shape from playing football, so none of these things presented a real challenge.
In fact, I thought I was doing great. That is, until we left Fort Benning and moved to the Mountain Ranger Camp at Dahlonega, Georgia.
Our main focus there was learning how to conduct successful patrols under conditions meant to simulate combat. That meant little sleep, less food, and almost zero shelter. For two weeks, we lived, ate, and slept mostly in the open. It was April by then, but still bone-numbing cold in the deep North Georgia woods. Our only shelter was found in the green rubber ponchos we carried in our rucksacks. When it rained, we were wet and miserable. When it didn’t rain, we were wet and miserable anyway from slogging through rivers and streams up to our hips.
Each patrol had an objective—attacking an enemy position, for example—and lasted three to six days. I had heard that the ranger instructors (RIs) would keep us on the move from 5:00 a.m. until 2:00 a.m., twenty-one hours a day. That was true, except when they marched us for twenty-four. Very quickly, I learned to snatch sleep where I could. It got to the point where if we stopped for five minutes, I could sleep for four of them.
Meanwhile, the grand total of our food intake on patrol was one C-ration a day. At some point during the day, we dropped our rucksacks in the dirt and squatted down for a deluxe meal of canned pork slices or canned beans and weenies, or my favorite, canned ham and lima beans. On our first patrol, it took maybe three days before I noticed that some guys’ britches had started to sag. After five days, their faces were hollowed out from hunger and haggard from lack of sleep. If I’d had a mirror, I would’ve known I looked just as bad. Because of severe sleep deprivation, most of us started to hallucinate. And the thing we hallucinated about most was food. I imagined I could smell bacon frying or fudge cooking. I think I would’ve traded my boots for a piece of chocolate.
I guess I could blame all those things for my initial spectacular failure. We had been in Dahlonega for only a few days when the RIs tasked our patrol, about eighteen men, with assaulting an enemy base camp. I hadn’t slept in two days. Blearily, I helped plan the mission, but when we finished, the plan was as clear in my head as oatmeal.
After dark, we moved out toward the objective, walking single file through an oak and cedar forest, underbrush crunching beneath our jungle boots. My back ached under a seventy-pound combat load. Ahead, I could hear frogs and crickets. Their night chatter stopped as we approached, then tuned up again as we passed, closing behind us like water. For me, the sound was hypnotic. As I plodded along near the middle of the pack in something like a trance, my mind drifted to nights spent in the North Carolina woods hunting with my dad. Some of his deer jerky sure would be good right now—
“Ranger Boykin!”
The patrol had clustered at a rally point just short of the objective for final preparation and a leader’s recon, and an RI now demanded my attention. “You are now the patrol leader,” he barked. “You have thirty minutes to brief your team and move out.”
My head swam with panic. I scanned the surrounding tree stand and realized I had no idea where we were. I had not anticipated having to lead, and now couldn’t remember a single detail of the assault plan.
“Yes, sir,” I said miserably.
During the brief, I faked it as best I could, but when we moved out, I was completely inept. As we crossed potential danger areas, I was supposed to post security. I didn’t. I was supposed to issue instructions to the soldier walking point. I didn’t. On top of that, I was literally lost in the woods, and finally, my assistant leader had to take over the patrol. We did reach our objective, but without any help from me.
Later that night, I burrowed under my poncho as much to hide my embarrassment as for shelter. The next morning,
In fact, I thought I was doing great. That is, until we left Fort Benning and moved to the Mountain Ranger Camp at Dahlonega, Georgia.
Our main focus there was learning how to conduct successful patrols under conditions meant to simulate combat. That meant little sleep, less food, and almost zero shelter. For two weeks, we lived, ate, and slept mostly in the open. It was April by then, but still bone-numbing cold in the deep North Georgia woods. Our only shelter was found in the green rubber ponchos we carried in our rucksacks. When it rained, we were wet and miserable. When it didn’t rain, we were wet and miserable anyway from slogging through rivers and streams up to our hips.
Each patrol had an objective—attacking an enemy position, for example—and lasted three to six days. I had heard that the ranger instructors (RIs) would keep us on the move from 5:00 a.m. until 2:00 a.m., twenty-one hours a day. That was true, except when they marched us for twenty-four. Very quickly, I learned to snatch sleep where I could. It got to the point where if we stopped for five minutes, I could sleep for four of them.
Meanwhile, the grand total of our food intake on patrol was one C-ration a day. At some point during the day, we dropped our rucksacks in the dirt and squatted down for a deluxe meal of canned pork slices or canned beans and weenies, or my favorite, canned ham and lima beans. On our first patrol, it took maybe three days before I noticed that some guys’ britches had started to sag. After five days, their faces were hollowed out from hunger and haggard from lack of sleep. If I’d had a mirror, I would’ve known I looked just as bad. Because of severe sleep deprivation, most of us started to hallucinate. And the thing we hallucinated about most was food. I imagined I could smell bacon frying or fudge cooking. I think I would’ve traded my boots for a piece of chocolate.
I guess I could blame all those things for my initial spectacular failure. We had been in Dahlonega for only a few days when the RIs tasked our patrol, about eighteen men, with assaulting an enemy base camp. I hadn’t slept in two days. Blearily, I helped plan the mission, but when we finished, the plan was as clear in my head as oatmeal.
After dark, we moved out toward the objective, walking single file through an oak and cedar forest, underbrush crunching beneath our jungle boots. My back ached under a seventy-pound combat load. Ahead, I could hear frogs and crickets. Their night chatter stopped as we approached, then tuned up again as we passed, closing behind us like water. For me, the sound was hypnotic. As I plodded along near the middle of the pack in something like a trance, my mind drifted to nights spent in the North Carolina woods hunting with my dad. Some of his deer jerky sure would be good right now—
“Ranger Boykin!”
The patrol had clustered at a rally point just short of the objective for final preparation and a leader’s recon, and an RI now demanded my attention. “You are now the patrol leader,” he barked. “You have thirty minutes to brief your team and move out.”
My head swam with panic. I scanned the surrounding tree stand and realized I had no idea where we were. I had not anticipated having to lead, and now couldn’t remember a single detail of the assault plan.
“Yes, sir,” I said miserably.
During the brief, I faked it as best I could, but when we moved out, I was completely inept. As we crossed potential danger areas, I was supposed to post security. I didn’t. I was supposed to issue instructions to the soldier walking point. I didn’t. On top of that, I was literally lost in the woods, and finally, my assistant leader had to take over the patrol. We did reach our objective, but without any help from me.
Later that night, I burrowed under my poncho as much to hide my embarrassment as for shelter. The next morning,
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