs were added to the cargo. This was about another four pounds. We carried four quarts of water on the rucksack and two quarts on our LBE belt. This added another twelve pounds of weight. Then, we each received a PRC – 119 radio, complete with handset and short and long-range antennae and two extra batteries. This added another twenty-three pounds. So, in the end, we carried about eighty-five to ninety pounds of weight for the LRIM.

After the briefing, we lined-up our gear just outside of our hut areas. We were arranged in small groups of about sixteen men according our roster numbers. While awaiting our transport, we were each issued new maps of the training area as well as two packets of ORS. I took time to draw all the boundary areas such that I would be able to see them with a red lens flashlight during low visibility. We stood there for a while waiting to be taken to our starting points. I prayed silently and asked God to guide me and maintain my mind while my body was being punished. Suddenly, all the LMTV trucks arrived and we were ushered off to our starting points. It was still daylight and, unlike the “Star” exercises, we were not to take-off in the darkness of early morning. Instead, we would take-off exactly twelve hours earlier at 1500. The LRIM, while still utilizing land navigation as an assessment medium, is not really a test of land navigation skill. Instead, it is a test of physical, mental and emotional endurance. For this reason, we were allowed to use a few roads and begin with daylight. Our start point was located at an intersection several kilometers from Camp Mackall. As we arrived, we each settled into our own areas away from our starting point sitter. The point sitters are generally retired SF personnel who live in the surrounding area. Their participation in the course allows the Special Operations Command to utilize the current SF operators in the field, where they are needed most. Point sitters had their own personality. Some were very warm and pleasant to us. They were proud of still being able to share in the tradition of the SF community while at the same time having a small role to play in the selection of the future of SF. Others guarded the SF tab and treated us with suspicion and slight contempt. Either way, they were making a great contribution to the SF community and by and large we felt privileged to be around them. But, as most of us were a bit anxious about this last, defining event, we were not in the mood to find out what kind of point sitter was at our start point. We picked quiet spots well away from any cadre, or point sitter present and collected our thoughts and fears.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 20:00   #6
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part VI

H-Hour

As H-hour approached most of us began to make small adjustments to our gear. We checked for the proper adjustment of our buckles and tie-downs. I began to run down a checklist of items in my mind. Were all my pockets buttoned-up? Was my map secured and waterproofed? Were my extra pencils and my notepad where I could easily reach them? Were my boots tied properly? Did I have all the water I needed? Was my essential gear waterproofed in my rucksack? After checking out all my equipment, I stood up and jumped up and down a few times to make sure nothing was loose, or would make unnecessary noise. It wasn’t like we were going on a tactical patrol. Nevertheless, noisy gear can get on my nerves when I’m on a long, lonely march. Besides, pre-combat checks like this are a good habit to maintain. When I was duly satisfied with my current state, I sat back down and let the minutes melt away in my mind. All fears and anxieties now faded away as I recalled all the training that had led up to this very moment. The hours at the gym, the miles and miles of track work, the constant recording and updating of physical performance, the paperwork involved in the applications, the physicals, etc. Everything I had focused on for the last two years funneled down to these next 48 hours. My whole career path would be decided by how I did on this next event. Strangely, I didn’t feel the pressure of such monumental thoughts. Instead, I felt a need to rely on my training and trust my compass.

As I heard the rustling of leaves all around me, I heard the occasional sounds of plastic buckles and fasteners being adjusted and tightened. The squelch of the point sitter’s radio confirmed that H-hour was upon us. “Execute, execute, execute … “, repeated the disembodied voice over the radio. Instead of rushing to the road, I calmly walked to the middle of the intersection and shot azimuths up both roads. Better to ensure I was where I thought I was before setting out on the long-range movement of my life. My calculations were quickly confirmed and I headed out due 235 degrees, magnetic. My first objective was about a considerable distance away, and the lay of the terrain seemed generally rolling with some pretty nasty draws in the way. I planned a route that would circumvent these draws and ensure that I remained dry for the first few hours of my movement. There is really no need to go head first into a brick wall if one can walk around it, I always say. The only worry concerning conditions was the state of the weather. While a little downpour here and there won’t kill anyone, it does add another bit of adversity to the situation. Rain limits visibility, for one thing. It also slows down route planning during, and after reaching an objective. One has to pull out a poncho and do all the route planning work hunkered down beneath it. If it rains long enough, there’s a small chance that the map might get wet and pretty soon this renders it useless as the creases rub-off and become unreadable. If the rain persists for over a day, low bodies of water rise and, in the dark, what would have been a fairly apparent unimproved road disappears as a reliable frame of reference. Of course, there is also the negative effect rain has on morale.

After about three hours on the march, I found my first point. The weather seemed to clear a bit and there was still some daylight left. Feeling quite confident I handed my score sheet to the point sitter got my new coordinates and began to plot the route to my next objective. The next point was some kilometers further away than my first objective. Again, there were several draws between it and me. I developed a workable, but simple route plan. However, I would have to cross one pretty nasty draw about three hundred meters from my current position in order to execute my plan. The other option would be to go all around the rough terrain, but that would almost double the distance of my movement. I opted to play my luck against the draw. As I always did, I picked up my gear, secured it, made a careful sweep around me to ensure I had not left anything behind, and moved out on a predetermined azimuth. Traveling the three hundred meters to that first draw was fairly uneventful. There was no excessive deadfall, nor thorny vines. When I finally got to the body of water that characterizes most draws, I saw that it was probably about three feet deep of fairly clear water. I really didn’t want to get my feet wet just yet as this could create blisters later on. I took some time to look around the draw for any signs of game trails, as the SF cadre trained me. Animals, by way of their natural instinct, seek out the point of least resistance when traveling from point A to point B. Since animals in the wild cannot surely foretell when their next meal will come, they do everything possible to preserve energy. When we humans are mentally and physically exhausted, we abandon our civilized conditioning and unconsciously begin to follow these same natural lines of drift. Pretty soon a small animal trail has been beaten often enough to be apparent to the trained eye. I found several game trails and chose the widest one. Sure enough, it led to a culvert pipe that could be used as a step over the body of water. I quickly made use of my lucky find and continued on my way to my second objective. Two and a half hours into my movement darkness had overcome the landscape. It wasn’t pitched dark yet, but the surrounding vegetation of the low ground had a curtain effect on the road.

Pretty soon, all I could see was the unpaved, sandy road contrast white against the surrounding darkness. With little outside visual stimulation to entertain my senses, I turned inward. This is the time that causes many to quit. We spend so much time of our lives distracted by the outside, that when our bodies begin to hurt, we could easily shrug it off. But, in this kind of training situation, one has to deal with one’s own internal demons, whatever they might be. Some candidates get to thinking about home, and about family, and about all the things they wish they could have done, but didn’t. Next thing you know, one is feeling sorry for oneself and begins to think about quitting right then and there, returning home and “righting all the wrongs”. Only, these feelings are rarely genuine. They are a game the mind plays to cause one to stop the physical abuse. This is where SF peers into that corner of one’s spirit that one rarely visits. I marvel at the ingenious methods they use to do this.

In order to keep my focus, I began to talk to myself and discussed worldly issues of political interest. Once in a while I would do a map check and relate it to my current pace count and azimuth. I did a comparison with the terrain I had just covered to ensure I was within fifty meters of where I thought I was. When the talking to myself got old, I began to designate rest stops at various intersections along my route. This made it so that I was traveling based on short term goals. This keeps the morale up and forces one to make accurate assertions of one’s current location. It is far easier to correct a navigation error made five hundred meters ago, than three kilometers ago. “Life is all about little victories, …” said one of our instructors. This comment impacted my land navigation in SFAS more than anything else that was said. By setting up short term goals along a route, one maintains a sharper focus than if one just keeps thinking of that objective nine kilometers away. I arrived at my second objective shortly after 2230. I handed my score sheet, got my new coordinates, and planned my next route to about a 50% solution. Next, I went about two hundred meters from the point sitter and picked a suitable location to get some food down my throat and lay down for a few hours. Some people advocate attempting the LRIM on no sleep. “Just get it over with!” they say. There are some people that can consistently pull this off. And, there is no doubt, if the reasons are good enough, any well-trained soldier can pull this off for a period of time. However, operating without adequate sleep can lead to calculation errors. If one plots a grid in the wrong grid square, one can end up making a mistake that can cost just as many hours as one could have slept, had he made the time. My situation was good. I was still feeling healthy. The sky had completely cleared and every star in the sky was out. The moon was providing about seventy percent illumination and I already had two points. I still had a day and a half to get the other four points. Had I been in dire straights, like running desperately out of time, I would have seriously considered going on without the benefit of sleep. But, my situation was good. So, I chose a great spot to lie down, took my time eating, changed from my wet, sweaty BDU top to a dry brown shirt, put on a black knit cap and the quilted BDU jacket liner and put my head down for four hours. Sleep was an uneasy one, but it was sleep nevertheless.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 20:25   #7
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part VII

I awoke at about 0430 to a clear night sky and a bright three quarter moon. I was amazed at how beautiful the night sky seemed. The stars were so numerous and bright that they gave the appearance of a milky sparkling dust sprayed haphazardly across a deep black canvas. Clear nights like this are generally cold. I could clearly see the vapor of my breath in the dark. I took some time, while I was still in warm clothing, and comfortable, to complete my planned route to my third objective. The route followed the same roads that I used to get to my second objective almost exactly. The difference would come just about four hundred meters north of my first objective. I was to shoot further south to a point about twice the distance from the last objective to my present position. The movement would be a challenge, but only because of the amount of weight I carried. Other than that, I was rested and had a clear mind. I put away all my comfort gear and repacked my rucksack to ensure nothing would fall out. I did a quick sweep of my immediate area to ensure I did not leave anything behind, whether it’d be my any gear, or any MRE garbage. The one good habit I learned being part of a light infantry division as my first duty assignment was to never leave garbage behind in areas I operated in. The tactical reasons are various but, to me, the most important are that garbage betrays your position to the enemy, as well as your current state (i.e., if you leave evidence of used medical gear behind, like bandages and such).

I threw on my rucksack and picked up my weapon. I pulled out my compass and shot an azimuth to ensure I was facing the right direction and felt for my map case once more as I started to move towards my new objective. As the sun finally began to appear, I caught glimpses of other candidates on their particular routes. As I passed a clearing, I saw two candidates packing their gear together. It looked as though they had just gotten up from a long sleep as they were still wearing their comfort gear. It was interesting to see the same landscape I had crossed just a few hours earlier in a much different light. At night, the low-lying areas, with their thick vegetation seem sinister and inhospitable. But, now bathed in the morning sun, the landscape seemed a beautiful version of jade and brown. Once in a while I would feel the sudden shock of pain on my right shoulder, which would cause me to readjust my rucksack straps. When I was much younger, I tore my anterior rotator cuff in my right shoulder performing a judo technique. It seemed that I re-injured the same shoulder during the obstacle course and later aggravated it with the recent bouts of log and rifle PT. Now, carrying over eighty pounds, the pain was slowly resurfacing.

About four kilometers from my objective, I came across an area that was restricted to our use. On our map, the area was marked by a grey shade that delineated the boundaries and colored anything within. However, that grey area was not apparent during low visibility with a red lens. So, I had included this as part of my route. As daylight came, I became aware of this but decided to wait until I came close to the terrain before I made any changes to the route. Perhaps there would be a non-restricted area near it that was not on the map. As I came within a few meters of the start of the restricted area I saw a large white, black and red sign that read “Private Property: All trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law”. It seemed that the road I had included in my route was actually some kind of vineyard that had either recently been planted, or unsuccessfully planted long ago. The small plants that were growing there, I didn’t recognize the type, were all of one species of plants and tractor tracks were very obvious. Upon closer inspection I also observed hundreds of recent boot prints coming in and out of the area. No doubt, I was not the only person that came across here lately en route for the same objective I was after. Far in the distance down the road, I saw two other candidates marching in my direction of travel. I was aware that another three would soon be coming in the same direction. I figured that it would take a long court case to prosecute dozens of SFAS candidates so I continued towards my objective. The soft sandy texture of the road made for a slower pace than what I was maintaining earlier. However, there was beautiful scenery at either side of the road. One could see other kinds of harvest under the cloudless blue sky. The whole thing reminded me of those orange crops one sees in those Tropicana commercials. It was like walking down the length of one of those paths, between two rows of crops. As the pain in my shoulder became more and more intense, I increased the frequency of my rests. My rests consisted of a twenty-second pause, which I would count with my digital watch. I would bend over to take the weight of my shoulder for a bit and rotate it some. Then, I would walk five hundred meters and pause again. I hoped that the pain would not get any worse than it was now. On the bright side of things I was close to my third objective, had only three more to go and had all of today and half of the following day to find them.

I finally arrived to my objective and quickly handed over my scorecard. The point sitter gave me my new coordinates and provided an MRE on my request. Each point sitter was required to maintain a few boxes of MREs for us candidates should we need one. We each carried four MREs with us, but I preferred to keep mine and use the ones the point sitters provided. I wasn’t sure what the rest of this trek would bring, so I wanted to have some MREs with me at all times. Sure, it kept a few more pounds of weight in my rucksack, but it was not that much. I picked a spot well away from the point sitter and dropped my rucksack against a tree in a little clearing. The grass around me was about three feet tall, so it gave me some privacy. I stripped myself of my wet, sweaty top and placed it over my rucksack to give it some time to dry. I put on the usual comfort gear (dry brown T-shirt, BDU jacket liner and black knit cap) and pulled my quilted poncho liner from the top of the wet weather bag inside the rucksack. I put the poncho liner aside and tore open the MRE. I took my time eating and calmly plotted the next set of coordinates. I had just moved a formidable distance, so I figured that the next movement would probably be a bit shorter. I was not at all impressed when I plotted the new coordinates and found that the movement was even longer by a few kilometers. Damn! Oh well, I resigned myself to that fact and decided to take some time to rest since my shoulder was still throbbing. After eating my MRE and drinking some ORS water, I wrapped myself in the poncho liner and laid my head against the rucksack. It wasn’t particularly cold, but even my BDU pants were wet from sweat and there was a pretty gusty wind coming in. I faded into some uneasy sleep for about thirty minutes as I listened to the wind make the tall grass whistle a soothing tune for the weary.

As I left my third objective I ran across one of the candidates from my side of the hut. He was providing some urgently needed care to his badly blistered feet. We waved at each other as I passed by. I was once again on the “Private Property” and I tried as hard as possible to follow the same footstep someone else had made on the way here. I figured that there was no need to trample someone’s crops all over the place. I heard dogs in the distance and hoped they would not come this way. I was not very interested in fighting-off a pack of wild dogs with a solid plastic M-16. Eventually, the sound of the dogs faded away. My shoulder became a source of great concern, as did a raw spot on the side of my hip that I had been nursing for about a week. The dilemma was that the sore spot on my side was being caused by my rucksack’s waistband that essentially shifted much of the weight away from my shoulders and onto my hips. In order to quell the pain on my side, I would have to undo the waist strap and this would adversely affect my shoulder. On one of my breaks I stopped to look at my side again. The skin was already well into an infection and pus and blood seeped from the wound. I decided that a skin burn would be more tolerable than a torn rotator cuff and that it would do less to threaten the mission. I grunted at the pain as I readjusted the waist strap tight and continued on to my next objective. The route to the next objective followed the same general routes that I had developed for my two previous trips. As I found out later, this was the case with all the candidates. The advantage of using the same routes was that I had become so familiar with the areas and terrain features that I rarely had to consult my map anymore. The disadvantage was the pure torture of not having anything new to look at, or distract me from the little nagging discomforts of my side or my shoulder.


(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 20:31   #8
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part VIII

I arrived at my next objective somewhere in the afternoon. The last stretch to the objective was about a kilometer and a half, most of which was up hill on an improved road well exposed to the hot afternoon sun. I had lost more fluids and electrolytes than I had anticipated on this leg of the course. I was running out of all water and desperately needed to put some fuel into my system. I arrived unceremoniously upon the point sitter who gave me my next coordinates and told me to make sure I topped-off on water before I left. I did as he said, but not before eating another MRE and using the facilities that nature provided. That was one of the only times that the E-tool was useful. I sat with my back to my rucksack and tried to rotate the muscles of my right shoulder only to find that to be a very painful exercise. Blood soaked the side of my BDU pants and I opted to not even look at the wound. The trek was taking a toll on my body and it was beginning to dawn on me that the next movement was going to be longer than the last one. I plotted the next set of coordinates to find that my next objective was even further away than any of the previous ones. The discovery did not alarm me. I was too tired to be alarmed. As I sat there, the gusty wind sent a chill through my body. I didn’t believe that it was really that cold, but perhaps the exhausted state I was in magnified the conditions around me.

I was well on my way to my next objective and realized that this would be my last objective before going back home to Camp Mackall. Once I arrived to the last objective, I would be merely informed that I was to find my way back to Mackall. If I wanted, the point sitter would give me those coordinates. But, I was well aware of the location on my map, so this would not pose a problem. My rests became much more frequent and much longer. By now, I was carrying most of the weight of the rucksack on my left shoulder in order to give respite to the right. This was causing another set of problems as it was forcing undue stress on parts of my left shoulder and lower back that I was sure would haunt me later on in what was left of the course. Midway to my objective, the darkness of the approaching evening began to blanket the sky. I began to see an exodus of candidates already headed back towards Mackall, or so it seemed. Some traveled in groups or in pairs. By now, it seemed that the threat of roving instructors had done little to dissuade this practice. Besides, I had not seen an instructor in the last day. My take was that regardless of whether one walked accompanied, or not, there was no way of getting around carrying the heavy rucksack all the way back to the finish line. No one else was going to carry it for us. Also, there were far less instructors working at SFAS this time around than there were last year due to the War on Terrorism.

About four kilometers from my objective I stopped and panted for air. I was becoming a total mess and had to reorganize myself before my morale hit bottom. I released my rucksack from my shoulder and let it fall back to the sand with a loud thud. Earlier, the rucksack’s external frame had broken and the PRC-119 radio had begun to dig into my back during movement. I opened up the rucksack and tried to redistribute the weight, but the broken frame did not help matters any. The radio problem would just have to be another bit of discomfort I had to accept. By God’s mercy, it had not rained on us. Cloud cover, however, had eliminated illumination. The BDUs I wore were soaked in sweat and I decided to change my top to a dry one, and changed my socks. I tore open another MRE and ate the items that I knew contained the most carbohydrates. I gulped down some more ORS water and covered my head with the poncho liner as I re-checked my current progress on the map. There was no real need to cover my red lens flashlight from view; it was just the force of habit. This activity was just something to get my mind of the various pains I felt. I had to reassess my situation here. I was not going as fast as I should. My left shoulder was now deteriorating as well from carrying the entire rucksack’s weight on its own. The wound to my waist kept seeping blood onto my BDU pants, as it never had a chance to heal with the waist strap grinding its way along. I was in a bad state. The one good thing going was that my feet were in good shape. I felt one blister on my left foot and it felt like a little one. It wasn’t on the bottom either. It felt as it was on the side, near the top of the foot. The warmth of my breath under poncho liner felt good as it poured warm air into my BDU top. It was a great idea to change tops also; this made me feel much better. It didn’t help my other problems but it just made me happy to be dry. It is one of the most positive things a soldier could hope for. After about a half hour at rest, I picked myself up and began to trek towards my objective.

Everything was pitched dark by now. About the only visible thing was the white sand of the road I was on. The lack of outside stimuli stated to nag at me again. I began to play mind games with myself again, as well as stopping to make frequent map checks, although I didn’t really need them. I reached my last checkpoint before I was to turn, nearly ninety degrees, towards my objective. I had about eleven hundred meters to go through a sparsely wooded area with way too much deadfall on the ground. Worse than the deadfall were the numerous burn holes. Burn holes occur when a pine tree burns all the way down to its root. This leaves behind a hole big enough to accommodate a boot and deep enough to reach the knee. The danger of falling into one of these and snapping one’s knee, as the body and rucksack weight continued forward, was very real. This, coupled with the deadfall strewn all around this little illuminated area, made for an interesting last leg towards my objective. I fell over numerous times and was hit on the face by way too many dried and thin branches. The falls didn’t hurt much. The worst part of it all was getting up with the rucksack on over and over again. I finally found my objective, which would be my fifth point on the exercise, and walked up to the point sitter, who was inside his Coleman tent. He heard my approach through the rustling of the leaves and his pale white hand was already visible as I approached. I pulled out my scorecard and handed it to him. He called in my roster number with the Tactical Operations Center (TOC) and handed back my card. The next objective would be my last. “You know were you are going now, right?” he asked. “Yes, sir.” I replied. He gave me the usual monotone verbal guidance about topping-off on water and maintaining myself two hundred meters from his position should I want to conduct personal hygiene before I left. I was mostly deaf to his words by now. I had heard them a previous four times and was well aware of these instructions. My confidence was waning at this point. I was not sure if my shoulders, left or right, would be able to take much more of this. My side was a huge raw nerve that I couldn’t even stand to look at, much less touch. I walked about fifty meters from the point sitter - I didn’t care to walk any further away - and released my rucksack to the ground. I sat there dumbfounded at the difficulty that this last movement posed. It was finally the end of the exercise; that was the good thing. But, my last objective was even further away than any of the others. It was close to midnight at this point and I didn’t have much else left in me. This, I knew, would be the defining moment. I had to dig deep inside myself and continue on to complete the mission. That was ultimately the most important thing. I rested my head against the top of my rucksack as I looked up at the obscure, un-illuminated sky. I dreaded the thought of traversing back through the deadfall and burn holes to the improved road that brought me here. However, I didn’t want to plan another route in my current state. It would be very possible to get back another way, but, the dead fall on the original route would only last for about a kilometer and the alternative was prone to miscalculations due to the poor visibility. I decided to rest for half hour.

(TBC)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Old 01-25-2004, 20:43   #9
The Reaper
Quiet Professional
 
The Reaper's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2004
Location: Free Pineland
Posts: 24,779
Part IX

Final Push

I awoke about three hours later. I was alarmed at first and then realized that I felt re-born. My shoulders did not hurt as much and the sky had cleared. There was but a sliver of moon light left but the stars were all quite visible. Things began to look up. I looked at my watch again and asked myself “What the hell am I still doing here?” Cheerful, in a strange sort of way, I repacked my gear and moved out to Camp Mackall. I arrived within one kilometer of my destination early in the morning. There was a large body of candidates moving in the same general direction some distance behind me. I still took those much-needed breaks every few hundred meters, but my adrenaline was now numbing my pain. I was almost home and with plenty of time to spare. I had made it after all! I arrived to the cadre shed and read the instructions at the door. “LRIM Candidates knock three times and stand back from door.” I knocked as prescribed and waited … nothing. I tried to be patient, but this rucksack was not getting any lighter. I knocked again. Finally, a cadre member came out. I handed him my scorecard and he looked me up and down for a moment. “Candidate, you have completed the LRIM. Your priorities of work are personal hygiene, sleep and taking care of your gear. Follow all instructions from the board. Do you understand?” I replied an affirmative. He disappeared back into the shed as he closed the door behind him. That was it; monotone voice, no emotion, no encouragement. I shook my head and smiled as I walked away towards my hut. I made it! I would have shouted and pumped my fist in the air, only I was too tired to celebrate. Besides, the selections had not been made yet. I could still fail this venture, and that was one real sobering thought.

A Full Company of Men

Selection came in a quick swath after we arrived from Fort Bragg where we returned our issued equipment. Two days had passed since the LRIM and the instructors made sure to pay little attention to us. This lack of attention unnerved us some. What was the final decision? How did we do? The lack of input was maddening. We had just gotten off the trucks at Camp Mackall when the cadre shouted for us to get into a hut formation. Then, it came. We saw about four cadre members approach us with several lists on hand. We looked nervously around each other in Hut 3’s formation. These were the guys that I had become close to during this ordeal. I knew who I wanted along side me in a team, if we made it. I knew who I didn’t feel was fit for this outfit. But, who was I to judge that? I didn’t even know if I had been considered as good enough to even train in SF. Roster numbers began to be called out in sequence of smallest to largest. As the numbers approached mine, my heart rate increased dramatically. As they passed me, I calmed down, but only slightly. As I looked around, about twenty-five candidates were pulled from our formations and placed in their own formation behind the cadre’s podium. They were the “non-selects”. They were quickly segregated away from us and were marched to another area. I looked around and noticed that our tight little group from the first bay in Hut 3 was still intact. We had lost quite a few in the previous three weeks, but, the ones that remained were good soldiers. The next list was read in the same sequence. This was the list for the guys that had performed marginally and had to go to an official selection board to see if they would be allowed in. Again, my heart rate went up as the numbers approached me, and then slightly subsided as they passed me. “Man, I think I’m going to die from a heart attack,” said another captain to my right. This produced a muffled giggle from us. We felt the same way. “Ok ladies …” shouted the cadre, “I want a mass formation of you guys right here in the center while I double check my list.” Damn it; more mind games, I thought. “All right … Roster number … nah, I’m just kidding,” said the instructor, “you men have been selected … congratulations.” You could have heard a pin drop as we looked around in the formation. We didn’t know what to do. I felt a few guys shake my shoulder from behind and say, “We made it man, we made it!” I allowed myself a smile. The course commander approached us in disbelief. Our silence and shock was still deafening. We didn’t know if it would be appropriate to celebrate. But, the emotions were just cooking inside of us. “Gentlemen …” he shouted, “that is the sorriest excuse for a response I have seen in a class yet! Go ahead, congratulate yourselves!” We erupted into pent up emotion and one could see hugs, high fives and handshakes all over the place. There were just sixty-eight of us, but it sure sounded like a full company of men.

(THE END. I will include the Glossary, if requested)
__________________
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." - President Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

De Oppresso Liber 01/20/2025
The Reaper is offline  
Closed Thread


Currently Active Users Viewing This Thread: 1 (0 members and 1 guests)
 
Thread Tools
Display Modes

Posting Rules
You may not post new threads
You may not post replies
You may not post attachments
You may not edit your posts

BB code is On
Smilies are On
[IMG] code is Off
HTML code is Off

Forum Jump

Similar Threads
Thread Thread Starter Forum Replies Last Post
SFAS Training! When is "ready?" Big Chief Special Forces Assessment & Selection 3 08-06-2004 18:20
Surprise, Security, and the American Experience lrd The Library 0 03-09-2004 21:15
SFAS-The Experience, Part II Basenshukai Special Forces Qualification Course 3 03-07-2004 06:08
Deployed Soldiers Thinking of SFAS The Reaper Special Forces Assessment & Selection 2 01-23-2004 10:07



All times are GMT -6. The time now is 04:15.



Copyright 2004-2022 by Professional Soldiers ®
Site Designed, Maintained, & Hosted by Hilliker Technologies