Geo Hand's Guide to Surviving Delta Force Selection and Assessment (Part 7): The Long Walk

If you have not read part 6 yet, you can check that out here.

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No Sleep, Just Hallucinations

I awoke thankfully before my alarm ever went off. I don’t think I was even really asleep at any point, rather just hallucinating all the while. I prepared my coffee in the rain; it refused to really get hot with the constant heavenly dilution. I drank it grudgingly. I reported for my marching orders and, in my own fine tradition, proceeded to get lost on my first leg. Why should today be any different than the rest? In the valley I had descended into, I had selected a fork in a creek as my reference point to set my short final approach to my first RV. The rain had rendered the valley floor a myriad of creeks, streams, and rivulets.

Still dark, the valley was alive with running water. I felt like I was wandering through a house of mirrors. I came face-to-face with my bro Mark “Cuz” C., a badass Ranger suffering my same fate. We exchanged words, none of which contained the slightest vestige of meaning, only serving to verify we were both equally lost.

Go Toward the Light

A faint light blinked for several seconds at a distance of several hundred meters. With no real explanation, it is possible that it was what we called a “white light AD,” or an accidental discharge of a flashlight that was not protected with an infrared cover. Whatever the reason, Cuz and I both saw it and headed toward it. Score! It was a military pickup truck, our first RV.

I had several RVs behind me now with no more lost time. At one particular RV, having just been cleared to depart, I topped off my canteens from a five-gallon water can near the truck. Then, I drank from a cup tied to the water can with a lanyard. As I drank, I noticed there was a rubber duck rifle lying propped on a large piece of deadfall. “Uh oh…that doesn’t look good at all,” I thought. Is it possible that someone ahead of me actually left his rifle behind? How could that even be possible? I clutched my rifle tightly.

Ranger Farussi

Ranger Farussi was part of our selection class. I would describe him as a nice enough jolly ol’ fellow, quick with the witty comments, animated as hell, and maybe even a bit of a yuk-yuk—you know, to the extent that it could get a bit annoying. P-Mac got downright irritated with him. As he put it, “You know, Farussi shows up every time wearing a top hat and carrying a cane, shuffling off to Buffalo; he’s here to freakin’ entertain us all! I’m sick of it!”

Ranger Farussi was in front of me now on the march. He was coming at me, going the opposite way that he should be going. As he drew near, I could see that he was crying in frustration. He was red-faced…and weaponless! As he came within spitting distance, he blubbered, “Have you seen my rifle?”

“Yeah, it’s…” I started, but he dashed past me in a fit. I regarded him momentarily. My God, he had gotten all the way to his next RV, and the cadre in the truck had queried, “Where is your rifle, candidate?” It would not be possible for him to recover his rifle and continue on to pass the course time standard.

There was a shameful rumor that drifted among the class earlier in the barracks days. Everyone knew that if you made it to the top of Mozark Mountain, that was the end of the walk. That was the final RV, and you were finished! I foolishly subscribed to the notion that it all ended there on the summit of that hateful rock. It would be sweet!

Until then, the movement to Mozark Mountain would be a murderous trek along the Otter Creek trail that refused to end. I mused to myself that Cabanatuan must certainly exist at the end of the Otter Creek trail. To interrupt the monotony, I deemed it necessary to relieve myself of number two. I pushed into the vegetation several meters off the trail, dropped trow, and took a squat.

In and Out

It occurred to me that I should exploit my “break” even further by multi-tasking, so I pulled some components of an MRE (a food package) from my cargo pocket and ate. I recall how I tried to eat an energy bar while on our 18-mile speed march weeks earlier. I was already breathing hard, and trying to chew up the energy bar made me nearly go hypoxic. There would be no more attempts to eat on the move.

As I performed my feat of simultaneous intake and purge, I heard the distinct sound of another man on the move approaching. Rod “The Bod” G. moved across my front, cradling his weapon clumsily, a copious amount of blood running down his smashed face. “Hang in there, dammit, Rod!” I encouraged.

“I will if I can just keep from falling down again,” he replied with a minute quiver in his voice. He was staying in this fight!

I was up and on the move again. The trail was on a distinct decline by now, so I knew I was headed down into the valley where the Cheat River would be. In the past, candidates were on their own to forge across the river the best they could. There was a problem: The river was subject to weather variables and would fluctuate in terms of water depth and speed of current. Ranger Scott Stay drowned, attempting to cross the river. The Unit resorted to ferrying candidates across the river in rubber raiding craft, and eventually, a full steel bridge was erected over the river.