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SECRET SOLDIERS OF THE SECOND ARMY
By LESLIE A. CHAPMAN
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Leslie A. Chapman
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6769-8
Chapter One
I was only eighteen years old when I enlisted in the United States Army. Looking back, it seemed like the only exciting thing to do. I'd graduated from high school and had no desire to enroll in college. What could a university education provide that I couldn't earn myself? I couldn't stand the thought of wasting any more time.
You see, I was young and strong, and there was a war going on and I didn't want to let it pass me by. I yearned to be like my uncle who'd fought the Japanese in World War II, and to emulate my father who'd fought against Rommel, The Desert Fox in Africa. I wanted a chest full of medals and a massive collection of heroic stories that I'd be able to tell my children and grandchildren.
Most of all, I honestly wanted my family and my countrymen to be proud of me. I wanted them to be able to know from my actions that I had served my country faithfully, with genuine pride.
Filled with conviction, I sought out the local US Army Recruiting office and signed on the dotted line. Right on schedule, seven months later, I'd finished my basic and advanced training. I'd even completed my airborne instruction at Fort Benning, Georgia. Naturally, each of these achievements boosted my self-confidence and elevated my abilities; I took to the Army like a fish to water.
Not long after graduating airborne training, I was standing around joking with some friends near the Post Exchange in Fort Benning, when I noticed a ramrod straight, strack-looking Staff Sergeant walking toward our group. To say that he commanded respect would be an understatement; everything about him had "professional" written all over it. And, to top it off, he was wearing some sort of hat I'd never seen. At first, I assumed he was in another branch of the military or possibly from another country.
In an arrogant tone, I began questioning my friends, "What the hell is he supposed to be, and in what branch of service?"
Quickly, my friends encouraged me to shut my mouth and hope like hell he hadn't heard me. Naively, I asked again, "what in the hell are you talking about?" One of them revealed, "the guy you're making reference to is possibly one of the greatest fighting machines in the United States Army. Man, don't you know anything? He's a Green Beret!"
I was awestruck to say the least. What a proud, confident soldier he appeared to be. I was spellbound by his TW's and the way he fit his uniform, his radiating pride, cockiness and the way he carried himself, transfixed with envy I stood staring spell bound.
Leaning toward my friends, whose mouths were open in surprise, I whispered, "guys that is what I want to become: a Green Beret." Needless to say, they roared with laughter, quickly pointing out, "You don't have what it takes to become a Green Beret. Besides, you're too young." undaunted by their opposition, I sprinted to the on-base Special Forces Recruiter and informed him that I wanted to become a Green Beret.
Turns out, there were a few issues I had to overcome prior to being accepted into the ranks of the Special Forces. Since I was only 19 and a Private E2, I needed a waiver from the Department of the Army, giving exception to both my age and lack-of-rank.
So, as it goes in bureaucracies, I waited while the paperwork was submitted for approval. Every day I waited for word to come down from the Department of Army (DA) waiting for an answer one way or another was agonizing. Patience had never been one of my finer qualities, and 30 long days passed without any word from the higher-ups. I stayed on edge.
Finally, one day while I was on kitchen detail, I received word that I had been approved to take the battery of tests required to qualify for acceptance into the Special Forces Training Group. Nervously, full of doubt and lacking individual confidence, I took the physical fitness test, mental exams and evaluations, passing them all. Once again, I would have to play the waiting game while my test scores and requests for waivers filtered through the Department of the Army. Ultimately after forty-five days, word made its way down through military channels; I had been accepted to begin Special Forces Training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
My pride and arrogance was obvious as I paraded around the holding company area, boasting and strutting for all to see. I was to be the youngest soldier to have ever been accepted into the Special Forces program.
Looking back, I'm fairly sure my display of self-praise and tremendous ego made everyone a little sick to their stomachs.
I was reassigned to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In May of 1967 I was assigned to B Company, Training Battalion, Special Forces Training Group. The focal point for all Special Forces training. Upon our arrival we were hustled inside a massive building for in processing and barracks assignment.
Not surprisingly, the paperwork took up most of the day. I literally filled out so many forms, that after a while, I didn't have a clue as to what I'd signed. Upon completion of in processing, the sergeant gathered us into formation outside with our duffle bags draped across our bodies.
I remember standing in that line, scanning the formation and realizing that guys from every military operational specialty were trying out for Special Forces. The maturity level encompassed both novice and journeyman, and a whole lot of in-betweens. As can be expected, my self-confidence and self-esteem was challenged as I mentally sized up my contemporaries.
Suddenly, the Sergeant First Class roars, "Class Attention." Everyone assumed ridged attention, awaiting his next command. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of an extremely large man in the front of the formation. Without hesitation, he issued the second part of the command, "Right Face!" Of course we responded slowly, because our bags and equipment weighed us down. He then commanded, "Forward" hesitated momentarily then gave the command of execution "March," as he marched us to our barracks.
Upon arrival at our new home, he halted the formation, directed us to go inside, find our assigned rooms and bunks and get settled in. Once inside the barracks, everyone was friendly and more than willing to help with unfamiliar procedures.
The remainder of my first day involved a visual and mental evaluation of the people in my company. Naturally, everyone was older and had more stripes and military experience than I. They also appeared to be more mentally and physically prepared for the training we were about to undergo.
I made friends with a guy by the name of Mike Jones, a Sergeant E5 who already had one tour of Vietnam under his belt. He was exciting to be around and he immediately took me under his wing, promising to help me make it through the first phase of training.
Mike was 23 years old and came from your basic everyday family in Austin, Texas. Just like the state, he was a big guy; around six feet tall, extremely muscular and he drank like a fish. His political resolve was simple: God, Country and Killing North Vietnamese. Mike's face confirmed his acquaintance with mental anguish, pain and trouble. After he'd had a few drinks, he'd tell stories that made my skin crawl about Vietnam.
Maybe because we were roommates, or maybe out of some self-preserving admiration, I began slowly fashioning myself mentally and physically after him. In order to emulate Mike, I took on a constant facial expression of seriousness. Preaching to anyone who would listen, I professed to hate a group of people that I knew nothing about, or hadn't even seen.
Right then and there, I began to build a facade, like so many young men did before and will again. I was trying to be something I was not, mimicking someone else. What I could not realize then was this practice would have a price, and it would demand payment in full.
Mike consistently harped at me "You'd better learn right now that in this unit, if you don't keep your shit wired tight, someone will tighten it up for you." Deep down, I believed that there was some kind of truth to his ramblings, so I began to try and get my act together, or so I thought.
3:00 a.m. Monday – I lay sleeping in my bunk only to be awakened by a thundering noise, followed by brilliant lights surrounding me. The next thing I knew, my bunk had been turned over and I was face down on the cold cement floor. Sure enough, a huge man wearing a green beret stood over me screaming, "Get your fatigues and boots on and fall out for physical training.
Although I moved as fast as I could physically move, it wasn't fast enough. More of the towering men appeared and proceeded to throw all of our equipment and bedding out of the windows.
Having no idea where I was supposed to go in order to line up with my company, I ran downstairs and stood in the first formation I could find. I just found a spot and stood absolutely motionless. It was pitch black and none of us could see anyone else in the formation except the man on our right, left, front and rear. Instantly, a blinding flash of floodlights pierced the darkness from all directions, literally turning the night into day. We were all standing in formation like little tin soldiers while the big men who had so violently awakened us were going through the ranks.
All 10 of them were screaming simultaneously over and over ordering for everyone to get down into the front leaning rest position and "Start pushing Fort Bragg away." After they'd exhausted us with that drill, we were taught a new exercise that involved standing on your head, low crawling, elevating your feet on a tree and attempting to do pushups while your feet were elevated. This lasted for about 15 minutes before we were ordered back into formation. We then ran about half a mile down the road until we came to a big parade field where we formed up into the standard military P.T. formation, facing our instructor at open ranks.
We then began the most rigorous physical training program I had ever undertaken in my entire life. We did pushups until my arms felt like they were going to fall off. We did squats, high jumpers, body twists, trunk twisters and team/buddy exercises until the sun came up at 5:30 a.m.
As the lead P.T. instructor ordered the formation to close ranks, a sigh of relief began to come over us. We moved into a marching formation with instructors on all sides and began marching down the road.
From the left of the formation came the prepatory command, "Double Time" hesitating momentarily followed by the command of execution "March." The pace of the double time was similar to being shot out of a cannon. We began at a full run, which we all maintained for a while. However, as the pace continued to accelerate, I began to fall out. And, I wasn't the only one; the majority of the new students were just as unprepared for what was happening, as was I. We only ran three miles, but the pace matched that of Olympic runners.
When we returned to the barracks, we were introduced to the senior tactical advisor, Master Sergeant George. The first words out of his mouth were "Who wants to quit? Those who want to quit now move out into the barracks and get your gear then form back up to my left." That was it – no welcome, no pleasantries.
After I saw almost half of the company fall out, I began questioning my own sanity and high ideals of becoming a green beret. I began to wonder if I really had the intestinal and physical fortitude for this kind of training it was going to demand. Did I have the right stuff? As I watched one after another of the initial trainees head for the barracks, I remember thinking, "I did not come this far to tuck my tail between my legs and run off just because the going is getting tough."
The next two weeks were filled with this same kind of physical training twice a day. And then there were the nights? Oh, the nights were interesting full of fun and games, to say the least. It was common for the training instructors to come into the barracks at all hours and conduct footlocker drill.
For those unfamiliar with the term, it basically consisted of hoisting your fully loaded footlocker over your head and running in and out of the barracks until the training instructors became bored or tired. Footlocker fun could go on for a minimum of an hour, depending on how the cadre was feeling at that particular moment. Every day started with the Senior TAC out in front of our formation asking the same question, "Who wants to quit?" And every day, a few more guys would be outside the barracks with their gear, honestly confessing that this particular training was just too much for them.
As our numbers dwindled, the mental and physical abuse increased. In fact, the harassment never ended; the training instructors never let up. Someone was always in your face cursing, yelling, wailing, "You don't have what it takes." They were constantly begging you to quit, and to admit that you just didn't have the energy to hang in there. In an effort not to fold, we gave each of the tactical instructor's names, and started treating their harassment and insults as a continual game.
Phase One Training followed Hell Week, as it was known. This training segment encompassed tactical classes, hand-to-hand combat, map reading, negotiating terrain courses using your map and compass, survival techniques, Special Forces unconventional warfare concepts and the beginning of a lifelong study of guerrilla warfare. The initial training phase lasted for about six weeks.
Upon completion, you entered into Phase Two, your specialty training or Military Occupational Specialty. As a reward, the survivors of Hell Week and Phase One Training were moved to new barracks and received new TACs. Phase Two was a little calmer than the previous training, but not much.
This phase was the beginning of my weapons training at Fort Bragg. It was intense, demanding and extremely comprehensive training, lasting about nineteen more weeks. We learned every kind of foreign and domestic weapons system to include heavy weapons, i.e., 60 mortar, 81 mortar, 4.2mm mortar, target analysis, use of artillery and mortar plotting boards and associated ammunitions that accompanied each of the weapons systems.
Having successfully completed the Special Forces 11B/11C Weapons Course, I proudly received my Green Beret. Looking back, I wonder what kept me going and from where I drew my strength? I remembered that my Special Forces Training class started out with 33 people. My graduating class from the Weapons Course consisted of only 15 weapons men who were awarded their beret.
Upon graduation I was placed into a Special Forces line company. My new home was B Company, 7th Special Forces, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Since I'd been promoted to Specialist E-4 upon graduation from training group, I was on top of the world. Upon entering the company orderly room, I asked a sergeant sitting behind a desk for directions to the Company Sergeant Majors office.
Without even raising his head from his desktop, he pointed to a door down the hall. Thanking him, I moved quickly to the office labeled Sergeant Major. I straighten my beret and uniform and knocked at the closed door only to be answered with a gruff response of "Get your ass in here." I opened the door and stood before an older man who was somewhat overweight.
For what seemed like five minutes, the Sergeant Major looked me up and down, never speaking, just looking at me. Finally, he spoke, "Stand at ease." I briskly snapped to. As he attended to something on his desk, he maintained his silence. I tried to determine what manner of man he was. The Sergeant Major must have been the first Special Forces soldier ever accepted into the unit because he appeared to be two days older than dirt. Deep lines were carved into his round face, telling of a bitter hard road to gain his knowledge and wisdom.
His appearance and speech were gruff, immediately letting you know who was in charge. As he began talking to me, it became obvious that I was the lowest ranking maggot in his company and he wasn't happy about it.
His expressed displeasure became evident when he said, "I don't know how you got this far, but if you don't perform and live up to the company's expectations of a well-rounded, trainable soldier, I am going to run you off."
He began to lecture me, saying, "You are a member of the most elite fighting force in the world today "boy". You are a trained killer of men and a freedom fighter for the oppressed people throughout the world. You are, and will be capable of killing a man 100 different ways. Your combat capabilities will be honed to a fine edge, far beyond that of any other soldiers within the United States Armed Forces."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from SECRET SOLDIERS OF THE SECOND ARMY by LESLIE A. CHAPMAN Copyright © 2011 by Leslie A. Chapman. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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