George E. Hand IV

Perhaps SEAL Team SIX forgot their clown car as they could barely lead a VIP to the local airport without disastrous results.

In the whirlwind of operations, from the jungles of Colombia to the heated terrains of Somalia, amidst the camaraderie and relentless jesting, lay a realm where the line between a soldier’s duty and the whims of reality blurred, tossing us between the rigors of military life and the fleeting moments of absurd hilarity that carried us through the unpredictable currents of service.

DeliverFund isn’t about capes and glory—it’s about relentless hours in front of a screen, digging through the digital underworld to save lives while the world looks the other way.

The 1911 in Delta was less a sidearm and more a trusted, stubborn warhorse that’d stick with you through the grit, where every scuff and dent told the story of missions endured, even if it meant taking a fall from five stories high.

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 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.

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.