Showing posts with label Special Forces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Special Forces. Show all posts

Friday, August 25, 2017

SandBabies

Image result for special forces assessment and selection (sfas)
I was on a closed Facebook Group I belong to the other day and another member posted a picture of excavating equipment tearing down the berm walls of the old rifle range at Camp Mackall NC. Camp Mackall was a very busy auxiliary base of Fort Bragg during WWII and housed 3 Airborne Divisions. Its claim to fame since then is that it is the location for various parts of  the US Army Special Forces Training. SERE,SFQC and the Special Forces Selection and Assessment Course are all held, at least in part at Mackall.

And this is why that picture had such an impact on me. It was like seeing your childhood home or your elementary school demolished. Nostalgic and sad. That rifle range was the location for an event in my life that I will never forget. When my life flashes before my eyes I will see this moment. In 1990 I was a Ranger Qualified E5 Sgt from the 10th Mountain Division trying to make the big leagues. I had already survived the land navigation/PT portion of Selection and had moved on to "Team Week." During Team Week candidates were grouped into small units of 10-15 and given tasks that seemed insurmountable. Usually these tasks involved moving something heavy over long distances. 

Related image

Related image

Candidates carried,pushed,pulled or dragged these items for unspecified distances for an unknown length of time. At all times the candidates also carried the proscribed packing list of at least 50 lbs in a large ALICE pack and a "rubber duck" replica of an M16 rifle. To be out of arms reach of these items at anytime were grounds for dismissal. For each task a Team Leader was chosen. The Team Leader was supposed to organize the team and accomplish the task as efficiently as possible. Since no standard other than "Do your best" was ever given everything was done at maximum velocity in fear that the standard would not be met. Of course the Cadre were looking for those that could work as a team under physical and mental stress. They were also looking for those that folded under pressure and didn't shoulder their fair share of the burden. They were looking for those that bickered and did not pitch in. Those individuals would be weeded out before they ever got to a team room.

So that brings me to the "SandBabies". The task was simple, move an unspecified number of sandbags up and over the steep side berms of three rifle bays to the other side of the range complex. The berms were probably 20-25 feet high mounds of dirt. They were steep and time had covered them with grass and trees. Something like this:

Image result for rifle range berms
We had to fill the sandbags until there was no more than a fist of space between the sand and the top of the bag. A few entrenching tools and a pile of sand were provided on one side of the range complex. We needed to move sandbags quickly and efficiently to the other side. If they were not full enough we were to carry them all back, dump them out and start over. We started with a team of 13.

Initially I filled 4-5 sandbags and threw 2-3 on my ruck and carried one in each hand. Up and over the first berm and my heart was in my throat. This was going to suck. Down the other side, a crossed the adjacent range and over the next berm and the next and the next until we came to the other side and placed the sandbags on the ground at the Cadre's feet. Not full enough take them back. Back a crossed the berms to the other side were the bag were dumped out and refilled. So it went for what felt like an eternity. Honestly I still don't know how long we moved these sandbabies but it was hours at the very least. Back and forth sometimes we were allowed to drop our bags and trudge back over the berms with just our ruck and weapons. Quite often though we were sent back to dump them out and try again. Always we had the spectre of the "standard" looming over our head. Were we to slow? Not enough sandbags? When could we stop?

Sometime over this course of this torture by sandbaby we were told that 3 of our fellow team mates had DRO ( dropped on request). They had quit. The standard was the standard however. We still had that unknown time to move that unknown number of bags from point A to point B. Being 3 men short was irrelevant to the mission. Over the minutes and hours. My shoulders,hands and legs cramped. I negotiated with myself numerous times that quitting wouldn't be so bad. I could go back to my unit and just ease into my old squad leader job. Things would be good. I would quit at the next opportunity. But when those opportunities came I talked myself into just going for one more trip. Just one more, that was it, then I would quit.

Trip after trip, time became a blur. A blur that is seared in my mind. I can still smell the leaves and pine needles. I can still see the sun blinding me as I looked skyward in an attempt to reposition my rucksack.  4 months  prior to Selection I had undergone tendon surgery on my left hand. It had not fully healed and was betraying me when I needed it most. I could no longer carry a full sandbag with that hand. It was reduced to balancing the bags a crossed my back. And I was forced to carry 4-5 sandbags on top of my rucksack to make up the difference.

And then it was over. As I dropped my load of sandbags, Cadre told me to join the others against the treeline. I wobbled over to the break area pulled out a Meal Ready to Eat and did the rucksack flop with my teammates. Ham Slice had never tasted so good. We ate quickly and re-hydrated, the next task and new Team Leader would be assigned soon.

They can tear it down but the old rifle range will always be part of my life. 

Friday, May 20, 2016

Impactful


I was working the other day in a small town about 30 minutes from where I live. I stopped to get a soda from the convenience store and I saw a friend that I had not seen in person for quite some time. I hollered and at first he didn't recognize me (I was out of context ) but when he did we gave a hand shake and man hug. We were shooting the shit when he asked me if I would come talk to the high school class he was teaching about the War on Terror. Maybe tell about some of my experiences in that regard. I agreed, with the proviso that I was working as a paramedic and if I got an ambulance call I would have to leave.

So the next morning I showed up and he met me at the front office and took me down to his classroom. Several students were seated in a semi circle and another teacher also joined us. He introduced me and I took a seat. The students had written some questions on the board and they took turns asking me each question and allowed me to answer. As conversations do we got off on some tangents but it was fun and they seemed truly interested. Eventually I was asked " What was your most impactful experience?" Just then my radio squawked for a 911 call and I had to thank them and leave in somewhat of a hurry. I never got to answer the question.

I have been thinking about it since then. What was my answer going to be? I have chronicled many of my experiences here on this blog. Stories like this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/04/baxmal.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/05/kirkuk.html andthis http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/04/road-to-klaw-kut.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/04/april-9th.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/07/no-mans-land.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/09/wrong-place-wrong-time.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2012/02/war-dogs.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2013/02/i-dont-dance.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-little-girl.html and this http://mikemac356.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-banya.html .

Good stories all but were they impactful? I think the one that was most impactful was the one I haven't told. Its the story of my time as Team Sergeant on a Special Forces Military Freefall ODA.

I have to go back in time a bit to set the story up. I was put on the promotion list to MSG shortly before my move from 1/10 in Germany to 3/10 in Ft Carson Colorado. I had recently left the best ODA I ever had the pleasure of serving on,ODA 014 MFF. That team was solid from top to bottom. I then spent time as the Battalion Operations NCO as well as the interim Team Sergeant on ODA 016 on a Kosovo deployment. By the time I moved to Colorado I was a newly promoted MSG and was assigned to the 3/10 Battalion Military Freefall Team as the new Team Sergeant, the senior enlisted member of the team. I was well qualified for the position having been on MFF teams for 10 years and also being a former MFF instructor at the Special Warfare School. I was qualified but under prepared.

No one told me to expect the personalities I would encounter. The team I walked into was as tight as the team I had just left. They worshipped the former team sergeant like a god. I had enormous shoes to fill in their eyes. I had quite a good reputation in the Special Forces community or so I thought. These guys didn't give a shit. It was obvious that it was going to be a tough road. Several guys were helpful and over the months ahead proved to be very valuable. But with a few of the guys I experienced something I have never experienced before or since. I believe they actually hated me, as in despised me. They hated my personality, my training ideas, they way I did things. They just hated me. This was a shock, it had never happened before. I was second guessing myself trying to figure out where I went wrong and what I could do better. The guys who could not accept me as team sergeant undermined my authority at every turn. Instead of helping me and working together they actively looked to make my job harder. This sucked. I was at the epitome of my career. I was a god damn Team Sergeant on a Special Forces MFF ODA and I was miserable. My ego was in tatters. I started believing that I wasn't up to the job.

This went on for months and through multiple training deployments and real world missions. Slowly the old team members started rotating out and they were replaced with guys I had known from 1/10. Guys who requested to come to my team. But still there was that little hard core clique of naysayers. Eventually we got the call to deploy to Romania for the invasion of Iraq. I was now getting along with most of the team but my Senior Communications Sergeant was not having any of it. He was the last hard core member of the "We Hate Mike Club." Where ever I went, what ever I did he would subvert,bitch, moan, complain and downright ignore my orders. I tried talking to him, talking to his peers, asking my boss what I could do. Nothing worked. He thought I was a moron and I thought he was a insubordinate little fuck. This went on so long because he was very good at his job. I needed him or so I thought. But finally I had enough. I went to the Company SGM and on the eve of what was the greatest real world mission of my military career I asked for my Senior Communication Sergeant to be removed from my ODA. They didn't argue too much as I was adamant. I would rather go to war a man down than deal with the drama anymore. For his part he didn't argue either. I think he was relieved. They moved him to the Company HQ just prior to our infiltration into Northern Iraq.

Impactful? Yes. This experience made me question my leadership abilities, my knowledge, even my own self worth. I was so shaken by this terrible time in my life that upon return from deployment I put in my retirement papers. Maybe that's what they wanted all along.

Through the lens of hindsight I see that I had a lot of positive experiences as Team Sergeant. I have friends and old teammates from that ODA that I still stay in contact with. In the past 12 years of civilian management experience I have been quite successful and can dispel any myths that I am not a good or effective leader. But I still wonder that if I would have had a better Team Sergeant experience if I would have stayed in the Army longer. I guess I will never know. One  thing I do know is that wherever that guy is I hope he somehow reaped what he sowed.

Friday, December 18, 2015

Carl Creely

Today was the 25th anniversary of my graduation from the Special Forces Qualification Course. I posted as much on Facebook. Eventually the comments on the subject turned to a fallen classmate, Carl Creely. I am embarrassed to say that the sands of time had clouded my brain on the subject. However I would like to correct that error. Carl was my classmate in the 18B Weapons Sergeant Course. He was a quiet man and a proud Infantryman. He was not the highest achiever in our class nor the lowest. Carl was a good, steady, level headed NCO.

Our infiltration parachute jump into Phase 3 (Robin Sage) was a night time combat equipment static line jump from a CASA 212 aircraft. Carl was on different "stick" than the one I was on so most of my information is hearsay. Reportedly Carl made a tree landing breaking his pelvis. The pain being so great he incorrectly undid the leg straps of his parachute before he undid the chest strap in an attempt to climb down form the tree. It was reported variously that Carl hung himself tragically on his chest strap or he bled out from the pelvis injury. What is not up for discussion is that he was transported to the hospital where he lingered a few days and then he passed. Carl was one of the countless unsung warriors that have died for their country in training accidents and non combat related incidents. I honor his service.

De Oppressor Liber and Blue Skies



http://peacetime-casualties.mooseroots.com/l/12700/Carl-Thomas-Creely

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Motherfucker You Burnt My Boots!!

In the summer of 1990 I was in Phase One of the Special Forces Qualification Course. Back then the Q Course consisted of 3 phases. Phase Two was the military occupational specialty phase and Phase Three was the culmination exercise Robin Sage. Phase One was basic skills and patrolling. The weak had already been weeded out during Special Forces Selection and Assessment. During Phase One they were trying to weed out the stupid and uncooperative. Having graduated from Ranger School almost exactly two years earlier I was extremely confident in my ability to lead a patrol and accomplish the standard small unit mission and tactics of reconnaissance, raid and ambush. One particular mission didn't go exactly as planned however.

On this particular night we were to conduct an ambush on a road/stream intersection at a small bridge. Having already passed my graded patrols I was assigned as right side security with a fellow student. This is a fairly cake job during a patrol as our only responsibility was to let the ambushees pass us and then provide early warning and seal off the objective from any reinforcements or anyone trying to escape the kill zone.

All went well and after we heard the demolitions go off on the objective we left our position and started heading towards the patrol base. Unfortunately the only way back to the patrol base was by wading through the stream itself. No problem ya gotta do what ya gotta do but in the process obviously we got wet. Once we linked up with the rest of our element we took off, trying to distance ourselves from the simulated carnage we had just brought down on the OPFOR on the bridge. We moved through the pitch dark woods in a single file. Not being able to see anything but the reflective "cateyes" on the patrol cap of the man to your front. Although it was summer, it dropped down into the 50's. The movement kept me warm despite the dampness of my clothes and foot gear. Eventually we called a halt and re conned a good place to RON for the remainder of the night. Once we set into our night time patrol base the instructors called our student leadership together and let us go semi-admin for the remainder of the night. Unlike my previous experience with Ranger Instructors  the Special Forces Instructors saw no reason to practice suffering after the training iteration was complete. Bottom line they allowed us to build a small fire to dry our clothes as long as we kept someone up to watch it and pull "fire guard."

I eagerly took the first watch while the rest of the platoon racked out under their poncho liners. This allowed me to dry off my pants as I sat close to the fire.  Once my watch was up I took off my boots and socks and put them by the fire to let them continue to dry. I asked my relief to move them back should they get too close. I then happily covered my head with my woobie and using my rucksack as a pillow I drifted off to sleep. In what seemed like 5 minutes but was probably a few hours the instructors were kicking us awake and telling us we had 10 minutes to pack up and get moving for the next mission.

I reluctantly threw off the poncho liner and hobbled over to the now smoldering coals of the fire to retrieve my foot gear. I sat on a log in the early morning darkness and tried to put on my boot but it wouldn't fit for some reason. I tried again but my foot would still not navigate the entrance. I pulled out my red lens flashlight and shined it on my boots. To my consternation I saw that all my shoelaces had been melted off and the toes of my boots were shriveled up and burnt. The toe area was actually turned up like frickin elf shoes and the leather had shriveled from a size 10 to what looked like about a 6. I saw the last guy on guard and whispered at him "Motherfucker you burnt my boots"!!  He shrugged and continued packing. No sympathy.

The Instructors were giving us just a few more minutes to move out and I had nothing to wear on my feet. Thinking fast I whipped out my trustee 7 inch Gerber field knife and cut the the tops off my boots. My toes would stick out like I was wearing hobo sandals but at least I could put my feet in them. I then took some parachute cord I kept in my ruck and made some make shift laces. It wasn't pretty but it worked. For the next 4 days I walked around in my clown shoes. Tromping through the woods running training missions with my stupid ass green wool socks sticking from the front of my boots. Screwed by the man again!! I was never happier than when I finally got back to the Camp Mckall cantonment area and was able to get my spare pair of jungle boots. So the lesson learned here kids is never let someone with no skin in the game watch your stuff because they will let your motherfucking boots burn!!

Friday, February 27, 2015

Two People Died Today

Two people died today. One was a talented actor the other was not. One was a warrior that later in life helped others in pain the other was not. One was a director and photographer the other was not. One was my friend the other was not.

Leonard Nimoy, Star Trek's Mr. Spock died today at the age of 83. By all accounts he was a nice man, a talented actor, a director and good photographer. I consider myself a Trekkie and have watched him in numerous Original Star Trek episodes and movies. He was an iconic character and he will be missed.

But my friend Jimmy McLaughlin also died today. Jimmy Mac was on the first Special Forces team I was ever a part of ODA 085. Jimmy Mac,Glenn Koski,Carl Clark, Dennis Oglesby, Kevin Riley, Rock Tyson, Jeff Barger, Brian Yost, Joe Ditoro and Dave Hill. It seems like yesterday and also so long ago. I arrived to Fort Devens Massachusetts in the Spring of 1991, new out of language school. My new teammates had recently returned from Northern Iraq and Provide Comfort I. I was the new guy Jimmy Mac was a senior member of the team. Like all new guys I took a lot of ribbing and Jimmy gave me my fair share but he also helped me when I asked questions and guided me. I read somewhere that it takes 5 years for a new Special Forces operator to really learn his job. Jimmy Mac and the other guys on that team set me on the right path. A path that ultimately culminated in my own combat deployment to Iraq as a Team Sergeant many years later.

Jimmy Mac was a funny funny guy and always had a laugh. After a few years we left for different teams and as often happens in the military we lost touch. I went to HALO School, became a HALO instructor, moved to Germany and eventually retired out of 3rd Bn 10th SFG(A) in 2004. I later learned Jimmy became a Warrant Officer moved around 10th Group as well. When Jimmy retired from the military he became a nurse and eventually a nurse case manager. Working at the hospital at Ft. Carson still helping soldiers.

A few years ago I was going through the Paramedic program and commenting on Facebook how much the clinical requirements sucked. Through mutual friends Jimmy contacted me, offered his support and told me about his own trials going through nursing school. We caught up on old times and eventually signed off. That was the last time I spoke to Jimmy. He was still guiding me, even after all those years. His passing saddens me, my circle of friends has grown smaller, the Special Forces brotherhood has lost another member far too young.

Blue Skies Jimmy Mac..see you on the high ground. 

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Selection

I took a class today. It was an emergency medical class for "experienced advanced level" providers. I could very loosely be put in that category. However in my mind only loosely. I obsessed over the class, I studied and worried about failure and embarrassment. It caused me sleeplessness. It ended up being fine in the end and I passed with no issues. But it was another selection event. Events I put myself through on a regular basis, I am not sure why.

I went through Special Forces Selection and Assessment way back in 1990. Without getting into the gory details,details of which I am still not supposed to talk about, SFAS was one of the events that shaped my life.  Selection is a pretty open secret. Discovery Channel even did an hour long special on it. However I did sign a document saying I would not divulge what happened so, I will not, but here is a link if you are curious http://www.discovery.com/tv-shows/other-shows/videos/two-weeks-in-hell/ . Anyhoo ever since then whenever I do something difficult or outside of my comfort zone I refer to it as a "selection event."

These events take many forms. Sometimes having a difficult but necessary conversation with an employee is my selection event for the day, sometimes talking to a client, or trying to sell some business.Sometimes my selection event has to do with academics as it did today.More often than not the event involves something physical. I run ultra marathons, but trying to fit the training in around the rest of my busy life often becomes an event unto itself. I recently started participating in Crossfit which at 51 years old is really outside my comfort zone. I try to train and keep up on my defensive tactics which can also be embarrassing or difficult when you can't control your fine motor skills as desired.

But why? I once had a psychiatrist tell me I had low self esteem. This was after I took the Minnesota Multi-Phasic Personality Index (MMPI) to get into The Special Operations Target Interdiction Course or more commonly called SOTIC or "sniper school". I ended being the honor graduate of that course despite her assessment. It is a fact that I often don't feel like I belong in the company of the people of which I am associated. On the surface I have an impressive resume but in reality I don't feel I deserve to even be mentioned in the same breath as most of the excellent special operators, paramedics or LEO I have worked with. Maybe that is what low self esteem is all about. All I know is I have this constant desire to test my boundaries and prove to myself I can conquer whatever obstacle I see, real or imagined. Self created or not.

On the other hand I also think by constantly putting myself through selection I make myself stronger. If you don't self select then you become weak and complacent. The weak and complacent wither and die. Am I as strong, fast, or skilled as I used to be? Nope but I am stronger, faster and more skilled than I would be if I just sat around watching TV. In the words of the immortal Toby Keith " I ain't as good as I once was ,but I am as good once as I ever was." So selection goes on. Life is a selection event, Life is an endurance event. I leave you with my favorite poem by Dylan Thomas.

Do not go gentle into that good night


Dylan Thomas1914 - 1953
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The Banya

I entered this story in a Veteran's writing contest at the University of Iowa. I received a polite rejection letter. Good thing I have my own blog. Enjoy!!


The moon was playing peek a boo behind the mountains surrounding the former Soviet military base in Bakhmal Uzbekisatn. I could hear the wind blowing through the pine trees surrounding the small brick building that housed the based sauna or banya. I watched as several of my teammates wrestled their Uzbeki counterparts in the snow that had drifted between the trees.
In November 2001 I was the Team Sergeant on a Special Forces “A Team” in 10th Special Forces Group. We had deployed shortly after the attacks of  9/11/2001 to the country of Uzbekistan to provide counter terrorism and humanitarian training to Uzbeki special operations forces or Spetznatz. We had been required to utilize a series of civilian flights as the War in Afghanistan had just begun as had priority of all military flights to the region. Our operation was a sideshow to the main effort.
Back at home base we had packed all the gear needed for a six month deployment in boxes weighing less than 75 pounds so we could meet the airline weight restrictions. We looked more like a bunch of college kids heading on spring break than a elite military unit deploying on a real world mission. Except for the crates of weapons and all the camouflage. The flight from Ft. Carson, Colorado to Tashkent,Uzbekistan took almost 24 hours . This did not include the 6 hour layover in Paris where I hired a cab and did a quick sightseeing tour of Notre Dame cathedral and the Champs Elysees. I managed to drink some coffee at a café within sight of the Arc de Triomphe, very bohemian.
Once we landed in Tashkent we cleared customs and hooked up with our liaison at the US Embassy. We procured some SUV’s and interpreters and took a 200 kilometer road trip through bandit country, eventually arriving at the military base in the Bahkmal region. Bahkmal was mountainous and primitive. To get to the front gate of the base you had to ford a wide stream that had no bridge. Our barracks had cots and cold running water. Our medic hooked us up a shower utilizing a bucket and hose. The heat was steam and would go off frequently. Power interruptions were common. The snow was deep as winter came early in the mountains.
We spent our days training the Spetznaz soldiers in marksmanship, close quarters battle, land navigation, patrolling techniques, and human rights policies. In the evenings we busied ourselves with more training or leisure activities like writing letters or reading.
One evening, after we had been in country a month or so, our counter parts invited us to go to the Banya or traditional Russian sauna. We jumped at the opportunity to experience this tradition. Not only would it cement our relationship with the Uzbeks it would let us experience our first hot water in a month. It was on like Donkey Kong!!
After training was over for the day and we had eaten our fill of the mystery meat served by the mess hall, one of the Uzbek platoon leaders came by and gathered us up for the trip to the banya. We grabbed our towels and wearing flip flops and running shorts we followed the LT down the snowy dirt road to a small brown brick building. There was no sign of its purpose other than a sheet metal stack coming out of the roof.
When he opened the door we could hear the Uzbek soldiers conversing in Russian and Uzbek as they lounged on plastic patio chairs in the combination dressing room and lounge area. Our hosts had smuggled in some beers and were busy inspecting the contents as they waited for our arrival. My teammates soon joined them as I explored the banya.
The banya consisted of three rooms. The aforementioned lounge and dressing area, the sauna, and a small pool that was about 10 feet long, 8 feet wide and 8 feet deep. Our host told us that after sitting in the sauna it was healthful to jump in the pool. Eventually we piled into the sauna. Once we entered and sat on the hot wooden benches the doors was closed. A small brazier with hot coals and rocks sat in the corner producing a heat so hot and dry it took your breath away. Sweat instantly poured from my body in great rivelets falling to the floor as it dripped off my elbows and any other right angles my body had produced.
I am not sure how long I sat in the sauna but it seemed like a long time. Once I could stand no more I went to the next room and jumped in to the pool. That is when I discovered that the water was ice cold. My lungs spasmed and I swallowed some water until I got my bearings and calmed myself. The opposites of hot and cold were supposed to have a healthful and therapeutic effect on the body. I repeated this cycle 3 or 4 times until I decided to take a break and step outside.
It was when I stepped outside that I discovered the wrestling match going on amongst the trees. Several of my teammates had been convinced by our counterparts to experience the banya in the traditional way. This involved running from the sauna and diving into the knee deep snow. Eventually this activity combined with the beers devolved into wrestling. I stood by the building enjoying the evening, gazing up into the mountains and thinking about my family half a world away.
We would leave Uzbekistan within a month, in six months we would be in Kosovo, in eighteen months I would be infiltrating behind the lines in Iraqi Kurdistan. But that was in the unknown future, at that time and in that place I was living for the moment.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

It's been a decade

10 years ago today I left the gate at Fort Carson Colorado and drove back to the state of my birth. It's been 10 years since I have worn the uniform of the United States. Somewhere a private that entered service on the day I left is a SFC leading troops in combat. Memories are fading and places and times are slowly blending together. I liberate the oppressed in different ways now. I try to help those oppressed by disease,injury, or their inability to connect with civilian life. It's been a long time and seems like yesterday. I will always be connected to my brothers, the warriors that came before me, my peers, and those that followed. Best job I will ever have.
De Oppressor Liber

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

April 9th Redux

I can't believe it has been 10 years. It seems like just yesterday I was laughing as Ian was running for cover from the artillery while dragging the satcom radio by the handset all the time yelling " WE ARE EXPERIENCING HEAVY FIRE!!!!" I miss those guys..best time of my life. Please enjoy my post from 2 years ago.



So their I was hugging the ground like a little bitch trying to see how much of my body I could fit into the 2 ft wide 2 foot deep trench I was sitting in. Meanwhile Iraqi artillery shells were hitting less than 5 meters away raining shrapnel, rocks and dirt down on top of my Ballistic Helmet, Personnel, Ground more commonly known as the “Kevlar”. My Special Forces A Team had been calling devastating air strikes on the Iraqi Division dug in along the Kani Domlon ridgeline in Northern Iraq for about two weeks and I guess we pissed them off. The Iraqis had taken a terrible pounding and I had observed some of them even shedding their uniforms and deserting via a tractor earlier in the day. I had also observed about thirty of them turn into little pink smears on the grass as a B2 bomber unloaded its entire payload on their bunker.
We had been operating out of some fighting positions the Iraqis had abandoned as they retreated before the Kurdish Pershmerga and US Special Forces teams that had infiltrated Northern Iraq. The Iraqi military had consolidated their defense in a loose ring around the strategically oil rich city of Kirkuk. Occupying many concrete bunkers that were spread about five hundred meters apart; the Iraqis had also replicated their tactics of the first Gulf War and set some of the oil wells on fire. Apparently this was done in an attempt to obscure their positions from our aircraft. Earlier as I peered at the enemy positions through my binoculars and worked up coordinates for the next strike, I wondered if I would be permanently affected by breathing in all this oil smoke which covered us like a thick but slightly greasy fog.
However as I was getting more intimate with the Iraqi countryside I was worried about the more permanent problem that seemed to be facing me. It was about 2300 and pitch dark. Prior to nightfall we had seen some artillery fire land about 2000 meters away but didn’t pay it much attention other than to note it for our situation report. But now as half the team was preparing to bed down and the other half was on watch, the artillery started to bracket our position. The enemy observers added and dropped in range until they let a full blown fire for effect loose on our position.
My commo guy was yelling into the satcom radio that we were experiencing contact; meanwhile I was rousting the rest of the team trying to get them under cover. “Here it comes again, boys” I said as we heard the muffled report of the Iraqi artillery that was followed not to long after by another series of earth shattering and ear ringing explosions. The Kurdish Major who was my counterpart on this patrol, grabbed my arm and was trying to yell something about the incoming in my ear. However between his broken English and the noise I could only catch the word “Peshmerga” as he shook his head in a negative fashion. Was he trying to tell me we were not the primary target of this barrage? Was he trying to indicate the primary target was the Peshmerga forces that had been probing the Iraqi positions along the ridgeline?
Primary target or not when under stress soldiers always fall back on their training, every school I had went to from Basic Combat Training to Ranger school had drilled into me that when you are on the receiving end of an artillery attack you un-ass the area as quickly as possible. So this is what we did, I instructed my team members to grab the small amount of gear we had around our position and to load up in the white Land Rover Defender four wheel drives we were traveling in. We piled into our vehicles and clipped our night vision goggles to our helmets. Meanwhile the Kurds loaded up in the one rusty suburban they had for transportation. Except for the red tracers flying down the valley toward and around our position and the artillery flashes surrounding us there was no light. We drove in blackout conditions using our night vision goggles to navigate as the Kurds followed behind in their vehicle. My plan was to try and find another location to set up shop, one that had not been compromised by the Iraqi observers. Everyone was at a high state of alertness as we drove across the Iraqi countryside paralleling the bluff that ending abruptly at the steep valley that it seems Peshmerga forces where advancing up towards the Iraqi positions.
We were approaching a linear danger area (road) when suddenly my driver who was our senior weapons sergeant yelled “Ambush!! We have men and weapons on the road!!” He immediately threw our vehicle in reverse and tried to break contact. Unfortunately he forgot we were the lead element in a line of 4 vehicles. The vehicle immediately behind us managed to stop but was hit in the front fender by my vehicle as it backed up. The third vehicle in line was the Kurdish vehicle which continued the accordion effect and slammed into the spare tire on the back of the vehicle in front of it so hard the front of their vehicle was pushed into the radiator cracking it and busting a headlight. I yelled at him “What the fuck dude, you need to fuckin think before you go hauling ass!!” Meanwhile, whoever he saw on the road had disappeared, if they where even there at all.
So there we were in the middle of no mans land with two smashed up vehicles, one which was barely drivable. I had my team members pull security as I tried to assess the damage by red lens flashlight. We were barely 1000 meters from where we had just experienced the artillery attack and I felt like the leader of the ass clown circus as I tried to explain to the Major I was sorry we had destroyed his truck. I determined our best course of action was to return to base and see if we could repair the Kurdish truck. Our patrol base was in the village of Klawkut which was about 10 kilometers east of our current position. We limped back to base with the Kurdish vehicle in tow, driving thru the countryside of Northern Iraq it took us 4 more hours to move those 10 kilometers and we arrived at out patrol base about 0400 exhausted. After waking up my Team Leader and explaining the situation I told the guys to bed down and figured we would sort things out in the morning.
The next morning we reported what had happened to our company headquarters and we were instructed in no uncertain terms to get our asses back out there and establish a new observation post. So I loaded my team back up in our vehicles, taking only 2 Kurds with us we established a new OP a little farther north of our previous position. Shortly after we arrived we received radio traffic that we were to engage no one west of a particular gridline on the map. Shortly after that we received word that the Iraqi forces had deserted the ridgeline and Peshmerga where streaming hell bent for leather towards Kirkuk. I informed my Team Leader that the Kurds where heading towards Kirkuk and agreed to link up with them at a small village that we had used as a reference point before. As we waited at the linkup for the remainder of our team we saw a regular parade of buses, cars, dump trucks, and pickups filled with Peshmerga streaming south west along the main highway to Kirkuk. What happened when they got there is another story.
I found out later that April 9th was a watershed day for the invasion of Iraq. It was the day the famous statue of Saddam Hussein was toppled. It was the day that Baghdad was taken and the Iraqi forces collapsed. Although I will never know for sure I believe the fierce direct and indirect fire we experienced on that evening was the last attempt of the Iraqi forces to cover their withdrawal as they melted before the onslaught of American air power and Kurdish foot soldiers. For me the evening of April 9th will always stick in my mind as the night I had a fender bender in the middle of a firefight.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Не танцуют ( I Don't Dance)


Every Special Forces soldier is taught a language. It is one of the characteristics that separates us from other Special Operations Forces. The old joke ( at least among my peers) is a guy in a bar asks a grizzled SF vet. "What makes you different than a Navy Seal?" The SF guy turns to the guy and fixes him with a long stare. Then he proceeds to launch into a 15 minute operations order entirely in German. Once he is finished he takes a breath and repeats it in Czech. He then turns back to the bar. To me that says it all and is mostly true.

When I graduated the Special Forces Qualification course back in 1990 I was assigned to the 10th Special Forces Group. 10th Group's Area of Operation was Europe and the Northern Middle East at the time so I was told that I would have the privilege of learning the Russian language. 

So for the next 5 months or so I attended the Special Forces Functional language program as it was known at the time. To be quite honest we spent most of the time trying to figure out how not to study or how to trick our instructor into getting off topic. My first instructor was a female who had emigrated from the Soviet Union a few years prior. She was hired because she was a native speaker but we used to do everything we could to goof off. She used to let us bring in movies on Friday as long as they were" language" related. One week we watched the "Life of Brian" because we convinced her that this scene taught us grammer. Good times.



She did manage to pound enough of the Русский язык (Russian Language) into my head that I was able to give a 25 minute class entirely in Russian on safety checks for a 60 mm mortar as a graduation exam. Once I was done though I was assigned to my first ODA and language training took the back burner as I tried to assimilate and learn all the new skills a cherry operator needed to know.

However keeping with the theme of jack of all trades master of none that is prevelent in Special Forces I would attend "language refresher" every 18-24 months. We would spend several weeks studying Russian and being "refreshed." Don't let me give you the wrong impression, our chain of command took this training seriously. Many of my cohorts were sent to immersion training or the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey California for advanced language studies. I took it a serious as I could. During the course of my career I managed to score a 1/1 on my Defense Language Proficiency Test (DLPT) test at one point. The DLPT was graded on a sliding scale and we took it yearly. The scale went from 0/0 to 5/5. The first numeral was your reading score and the second was your listening. Those that went to DLI also had a verbal portion but I never was required to test on that part.

Anyway for a reference point you and I probably read and understand English at a 4+/4+ level,unless you can describe nuclear physics, then you are a 5/5. I had to score a 1+/1+ to be paid for my language ability and a lot of my peers did just that. I never put out enough effort and just studied enough to pass the test. A 1/1 meant I could carry on a decent conversation but no one would ever mistake me for a native speaker.

And so it went for the next 14 years I went to language refreshers but after the fall of the Soviet Union I never had much chance to use my language ability. I would often wonder why I didn't get to learn German, Czech, or Polish. Those guys were using their language all the time and getting some sweet TDY out of the deal. Not for us Russian speakers though. That is until 9/11. Suddenly I found myself in the former Soviet Republic of Uzbekistan. We were training the Uzbek Spetznaz and the only common language we had was Russian. Finally I was using my skills. Everyday my vocabulary and use of the vernacular got better and better.

One day we were in the little cafe on the Uzbek base eating lunch. The "cafe" was really the living room of one of the soldiers apartments that they converted to a place to eat for extra cash. Grandma was handing out the black bread and borscht while we all sat around the kitchen table and drank shots of vodka. We ate family style and the din of conversation was overwhelming. The Uzbek soldiers were laughing and refilling our glasses as we tried to maintain rapport and not get too drunk as we still had an afternoon of training scheduled. As Team Sergeant I was walking a fine line, this is what all my training had been pointing me for most of my career. Leading a ODA in a remote location, teaching native soldiers in their own language. Eventually the conversation turned to the recent Olympic games and the different sports. One of the soldiers was talking about the ice dancers, I was trying to steer the conversation towards getting back out to the range but I was having a hard time getting the Uzbeks' to focus.

The Uzbek LT.finally looked at me and asked if I knew how to dance? I looked him square in the eye, tipped my shot of vodka back and said Не танцуют ( I Don't Dance)!!!! He roared with laughter as he helped me herd the cats back out into the mountainous winter weather for more training.

So that pretty much summed up thousands of dollars in language training..I don't dance



Tuesday, January 29, 2013

1100 Green Berets speak out on the 2nd Amendment



Below is the text of a petition myself and over 1100 of my Special Forces Brothers signed. Spread the Word



Protecting the Second Amendment – Why all Americans Should Be Concerned

We are current or former Army Reserve, National Guard, and active duty US Army Special Forces soldiers (Green Berets). We have all taken an oath to “....support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same.…” The Constitution of the United States is without a doubt the single greatest document in the history of mankind, codifying the fundamental principle of governmental power and authority being derived from and granted through the consent of the governed. Our Constitution established a system of governance that preserves, protects, and holds sacrosanct the individual rights and primacy of the governed as well as providing for the explicit protection of the governed from governmental tyranny and/or oppression. We have witnessed the insidious and iniquitous effects of tyranny and oppression on people all over the world. We and our forebears have embodied and personified our organizational motto, De Oppresso Liber [To Free the Oppressed], for more than a half century as we have fought, shed blood, and died in the pursuit of freedom for the oppressed.

Like you, we are also loving and caring fathers and grandfathers. Like you, we have been stunned, horrified, and angered by the tragedies of Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, Fort Hood, and Sandy Hook; and like you, we are searching for solutions to the problem of gun-related crimes in our society. Many of us are educators in our second careers and have a special interest to find a solution to this problem. However, unlike much of the current vox populi reactions to this tragedy, we offer a different perspective.

First, we need to set the record straight on a few things. The current debate is over so-called “assault weapons” and high capacity magazines. The terms “assault weapon” and “assault rifle” are often confused. According to Bruce H. Kobayashi and Joseph E. Olson, writing in the Stanford Law and Policy Review, “Prior to 1989, the term ‘assault weapon’ did not exist in the lexicon of firearms. It is a political term [underline added for emphasis], developed by anti-gun publicists to expand the category of assault rifles.”

The M4A1 carbine is a U.S. military service rifle – it is an assault rifle. The AR-15 is not an assault rifle. The “AR” in its name does not stand for “Assault Rifle” – it is the designation from the first two letters of the manufacturer’s name – ArmaLite Corporation. The AR-15 is designed so that it cosmetically looks like the M4A1 carbine assault rifle, but it is impossible to configure the AR-15 to be a fully automatic assault rifle. It is a single shot semi-automatic rifle that can fire between 45 and 60 rounds per minute depending on the skill of the operator. The M4A1 can fire up to 950 rounds per minute. In 1986, the federal government banned the import or manufacture of new fully automatic firearms for sale to civilians. Therefore, the sale of assault rifles are already banned or heavily restricted!

The second part of the current debate is over “high capacity magazines” capable of holding more than 10 rounds in the magazine. As experts in military weapons of all types, it is our considered opinion that reducing magazine capacity from 30 rounds to 10 rounds will only require an additional 6 -8 seconds to change two empty 10 round magazines with full magazines. Would an increase of 6 –8 seconds make any real difference to the outcome in a mass shooting incident? In our opinion it would not. Outlawing such “high capacity magazines” would, however, outlaw a class of firearms that are “in common use”. As such this would be in contravention to the opinion expressed by the U.S. Supreme Court recent decisions.

Moreover, when the Federal Assault Weapons Ban became law in 1994, manufacturers began retooling to produce firearms and magazines that were compliant. One of those ban-compliant firearms was the Hi-Point 995, which was sold with ten-round magazines. In 1999, five years into the Federal Assault Weapons Ban, the Columbine High School massacre occurred. One of the perpetrators, Eric Harris, was armed with a Hi-Point 995. Undeterred by the ten-round capacity of his magazines, Harris simply brought more of them: thirteen magazines would be found in the massacre’s aftermath. Harris fired 96 rounds before killing himself.

Now that we have those facts straight, in our opinion, it is too easy to conclude that the problem is guns and that the solution to the problem is more and stricter gun control laws. For politicians, it is politically expedient to take that position and pass more gun control laws and then claim to constituents that they have done the right thing in the interest of protecting our children. Who can argue with that? Of course we all want to find a solution. But, is the problem really guns? Would increasing gun regulation solve the problem? Did we outlaw cars to combat drunk driving?

What can we learn from experiences with this issue elsewhere? We cite the experience in Great Britain. Despite the absence of a “gun culture”, Great Britain, with one-fifth the population of the U.S., has experienced mass shootings that are eerily similar to those we have experienced in recent years. In 1987 a lone gunman killed 18 people in Hungerford. What followed was the Firearms Act of 1988 making registration mandatory and banning semi-automatic guns and pump-action shotguns. Despite this ban, on March 13, 1996 a disturbed 43-year old former scout leader, Thomas Hamilton, murdered 16 school children aged five and six and a teacher at a primary school in Dunblane, Scotland. Within a year and a half the Firearms Act was amended to ban all private ownership of hand guns. After both shootings there were amnesty periods resulting in the surrender of thousands of firearms and ammunition. Despite having the toughest gun control laws in the world, gun related crimes increased in 2003 by 35% over the previous year with firearms used in 9,974 recorded crimes in the preceding 12 months. Gun related homicides were up 32% over the same period. Overall, gun related crime had increased 65% since the Dunblane massacre and implementation of the toughest gun control laws in the developed world.

In contrast, in 2009 (5 years after the Federal Assault Weapons Ban expired) total firearm related homicides in the U.S. declined by 9% from the 2005 high (Source: “FBI Uniform Crime Reporting Master File, Table 310, Murder Victims – Circumstances and Weapons Used or Cause of Death: 2000-2009”).

Are there unintended consequences to stricter gun control laws and the politically expedient path that we have started down?

In a recent op-ed piece in the San Francisco Chronicle, Brett Joshpe stated that “Gun advocates will be hard-pressed to explain why the average American citizen needs an assault weapon with a high-capacity magazine other than for recreational purposes.”We agree with Kevin D. Williamson (National Review Online, December 28, 2012): “The problem with this argument is that there is no legitimate exception to the Second Amendment right that excludes military-style weapons, because military-style weapons are precisely what the Second Amendment guarantees our right to keep and bear.”

“The purpose of the Second Amendment is to secure our ability to oppose enemies foreign and domestic, a guarantee against disorder and tyranny. Consider the words of Supreme Court Justice Joseph Story”: ‘The importance of this article will scarcely be doubted by any persons, who have duly reflected upon the subject. The militia is the natural defense of a free country against sudden foreign invasions, domestic insurrections, and domestic usurpations of power by rulers. It is against sound policy for a free people to keep up large military establishments and standing armies in time of peace, both from the enormous expenses, with which they are attended, and the facile means, which they afford to ambitious and unprincipled rulers, to subvert the government, or trample upon the rights of the people. The right of the citizens to keep and bear arms has justly been considered, as the palladium of the liberties of a republic; since it offers a strong moral check against the usurpation and arbitrary power of rulers; and will generally, even if these are successful in the first instance, enable the people to resist and triumph over them.’

The Second Amendment has been ruled to specifically extend to firearms “in common use” by the military by the U.S. Supreme Court ruling in U.S. v Miller (1939). In Printz v U.S. (1997) Justice Thomas wrote: “In Miller we determined that the Second Amendment did not guarantee a citizen’s right to possess a sawed-off shot gun because that weapon had not been shown to be “ordinary military equipment” that could “could contribute to the common defense”.

A citizen’s right to keep and bear arms for personal defense unconnected with service in a militia has been reaffirmed in the U.S. Supreme Court decision (District of Columbia, et al. v Heller, 2008). The Court Justice Scalia wrote in the majority opinion: “The Second Amendment protects an individual right to possess a firearm unconnected with service in a militia, and to use that arm for traditionally lawful purposes, such as self-defense within the home.“. Justice Scalia went on to define a militia as “… comprised all males physically capable of acting in concert for the common defense ….” “The Anti-Federalists feared that the Federal Government would disarm the people in order to disable this citizens’ militia, enabling a politicized standing army or a select militia to rule. The response was to deny Congress power to abridge the ancient right of individuals to keep and bear arms, so that the ideal of a citizens’ militia would be preserved.” he explained.

On September 13, 1994, the Federal Assault Weapons Ban went into effect. A Washington Post editorial published two days later was candid about the ban’s real purpose:“[N]o one should have any illusions about what was accomplished [by the ban]. Assault weapons play a part in only a small percentage of crime. The provision is mainly symbolic; its virtue will be if it turns out to be, as hoped, a stepping stone to broader gun control.”

In a challenge to the authority of the Federal government to require State and Local Law Enforcement to enforce Federal Law (Printz v United States) the U.S. Supreme Court rendered a decision in 1997. For the majority opinion Justice Scalia wrote: “…. this Court never has sanctioned explicitly a federal command to the States to promulgate and enforce laws and regulations When we were at last confronted squarely with a federal statute that unambiguously required the States to enact or administer a federal regulatory program, our decision should have come as no surprise….. It is an essential attribute of the States’ retained sovereignty that they remain independent and autonomous within their proper sphere of authority.”

So why should non-gun owners, a majority of Americans, care about maintaining the 2nd Amendment right for citizens to bear arms of any kind?

The answer is “The Battle of Athens, TN”. The Cantrell family had controlled the economy and politics of McMinn County, Tennessee since the 1930s. Paul Cantrell had been Sheriff from 1936 -1940 and in 1942 was elected to the State Senate. His chief deputy, Paul Mansfield, was subsequently elected to two terms as Sheriff. In 1946 returning WWII veterans put up a popular candidate for Sheriff. On August 1 Sheriff Mansfield and 200 “deputies” stormed the post office polling place to take control of the ballot boxes wounding an objecting observer in the process. The veterans bearing military style weapons, laid siege to the Sheriff’s office demanding return of the ballot boxes for public counting of the votes as prescribed in Tennessee law. After exchange of gun fire and blowing open the locked doors, the veterans secured the ballot boxes thereby protecting the integrity of the election. And this is precisely why all Americans should be concerned about protecting all of our right to keep and bear arms as guaranteed by the Second Amendment!

Throughout history, disarming the populace has always preceded tyrants’ accession of power. Hitler, Stalin, and Mao all disarmed their citizens prior to installing their murderous regimes. At the beginning of our own nation’s revolution, one of the first moves made by the British government was an attempt to disarm our citizens. When our Founding Fathers ensured that the 2nd Amendment was made a part of our Constitution, they were not just wasting ink. They were acting to ensure our present security was never forcibly endangered by tyrants, foreign or domestic.

If there is a staggering legal precedent to protect our 2nd Amendment right to keep and bear arms and if stricter gun control laws are not likely to reduce gun related crime, why are we having this debate? Other than making us and our elected representatives feel better because we think that we are doing something to protect our children, these actions will have no effect and will only provide us with a false sense of security.

So, what do we believe will be effective? First, it is important that we recognize that this is not a gun control problem; it is a complex sociological problem. No single course of action will solve the problem. Therefore, it is our recommendation that a series of diverse steps be undertaken, the implementation of which will require patience and diligence to realize an effect. These are as follows:

1. First and foremost we support our Second Amendment right in that “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed”.

2. We support State and Local School Boards in their efforts to establish security protocols in whatever manner and form that they deem necessary and adequate. One of the great strengths of our Republic is that State and Local governments can be creative in solving problems. Things that work can be shared. Our point is that no one knows what will work and there is no one single solution, so let’s allow the State and Local governments with the input of the citizens to make the decisions. Most recently the Cleburne Independent School District will become the first district in North Texas to consider allowing some teachers to carry concealed guns. We do not opine as to the appropriateness of this decision, but we do support their right to make this decision for themselves.

3. We recommend that Assisted Outpatient Treatment (AOT) laws be passed in every State. AOT is formerly known as Involuntary Outpatient Commitment (IOC) and allows the courts to order certain individuals with mental disorders to comply with treatment while living in the community. In each of the mass shooting incidents the perpetrator was mentally unstable. We also believe that people who have been adjudicated as incompetent should be simultaneously examined to determine whether they should be allowed the right to retain/purchase firearms.
4. We support the return of firearm safety programs to schools along the lines of the successful “Eddie the Eagle” program, which can be taught in schools by Peace Officers or other trained professionals.

5. Recent social psychology research clearly indicates that there is a direct relationship between gratuitously violent movies/video games and desensitization to real violence and increased aggressive behavior particularly in children and young adults (See Nicholas L. Carnagey, et al. 2007. “The effect of video game violence on physiological desensitization to real-life violence” and the references therein. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 43:489-496). Therefore, we strongly recommend that gratuitous violence in movies and video games be discouraged. War and war-like behavior should not be glorified. Hollywood and video game producers are exploiting something they know nothing about. General Sherman famously said “War is Hell!” Leave war to the Professionals. War is not a game and should not be “sold” as entertainment to our children.

6. We support repeal of the Gun-Free School Zones Act of 1990. This may sound counter-intuitive, but it obviously isn’t working. It is our opinion that “Gun-Free Zones” anywhere are too tempting of an environment for the mentally disturbed individual to inflict their brand of horror with little fear of interference. While governmental and non-governmental organizations, businesses, and individuals should be free to implement a Gun-Free Zone if they so choose, they should also assume Tort liability for that decision.

7. We believe that border states should take responsibility for implementation of border control laws to prevent illegal shipments of firearms and drugs. Drugs have been illegal in this country for a long, long time yet the Federal Government manages to seize only an estimated 10% of this contraband at our borders. Given this dismal performance record that is misguided and inept (“Fast and Furious”), we believe that border States will be far more competent at this mission.

8. This is our country, these are our rights. We believe that it is time that we take personal responsibility for our choices and actions rather than abdicate that responsibility to someone else under the illusion that we have done something that will make us all safer. We have a responsibility to stand by our principles and act in accordance with them. Our children are watching and they will follow the example we set.
The undersigned Quiet Professionals hereby humbly stand ever present, ever ready, and ever vigilant.



You can download a copy of the letter at ProfessionalSoldiers.com, or on our forums here:

Sunday, January 13, 2013

The Road to Tashkent and Why I Carry a Gun


In the fall of 2001 I was part of a Special Forces detachment that was training Uzbekistan Spetsnaz in Counter terrorism. I wrote about it in this post http://www.mikemac356.blogspot.com/2010/04/baxmal.html  . We would train our counterparts during the week and on the weekends most of us would make the 200 kilometer trip to the capital of Tashkent. There we would have a little rest and relaxation. The trip from our remote base to the capital was through some very dangerous country, on one of the only paved highways in the country. Although Uzbekistan is purportedly a civilized country, outside the cities it is in middle ages. The chief mode of transportation is the horse or burro and the people in the countryside live in mud houses with stables attached to the house. Goats are prized possessions.

Just like the middle ages the countryside crawled with terrorists and bandits. These ruthless individuals would rob or kill any target of opportunity they encountered. No one traveled the countryside with out arming themselves. Personally we were armed to the teeth. Often we would pass iconic Uzbeki autobuses on our journey to Tashkent. If a autobus got a flat tire the passengers had to unload and wait for the driver to hitch a ride with the tire, get it repaired and return. The passengers would build a fire and then post guards around the bus to protect themselves from bandits. These guards came from the passengers themselves and they pulled their Kalashnikov rifles from off the bus. These passengers realized that no police or military would be able to come to their add should any bandits choose to pay them a visit. They needed to be responsible for their own safety.

That is a mindset I had to internalize over my years in Special Operations. This was necessary for survival. Often our missions would take us into remote areas where help was days even weeks away. I mean when your escape and evasion plan involved moving thousands of kilometers to link up with "friendly forces" you were pretty much on your own. No help was coming and you had to rely on yourself to protect yourself, your teammates and what belongs to you.

Fast forward to today. I live in a smallish city by some standards and a larger one by others. It is the second largest city in the state and has about 200,000 residents. Generally it would be considered "safe." However we do have a few murders yearly and violence seems to be on the rise. In the last 3 days there has been a shooting in an area close to where I work and a car jacking within running distance of my house. My own daughter experienced a car jacking attempt just a few weeks ago at a stop light. The police did not arrive until after all these incidents. So I carry a weapon. I have the training, the ability and I think the duty as a responsible armed citizen to protect myself and those I love.

The key word for me is responsibility. No one is going to protect me but me. I would be negligent if I stood by and let my family or anyone else come to harm. I know this is not for everyone and that is ok. But for someone with my background I feel it would be criminal to ignore my duty to act. The biggest component of this is I have the proper mindset. That is also something others may not have, that is also ok.

So I have laid out the reasons that I carry a weapon. You can choose to carry or not depending on your personality, experience and training. I think this is true for all citizens of this country. I also think it would be an injustice if those that have never been in harms way and have never experienced anything outside their insular world take away my choice to defend what is mine. De Oppresso Liber and Molon Labe

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

9/11/12


Eleven years ago I was sitting in an isolation facility planning a training mission when we got word of the cowardly attack on our nation. The next 48 months I spent most of the time in harms way, in far flung parts of the globe combatting those that would do us harm.

On this day remember those citizens, police, firefighter, and EMS providers that died on 9/11. Also remember those service men and women that have died since then combatting those that would love to come to your local mall and blow it and everyone in it to bits.

On today, all politics aside, kill em all and let God sort them out...truer words

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Memorial Day 2012

Once again Memorial Day is upon us, the day we memorialize those in our Armed Forces that made the ultimate sacrifice. I won't go on and on about how this not national bbq day or how most of the people in the United States give no regard to the true meaning of this day.

How can we expect them to? Less than 2% of us have actually served in the military and an even smaller percentage have given their lives. The common citizen has no frame of reference, no concept of what these individuals have done. They are immune to the constant buzz about "our heros in uniform" after 10 years of war. It has all become so normal so insignificant.

Those of us that have served need to keep the torch lit, we need to remember our brothers and sisters and educate those who do not.

One way we can do that is to donate to charities that keep our fallen warriors in the spotlight. There are many worthy ones but I choose to support the Special Operations Warrior Foundation


This organization helps the children of our fallen Special Operators achieve a college education. I can think of no worthier tribute than to support the families of those that have supported us.

Once again this year I am running an ultramarathon to raise money for SOWF please consider a donation by clicking on the link below

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/michaelmcelmeel/danceswithdirt50mileultramarathon

Memorial Day isn't just a day off

De Oppresso Liber
Rangers Lead The Way







Friday, April 13, 2012

FlashBack Friday: Inaugural Groton Road Race 1992


Most of you know I like to run. At my age it has become the only competitive athletic event I still do on a regular basis. Sure I like to shoot, mountain bike, play golf and swim but running is my sport. Running is the thing I consistently do day in and day out. I am always training for my next race, races that I obsessively plan out months in advance. This keeps me from becoming a has-been coach potato if only for 30 minutes a day. This is all somewhat strange as I was never a runner as a youngster. When I was young running was only a means to an end. I never ran track or cross country in high school although I wish I had. I ran to lose weight for wrestling, I was a wrestler and running was the unpleasant torture I put myself through to become a lighter one. After high school when I joined the military running was still a necessary evil. As a paratrooper we ran in boots in tight formation singing cadence at the top of our lungs. Later when I started attending a few elite schools like US Army Ranger School and the Special Forces Qualification Course running was used as punishment and to weed out the weak. As the saying goes you don't have to be the fastest just don't be the slowest.

Eventually I made my way to my first Special Forces assignment on ODA 085 Ft Devens Massachusetts. In Special Forces everyday was a competition. When we lined up for our morning run there was no easy day, we took off like bats out of hell trying our best to beat our teammates back to the team room after covering the predetermined route. Fortunately or unfortunately my team had some phenomenal  athletes. One in particular, Carl could run like no one I had ever met before. Everyday I would try to catch him and inevitably he would leave us all in the dust. However as time went by I started noticing that although I never caught Carl I was starting to beat my other teammates on a regular basis.

As time went by Carl made a permanent change of station move and my team deployed to Incirlik Turkey to provide Combat Search and Rescue coverage for the Iraqi no fly zone, that was in place after the Gulf War. By the power of circumstance I had now become the fastest guy on the team.We would run the 8 miles around the airfield for team PT and I would just fly, letting my legs take me where they wanted.  The rhythmic drumming of the Native American music my wife had sent me played through my head as I sucked air deep into my lungs and ran towards the rising sun. At the end of the run I would stop in front of our team GP large tent and patiently wait for the rest of my teammates to catch up. I think it was in Incirlik where I started to enjoy running just for the joy of running.

I was making our bed the other day and I noticed the design for the Groton Road race on the "quilt of awesomeness" my Mother made for me out of old race t shirts.

Reading the date I realized it was 20 years ago this month that I ran my first competitive race. We had returned to Ft Devens from Incirlik some months earlier. One day while we were hanging around the team room one of my teammates mentioned that there was a guy on another team that had paid to run in this 10 kilometer race in nearby Groton, Ma but he would not be able to run the race. He was giving away his entry and wanted to know if anyone wanted it. For some reason I thought that sounded like a good idea, so I was in.

I woke up the morning of the race and drove the few miles to Groton from where I lived in Pepperell. I parked in front of the school and went inside to check in. I had to tell a little white lie and make the people believe that I was the other fella but they gave me my number, tshirt and safety pins. I asked them what the pins were for? They told me it was to put my number on my shirt ( new guys, geeez). I kinda milled around with  the rest of the folks at the starting line until they announced the race was about to begin. I had no idea where to stand so I just stood in the middle of the group. Plus or minus a few minutes from race time a starter pistol went off and the pack started surging forward. Being in the middle wasn't the best plan as I got stuck behind a bunch of people walking or jogging across the start line. Eventually I worked my way to the outside and tried to make up some time by running off road on the people lawns that bordered the course. I jumped back on the road as we took a hard right and headed out of town. I had no idea how far 10K was compared to what I usually ran and I had no concept of pace. I was just running as hard as I could until someone told me to stop. The course wended its way on country roads through the beautiful New England countryside. After 21 years I don't remember a lot of race details I just remember we ran up and down hills and through neighborhoods and villages. It was exhilarating to be part of this inaugural road race.

We turned back towards Groton and finished where we had started. I crossed the finish line somewhere under 40 minutes and in the top third of the racers. I was tired but I was hooked. In the years since this first race I have run too many 5 and 10K races to keep track of. I have run a dozen half marathons (13.1 miles) and 7 actual marathons (26.2 miles). Currently I am on an ultra marathon/trail race kick and have finished three 50K races with some 50 milers planned for this summer. Although I am definitely not the fastest anymore or even in the top third, running has become my hobby and my passion. It all started on a whim 21 years ago.