George E. Hand IV

Ricardo and I stood under the barracks’ overhang, chain-smoking those god-awful Colombian cigs and watching chaos unfold like it was just another Tuesday, all while humming ‘Going back to Cali’ like we were extras in some black comedy war flick.

Stuck in the sweltering jungle with a bunch of half-trained ‘elite’ commandos and a colonel who’d rather sit on intelligence than use it, we were babysitters at best, warriors in waiting—waiting for something to finally break loose.

In Delta, there was a bifurcation of schools of thought among the men, whose physical training program was NOT dictated at any level of command, recognizing that the Unit was fueled by big boys who played by big boy rules.

In the chaos of Tucumcari’s cellblock B, I learned that survival wasn’t just about keeping your ramen—it was about holding onto your sanity with a plastic cereal bowl and a good dose of absurdity.

You can’t make this stuff up—what started as a routine drive to Houston for a human trafficking task force turned into a full-blown, head-smashing circus of New Mexico’s finest, complete with lost licenses, General Pop introductions, and a dinner I never even got to taste.

Call it bad luck or pure stupidity, but if you’re messing with riot control devices and blow off part of your arm in the process, don’t expect me to call you a victim—just a Darwin Award contender.

Delta Force isn’t just about elite operations; sometimes it’s about surviving the noxious fumes of Chill-D’s ass and the absurd camaraderie that comes with it.

Every moment of survival came with its own brutal trade-off, but for Chainsaw, those deals were sealed in blood, pain, and the endless search for a little bit of normalcy in a world that would never be the same again.

I’ve never been closer to death than when I hallucinated Apache warriors charging poolside during that shallow water blackout—but hey, at least they weren’t Navy SEALs.

The chute malfunction sent me into a spin so violent, it prevented my eyes from being able to focus on anything. Everything was a blurry smear.

I took a last breath and slipped under the bubble line and through the escape hatch. The view of the submarine was breathtaking. It was huge!

With no real limits to the mission other than to mimic a Spetsnaz unit and cause chaos, we embraced our role, wreaking havoc on the island, and ensuring the U.S. Navy security forces at NAS Adak had their hands full around the clock.