Delta Force (3 page)

Little by little, I began to see the picture. The squadron was not playing games. They were deadly serious. They'd had a lot of experience, going back to World War II, whereas our own Army Special Forces hadn't actually been established until 1954. The Brits had made lots of mistakes, but they'd learned from them. We Americans had a ways to go.

A week later my free ride ended. I learned that the CO, Peter Walter, was up in Lincolnshire setting up an exercise similar to the one Sergeant Major Ross had run in Wales. This time, in Sherwood Forest, we would, along with an extended timed march, reconnoiter an objective and bring back information.

The first night we made a long forced march in groups of twos and threes. I selected two chaps, the very two who had been brewing tea on the barracks floor a few weeks before, Lance Corporals Scott and Larson. Larson was a proud Scotsman. He was never afraid to speak his mind and usually he had something worthwhile to say. Scott spoke with a thick Irish brogue and had a wonderful sense of humor. I'd learned to respect them and they now appeared to be comfortable with me. We made the march and we made the time. But my feet were a mess. My soles were covered with large blisters. In Sherwood Forest I got my nickname—Blisters.

The next afternoon we were given a forced point-to-point march, with the option of going in teams or going alone. Everyone chose to go alone. I studied the map all afternoon, memorizing my route. I said to myself, I've been to Ranger School and I'm a big boy. I'll be able to handle this if my feet'll hang in there. My feet were in terrible shape.

I started after last light. It was a tough go; the forest was dense and the tracks poorly marked. About 2:00 in the morning, wringing wet, hurt and tired, moving through a particularly
thick area, I stepped off into a hole about six feet deep. I fell to the bottom in a heap. I sat for a while smoking a cigarette. I was running against time, and I didn't want to be embarrassed. Jesus Christ, I thought, you're all alone. What in the hell are you doing sitting here, boy? I got my Bergen off and by leaning it against the side of the pit I was able to climb out. I pressed on. My feet were bleeding by now and it was very painful for me to move. By first light I'd reached the rendezvous point. I wasn't the first man in. I wasn't the last man in. I was in what you'd call the lower third of the class.

That evening we went down to one of the pubs and drank a lot of warm beer. Although it hurt to walk, I walked anyway. I was too proud not to. Even the beer that night tasted good.

After we got back to Hereford, a day passed uneventfully. Then the regimental CO, Colonel Wilson, called me in. “You've been wearing that odd-looking American-made green beret around the area. We'd like you to wear a proper beret, the one with the SAS regimental symbol on it.”

TWO

IF YOU'RE WHAT
the Brits call an OR, you're issued a beret from the regimental stores. Officers, however, wore tailor-made ones. A couple of the officers went with me to London where I was fitted. I was very happy when the postman brought me my sand-colored beret. I wore it with a lot of pride. Nobody had given it to me. I'd earned it. Nobody gives you anything in the SAS. You have to earn it.

I hadn't “earned” my green beret. I'd just been handed it. I got assigned to Special Forces and put the hat on. Now I knew that wasn't right. Men ought to earn the right to wear a distinctive badge.

I joined the Special Forces in 1958. I arrived at Fort Bragg as a parachute-qualified officer. I'd just done three years in the 82nd Airborne Division. Not that I wouldn't have volunteered—that didn't matter. I was assigned to Special Forces because they needed officers. No one had been assessed. I knew a hat didn't make a good soldier. It's good to keep your head warm and useful to throw up in when you're flying and waiting in a plane to make a parachute drop and you get air sick. It's good for that. But in the SAS I realized the importance of a system that permits an individual to earn the right to wear a particular hat.

A month, maybe six weeks went by, and I saw that soldiers just didn't come down to Bradbury Lines, knock on the door, and join the regiment. I'd seen selection courses run without the SAS taking a single individual. Nobody! They'd sent all
forty applicants back to their permanent regiments. And I mean applicants from the Guards Regiments, the best of the British Army.

I watched several selection courses. Blokes would volunteer and come to the SAS from their permanent regiments. For the first ten days the volunteers were put through rigorous physical training and map-reading courses. This was followed by another ten days when the recruits were required to endure long forced marches over the same terrain and against time. The men began to suffer from the continuous lack of sleep, with their judgment particularly affected. This phase concluded when the troopers marched forty-five miles in twenty-four hours while carrying a 55-pound Bergen and a 9-pound rifle. The tricky part was that the men were not told how long they had to complete the march—yet they all knew there was a time limit. This way, each volunteer had to go as hard as he could for as long as he could. The SAS was looking for men who would reach down within themselves to pull out those qualities they hardly knew they possessed. It's like the moment when a marathoner hits “the wall,” when he's burned out, when there's nothing left, and yet he continues to push, to punish himself, and finds the guts to keep running. This phase is called “Selection.”

The survivors then underwent ten to twelve weeks of additional training. During this period each man was subjected to rigorous mental testing. A board of carefully selected officers and NCOs put each man through a series of scenarios that required him to make difficult judgments.

A troop is on patrol in East Germany; the recruit is in charge, the mission to blow up a refinery. As they are moving to their objective, they stumble upon two little girls; one is fourteen, the other twelve. What would the leader do? Would he kill them? Would he take them with him? Leave them behind? Tie them up? Of course there is no right answer. The board was interested in how a man thought.

The candidate would be asked, “Who is your best friend?”

“Paddy So-and-So.”

“Well, let's say Paddy gets into some serious trouble with
the police and he asks you to lie to the police for him or on the witness stand. Would you do it?”

Or, “You're off on a 4-man patrol and one of the troop disobeys an order and you determine that you will, on returning to base, report him. But on the way back, something happens: you are discovered, and during a firefight he saves your life and is the most heroic individual in the troop. While they're pinning the Victoria Cross on this chap, do you report him for being insubordinate?”

At the end of this grueling examination the board would say, “Well, Tommy, you've obviously done well in this selection course. You've proven you're fit, and you should be proud. Now, tell us what you don't do well.” Based on what I observed, men who could not articulate their inabilities did not become members of the regiment.

Finally, after all selection courses and tests had been run, the regimental commander personally accepted the individuals who were to be assigned to the SAS. As I said, whole classes washed out. In the SAS jargon, it was hard to be “badged.”

What the regiment ended with, I thought, were men who enjoyed being alone, who could think and operate by themselves, men who were strong-minded and resolute. Those were the SAS characteristics I thought should be transferred to the U.S. Army's Special Forces.

Another noteworthy item involved the rank of an individual finally selected to join the SAS. In most cases he gave up his previous rank, the one he held in his permanent regiment. He would then have to work his way back up the promotion line. So, officers and ORs made a sacrifice to join the SAS. This was the case, for example, of my neighbor at Bradbury Lines, John Edwards. A permanent major in the Royal Highland Fusiliers, because there was no space in 22 SAS for another major, John in order to join the regiment had accepted the lower rank of captain.

There was one SAS custom totally alien in my own army whose importance I fully understood. Over pints of bitters in the Sergeants' Mess on those Saturday nights when the squadron was in Bradbury Lines, officers and sergeants would discuss
freely situations that had developed during the week. The form here was that the regimental sergeant major would invite the officers in their mess to come to the Sergeants' Mess. This was important. The officers would then literally run down the two blocks separating the Officers' Mess from the Sergeants' Mess. And it was in their mess where it all happened. No one ever left before first light on Sunday morning. We stayed and drank beer all night. This was the opportunity for the officers and the sergeants to whittle away at traditional form and egotistical illusions.

This would be the time when my troop sergeant would say, “You know, Captain Beckwith, you made a bollix out of that inspection last week. Everyone laughed at you. You got too concerned about the missing button on Tommy's uniform. All you had to do was tell the man to get it repaired. You didn't need to embarrass him.” The officers sometimes would accept the criticisms; yet, in some cases they wouldn't. Many times officers would argue amongst themselves, particularly between A and D Squadrons. These nights were filled with strong dialogue and many a good argument was had. Everybody got breathed on, even the regimental commander. A very intense scene, but it was a way of letting off steam. It was a very healthy environment. A lot got done.

One morning, shortly after returning to camp from a field exercise, I heard someone banging on my front door. It was nearly 3:00
A.M
. and I went down half asleep to answer the door. A trooper in full combat gear stood facing me. “Sir! You are to report to the guardhouse as soon as you possibly can with the following equipment.” And he handed me a piece of paper with the words “Crab Stakes” printed across the top. I started to get dressed. I was in a hurry but not in that big a hurry, because I didn't know what was going on. When I finally arrived at the guardhouse, my troop was waiting. They were livid. They wouldn't even speak to me. Down the road, a fair distance off, I saw another troop moving off. My troop couldn't leave until everybody had been accounted for. Obviously, I was the last man to get there.

Squadron Commander Walter gave me my instructions and
we took off. Well, we had to struggle through various events, including a long speed march on which we were graded. Because we were the last ones to start, we never caught up. We came in last in everything. I crawled into my shell and didn't say anything. I was just too busy trying to keep up. Saturday night in the Sergeants' Mess I caught hell.

“You bloody man, you. When someone knocks on your door, you better be ready and you better double-time next time. You were the last man in the squadron to get there and you live closer than most. Why didn't you ask for some help? Didn't you understand?” I didn't. I had no idea that “Crab Stakes” meant a contest.

Major Walter could have gotten me off to the side the day before and explained the form, but he hadn't. He didn't have to tell me what he was planning, but he could have said, “If you ever get instructions during the night marked ‘Crab Stakes,' move in a hurry.”

I was angry and embarrassed. Yet, Peter Walter was very keen, very clever. I began to recognize, maybe in the fourth month of training, what he was trying to do. It was when we went down to Corsica that I began to really understand.

THREE

THE SAS WAS
invited by the French in September to undertake a combined exercise with one of their crack paratroop battalions located in Corsica. It was the famous Bérets Rouges, who had fought with gallantry in strongpoint Eliane at Dien Bien Phu and, three years later, had fought in the Battle of Algiers. For a time it had been commanded by one of France's great combat colonels, Roger Trinquier. The lessons learned at the hands of the Viet Minh and the Fellagha had not been wasted on their officers and NCOs. They were extremely professional.

We made the long drive from Ajaccio, north along the spectacular Corsican coast to Calvi, where the “paras” were stationed. On the right-hand side of the twisting road mountains rose, covered to their summits with evergreen oak. On the other side sudden glimpses of open sea or inlets and gulfs dotted the drive.

That evening, our first with the French, was one hell of a night. It was spent drinking cognac, and those Frenchmen were as professional in this as in everything they did.

The next morning, early, we were taken to a seventeenth-century fortress built during the Genoese occupation of the island. There, a very rugged obstacle course had been rigged. Vertical walls to be scaled by climbing drain pipes and jumps from balcony to balcony, or turret to turret, were the order of the day. One particularly hazardous obstacle was a wide moat that had to be crossed by sliding along a single steel cable.
The French said two of their own troops had been killed when they'd slipped and fallen.

The 1st BPC (Bataillon de Parachutistes de Choc) gave A Squadron of the 22 SAS a free ride through the obstacles in the morning. Two troopers within the squadron broke ankles during the afternoon. The next day we Brits formed 4-man patrols and went out into the hills to hunt down French units scattered throughout the maquis. A useful exercise, it lasted four days.

We were then gathered in the boondocks. That night we were given plenty to eat and drink. In the morning we were stripped of our British uniforms and given coarse woolen uniforms on which were painted, in bold white letters, both back and front, the initials POW. The drill this time was to E and E (Evade and Escape).

Each of us was given time to study a map of this mountainous northern region and, if we could, determine a route that would take us to an RV. The object was to get to the rendezvous without being captured by patrols made up of French paratroopers and local gendarmes. Before being dropped off, we were expertly strip searched. Some tiny compasses one or two of the troopers had tried to conceal were taken away. I paired up with my troop sergeant, Gypsy Smith.

Loaded into trucks and taken deep into the wild Corsican countryside, we were dropped off and told to make for the RV. Visualize sixty 2-man patrols, every man wearing a POW jacket, fanning out throughout the granite mountain and rugged scrub country of northern Corsica, all making for an RV on the coast, all trying to avoid roadblocks, checkpoints, and roving patrols, and you'll have an idea of what was happening that night.

Sergeant Smith and I first tried to discover where we had been dropped. Once this had been determined, we chose a compass bearing, then climbed slowly through a jungle of boulders, evergreen plants, and shrubs. All night we moved over crude footpaths, climbed over granite outcrops, walked through oak groves and maquis-thinned fields, passed silent, dark, square stone-built houses surrounded by olive groves and
ancient-looking villages hanging from hillsides. Northern Corsica is tough; very, very tough.

At first light, nearly at our limits, Gypsy Smith and I hit the beach. We headed for the RV, which, we were told, was a nudist camp during the holiday season. We were the second pair to arrive. Lance Corporals Larson and Scott, the two who had brewed tea on the barracks floor, had been the first in. A little time later, Major Walter and his partner, who had taken a particularly rigorous route, arrived. I hadn't even known the CO was out that night.

After everyone arrived or had been rounded up in the hills above the beach, we were taken back to Calvi where the squadron did some partying. Peter Walter and I went out to dinner. He talked and I listened. He said he recognized I'd been under a lot of pressure, and he explained that, because my performance had lived up to the squadron's standards, he and the men had accepted me as one of them. He felt that if I would relax and unwind I'd enjoy far more my year with the SAS. So when the unit returned to Hereford just before Christmas, I was as happy as I'd been for quite a while.

Following the holiday break, the regimental commander asked me to stop in. “Charlie,” he said, “the regiment's off to Malaya in January and we want you to go. You need to visit London and find out what your side has to say about this.”

Our side was the Army attaché in the American Embassy who was a bit wishy-washy with me. “I don't want to ask the State Department,” he said, “because if they get in it, it will become very complicated. I think you shouldn't go. If something happens to you it will be difficult for us to handle. Think carefully about it, Captain. You ought not to go, but the decision really is yours.” Well, hell, if the decision was mine… I returned to Bradbury Lines to tell Colonel Wilson I'd accompany the regiment to Malaya.