“There is no way in hell I’m going to make it through this.”
This was the thought that bounced around my head from time to time when I first got down to Fort Benning, Georgia to start my military career as an aspiring Army Special Forces soldier. The first step was graduating Infantry Basic. This was probably one of the easier steps.
Before I get to that, some of you may be asking, “What is an SF baby?”
An SF baby is a (sometimes derogatory) term applied to 18X enlistees, which is the military occupational specialty (MOS) designation for a Special Forces Recruit. It essentially meant that, if you had the right qualifications and a high enough Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB) test scores, you could enlist with the guarantee to attend Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS), provided you graduated Infantry Basic Training, Airborne School, and a Special Operations Preparation and Conditioning (SOPC) course.
I initially wanted to be a Ranger. I graduated right around the time the movie Black Hawk Down came out and 9/11 occurred. Both played a major role in joining. The recruiter said they didn’t have any Ranger slots open, but I did well enough on my tests to go 18X. I knew I didn’t want anything other than combat arms, but I didn’t really want to go infantry. My parents looked at me with some concern, but told me it was my decision. The counselor wanted me to go mobile artillery. Hah. No thanks. No offense to anyone in mobile artillery, but that does not sound like work I would ever enjoy. 18X it is. (Looking back, knowing what recruiters have to go through for security clearance enlistments, I understand why they didn’t want me to do that one).
My first few weeks at Infantry Basic down at Fort Benning were eye openers. Not because of the sheer insanity that is infantry basic, or the stupid heat/humidity of Georgia in July, but because of the caliber of guys I was among with the 18X recruits. In total, my basic training company consisted of 52 Special Forces recruits. The whispers of self-doubt started almost immediately. One guy was a former college football player, stacked tall and strong with a sharp wit to go along with it. Another just graduated with a double major in quantum mechanics and engineering from University of California at Berkley. Most were roughly 24-28 years old, physically impressive, and with at least some college.
I was a 17-year-old, 130 pound pale kid from a small town in Indiana. I wrestled and played baseball, and put enough effort into a couple of classes during my high school career to graduate.
I was fucked.
Somewhere along the way, I developed a bad habit of letting doubt slip in my thoughts. “I’ll end up at 82nd Airborne or 101st. Maybe even Italy. It won’t be so bad.”
After a short period of time, I stopped comparing myself to the other X-rays and focused on grinding through the distinct insanity that is infantry basic training. I made good friends with quite a few guys in my platoon, especially a few of my fellow 18X-rays. We quickly noticed that we were sharper and possessed more general awareness than the average infantry recruit we were around. More importantly, we quickly figured out which X-rays didn’t behave as if they were superior to the rest.
By the time graduation came and we were collectively preparing to go down the street for Airborne school, only a few had bounced out. One was grossly overweight when he arrived, and his recruiter must have lied about the physical fitness test requirements before sending him. He didn’t even graduate from Basic. Another told the SF liaison he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore a few days before graduation. Gone.
It dawned on me that I wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel. Then I worried again, because the real difficult stuff hadn’t even begun.
“Increase the suck factor!”
These words were often heard, repeated, and often felt. The suck factor is an imaginary rating system of how much things suck at any given moment. Obviously, this is a very subjective scale. For Justin Beiber, his suck factor may involve getting arrested or having his Ferrari impounded for drag racing. For anyone training for war, their suck factor may involve rolling in sand and sweat in 100 degree heat down in Fort Benning, Georgia.
It’s all about perspective and attitude. This was one of many great life lessons I learned in my formative training phases after enlisting in the United States Army as a Special Forces Recruit, or SF Baby.
After finishing 14 weeks of Infantry Basic Training, I was feeling mighty ‘Hooah’ with my shaved head, dog tags around my neck, and a four-digit bank account. Airborne School was up next. As I type this, I’m trying to think of a diplomatic way of saying what I’m about to say, without dulling the impact of my words. United States Army Airborne School sticks out in my mind as one of the most painful experiences in my military career. Not painful physically, mind you. Rather, painful in the “I-would-rather-grind-my-face-across-pavement-for-a-few-hours-rather-than-repeat-that-course” pain.
It wasn’t challenging because it was demanding physically, like Infantry Basic. It wasn’t challenging mentally, like language school or learning the calculation and placement of charges. It was painful because the standards were built for the lowest common denominator capable of enlisting. My thoughts of Airborne School were based almost entirely on the book Band of Brothers. Now that shit was hard. This nonsense that is Airborne School now made me dread waking up. The only good part about Airborne School was the actual jumping, and that consisted of only about 225 seconds out of 3 weeks of ‘super-Hooah-ness.’ Don’t even get me started about the surrounding town, Columbus. That place makes Fayetteville look like… never mind. No comparisons work there. They both suck.
I didn’t want to spend any time on Airborne School in this article, but the visceral reactions I was having just thinking about it made me want to share. I’m done with that. Moving on.
So here we are, at long last, driving away from the Big Army insanity that was Fort Benning, Georgia. Fresh new jump wings sewn onto my BDUs (battle dress uniforms). Me, a few of the other SF Babies, and a bus full of other privates boarded a chartered bus and started the trek East towards North Carolina.
I was filled with a metric shit-ton of doubt, nerves, anxiety, and a healthy dose of excitement. We really had no idea what to expect. Aside from a few short meetings with the Special Warfare Center and School (SWCS) liaison assigned to the Infantry Basic Training Battalions, we were going blind with our duffel bags, peach fuzz heads, and packets in hand.
This was right around Thanksgiving, so there were rumors flying that we may get a pass or the chance to use leave before the next SOPC class started. I was stoked about that idea—I wanted to go home, visit family and friends, and chase girls around (I was 18… deal with it).
We arrived at Fort Bragg around 0200. We rolled into what appeared to be the ‘bad side of town,’ if such a thing were possible on a military post. A few streetlights cast faint lights around the road at distant intervals. Many of the buildings were surrounded by tall chain-linked fences; some topped with barbed wire. The buildings looked run down, as if they’d been standing since World War II. Coincidentally, we later found out that made sense, because these barracks were actually built during WWII.
The bus pulled into what was obviously a sort of small receiving area, at the edge of a small compound (if it could be called that). Lots of dirt patches surrounded by paved road running straight lines through these two-story barracks that looked well beyond their cost of depreciation (like my accounting term?). The area was littered with tall pine trees, with which I would become intimately acquainted over the next year and half.
In the faint glow of what little ambient light was available, I could make out what appeared to be a large square pit filled with sand and mulch, surrounded by beat up sand bags. Seeing the devices of torture before they are used can be distressing.
Some guy met us as we unloaded our bags off the bus. His demeanor said he was an NCO, but the rank on his lapels said otherwise. At the time, I assumed this guy could have been some sort of instructor, so I was on my best behavior, which essentially meant I kept my mouth shut, ears/eyes wide open, and moved quickly. Looking back, I think this guy was either broke or he had stepped on his dick and got booted from the course. What did I know? Ignorance is bliss when you’re a private.
He blithely told us to fill out some in-processing forms and went about his business. I believe that consisted of reading a Maxim magazine. Once we were complete, he pointed us to the building we would be sleeping in. We asked what we were supposed to do the following day, since it was a Saturday. I don’t remember getting any definitive answers, but we all took that as a sign we could relax a bit.
We picked our bunks and footlockers, unloaded our bags and gear, changed into something and went to sleep. Guys who had personal vehicles and drove themselves to Fort Bragg from Airborne School were slowly trickling in throughout the night, which meant intermittent slamming of doors echoing in the 20 meter long barrack bay lined with bunk beds.
The next day, we got word to be in formation the following morning in front of our barracks. Physical training (PT) outfit and canteens, at 0700. Fear started to creep in. I had drifted the past month or so through Airborne School and all the interim stuff without much deep consideration with what lay ahead of me. Then it got real. Am I ready? Am I going to be ‘that guy’? I could hang with most. My final two-mile run time at this point was around 13:20. I could max the sit-up portion of the physical fitness test, and come close to maxing the push-ups. Ruck marches kicked my ass and destroyed my short legs, but I could keep up with the tall, lanky bastards.
I was as ready as I could be.
The following morning, it began without much fanfare. A stocky cadre showed up in PT gear. He didn’t even really introduce himself as I recall. Just a simple, “You guys ready? Stretch out.” Very un-Army. Stretching complete? Let’s go.
And he takes off… decent pace. We’re moving along quietly in the early morning glow that can only come in late fall, right before the deep cold hits. No cadence thankfully. Just the sound of shuffling feet and breathing, like one organism moving in unison down the road. Then the cadre picked up the pace a bit. Each passing minute along a strange unknown path, the pace quickened more and more. The Fear started to slip in again… “Don’t fail. Don’t fail. Don’t fall out.”
We reached a plateau with the pace. A few guys started to fall behind. Each time I would look back, they would be further and further from the pack with that look of desperation and agony that can only come from someone who wants to be part of the pack, but physically (or mentally) can’t cope with the harsh realities of what they’re pushing their bodies to do. We would make loops to go back and pick them up. Short moments of relative rest from the speed, but it only picked back up when they were back in the fold.
This became the new norm for a couple of weeks – each day at varying hours, there would be little runs like this, or PT smoke sessions. We operated on very little info, with high standards that increased on a consistent basis. The cadre treated us as close to adults as I had experienced in the military up until that point.
Our class hadn’t even started yet.
Each night, we would go to bed exhausted but joking around in the barracks. Collectively lick our wounds, prepare for the next day, and discuss what rumors we heard about what is coming. Though I can’t speak for anyone else, as the SOPC start day approached, my anxiety increased right along with the physical demands of training.
I started to get the Fear. Not a Fear of pain or misery due to the physical training, but the Fear of failing. In hindsight, this Fear probably pushed me to levels I did not expect myself to be able to reach. At the time, it felt like a foreboding shadow on the horizon that was everywhere I looked. But, this is all part of the plan.