Detachment Delta Page 8

  Charlie grabbed a napkin and pretended to be crying and wiping away tears.

  He said, “Kind of brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?”

  The group started laughing and Weasel just stared at him, finally saying, “Stick it up your red ass, Poke.”

  He took a swallow of beer, and Custer said, “Now, there is some wise philosophy.”

  Everybody laughed even harder.

  This evening was now turning into a going away party, maybe a farewell party, as everybody drank more rounds.

  Getting serious, but winking at Booty, Pops, and Custer, Charlie said, “Weasel, that was a great story. I have one for you now to tell your grandchildren.”

  Weasel looked up from his beer and said, “Huh?”

  Charlie said, “There was a magnificent, mature bald eagle, sinewy and graceful in flight, a gentle quiet bundle of muscled power at rest. There was wisdom in those sharp eyes that could see a rabbit stirring miles away on the prairie. Young eaglets came to him to learn how to become an eagle, but most were not willing to listen to all, and one by one they would perish.

  “The life of an eagle is harsh and tough, and only the strongest survive. Some would listen and learn and live longer, but very few would do all that he would suggest. Very few got to the point where their head feathers and tail feathers were pure white like his. Many would perish while still covered with down, and some even armored with a coat of brown feathers. A few, a very few, would make it long enough to grow some brown and white feathers. He hurt for those who did not make it, but knew that was the way of nature, and of life itself.

  “One day, he was teaching one of his young protégés, a handsome young bird named Egbert. This was a bird who had actually become garbed in the fine plumage of brown and white speckled feathers, but had not earned that pure white crown.”

  While Weasel sat transfixed by the story, his eyes a little glazed, Charlie quickly turned his head and grinned at Booty, whispering, “Egbert?”

  He continued, “Out over the prairie, the elder eagle spotted a wicked storm brewing and headed their way. He knew, from his own survival and lessons learned at the side of his father, what a real eagle has to do to survive such a plight.

  “He looked at Egbert and said, ‘If you want to become an eagle that this country uses for its national symbol, a bird of great wisdom and power, if you truly want to soar, you must follow me when this storm arrives and do whatever I tell you.’

  “The winds of the storm were increasing, and lightning flashes crashed into objects far out on the prairie, now getting drenched like a giant sponge. The front of the storm was approaching like a giant tidal wave, and Egbert trembled in fear. He spotted a small overhang on the cliff face and thought it might produce shelter from the storm. He would get drenched but maybe he would survive.

  “In a panic, Egbert bolted for the overhang and the old eagle screamed, ‘Egbert, that will not work! Follow me!’

  “The storm was almost upon them and the thunder made frightening sounds. Shivering, Egbert huddled under the overhang and watched in more fear as the mighty eagle flew directly into the path of the storm and entered the black clouds, leaving Egbert to get drenched and shiver in fear and panic, but scared enough to decide not to move. He would show that old eagle.

  “There was a loud crash and a blinding light as the lightning bolt tore through Egbert’s body, which was now tossed off the cliff by the powerful winds, to simply become just one more piece of muddy ruins on the canyon floor below. He was not dead though. He was in frightful pain, but before he crashed onto the rocks at the cliff base, he remembered how many times the wise old eagle had helped him learn and grow before. With his last strength, he started flapping his wings harder than ever before. Still scared, he looked up at the black skies all around him, but he closed his beak tightly, determined to survive. He would think of everything that old eagle ever taught him. Right before he hit the ground, a big swirl of wind caught under his wings and lifted him up. Worn out and still frightened, he smiled and said, ‘Oh.’

  “In the meantime, the wise old eagle sought out the most powerful winds in the storm and used their fury to lift him up higher and higher, until he emerged into the sunlight thousands of feet up, high above the killer storm below. He felt very badly for Egbert, but knew the best way to keep teaching eaglets how to be mighty eagles was to first always be one himself. Even stronger than before from the struggle, the wise old eagle soared above the storm, watching the ferocious winds below as he dried out in the sunlight and swirled in the warm blue skies, his majestic wings reaching out and brushing the cheek of God. He heard a noise and saw Egbert approaching.

  “Flying by his old mentor, Egbert smiled, saying, ‘I’m sorry I did not trust you.’

  “The old eagle grinned. ‘That is how we get scars. When they heal, you will be even stronger.’

  “On the horizon, they spotted a sun-drenched snow-capped range and decided to soar over and admire its beauty. That, Weasel, is the end of the story.”

  Everybody looked at Weasel and grinned as he, seemingly oblivious to them, wiped away a tear from his eye and said, “I love you, Poke.”

  Everybody laughed and Pops said, “I think we had last call already. Come on, Top, I’m driving you home.”

  Weasel looked up slowly and said, “That was a wonderful story, Boss. Did you hear it?”

  Pops laughed and said, “Sure did, Top. Let’s saddle up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

  CHARLIE opened his eyes and looked out the window at the very first rays of morning sun piercing through the glass above his head. He closed his eyes, half awake and half asleep, remembering back to an incident in training that really put Charlie’s name and face in everybody’s mind for some time.

  Charlie had, like many men in Special Forces, a varied background in the martial arts, starting in childhood. He held black belt ranking in freestyle karate, had studied Brazilian jujitsu long enough to earn a brown belt, and had trained for two years in Muay Thai kickboxing. He had also been a star middle linebacker in high school, making all conference his junior year and all state his senior year.

  At the time, he was a sergeant first class with the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg and had just returned from Afghanistan. He was volunteered for an assignment to the JFK Special Warfare Center, where he was to help out as an “aggressor” for Special Forces trainees going through Small Unit Tactics and Training exercises.

  An Operational Detachment-A consisting of twelve trainees was to search a group of buildings that were set up for this exercise. The buildings contained hidden aggressors armed with industrial-strength red-paint guns. The trainees also had paint guns and were to breach doors, enter buildings, and kill, or preferably capture, aggressors hiding therein. To that end, the team commander, a young captain, carried a couple pairs of flex cuffs to restrain captives with.

  The customary breach was to set up an explosive and blow the door to the room. Any aggressors within would hide in the next room while the door was blown, and then jump into the room and try to shoot the Americans as they entered.

  The job of each trainee or each aggressor who got shot was to drop in place and die in a rapid and grotesque manner. The Tacs (Special Forces-qualified training sergeants), who are like drill sergeants on steroids, were assembled and watching the trainees go through this exercise.

  The plan was for four men to blow the door, and then breach the room and search for any aggressors, killing or taking them prisoner. The men approached the door, while the rest of the team covered the outside watching for potential escapees. The assault team used a small C4 charge to breach the door, as they hid behind a Kevlar shield.

  Instead of hiding in the next room, Charlie stood in the middle of the room and braced himself for the explosive impact. He knew that the first trainee would come into the room and move to his right, his eyes sweeping the whole right side
; the second would move in and go to the left, his eyes sweeping the left; the third would come in with his eyes sweeping the center of the room; and the fourth would stay back close to the door, covering all.

  The door blew and Charlie shook it off, aiming at where he thought the center mass on the first trainee would be coming through the door. Sure enough the first trainee appeared in the doorway and Charlie watched the fake blood splatter all over the center of the man’s Kevlar. Shocked, he looked down and then fell, feigning death right in the doorway to the room. The second man was right on his heels and had to jump over him, getting blasted by two red paintballs in the center of his chest before his feet hit the floor. When they did, he fell backward on top of the first faux dead trainee. The third man jumped over his dead partners and Charlie had him center-mass coming over the pile. He squeezed and Click! Click! He looked down and saw his rifle was jammed. Charlie’s eyes went up and everything went into slow motion. He saw a grin start on the face of the third trainee, and his eyes open slightly, while also seeing his trigger finger tighten, and Charlie drop-stepped with his left foot spinning sideways. The man’s paintball splattered on the wall behind Charlie, and he immediately drop-stepped with his right foot and drew his chest back, as a second paintball also slammed into the wall. The trainee knew he had to take more careful aim. Charlie threw his weapon up in the air for a distraction and took two long fast steps and hit the trainee with a diving tackle, his shoulder catching the young man in the center of his midsection, as Charlie heard the wind leaving him in a rush. They flew backward out into the dirt in front of the building, and the trainee, now under Charlie, scrambled to get free and struggled to breathe right, getting panicky.

  The team commander yelled, “Take him prisoner! Do not shoot! Do not shoot!”

  The rest of the team ran up and all jumped Charlie at once, and laughing at them and taunting them, he leg-swept the trainees, put a few in wrist locks as they would try to grab his arms, and really frustrated them with his powerful resistance.

  Imitating the Saturday Night Live send-ups of Arnold Schwarzenegger, while getting strangled, punched, kicked, and pulled on, Charlie said, “Come on, guys. Are you a bunch of girlie men who cunnot evun cuff one scrawny boy?”

  One trainee finally got frustrated and put his left knee on the side of Charlie’s neck and punched him full power in the face.

  Charlie laughed, spit out blood, and said, “Ees that all the harder you can punch, you girlie man? You punch like a pussy boy!”

  It was more than fifteen minutes before Charlie was finally cuffed and pulled to his feet. His lips were swollen and bleeding and his right eye was swelling shut.

  He looked at the trainee who’d punched him and spit blood into the man’s face. In a fury, the trainee lunged at Charlie, whose right foot came up with a vicious side-kick that caught the man on the chin coming in. His head snapped back with an imprint of Charlie’s boot on his jaw. He fell backward unconscious.

  One of the trainees started to attend to him and a Tac yelled, “Leave him be!”

  While the others stayed behind to wait on him and police up brass and their litter, two men held Charlie’s upper arms and walked him toward a waiting truck. He moved his feet very slowly, which made it even more difficult for both men, who were sweating profusely because of the hot North Carolina day and horrendous humidity.

  The one on his left was fed up and said, “Start walking faster!”

  Charlie lied, “I can’t. Your buddies flex-cuffed my ankles together.”

  The trainee said, “I don’t give a damn. Walk faster, or we’ll drag you.”

  Charlie chuckled, then grinned and said, “Fine.”

  He went limp, and they had to grab him with both hands, get a better grip, and start dragging his feet through the dirt.

  The other trainee glared at the first and said, “Way to go, genius.”

  By the time they got to the truck, the others were following, and these two were sweating like stuck pigs in a barbecue shack. They stood Charlie upright, and each grabbed a side of the tailgate to let it down to put their prisoner within.

  Charlie backed up slowly and then took off at a dead run, into the woods, his hands still flex-cuffed in front of him. Seeing this from a distance, all the Tacs started laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief. The two men could not catch him, as he was so fast.

  After ten minutes of running through the woods, Charlie felt something slam into his ribs, and he flew sideways. One of the trainees had also been an outstanding football player, a free safety, and he loved to tackle. He had run through the woods from his position, as several friends also had, hoping to cut Charlie off. This time several men held his arms and escorted him back to the truck. Half the team crawled in and then Charlie was placed in the middle, as the rest filled in.

  Soon, the men were all laughing and talking about their success at capturing Charlie. He kept his mouth shut and feigned nodding off, as the truck slowly wound its way down the one-lane white sandy road in the woods at Fort Bragg, out toward the drop zones, named for WWII drop zones and battles sites, such as St. Mere Eglise, Sicily, and Normandy. Peeking out, Charlie saw that the entire team was engrossed and all speaking with one another and thinking about getting back to garrison, so they ignored him sitting on the floor between their boots.

  Charlie looked out the tailgate at the narrow sandy road passing by, grinned to himself, and launched himself over the tailgate headfirst in a powerful dive, somersaulting in midair. He hit the ground on the balls of his feet, but the momentum took him backward, so he simply did a PLF, or parachute landing fall, and ended up relatively unhurt. The SUV following behind the truck loaded with Tacs had to skid to a stop to avoid hitting him. The Tacs all roared with laughter as he raced into the woods, and they saw the trainees trying to get the truck stopped. They bailed out and ran into the woods in pursuit, but Charlie was long gone.

  They searched for a half an hour while the Tacs berated and ridiculed them for being made a fool of by one man, who’d escaped not once but twice.

  It was closing in on dark, and they had further training the next day, so the head Tac sergeant got a bullhorn from the vehicle and yelled in the direction Charlie had run, “Sergeant Strongheart, this is administrative! You escaped and the exercise is over. Come on in.”

  Less than one hundred feet into the woods the trainees and Tacs saw movement high up in one of the trees. Sure enough Charlie had climbed the tree and hid there while all the trainees had run below and past the trunk. He approached the Tacs and one cut his flex cuffs with a knife.

  All of them started shaking hands with him and patting him on the back. Two handed him plastic bottles of water, and he rode back in their SUV. His eye was already swollen all the way shut.

  The next day, almost every man on the team wrote a peer report sharply criticizing the jerk who placed his knee on Charlie’s neck and punched him in the face.

  He was kicked out of the Special Forces Qualification Program the very next day, and his jacket stated, “Not suitable character for Special Forces operational environment.”

  Less than one month later, he was in the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment with orders for Iraq.

  Charlie went home and stayed in bed for two days. He felt like a giant toothache. At the time, he was engaged, and the guys on his team teased him unmercifully over his black eye, which he did not explain. They talked about how she caught him in bed with another man and beat him up. Within a few days, however, the story about Charlie’s exploits started circulating on Smoke Bomb Hill and his legend started to grow.

  He really loved his fiancée, but she just did not get it with Special Forces. He would come home from something like this, and suddenly not show up for a week with no warning. The young lady was just not cut out to be a Special Forces wife, which really takes an incredible breed of woman.

  His eyes snapped open, and he realized he was in a strange place. He looked all around and the room he was in was a bedr
oom, but it was feminine. There were black-and-white Holstein cows everywhere. There was a clock with the black-and-white patch pattern, a comforter, black-and-white stuffed animal cows all over the dressers and headboard, Holstein curtains, and even a throw rug on the floor with the pattern to it.

  There was a light tapping on the door, and it opened. A smiling, radiant-looking Fila walked in. She was already dressed and showered and was holding a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  Charlie was embarrassed and said sheepishly, “Morning, Booty.”

  She laughed and said, “Here, drink this. Don’t worry, Charlie. Nothing happened. We all got blown away last night, and I called us a cab, and I brought you here to my place. This is my spare bedroom.”

  Charlie took a long sip of orange juice and said, “Thanks. That is good.”

  “Liquid sunshine.”

  “It sure is,” he said. “You like cows, don’t you?”

  She laughed, saying, “No, not really, but my little sister does. She visits me a lot, and she collects them, so I decorated this room for her. I was adopted by a Special Forces colonel, you know. He used to command 5th Group at Fort Campbell. She was his youngest daughter. In middle school already.”

  Pointing, Fila said, “There is a bathroom in there. Help yourself. There’s not an extra toothbrush, but there is toothpaste and plenty of washrags you can use. If you want to take a shower, everything you need is in there.”