There was a strict protocol for crossing the thousands of barbed-wire fences that delineated boundaries of the local private land to prevent damage to them. On a particular day, I felt quite clueless of my position on Earth. I crossed a fence and wandered out in a nice grassy field. I moved some 50 meters into the field and took a knee for another fruitless gander at my map. I thought I felt a vibration in the ground below me. I was certain I felt vibrations under me.
I looked up to see a bull, in full gallop, bearing down on me. I was in his field, and I had a bright orange panel (VF-17) spread out on the back of my rucksack.
I got lost and made a new friend.
I thought my ass was dragging in the dirt and that I couldn’t go any farther, but I was wrong! I stood and turned, sprinting back toward the wire. When I thought I was close enough to the fence, I launched my rifle over it and dove over the top strand of wire. I came down hard on my side and just laid there. I looked up at the bull snorting at the fence, mucus oozing from his nostrils. I looked over at my rifle and decided it was much too far away for me to get up and go get it. I did so nonetheless, eventually.
I found myself at the edge of a vast open expanse of cleared land. There were many large spots of just dirt. It reminded me of a parachute drop zone. To my front, at 250 meters as the crow flies, was the hulk of a Volkswagen bus. I studied my map. Nothing! I deduced that I had to have walked myself off of my map sheet; it happened often to candidates in this course.
It was time to seek assistance, so I flipped a mental coin, and it said to go that-a-way. On I marched at an easy speed until I came to a house, a house with a local gentleman sitting in a rocking chair, whittling a morsel of hard oak, hound dog sprawled lazily at his feet. Several long guns leaned against the walls: a shotgun, a lever-action, and a bolt-gun. There was a table littered with empty longneck Rolling Rock beer bottles.
Not Quite “Deliverance,” but Close
I paused momentarily, straining to hear over the breeze. My ears strained hard against the faint white noise of the day, filtering out the sound of scurrying squirrels, swaying branches, the rattle and buzzing of insects. My ears drew in all available audio wavelengths like finely tuned instruments, searching, searching for the flat, tinny sound of plucking banjos. None detected, I continued my approach as if walking through the film “Deliverance.”
As I closed with Jethro, he made no attempt to meet me halfway. Social skill was not the big thing up there on that porch. With a bite of humble pie, I uttered in my finest Appalachian accent, “Howdy!” No response whatsoever. I continued on with the story of my plight. Spying the map in my hand, he asked to have a look. We both looked at the map, and he nodded and “uh-huh-ed” several times in a seemingly knowing manner. “Well, I can run you in ma truck where ya need ta go.” He offered. I eagerly accepted and threw myself and my ruck into the back of his truck.
There was a strict protocol for crossing the thousands of barbed-wire fences that delineated boundaries of the local private land to prevent damage to them. On a particular day, I felt quite clueless of my position on Earth. I crossed a fence and wandered out in a nice grassy field. I moved some 50 meters into the field and took a knee for another fruitless gander at my map. I thought I felt a vibration in the ground below me. I was certain I felt vibrations under me.
I looked up to see a bull, in full gallop, bearing down on me. I was in his field, and I had a bright orange panel (VF-17) spread out on the back of my rucksack.
I got lost and made a new friend.
I thought my ass was dragging in the dirt and that I couldn’t go any farther, but I was wrong! I stood and turned, sprinting back toward the wire. When I thought I was close enough to the fence, I launched my rifle over it and dove over the top strand of wire. I came down hard on my side and just laid there. I looked up at the bull snorting at the fence, mucus oozing from his nostrils. I looked over at my rifle and decided it was much too far away for me to get up and go get it. I did so nonetheless, eventually.
I found myself at the edge of a vast open expanse of cleared land. There were many large spots of just dirt. It reminded me of a parachute drop zone. To my front, at 250 meters as the crow flies, was the hulk of a Volkswagen bus. I studied my map. Nothing! I deduced that I had to have walked myself off of my map sheet; it happened often to candidates in this course.
It was time to seek assistance, so I flipped a mental coin, and it said to go that-a-way. On I marched at an easy speed until I came to a house, a house with a local gentleman sitting in a rocking chair, whittling a morsel of hard oak, hound dog sprawled lazily at his feet. Several long guns leaned against the walls: a shotgun, a lever-action, and a bolt-gun. There was a table littered with empty longneck Rolling Rock beer bottles.
Not Quite “Deliverance,” but Close
I paused momentarily, straining to hear over the breeze. My ears strained hard against the faint white noise of the day, filtering out the sound of scurrying squirrels, swaying branches, the rattle and buzzing of insects. My ears drew in all available audio wavelengths like finely tuned instruments, searching, searching for the flat, tinny sound of plucking banjos. None detected, I continued my approach as if walking through the film “Deliverance.”
As I closed with Jethro, he made no attempt to meet me halfway. Social skill was not the big thing up there on that porch. With a bite of humble pie, I uttered in my finest Appalachian accent, “Howdy!” No response whatsoever. I continued on with the story of my plight. Spying the map in my hand, he asked to have a look. We both looked at the map, and he nodded and “uh-huh-ed” several times in a seemingly knowing manner. “Well, I can run you in ma truck where ya need ta go.” He offered. I eagerly accepted and threw myself and my ruck into the back of his truck.
Off we roared in a flurry of dust clouds. We bounced around on rough country roads for about 15 minutes. Every second of the ride was bliss for me because I knew this day was over. Sure, I had not successfully completed the day’s exercise, but Delta could kiss my ass! Today’s exercise didn’t matter; it was just practice! The truck came to a halt with another dust plume. The wind was at our back, so all that dust we had stirred up on the drive would be catching up to us for the next minute or so. I thanked my driver profusely and he sped off. I waited for the dust to settle so I could grab my bearing. When it finally did, there to my front, at 250 meters as the crow flies, was the hulk of a Volkswagen bus.
I staggered down the country road like a drunk. Andy and Opie Taylor passed me carrying fishing rods and whistling. Walking on roads was forbidden, but let’s face it, I was done and just wanted to go home. Eventually I spied one of our unmistakable hearse-like vehicles on the side of the road. The driver got out and opened the tarp on the back of the truck. He stood by it with an irritated look on his face that said to me, “It’s late, get the fuck in the truck and let’s go.”
The Best Part of Delta is the Pie
I limped into the chow hall where all my mates were already eating. I ladled from the banquet that the chefs blessed us with for dinner. I sat next to my great bud P-Mac and Mike P. who asked me how my day went. “Swimmingly,” I responded, and we quickly talked about something else. P-Mac confessed that he felt like having another dessert, but his tone was one of guilt. “Mac,” I said in earnest, “think about what you did today and go get yourself another piece of pie. And after that, go get yourself another piece of pie.” P-Mac flashed a eureka glance and headed for the pie carousel.
Another evening in the chow hall, we were taking a mental inventory of who was there and who was not. Danny K. was a very well-liked Green Beret in our class. Prior to the Green Berets, he had, among other things, been an amateur comedian performing in several competitions. Everyone appreciated the positive impact on morale that his sense of humor brought. He was not, however, a strong candidate. The class pulled for him nonetheless.
On this eve, in his absence, he was the topic of conversation at the dinner table. From within the chow hall, the distinct thumping of Blackhawk rotor blades grew louder. In close proximity to the chow hall was the helicopter landing pad. Selection and assessment used a Blackhawk helo for medical evacuation and search and recovery. The sound indicated the Blackhawk had landed and shut down. Within the next three minutes, the door to the chow hall was flung open, and in walked Danny K., his black hair standing straight up. His face was pallid and sunken. He walked straight to the serving line to the applause and cheers of all of us at dinner.
–More to follow in Part 4
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Editor’s Note: Let’s all do Geo a solid. Go out and buy his book and visit his website. I promise it’s all good stuff. — GDM
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