Ranger Selection Read online

  Ranger Selection

  A Sam Harper short story by

  Thomas Sewell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, or groups, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover and Contents - Copyright © 2019 by Thomas Sewell - All rights reserved.

  "Sua Sponte. Latin for 'of their own accord.'

  Describes an action taken on one's own initiative and without formal permission from or the approval of higher authority. Also the motto of the 75th Ranger Regiment." - Dick Couch

  The rear of our C-130 broke in half. Instinctively, I jerked my helmeted head up to stare in response. Light from the afternoon sun poured in. The top half hatch curled up with a whine like R2D2. Giant hydraulics lowered the ramp-like bottom half. The rumbling of the engines and the air rushing past the outside of the plane shifted to a lower pitch.

  Harnesses clipped to lines strung along the right side of the cargo bay, the other officer and senior NCO candidates in my Ranger Assessment and Selection Program level two (RASP 2) class and I walked forward in a line, T-11 parachutes strapped to our backs. Enlisted candidates from RASP 1 followed us, their newly assigned leaders.

  The jumpmaster and his assistant, safely clipped into the left-hand line, watched for the cockpit's signal. Forest and fields around Fort Benning, Georgia rushed past the plane's open rear hatch. The jumpmaster grabbed the arm and static line of the first candidate. Lined him up and held him in place.

  Some of the soldiers hadn't jumped recently, so per safety regulations, we'd jump Hollywood, without additional equipment.

  The hatch's jump LED switched from yellow to green. “Go, Go, Go!” the jumpmaster screamed into the wind as he helped the first candidate out the door.

  The candidates in front of me jumped in turn, legs folding up in the wind as their attached static lines pulled their chutes free for the racing air to capture.

  Pumped to get some air, pulse pounding in my ears, I leapt as my turn arrived and then sat down into the wind.

  All scent vanished as I soared through the sky. Nothing but pure air to breathe. The forest and clearing thousands of feet below was like the most vivid movie I'd ever seen. Its surreal sensory overload rushed up at me.

  My static line caught; jerked me backwards. Chute popped open behind me with a thud.

  The rushing wind evaporated into absolute quiet. My trip morphed into a peaceful float.

  Today's field training exercise (FTX), leading the enlisted from RASP 1, would be make or break for our class. Those of us remaining in the assessment process had already proven our fitness via a 5-mile run, a 12-mile ruck march, and a top score on the physical tests. We'd proven our mental abilities: memorized and recited the Ranger Creed, passed tests on Ranger standards and history. Demonstrated our skills as individual soldiers in the Close Quarters Marksmanship (CQM) shoot house.

  But the 75th Ranger Regiment needed leaders out of RASP 2. We'd demonstrate our leadership to the cadre of instructors by taking charge of a pair of enlisted Ranger candidates and guiding them successfully through the FTX. After that, only a psychological assessment remained before the RASP Board either selected us for the Regiment and gave us shoulder scrolls to wear, or returned us to our former units as unsuitable.

  The tops of the chutes of those ahead of me billowed out in a diagonal line below. The legs of the men who followed dangled above.

  I'd promised my friend Michelle that I'd join her in Korea. Help her out. To do that, to command a Ranger Military Intelligence (MI) Platoon, I had to first be selected for the Regiment. RASP 2 was the only way to fulfill my commitment.

  The noise of the Air Force C-130 above us decreased with distance as it banked back toward Honor Field.

  Cole Range's open field amongst the towering Georgia pines rushed toward me. I bent my legs. Flared my chute just before hitting. Landed with the same force as if I'd leapt from a nine foot ledge. Folded my knees. Rolled onto my side. Stood and gathered my chute.

  Sergeant Anzo, one of the triathlon-looking training cadre from building 2832, stood like a mob boss on a steel picnic table at one end of the field. The cadre had parked a flatbed truck nearby. He glanced at his clipboard and then pointed at the truck's bed, piled high with our rucks. “Grab your gear, you're gonna need it. Form up in teams.”

  Here we go. Back to work.

  The cadres had dumped wooden pallets off the truck, one pile on each side. I jogged over and climbed into the back, looking for my pack. Our rucks seemed the same from distance, but once you carry something a dozen miles a day, you recognize its distinct lumpy shape and worn spots. I pulled mine off the pile and located my pair of assigned RASP 1 candidates.

  Spec 4 Watkins, a tall lanky kid from outside Boston, about my height, but 20 pounds lighter, had his ruck already. His thin build served him well in races, but he sometimes struggled to carry heavy loads on road marches. If he passed RASP 1, the Regiment would be his first combat assignment.

  Sergeant Madsen had plenty of experience carrying heavy weapons into combat during the Global War On Terror (GWOT). He could fire a light machine gun from the hip if he had to, his bulk compensating for the recoil. What he lacked in speed he made up for in intensity. He bulled his way through the crowd to secure his own pack and then joined us off to the side.

  Once the chaos dissipated into organized ranks, Anzo regained everyone's attention. “Look to the men around you. Some of them will become your brothers. You'll bleed with them, cry with them, and a few of you will die with them. Today you'll show teamwork and leadership to prove you belong amongst them.”

  He pointed at a 20' tall block wall attached to steel pillars. “That's your obstacle.” Pointed at the stacked pallets near the truck. “Those are your objects. There are twelve on each side of the truck.” Settled into an easy stance, hands on his hips, clipboard by his side. “Your task is to move them over the top of that wall. Not around, not under, but over. You may use your bodies, the materials in your rucks, or any field expedient you can secure from this area. This is a timed exercise.”

  I nodded automatically, which must've caught his eye.

  “Lieutenant Harper, you'll lead your team first. Understood?”

  “Roger that, Sergeant!” I continued listening, but started working out the fastest way to get the pallets over the wall. Use them as stairs? What about the last few?

  “Captain Dobbs, your team will also compete in the first round. Understood?”

  Dobbs raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Roger, Sergeant.”

  The enlisted cadre were consistently polite to the officer candidates, even when they clarified loudly we'd better step it up in order to meet Ranger standards. Some longer serving officers couldn't keep a certain expectation of respect out of their manner. Dobbs was one of those. He couldn't always disguise his reaction when a mere sergeant gave him an order.

  To me, the cadre were just another set of experts, like the enlisted dudes in my last platoon whose practical electronics knowledge totally outclassed my college professors'. You don't disrespect competence.

  Anzo jumped down off the picnic table. “The rest of the candidates will go for a stroll in the woods with the cadre so as to not get too many ideas from observation.” He ostensibly pulled a stopwatch out of a cargo pocket and clicked a button with his thumb. “Your time starts now. Rangers lead the way!”

  After weeks of practice, our group response had become automatic, “All the way!”

  A trip through the woods with the RASP instructors generally involved more strenuous activities than the word stroll implied,
but my focus needed to be on our task here; on right now, not the future. I motioned my men into a semi-circle as the uninvolved teams departed at a run with their rucks.

  Dobbs got his two guys organized. His team picked up the picnic table Anzo had been standing on and carried it over to the wall. Good idea to deal with the height. They stacked one pallet at a time from their pile onto the steel table.

  I had Watkins and Madsen, plus the stuff in our packs. We needed a plan more than we needed initial movement. “Ideas?” I looked through my pack for inspiration while listening to their responses.

  Madsen pitched in first, “Standard tactic is to stack the pallets to get someone up on top of the wall, then the other two guys toss up pallets for them to move over. I can handle the top of the wall, sir.”

  Watkins nodded. “Looks like what the other guys are planning.”

  Focusing, I broke the problem down. “We need friction or attachment of some kind for the pallets. An energy source strong enough to move them quickly, plus a way to connect the two and aim 'em over the wall.” I paused. “Probably too slow to build a trebuchet.”

  Our rucks contained climbing gear, including dynamic ropes rated for a couple of tons. That would do for two of the requirements. “Let's go for something a little higher powered than the typical 11A will attempt. Madsen, grab the rope from your pack and wrap a loop around the top of each pallet. Tie it off on the bottom pallet. Watkins, go find us a smooth tree on the other side of the wall and loop your rope around it like a pulley. Toss me one end over the wall and bring the other back here.”

  They replied in unison. “Roger that, sir.” Madsen and Watkins pulled the rope from their packs and sprinted away to accomplish their assignments.

  After stacking their pallets, Dobbs lifted one of his guys to the top of the wall. His guy laid on the rough blocks, arm down, ready to catch. Dobbs and his other soldier grabbed the top pallet and pushed it up the wall. The guy on top grabbed the closest board like a handle. He scooted back to get a two-handed grip; pulled it over the top and dropped it on the other side. One down.

  A slow process, but Dobbs' team would finish in a few minutes, especially with the table to boost them.

  I ran to where Madsen threaded his rope through the pallets next to the truck. Grabbed the other end of his line and tied it to the end of mine. Strung mine out to the wall.

  Dobbs grinned at me from next to their diminishing pile of pallets. “You'll never use a rope to haul these over fast enough. Too heavy.”

  Watkins tossed an unspooling loop of his rope over the top of the wall. I caught it and secured it to the other end of mine. Glanced back at Dobbs, working with his team on their second pallet of twelve. “We'll see.”

  Anzo stood off to the side, periodically glancing at his stopwatch, as if to remind us we were on the clock.

  Watkins grabbed his other end. “Looped around the tree, sir.” He jogged with me back to Madsen next to the truck.

  Madsen pulled a knot tight against the bottom stringer. “That's it. All bound together.”

  “Secure Watkin's end to the truck's hitch with a figure eight.”

  Watkins and Madsen grinned as my plan dawned on them. Watkins rushed to get his end of the rope tied to the back of the truck.

  I climbed up to the driver's seat. Military vehicles use a push button start. No fumbling around for keys in the middle of a battle. I brought the engine to life with a roar and shifted into drive. The motor's power strained against the brakes.

  In my side mirror Watkins cleared the back of the truck. Madsen gave a thumbs up.

  Releasing the brake and easing the accelerator forward, I drove far enough to take all the slack out of the line. Our ropes ran from the truck's hitch, around the base of a scraggly Georgia pine, over the wall and then through our assigned pallets.

  The truck strained for a second, so I fed it a little more gas. I was confident in our knots, but I hoped the top of the wall held; that the rough surface didn't abrade the rope enough to cause it to fail and break.

  Our pallets collected together as the rope tightened. They scraped along the ground as I moved the pedal. The rope dragged them to the wall. They bounced once against the blocks and hung there, rope straining, the full friction of it and the pallets on the wall resisting the pull of the truck.

  This was it. I fed the truck more gas. It rumbled forward. Its tires briefly lost traction on the gravel parking lot.

  The pallets climbed the wall. Reached the top. Balanced precariously for a moment. Toppled to the other side.

  The truck lurched forward as their fall released the strain, so I hit the brakes. Shifted it into park. Ran back to my men. Patted them on the back, a smile on my face. “Great job, team!”

  Michelle would've been proud. Heck, my parents would've been proud, if they were alive to see me.

  Dobb's team dropped their fourth pallet over the other side of the wall. He muttered something under his breath I couldn't make out.

  Anzo set his face like concrete as he recorded our time on his clipboard. “Not exactly following the infantry playbook, sir, but you're also not an 11A.”

  We recovered our climbing gear and stacked the pallets for the next teams. I'd need to be careful to stick to the book answers more in the future, but for now, score one for engineering and military intelligence.

  Captain Dobbs wasn't about to let some smart-ass engineer defeat him again. Sergeant Anzo failed to completely hide his smug grin as he gave Dobbs their next objective: Setup a linear ambush in the woods.

  After a quick warning order, Dobbs got his two assigned enlisted men into their I-MILES gear, ready for simulated combat.

  No need for security, they were the ambushers, not the ambushees, so he outlined his operational order literally on the run.

  “Nothing complicated. They'll leave the clearing and head along the fastest route to their objective. Rear echelon guys; no imagination. We'll pick a likely enough spot and set up behind cover. Once they're in the kill zone, open fire to start the ambush. If they halt early with anyone in the kill zone, we shoot. Simple.”

  Found the perfect spot. Nothing suspicious to alert the losers sure to come along by the book, fat and happy. A fallen log, a thick tree, and a wrinkle in the landscape provided each ambusher with cover and concealment.

  Darkness fell. They flipped down their night vision devices (NVDs) in front of their eyes and hunkered down, weapons ready to watch for their prey.

  We'd set a new RASP record on the pallet task, but that was the first of many obstacles the cadre expected us to complete as part of this FTX. The next was to don I-MILES equipment, coded lasers and sensors attached to our gear. As dusk fell, we turned on our NVDs. The cadre expected our ad hoc fire team to not stumble around too badly in the dark.

  Given a patrol objective deep in the woods, I organized our small group by the book: a traveling overwatch 20 meters apart. We treated roads, trails, and open spaces as danger areas. Ripe for an ambush, we bypassed them whenever possible.

  Halted every minute to listen to the surroundings; to attempt to detect enemies. Crickets. Literally, a continuous background hum from the vast masses of high-pitched crickets. The katydids' cyclical chirping was easier to distinguish; at least its pattern varied enough to provide lulls in the clamor. My combat noise canceling headset was great for the radio and not blowing an eardrum next to an M1A1 carbine, but it didn't do anything for the insect population.

  Watkins walked point, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Madsen trailed with his light machine gun, ready to get us out of a jam. I remained in the middle to navigate and ensure they could both see and communicate with me.

  An owl hooted. That prompted a cloud of bats to take wing. Presumably, the owl launched after them for a midnight snack in the tree tops.

  Watkins held up a fist. Madsen and I halted in response, sweeping the surrounding woods with our NVDs.

  A rapid series of explosive
thumps as more than one opponent in the foliage to our left opened up on us. Ambush!

  Watkins moved to place a tree partially between him and the shooters. “Contact eight o'clock, 50 meters.” He raised his weapon to return fire. His equipment buzzed, marking him dead.

  Muzzle flashes cast shadows on the trunks and spidery branches. I dropped to the ground. Slithered around a tangle of bush. Searched for a target.

  Madsen opened up with his Mk 46 machine gun, laying down a base of suppressive fire against the enemy's position.

  I spotted someone behind a mound of dirt. Dobbs? Took aim. My gear emitted a frustrating buzz. Too late to take him out. He'd killed me, so I lay down on the pine needle covered ground.

  Madsen held out for a minute, laying down fire, but once they flanked him, it was over.

  Three to nothing, in favor of the bad guys.

  At this rate, I'd let Michelle down. Fail RASP. Miss Korea. Be sent back to my old unit, working for a procurements Colonel with the world's greatest desire for redoing paperwork.

  While his two dudes pulled security Dobbs stood over me, pleased as a Hell's Angel in a bar fight. “Engineers should stick to construction and leave the warfighting to the infantry. Not so smart anymore, are yah?”

  Everyone has their own specialties, but I gritted my teeth; forced my jaw to shut. Nothing useful would come from a reply. I'd reply with action, not trash talk.

  Sergeant Anzo strolled up. Shook his head. Used a tiny Maglite to read his clipboard and enter brief notes on our performance. “Harper. React to near ambush. Not up to standards. Dobbs. Linear ambush. Full marks.” He triggered our equipment to reset with his controller. Back alive.

  I stood up, but hung my head. I'd learned something, at least. Dobbs had anticipated exactly what route we'd take. He'd perfectly predicted our book tactics. He was a real Barney, but he wasn't easy to defeat.

  Anzo gave us our next instructions. Dobbs would defend a fortified bunker on a hill. We'd assault it. Much easier to defend a fixed position than to assault one. Our mission had disaster written all over it.