Delta Force (2 page)

That finished my part of the brief. I asked if there were any questions.

“How many casualties,” the President asked, “do you see here?”

General Vaught spoke up. “Mr. President, we don't honestly have an answer for you. Perhaps six or seven Delta people might be wounded, and there's a chance that two or three hostages could be injured.”

I said, “When we go into these installations I know good and well that when we turn a corner and start clearing out the rooms, there, in the dark, a hostage will probably have overpowered a guard and taken his weapon. There are military men in the embassy just waiting for that opportunity, and I know there's one CIA man who, given the opportunity, will do it. Once they have a weapon in hand they're going to run out into the hall or down a staircase to link up with us, and one of my operators is going to take them out. Delta is trained to kill anyone carrying a weapon in such a situation. This is going to happen. I hope it doesn't, but we gotta count on it happening.”

The President said, “I understand. And I accept it.”

Warren Christopher spoke up. He wanted to know what would happen to the guards. There was some confusion caused by my choice of words.

“Mr. Christopher, it's our objective to take the guards out.”

“What do you mean? Will you shoot them in the shoulder or what?”

“No, sir. We're going to shoot each of them twice, right between the eyes.”

This seemed to bother him.

“You mean you can really do that. In the dark, running—”

“Yes, sir. We've trained to do that.”

“You mean you're really going to shoot to kill? You really are?”

“Yes, sir. We certainly are. We intend to put two .45-caliber rounds right between their eyes.”

Mr. Claytor, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, interceded. “I've been down to Delta, Mr. President, and I've seen their shooting. I think it's very good.”

It was obvious Mr. Christopher had a worry. I believe he thought Delta was going to go in and shoot everyone. We had the capability to do it, but that wasn't the plan. He might have thought some hostages would be killed if we went in shooting. But I think not. I'm convinced he was uncomfortable with our having to kill those armed Iranian guards. But
that
was precisely our plan. We were going to kill every guard in the four or five buildings and anyone who interfered in the assault. Any armed Iranian inside the buildings would be killed. We weren't going to go up and check their pulses. We would put enough copper and lead in them so they wouldn't be a problem. When blood began to flow, a lot of Iranians were going to turn and run for help, and when they did, Delta was prepared to hose them down. No question about it. That was the plan. Furthermore, I did not believe that the Iranians in the embassy would stand toe to toe and slug it out. Yes, there would be the odd person who would because of his religion and beliefs shoot to the death. We were prepared to help him reach his maker.

Mr. Jordan asked, “In your shooting exercises, Colonel, did your men ever hit the American targets and not the Iranian ones?”

“Sir,” I said, “Delta's playing in the Rose Bowl, not the Toilet Bowl!” I explained that Delta expected to find roughly
70 to 125 people on the embassy grounds—not including the hostages. Twenty or 25 would be guards on duty, the others sleeping in a barracks. That building would be covered by machine guns. The only real threat was with the guards holding the hostages. They were all to be taken out.

I sat down.

General Gast was introduced and he covered the airlift portion of the operation: how we would fly to Egypt and to Oman and to Desert One, would be flown by helicopter to the hideaway and out of Teheran, and finally be air evac'd out at Manzariyeh.

General Gast was very thorough, but one aspect of the air operation, which he had not mentioned, still bothered me. Delta was going on this operation without tac air. I was confused. I had been told in briefings many, many times—and had been given call signs—that if something truly bad happened I could call in fighter support. But, I'd also been told, because of flying distances, not to expect such support for at least an hour. An hour to get on station was one hell of a long time. That was a hard bone to swallow. There was also no tac air support tasked to follow us out of Manzariyeh. It didn't make any sense to go through the entire raid only to get wiped out at the end by an Iranian jet jockey who happened to get lucky and knock down a C-141 carrying hostages and rescuers. General Vaught and I had had several discussions about this. The issue never seemed to get resolved. In the White House, it was.

The President spoke out: “There will be air cover from Manzariyeh all the way out of Iran.”

Whew!

Someone said, “Mr. President, my agency now needs to know what your decision will be. Should we move forward and pre-position?”

The President answered in a direct way. “It's time for me to summarize. I do not want to undertake this operation, but we have no other recourse. The only way I will call it off now is if the International Red Cross hands back our Americans.
There's not going to be just pre-positioning forward. We're going to do this operation.”

Charlie Beckwith almost fell out of his chair. I just didn't believe Jimmy Carter had the guts to do it.

A date to go over the wall was agreed upon. April 24th we would enter Iran, 25th we'd hide out and go over the wall, and early in the morning of the 26th we'd leave Iran.

The President said to General Jones, “David, this is a military operation. You will run it. By law you will keep the Secretary of Defense Dr. Brown informed; and I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same with me. I don't want anyone else in this room involved,” and he gestured toward the table with his arm. At this point I was full of wonderment. The President had carved some important history. I was proud to be an American and to have a President do what he'd just done.

When the meeting ended, everyone stood up. President Carter looked at me. “I'd like to see you, Colonel Beckwith, before you leave.” It was quiet in the room. He walked over and stood in front of me. “I want to ask you to do two things for me.”

“Sir, all you gotta do is name them.”

“I want you, before you leave for Iran, to assemble all of your force and when you think it's appropriate give them a message from me. Tell them that in the event this operation fails, for whatever reason, the fault will not be theirs, it will be mine.”

“Sir, I give you my word I will do that.”

“The second thing is, if any American is killed, hostage or Delta Force, and if it is possible, as long as it doesn't jeopardize the life of someone else, you bring the body back.”

“Sir, if you've gone over my record, you know I'm that kind of man.”

ONE

IT WAS JUNE
of 1962. My wife, two daughters, and I arrived in Southampton, England. The instructions I had received in Fort Bragg requested that my family and I take a bus to London and, after checking into a hotel, to call the headquarters of the Special Air Service (SAS) and receive further information about where and when to report to the unit.

The dock was full of activity; but somehow, amongst the press of debarking passengers and the waiting crowd of homecoming well-wishers, I was found and greeted by an American major. He introduced himself as Bob Kingston and told me he had just completed a year attachment to the British Parachute Regiment. He'd come down to the pier to tell me how useful he thought I'd find my tour with the SAS. I tried to be polite and hear everything he had to say, but my mind was on collecting my luggage, clearing customs, and getting Katherine and the girls London-bound.

Settled into the bus, somewhere beyond the cathedral town of Winchester, I had a chance to think about what Major Kingston had told me. He'd been the second person to rave about the Special Air Service. The first had been Col. I. A. “Boppy” Edwards, the CO of the 7th Special Forces Group.

A few years earlier. Colonel Edwards had gotten together with an SAS officer, Lt. Col. John Woodhouse, and between them they had shaped an exchange program between the two elite units. The Brits would send the U.S. Army Special Forces an officer and a noncommissioned officer; and our Green Berets
would reciprocate. A Sergeant Rozniak and I got into the program in 1962. We were selected to spend a year training with the 22 Special Air Service Regiment.

I knew a little about the SAS. I knew that it shared with the Brigade of Guards a deep respect for quality and battle discipline, but unlike the Guards it had little respect for drill and uniform, in part because it approached warfare in an entirely unorthodox manner. During World War II, in collaboration with the Long Range Desert Group, the First SAS Regiment had conducted raids behind Rommel's lines in the Western Desert on Benghazi, Tobruk, and Jalo. Then after the war, throughout the fifties, the unit had fought with distinction in Malaya. Working in small unit formations, some as small as 4-man patrols, the SAS had penetrated deeply into the Malayan jungle and there had hunted down, fought, and helped defeat a large, well-armed Communist guerrilla force. From this long campaign the Special Air Service had emerged with a reputation as perhaps the free world's finest counterterrorist unit.

This thumbnail historical sketch was all I knew. I had no idea how they assessed, selected, and trained their soldiers. Overflowing with the cockiness of youth, I was a hotshot Green Beret captain with Special Operations experience. I'd served a tour two years earlier in Laos. Our people in Fort Bragg had led me to believe I would lend to the Brits special skills and training methods we Yanks had learned. At the same time, I expected to pass along to our community information from the SAS. It didn't always work out that way—certainly not in my case.

In London, the adjutant of headquarters SAS, Maj. C. E. “Dare” Newell, told me he would drive us Monday to the Herefordshire home of the 22 Special Air Service Regiment, Bradbury Lines. Early Monday morning, Major Newell came by and picked us up. It was a hot summer's day, and the green English countryside, especially west of Oxford, looked lush. Toward midafternoon we drove into Bradbury Lines.

It was obvious the regiment had gone to a lot of trouble in making preparations to receive us. Several of the officers and
their wives were waiting for us at our new quarters, which were situated directly across the street from the officers' mess. Our rooms were completely furnished, and once we had unloaded our luggage from Major Newell's auto, the wives took Katherine and the girls on a tour of the town that would be their home for the next year.

I felt very comfortable in these new surroundings, even if I was surrounded by men from Cornwall and Wales, Liverpool and Glasgow, whose various brogues, accents, and dialects I would have to learn. I expect they had as much trouble with my Georgia drawl.

After the second day, biting at the bit, I was called up to the regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson.

Once the pleasantries were concluded, I was informed I would be going to A Squadron. This was disappointing. I had hoped I would go to D Squadron. It was commanded by a big redheaded Scotsman named Harry Thompson, who had been to the States and understood Americans. In the short time I'd been in Bradbury Lines I'd learned that Thompson was part of the team that had so successfully dealt with the CTs (Communist Terrorists) in Malaya.

A Squadron was commanded by Maj. Peter Walter. A small man and a very sharp dresser, he perceived himself—and was in fact—quite a ladies' man. He'd come up through the SAS ranks, beginning as a sergeant during the Emergency. Walter was a very hard man who had the reputation of being physically and mentally tough. He also wanted you to think he was without scruples. His nickname was “the Rat.” At first I wasn't very comfortable with him.

There were four troops in A Squadron, and I would command Three Troop. I was taken by Major Walter to A Squadron Headquarters where I was introduced to my temporary troop sergeant, “Gypsy” Smith. Sergeant Smith then escorted me to Three Troop's billets.

Although the camp was World War II vintage, it showed none of its age. Bradbury Lines was, in fact, growing old graciously. The grounds and gardens were meticulously maintained by a crew of gardeners. The barracks had been recently
painted on the outside a dazzling white with blue trim.

Straight lines, square corners, yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full. That's what I'd been taught. That's what I knew. I was a captain in the United States Army. Straight lines. Square corners. Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full!

I walked into Three Troop's wooden barracks. The long room was a mess. It was worn and dirty. Rucksacks (called Bergens) were strewn everywhere. Beds were unkempt, uniforms scruffy. It reminded me more of a football locker room than an army barracks. Two of the troopers—I never learned if it was done for my benefit or not—were brewing tea on the floor in the middle of the room.

I commented on the state of the room and on the men. I added, “What we need to do is get this area mopped down, the equipment cleaned, straightened, and stored, and the tea brewed outside.” Two troopers, Scott and Larson, spoke up at once. “No, sir. That's not what we want to do. Otherwise, we might as well go back to our regular regiments. One of the reasons we volunteered for the SAS was so we wouldn't have to worry about the unimportant things.” I didn't understand that. I thought I'd been given a group of roughnecks to command. Also, I suspected the troops were not comfortable with me. Who was this bloody Yank who didn't understand at all about freebooting behavior in a special operations unit? But I felt I had to bring the troop into line. My job, as I saw it, was to get them dressed smartly and to make parade soldiers out of them. Yes, sir! That was my job. I went home that night and told Katherine I felt I might not be able to handle this.

Peter Walter, my squadron commander, would normally have an officers' call at the end of each day. We'd go into his office and talk about the day. I found that whenever one of the officers addressed Major Walter he'd use his first name, and Major Walter, at his turn, would use the troop commander's first name. When I asked a question, I would address my commanding officer as Major Walter. This went on for several days and finally Major Walter called me in. “Let me explain the form.” In a very precise and penetrating voice he told me that in the SAS system when an officer was in the
midst of troopers or standing in a formation with what the Brits call ORs (Other Ranks), noncommissioned officers and enlisted men, they addressed each other using their ranks. “But, when we're in a room like this and there are just officers present it's always on a first-name basis. And that's the way I want it to be. Do you understand?” And I said, “Yes, sir!” “There you go again,” he replied. That really made me uncomfortable.

I couldn't make heads or tails of this situation. The officers were so professional, so well read, so articulate, so experienced. Why were they serving with this organization of nonregimented and apparently poorly disciplined troops? The troops resembled no military organization I had ever known. I'm sure if I had been put in with a unit of the Coldstream Guards or the Household Cavalry I would have known what to expect. But the 22 Special Air Service Regiment! Well, this was too different, and for me the impact was too soon. I was adrift in a world that I thought I knew. I couldn't predict what would happen next in any given situation. Everything I'd been taught about soldiering, been trained to believe, was turned upside down.

I'd been in camp about ten days when I was told a sketch map exercise would be conducted. I was glad about this because I'd get an opportunity to observe the squadron in action.

Peter Walter told me I'd accompany Sergeant Major Ross, who would design and formulate the exercise. Life was full of surprises. In the American military system officers usually ran everything. But this was Britain. Major Walter jumped into his flashy maroon Jaguar and took off for London, leaving Sergeant Major Ross and two or three other sergeants and me to go down to Wales, into the barren and harsh Brecon Beacons.

This exercise would test the soldier on his ability to navigate over very difficult terrain using only a compass and a simple sketch map. Ross, a large man with blond hair, was not particularly liked by the officers and most of the ORs. He was a Scot, dour and introspective, and his nickname was “Gloom.” I found him very methodical and, not surprisingly, very professional.
He and the other NCOs selected the proper area to run the exercise; it was quite difficult, and they discussed realistically how each trooper could solve the terrain problems they were setting up. Their aim was not to hand a soldier a complete, one-inch-to-the-mile military map, but rather a small sketch showing only major terrain features. A true magnetic north was also drawn in. To me this was realistic as a field exercise. We hadn't done much of this at Fort Bragg.

After we'd spent two days laying out this exercise, the squadron drove up in several 3-ton trucks. Major Walter and the other officers appeared and, as the sun went down, Peter told Sergeant Major Ross to get on with it.

After last light, as each trooper was dropped off, he was handed a sketch and told to get from where he was to somewhere else in a certain amount of time. I went on each of these briefings, holding Sergeant Major Ross's torch and clipboard. The instructions were very clear but very short. I remembered that if I were back in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, I'd be an hour answering questions. Sergeant Major Ross did not tolerate any questions. “This is your task. You are here and this is where your rendezvous point will be tomorrow morning and you bloody well better get hopping.” That was it. The soldier disappeared into the night.

What I hadn't realized until the briefings was that each man had only a certain amount of time to get from one point to another. The men, if they were to make their rendezvous points, would have to run most of the night—while carrying heavy Bergens and individual weapons.

The next morning, when we began to gather up the men, we found them coming in pretty well shattered. Most were wringing wet. I looked again at the routes, remeasured the distances. Holy smokes, I thought, they've really covered some ground! If a trooper was late in arriving at his RV (rendezvous), he was not picked up that day and had to wait until the next morning, which meant there would be no rations for him that day. If a man not only missed his rendezvous but also got totally lost, he was severely punished. Peter Walter had him taken down to the nearest river, a rope was tied to
his waist and he was thrown in with all of his gear, including sleeping bag. For the rest of the exercise, another day or two, this poor bloke stayed wet, day and night. That was the cost for not keeping up. I thought, “God, this is what we ought to do at home.”