Chosen Soldier - Dick Couch [65]
“Career soldier or a career lawyer?” I ask.
“We’ll see,” Captain Lawson replies. “Perhaps neither. My real passion is Russian literature. It could be that I’ll want to get an advanced degree in that area and teach. Right now I have to focus on getting through selection, then get back here to finish the Q-Course.”
On the afternoon of the third Star, another increment of successful land-nav candidates joins their classmates at Andersonville. Though they will only be there a short while, they’re overjoyed. At a holding area near the command truck, there’s a group of close to thirty candidates. Those soldiers who have quit or been involuntarily withdrawn from selection have all been taken back to Camp Mackall. These remaining candidates are the men who, for one reason or another, didn’t find four points on any of the three Stars and found less than eight points on all three evolutions. They are quietly attending to their gear or sitting dejectedly on their rucks. A few have taken a seat without taking off their rucks. They’re levered back on their packs, passed out from sheer exhaustion. Some are talking quietly among themselves, but most are silent. In the background is the drone of the generator that serves the command-center truck. A lone figure makes his way over to the unsuccessful candidates.
“OK, guys, bring it over here and bring it in close. Yeah, wake that guy up and get him over here.” First Sergeant Billy Sarno ducks under the pink marking tape so he can be with them in the penalty area. A candidate nearby is struggling to rise and Sarno offers him a hand, pulling him to his feet. He is in a fresh set of utilities, and the bill of his starched fatigue cap rides characteristically low, close to his nose. Sarno surveys the sad group a long moment with his arms folded across his chest. Then he removes his cap. “Men, I gotta take my hat off to you. None of you quit; you gave it your best shot. You didn’t make it through the Star, and that means your training here is over. Right now, it’s just not for you, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you, and I want to thank you for trying. If it works out, come back next year or after your next deployment and try again. Very few people in this man’s Army can do what you’ve just done. As you go back to your units or to a new assignment, you can walk with your head up. You’re not quitters, and I’d be proud to soldier with you anytime, anywhere. I love you guys. Thanks for being here.” Sarno replaces his cover, comes to attention, and salutes them. One or two manage to return his salute. “Good luck to each of you. The trucks’ll be here in a few minutes to take you back to Camp Mackall.”
The successful candidates break down Andersonville and clean up the area. When they leave, it’s like they hadn’t been there. Then they help police the base-camp area, and they, too, board the trucks for Camp Mackall. That evening they have their first hot meal and shower in five days.
Two-thirds of the assessment and selection phase of Special Forces training is over. The physical grind, the timed runs and ruck marches, and the long navigation courses have cut Class 8-04 in half. While the candidates overhaul their gear, the cadre sergeants begin to organize the survivors into twelve- to fourteen-man teams. Over in the headquarters hut, the senior members of the Phase I cadre work out the final details of the remaining training. Ahead are the Long Range Team Movements, or team events, and the SAREs—Situational Awareness Reaction Exercises. The SARE has since been renamed the Human Terrain Adaptability Exercise, but for this work I’ll stick with the term “SARE.” Also still ahead are the psych evaluations and, for some, the commander’s review board. The senior cadre work late into the night, and the last two to leave are First Sergeant Billy Sarno and Captain Walt Carson. Billy Sarno provides the energy and combustion to the selection phase; Walt Carson provides the passion and intensity.
Walt Carson grew up in Charleston, South Carolina, and had wanted to be a Green Beret