Editor’s Note: Geo’s memoir, Brothers of the Cloth, a true account of special mission unit soldiers, is now available for pre-order. You can purchase it here.
No shite, there I was. That is how this sort of story typically unfolds. There’s no moral to it; no special message. Perhaps the message is that when it rains, it pours. I was in British Guyana in my jungle lair… sweating. I hadn’t stopped sweating since I had come in-country over a week ago. What time again was it that we were supposed to stop sweating? We had gone there for the rivers and the jungle: a superb training environment. Guyana was a splendid place for combat riverine training — and a superb place to sweat profusely.
I had the good fortune to trade sitting and sweating for a chance to work with our two-troop on some Delta Queen operations with Chinook helicopters and inflatable rubber boats. Mind you, I hated those operations because they were so damned risky, but at that point, I would have rather sucked a dick than sit and dehydrate slowly through my millions of tiny pores.
The morning iterations went well enough, with just one injury to one of the helicopter load crews, who got his leg jammed in the ramp as he was raising it. Poor mug; he did it to himself and had only himself to blame. I, at times — especially that morning — wondered if the load crews didn’t fancy themselves just a tad more important to our Delta Queens than they really were.