Chosen Soldier - Dick Couch [164]
Nine-one-five’s contingent linkup is scheduled for 0600 that morning. First Lieutenant Patrick Kwele and Specialist Antonio Costa change into civilian clothes for the meeting. Well covered by their teammates hiding in the woods, the two soldiers wait by the road in front of the church. Soon a pickup truck slowly approaches. Kwele and Costa exchange bona fides with two members of the Pineland auxiliary, then call in Captain Santos. After some negotiations and the exchange of 1,000 don, an agreement is struck for them to be picked up by truck later that morning. The auxiliary returns at the appointed time, this time in two old pickup trucks, and 915 clambers aboard. The truck beds are wet and dirty, but then so is 915. The soldiers are covered with heavy tarps, and the little convoy sets out to meet with the head of their assigned partisan group—their G chief.
While 915 is making their final preparations for insertion into Pineland, I go out to visit its guerrilla base. It’s located a sloping piece of acreage populated by scrub oak trees, low vegetation, and an occasional pine, all surrounded by freshly planted soybean fields—private land made available to the Army by a local farmer. The ground is located several miles north of the town of Raeford. It’s rural North Carolina farm country. The cadre have set up their camp about a quarter-mile from the G base to support the 915’s exercise scenario, or “lane.” Here, well away from the G base, the cadre, OCEs, and additional role players will await events in the exercise play to unfold. I park my truck at the cadre camp and make my way down a dirt road that bordered a bean field, then take an overgrown path into the woods that meander down a shallow slope and into the G base. There, in a small clearing, I find a large tarp covering a fire pit with six to eight boxes and stools around the fire. A large store of wood is stacked nearby. Next to this gathering place there’s a small tent with a table that holds a modest supply of canned goods and MRE rations. A fifty-five-gallon drum is blocked up on a crude wooden cradle with a filler cap on the top. Scattered down the gentle slope are small tents and low shelter tarps tied in among the trees. These are the guerrilla “hooches.” It has the look of Andersonville. As I approach, a large man with a goatee, tan ball cap, and dark fatigues is addressing some two dozen men dressed like himself. All wear the same black field uniforms, but there’s a smattering of camouflage jackets and hunting vests.
“OK, men. Thanks for all your hard work in getting the camp set up. For the next two weeks, you are no longer American soldiers in the United States Army. You are Pineland freedom fighters—living on the edge and suffering here in this guerrilla camp for the freedom of our beloved Pineland. In this camp, you’ll always address me as Colonel or Colonel Chissom, and Sergeant First Class Johnson here is now Sergeant Major Johnson. Our uniform is the black guerrilla fatigues of the Pineland freedom fighter and your civilian baseball caps.
“Forget all you learned in the Army; you’ve had no formal military training. I don’t want to hear any Army slang. If you were a city boy before you came into the Army, be a city boy here. If you were a farm boy, you’re a farm boy again. You may know how to shoot a rifle, but you’re not a marksman, and you’ve maybe put a dozen or so rounds through your weapon. You may have seen a hand grenade, but you’ve never thrown one. This afternoon, I want you to study your Pineland packets and get in character. Do not get buddy-buddy with the SF students