At the moment they were about halfway through a twenty-mile hike.
It wasn’t colorful or dramatic or even interesting. It was step after step, sweat it out, swear it up, but by damn get there.
Ken Ching slogged along just in front of Harry
“Horse” Ronson. Now and then Ching lagged a little behind Ron Holt, who was ten yards ahead of him.
“Come on, Chinko, let’s keep up with the rest of them,” Ronson called from his spot just behind Ching.
Ching looked back, and gave Ronson the middle-finger salute.
Ronson bristled. He hated that sign, had been in more than one bloody brawl because of it. He tried to put a cap on his anger, but couldn’t.
“What’s the matter, Chinko, can’t take a little ribbing?”
“I can take any shit you can shit out, bastard horse-face,” Ching said, his anger coming through instead of good-natured jawing.
Ronson charged him. Murdock, working as Tail End Charlie in the formation, saw the move, and sprinted up to the pair just as they came together. Ronson landed a pounding right fist against Ching’s jaw, and the shorter man sagged backward, but at the same time launched a roundhouse kick that caught Ronson in the belly and drove him down to his knees.
“Hold it,” Murdock barked as he stepped between them. “What the fuck is this all about?”
“The old Chinaman there can’t take a little teasing,” Ronson said.
“This big horse’s ass wouldn’t know a little of anything if it hit him in his fucking face,” Ching said.
Ed Dewitt heard the ruckus and stopped his squad, which was in the lead. Jaybird halted the other squad. Everyone had heard at least some of the exchange.
Murdock sat Ronson and Ching in the dirt and made them look at each other. “Hey, you two assholes. So you’re both pissed off about being on another conditioning hike. So what the hell do you think you’re drawing the big paychecks for? You earn your pay with your training sweat. When we get into action, that’s the payoff of all of our work.
You two know all this. We’re a team, remember? We work, we function, we kill working together as a fucking team.”
“Oh, shit,” Ronson said.
“Yeah, Ronson, you’ll be shitting blood if you don’t get with the program here,” Murdock said. “Teamwork means each of us relies on the man next to him to protect his ass. He doesn’t, and you’re in graves registration before you can piss purple. You read me, you two?”
He watched them. Ching had taken two or three long breaths; at last he nodded. Ronson looked away, spat on the ground, and slammed his palm onto his thigh. He stared up at Murdock, and the edge of a grin showed. “Shit, yeah, Skipper. I’m with you.”
“Okay, get on your feet, shake hands like a pair of SEALS, and let’s get back to work. Ching, you move to rear guard where your regular spot is. A little separation right now won’t hurt.
“Ronson, you try to keep your yap shut for a while, you read me, sailor?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Same formation. Ed, let’s move them out.”
Five minutes later a red flare burst to the left of the platoon.
Silently the men shifted to a line of skirmishers along a low ridge, and when Murdock chattered off three rounds from his MP-5, the rest fired down the slope into a dry wash three hundred yards below.
All of the men wore their Motorola radios with lip mike and earphones. Murdock let the firing continue for a minute, then spoke into his mike.
“Cease fire. Remain in place.”
Murdock lifted out of the sand and rocks, and moved along the men, checking their positions, seeing who had found any cover at all. He glanced up just as Ching lifted up, swung his Colt Carbine around, and ran toward where Harry Ronson lay looking the other way.
Before Murdock could yell, Ching fired off three rounds, and then three more. Ronson jumped up, his face wavering between surprise and abject fear.
Murdock charged over, and saw Ronson staring at a spot two feet from where he had been. There a four-foot-long rattlesnake writhed in a death struggle. The head of the snake had been chopped off by the six .223 slugs.
Ronson shook his head, kicked the still-spasming snake, then ran to Ching and grabbed him in a bear hug. Tears brimmed his eyes, but never made it to his cheeks.
“Ching, you beautiful motherfucker, don’t you never die,” Ronson said. It was the highest praise one SEAL could bestow on another. “We need you in this fucked-up outfit.”
Murdock looked at the snake, then at Ching. “Nice shooting, man.
You even got an angle so you wouldn’t spray Horse. Let’s all take ten and settle down.” The men gathered around, and stared at the snake.
Joe Douglas looked at it, and then up at Ching. “Your prize, man, you killed it. You want the skin? I’ll skin it out for you. Make a bitchin’ headband.”
Ching nodded.
They watched Douglas take out his knife and slit the snake from tail to what was left of the head, then strip the skin off it. He looked up.
“Hey, anyone for rattlesnake steak? It ain’t bad, honest. We used to have it when I went hunting over in Arizona.”
“You eat it,” Washington said.
“Have to cook it first. We probably don’t have the time.”
He was right. Five minutes later, Murdock called them together.
“See that ridge up there with the notch? How far from us is it?”
The guesses ranged from one mile to ten.
“It’s about four miles. We’re looking across a small valley, and that always messes up your distance perspective. Usually the point is farther away than it looks when viewed across a low area. We have a company of regulars tracking us. They’re fresh, and moving fast. We need to get to that ridge, and then surprise them when they start up it.
We’ll double-time for fifteen minutes, then walk for fifteen, and alternate that way until we’re there.
“Jaybird, keep time on that stopwatch of yours. First Squad takes the lead. Lampedusa, a hundred yards in front. Let’s move out.”
The men were dragging by the time they hit the top of the ridge.
Murdock spread them out in a line of skirmishers on the reverse slope so they could just see over the top. Then he fired a red flare into the small barren valley they had just crossed. He kicked out three rounds from his MP-5, and the rest of the platoon opened fire.
“Cease fire,” he called after about thirty rounds per man.
“Bradford, break out the Fifty. Pick a target, and get off five rounds at your pace. Machine gunners, set up and support his fire when he finds a target. Go, go, go.”
Bradford picked out a rock about four hundred yards away, and hit it with three of the five shots. The machine gunners chimed in, and when Bradford landed his fifth round, they all ceased fire, and the California desert returned to its quiet mode.
Far down the ravine they saw two black hawks circling on a rising air current. Halfway down the slope a desert jackrabbit left his nest under a thin sage and Scurried across to another spot of concealment.
Murdock let them rest a minute. It was nearly 1700. They were about ten miles from the bus. He positioned the squads side by side across fifty yards of desert ridge.
“We’re going down the far side here, men. I want you to work as a squad. Four men move out twenty yards, hit the dirt, and fire to the front to cover the other four men moving up. Then the ones who just came up move out twenty, hit the dirt, and cover the first four, who leapfrog. Work that way down the rest of the way to the bottom of the slope. Be careful of your fields of fire. Stay even with the other squad, and don’t shoot anybody. Clear?”
They worked the basic fire-and-move drill until they all were at the bottom. By that time it was almost 1800.
“Find a spot and enjoy your MREs. You all were told to pick one up before we left.”
Murdock let them rest for a half hour. It was well dark by then in the California desert. He talked with Ed Dewitt. “
Think any of the men know where we are from the bus?”
“Jaybird. Probably Lampedusa. The rest of them could be out here all night.”
“About time we had a night drill on using the compass, finding your way back to the bivouac.”
Ed grinned in the darkness. “Gonna be half of them sleeping out here tonight without a blanket.”
“Be good for them. We’ll drop them off at two-hundred-yard intervals by pairs. Then let them find their way back.”
“We keep Jaybird and Joe with us?” Ed asked.
“Right. Otherwise they would team up, and get everyone back.”
Ed chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve been too damn soft on these guys lately.
Be good for them.”
“By the way, Ed. Which way would you strike out to find the bus?”
Ed laughed. “I know the exact direction. You couldn’t get me lost in a jungle.”
“Good, you get the con as we head back. First we need a little bit of night-firing practice. What haven’t we done lately?”
“We could do an LZ defense.”
“Yes, get them into it.”
Dewitt called the men around him, and explained the exercise. “We have wounded, we’re in enemy territory. We’ve called for a helicopter lift-out. The choppers are on their way, five minutes out. They request a red marker flare. We shoot out a flare at a good LZ, and then form a perimeter around it. We defend it against attacks from all sides. Who has a red flare?”
“I do,” Jack Mahanani said.
“Fire it out about a hundred yards line of sight. As soon as it hits, we converge on it and deploy around it thirty yards away in a circle. Go, Mahanani.”
He fired the red flare. It arced out, hit the ground, and kept burning.
“First squad to the right, second squad to the left. Let’s defend our LZ or we’ll never get out of here. Go, go, go.”
They ran for the flare, and went down in prone positions facing outward thirty yards from the red light. Ed’s three-round burst from his MP-5 started the firing. They kept up the firing for a full minute; then Ed used the Motorola.
“Sustain fire, but on five-second intervals. Conserve rounds. We don’t hear the chopper yet.”
The firing tapered off, then came on with single-shot rounds at intervals. After two more minutes, Ed called a cease-fire.
“Come on in around me for an evaluation,” Ed said in his mike.
The men assembled.
“Jaybird, what happened?”
“Went fine. We fired too fast at first, but we didn’t have any targets so we overshot. With something to fire at, we’d be more conservative. I’m almost dry on ammo.”
“Douglas,” Ed said.
“I ran out of ammo. It’s been a long drill. Like Jaybird said, with real targets I’d be more conservative. Knowing we were waiting for the chopper, we’d all save more ammo for the landing and to protect our men as we loaded.”
“That’s about it, men. Let’s form into a column of ducks, First Squad on the right side, Second Squad on the left, and get ready to move out.”
“Where to, L-T?” Doc Ellsworth asked.
“Anyone have an issue compass?” Ed asked.
Two of the older hands groaned.
“You wouldn’t, L-T,” a plaintive voice called out.
“Would, and will,” Ed said. “This one is called getting home alive.”
“Oh, damn, I think I’m coming down with appendicitis,” Ron Holt called. Half the men laughed. The other half didn’t know what was coming.
“Move out to the north,” Ed said. He put Joe Lampedusa leading one file and Jaybird the other.
“No talking, this is a quiet maneuver.” Ed led the group generally north. Murdock brought up the rear. Every two hundred yards he tapped two of the men on the shoulder, and told them to hold their position for ten minutes, then regroup.
He had dropped off four pairs before one of them said something.
“Commander, this is a find-your-way-home drill, right? We ain’t gonna regroup.” It was Horse Ronson. He was with Fred Washington.
“Well, now, Horse, you figure it out. Just hope to hell you have your compass.”
As they walked away, Murdock could hear Horse swearing up a storm.
In twenty minutes, they had dropped off all the pairs of men except the leads. Jaybird had watched behind him. He had it figured out.
“Hell, Commander, I know how to get back,” Jaybird said. “No compass, but I got me the stars. I’d be the first swabby back at the bus.”
“Maybe not, Jaybird. You see, you’re with us. We four, no more.
Lieutenant Dewitt here is going to be our guide and scout to get us back to the bus. Before dawn, we hope.”
Ed muttered something they couldn’t hear, and took his compass out of his combat vest. He stared at the stars in the clear sky overhead, and then pointed. “We go south and west. We’ve been working generally north and east. Should work.”
“I figure we’re about twelve to thirteen miles from the bus,” Murdock said. “What do you think, Joe?”
“Closer to fifteen, Skipper. It’s now about twenty-hundred. If the L-T can do the job, we should be in our blankets by midnight.”
It was almost 0100 before the foursome arrived at the bus. Two teams had beaten them back: Ronson and Washington, and Doc Ellsworth and Joe Douglas.
Another team came in about 0200, but the last six men didn’t make it back until an hour after daylight at 0630.
Murdock and the others had fires going for coffee and hot MRE main dishes. The last men in ignored the food, and fell on their blankets for a quick rest.
“Sack out,” Murdock said. “We don’t have our first call here for another hour and a half.”
Al Adams groaned, and pulled his blanket up over his head. “I may never walk another step in my lifetime,” he growled.
Murdock let them sleep in until 0800, then rousted everyone out.
“Today we get to wash the dirt off our cammies in the good old canal. It should be a fun morning.”
Before they left the bus, Murdock checked in on the SATCOM with Master Chief George Mackenzie.
“Checking in about my laundry list. Anything new there at the zoo?”
“Not so you could notice, except it’s much quieter than usual with the Third Platoon out gallivanting around the countryside.”
“Anything from our friend and fisherman Don Stroh?”
“Not nary a word, sir. You did have a personal call from Washington, D.C. The nice-sounding lady did not leave her name or number.”
“Thank you, Master Chief. She never leaves a name. She figures I must know who’s calling.”
“And do you, lad?”
“Aye, that and I do,” Murdock said with a brogue to match the Scotsman.
They both laughed.
“Master Chief, I’m figuring at least another day here. I’ll check in tomorrow morning and see what’s happening.”
“Aye, do that.”
“We’re done here. Out.”
At 0900 the SEALs marched away from their “home” at the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range toward the Coachilla Canal. Technically it was outside of the gunnery range boundary, but the SEALs didn’t let that stop them from utilizing the wetness for training purposes. The authorities that ran the canal that fed water to the water-starved Imperial County from the Colorado River aqueduct had never complained about a little bit of wetness training in their water.
The SEALs were ready for combat. They had restocked their combat vests with their regular supply of ammunition, grenades, and other operational gear, and stuffed in one MRE each. Just one today, not two, which should mean a shorter training day. Everyone had his issue weapon.
“Let’s move out,” Murdock called. “Diamond formation with Lam out front a hundred. Let’s go.”
It was less than half a mile to the canal. Murdock watched the water, tossed in a piece of dry cactus wood, and saw it swept downstream.
&nbs
p; “Looks like about five knots today,” Murdock said. “Motorolas in the waterproof. No rebreathers and no fins. Just a nice little swim.
Let’s go downstream for a quarter of a mile; then we’ll come back up against the current.”
They waded in and swam by twos with their buddy lines attached.
Murdock took the point, and when he stopped, he stepped out on the bank and waved the others to turn around.
“Okay, upstream now. Swim for it. Doc, Quinley is wounded. Has a bad arm and can’t swim. How are you going to get him upstream?”
Quinley had been pulled out of the water as the others began to move upstream.
“Ronson, Fernandez,” Doc called. “Get back here, and help me with a casualty.”
The two came back and waited. Doc took out of his kit an inflatable collar that looked like half a life vest, attached it around Quinley’s neck, then pushed a pin and it inflated.
“Left arm or right,” he asked Quinley.
“Left.”
Doc strapped Quinley’s left arm to his side, and his wrist and forearm across his chest. He tied two buddy lines together, and looped them around Quinley under his armpits.
“On your back in the water,” Doc told the casualty. He gave the buddy lines with loops tied in each end to the two SEALS. “You’re towing him, and I’m keeping his head out of the water,” Doc said.
“Let’s move, we’re too far behind the rest of the platoon.”
Murdock swam behind Doc and his patient.
The system worked. The two strong swimmers in front had tied the buddy lines around their chests so they could do a powerful crawl stroke. They moved upstream against the current, but had no chance to overtake the other swimmers now well ahead of them.
Murdock had told Ed Dewitt to stop them about where they’d entered the water a quarter of a mile ahead.
The SEALs had strapped their weapons across their backs, and swam hard. It was work against the current. Murdock had told Bradford to leave the big fifty-caliber rifle on the bus. No way he could carry it and his MG and swim upstream.
Halfway there, Ronson and Fernandez swam to the near edge of the canal and rested.
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