The Escape and Evasion of Trust
During the summer of 1972 at Ft. Benning, Georgia I learned many things. These
things included: how to control aircraft at my assigned airport, how to lead a
unit of soldiers controlling aircraft, how to lead units in combat, and how to
survive in various climates and conditions. I was busier than your average
teenager.
Part of the training I received as a barely nineteen year old soldier in a
Special Ops Unit, was a course called Escape and Evasion. It was a week long
for regular troops. For our unit it was three weeks, with a week of classroom
instruction, a week of field testing and a week of recovery.
The course was conducted entirely on military reservation
property so that civilians were not encountered, involved, or had knowledge of
what went on. The really humorous part for me was the setting. The entire
mission was conducted in the same kind of pine forests that I played in growing
up.
I had the silly idea that this was to be a physical exercise --
well, because they told me it was. I was naïve about psychological warfare
at that age.
As part of our mission we were given a secret to memorize and keep. This information
would be the prize for our pursuers should they capture us. We were not to
reveal our secret if captured or others would suffer because of us.
Our instructors were all familiar to us as we had been together
as a unit from the start. They told us that “no one had ever avoided capture,
and we wouldn't either.” I am not sure if that was to challenge, or demoralize,
us. This was my first hint that we may not be on the same team.
They took us out to the site in the back of a “6 x 6” truck with
blindfolds on our eyes and bags over our heads to make sure that we couldn’t
see anything. We spent about two hours riding around in that rattling, bouncing
beast before we reached the place where we were to be released.
Claiming that I needed to be close to the flap in case of motion
sickness from riding blindfolded (not likely) I managed to get seated at the
back, next to the tailgate. That way I could hear and smell what I couldn’t
see. I had been paying close attention and knew where we were within a click (kilometer)
without ever getting out of the truck.
Without a doubt we were south of the airfield in a fenced off
area known as Dixie Village. There was only one power substation (I heard the
hum) for miles in any direction, and one cattle grate before a military PSP
(perforated steel planking) bridge. I said nothing about knowing where I was,
or anything else.
The teams consisted of five men each, and our mission was to avoid capture and
delay giving up our secret for as long as possible, ideally never telling.
We were made to believe that it was our duty to take our secrets
to our graves. The idea they placed in our heads that, “giving up your
secret would cause harm to a fellow soldier” was a powerful in ways hard to
explain if you haven’t faced that challenge.
I learned later in my career that everything is considered
compromised with twenty-four hours of issue, and known in forty-eight hours.
These teams were made up of strangers, in order to test our abilities to learn
to work together. We were also secretly and individually told by our
instructors that we possibly had an infiltrator on our team.
We had been given a party the weekend before our course was to
start and encouraged to drink excessively and a lot of the usual espirit
de corps BS was promoted. The proverbial psychological pump had been
primed.
The issued field gear (personal equipment) for this exercise was
purposefully excessive. That way we would be weighted down and eventually feel
the need to shed items. The cast-off equipment would give away our location. That
trick I figured out as soon as we were issued equipment that had no purpose in
the local terrain.
As soon as I got out of the truck I sorted my gear into two piles. One pile of
what I knew that I would need to survive and one I considered dead weight. Once
that job was done I was ready to move out.
I did stay long enough to attempt to speak with the other four
who still stood where they unloaded from the truck, talking among themselves.
They were wasting time arguing over who was senior in rank and
who should give orders. I said “OK, you guys work all of that out, I am
leaving.” They were still saying that I couldn't do that when I disappeared
into the darkness. They had proven to me just that quick, that to stay was to
fail.
Leaving a nice clear trail with my new boots, I went along the road that the
truck departed on for about a hundred yards until I found a downed tree and
hopped up on it.
I sat down in a comfortable spot and removed my combat boots and
put on my moccasin boots that had a smooth sole and laced up to my knee.
They were much easier to run in and didn't leave an imprint, at least nothing that
those “gomers” could track.
Carrying my bags in either hand for balance I walked along downed trees until I
found a deer trail back to the river.
At the river I found a good overhanging tree and took the bag I
didn't need up that tree and into the vines in the canopy and tied it in place.
I checked to make sure that it couldn't be seen from above or below and then
eased back down making sure that I hadn't scraped any bark to give away my
hiding spot.
Time was getting short so I strapped on my mini pack and trotted down the road
that took me away from the river and around the perimeter of where the bad guy
camp would be located, IF I was right.
I was on target and early enough to beat the shift change of the
guards. The guy on watch was sleeping standing up and slumped against the side
of a duce and a half (2.5 ton truck).
Since I was traveling light I was able to just breeze through
the perimeter, stepping over the trip wires clumsily strung with the camp
lights hitting (reflecting upon) them.
Wearing soft Nomex
flight gloves on my hands and camouflage paint on my skin I was nearly
invisible. I made no sound as I moved and was through to the supplies in
seconds, getting myself some extra candy bars, meal packs and a spare canteen.
Zipping right back out had been my original plan, but as I surveyed the camp
with their planning board in plain sight, a brilliant and funny idea possessed
me.
The Senior Instructor had chosen to place his command tent next
to a large oak tree and had his picnic table and lawn chairs set out under
them. The command communications (radio) truck was parked on the west side to
block any weather that would blow in.
I knew that there had to be some tactical advantage to the
fishing poles stacked against the end of table, I just wasn't “military” enough
to understand that. What I did see was that the "Big Dog" had made
himself at home here.
So I did (made myself at home) too. I grabbed some more batteries and one of
their planning maps and went up the communications truck ladder and stepped
right into that big old oak tree.
It is good to be in your own neighborhood when people are after
you, but sometimes the best place to be is where THEY feel safe.
My former “compadres” were among the first captured and were
still arguing when they were brought in.
I was asleep in my tree house when the yelling started. I didn't
move at all for at least a minute, wanting to listen and learn before I moved.
I was pretty sure I was invisible, but my adrenalin was pumping from the noise
below and I moved so slow that the people were out of the truck and lined up by
the time my head was turned sideways. I didn't need to worry, nobody was
looking up. After all no one would be crazy enough to hide in the aggressor
camp… right?
The four soldiers (students) were lined up with their arms over their heads,
hands cuffed together over a pole. They looked like fish or game birds ready
for processing.
Two instructors wearing combat "war paint" and looking
like “Rambo” on speed, (I believe that they were under the influence) were
screaming threats and obscenities at the captured men.
The behavior was excessive, but not totally unexpected, until
one of the goons bit a guy on the nose in his excitement. The other went down
the line whacking the prisoners across the kidney region with what I later
learned was a shot-filled length of automotive hose. They all peed their pants
from the impact and pain.
Humiliation is a big part of interrogation it seems. One by one
they were taken into a hut and the screaming and banging started. There was a
board next to the door with our names on it. A big red mark was drawn through
the names of those who had been captured, interrogated, and had given up their
secret. It was the board of shame.
As they were brought out they were placed into a big bamboo and wire cage that
was filled with mud and human waste. It was wide enough to hold all of a class
but only about 3 feet high.
It was purposefully short for added humiliation. That way you
had to go about on all fours or duck walk. Duck walking (squatting holding onto
your ankles), was the preferred (by the guards) mode of prisoner locomotion.
The guards came over to the cage whenever they had to pee and made everyone
duck walk around the inside perimeter quacking while they (the guards) urinated
through the wire.
If anyone resisted, the entire group was brought out and beat
across the backs of their legs, which in turn made duck walking all the more
painful. So it was degrading, humiliating, painful and possibly necessary. If
we believed all of the indoctrination we had received it was necessary. We had
to be tough. I knew that I didn’t like what I saw.
I was getting restless and a bit bored in my tree house, but not so much that I
wanted to join the group in the cage. I had always hated duck walking; I
couldn't imagine it being any more fun in there.
At that point I was contemplating a breakout and had actually
moved through my tree to a place right above the cage. I was just about to
contact the group to be ready for my release of them when I heard prisoners
snitching to the guards on other prisoners.
That did it! I couldn't trust anyone. I slowly eased back to my
bed and spent a lot of the night worrying about what my duty really was. What
was my mission?
Was it still to avoid capture and delay giving up our secret for
as long as possible? The secret had apparently already been given up, but did
we all have the same secret? If we did, no problem, if we didn't then I
couldn't give up mine. I had to go with the safe side.
Three days into the exercise the first group of instructors rotated back to the
main base, except for the Senior Instructor. I got the feeling that he never
wanted to go back.
This senior sergeant was a huge black man with a chest and arms
that looked like they were part of a tree. The funniest thing was that he had
his afro picked out and a headband on ala Jimi Hendrix. He
never put on his shirt, but had his web gear and rigging on constantly. Hooked
to the webbing was a holstered .45 auto pistol, a Kabar combat knife, a machete
and multiple ammunition holders.
Around his neck he wore a pouch of leather of a kind that you
really don’t want to know about. Inside of this pouch was (I learned as the
smoke drifted upwards), his stash of pot. I began to understand that many
rules were not being followed here.
From the names on the board at the interrogation hut I learned that there were
20 candidates in this session, including myself. Eight had just departed in a
truck for the main base; three more were lined out as "swimmers."
I learned later that those three individuals had decided to try
swimming across the Chattahoochee River and ended up being fished out by
Alabama Fish & Game way downriver. They violated the boundaries and so were
out. They were really lucky that they didn’t drown. The river was high and
running hard with a lot of debris in it.
That left eight, plus me to capture.
The fresh instructor crew came in with sirens blaring and lights
flashing at 02:00 and were yelling and hitting things to make noise. They
wanted to make an impression!
The Senior Instructor came out of his tent, (an eight man tent in
which he lived in alone) and fired his .45 in the air which scared the Hell out
of me. “Up” is where I lived!
The new hunters quieted down immediately and Senior said, “Hit
the sack, we roll at 05:00!” The group stowed all of their gear and crawled
into their tents and were snoring almost instantly. They had a lot more
discipline than the first crew did.
Between 04:00 and 04:30 I had noted that the cook would be up and making coffee
and the camp guards tended to migrate there. They would hang out until 04:45
when they had to get back to their posts so they could be relieved when the Sgt
of the Guard came around at 05:00.
As soon as I heard the cook get up and groan as he peed into the
cage and lit up the cigarette that would be in his mouth all day, I moved
slowly into position.
The guards moved to the mess tent which was closest to the river
and blocked from sight from everything else by the Senior's tent. As they did
that I went down the ladder and through the camp, snagging more candy bars and
meal packs from supply and emptying my extra canteen into the cage. If you
hadn't figured it out, I had to pee in the extra one to avoid detection.
I do have a bit of the joker in me and I couldn't leave well enough alone. I
changed the sign boards around so that the departed instructors now had red
lines through them and wrote “gone fishing” on the student board for the entire
group. I thought it was funny then, but not so much later.
By playing around with the signs I had pushed my luck to the
limit, it was 04:45 at that point. I had to make a quick choice, go directly
across the center of camp like I owned the joint, or depart into the brush. Fortunately
I didn't take a long time to decide and took off through the heart of the camp
on a run.
I slipped between the radio truck and the oak tree as the Senior
Instructor came out of his tent. As I climbed the ladder on the back of the
truck the communications guys were walking down the driver's side talking.
I got as far as on the top of the box (shaped like a camper) and
flattened out, as they started to climb the ladder themselves. I was hugging
the roof of that metal box, willing myself to blend into the paint when the
Senior Sergeant let out a huge roar of anger.
The comm. guys dropped back to the ground, and ran around to the
center of camp.
I lifted my head up slightly but quickly dropped again. I could
see the red design on the Senior's headband, which meant he was facing towards
me. I waited for a better chance.
More people came running and the noise got louder. I thought
that it would have been the signs that made him mad, but it wasn't. Someone or
something had taken a crap in front of the Senior's tent and he wanted to know
where the guards on duty were.
The guards both came from the mess tent and so were at the back
of the group, not where they should have been. That prompted a loud and long
tirade by the senior man about duty and responsibility. Once everyone focused
on them I was up and into the tree and scurried like a squirrel back into my
nest.
I stayed put for the next two days and the changes were finally noticed on the
board. It was just assumed that someone in the camp was being funny. That
pissed me off, but not enough to make me climb down and take credit.
The anger and energy of the new crew of people hunters was very
productive. They had their remaining eight victims swept up in the two days
that I rested and waited. I was the only one left. So now what? I wait, that's
what, or else I will get listed as captured when they had no idea where I was.
They spent another night searching the woods for me grid by grid using night
vision, walking all of the roads and trails. By the next morning the team had decided
that I had left the reservation.
At their meeting that night around the picnic table (which I attended
unknown to the rest), the Senior Instructor declared the session concluded and
ordered the signs posted around the area stating the end of session. It gave
any remaining candidates (me) until sundown the day of posting to appear in
camp.
That night I slipped down my tree and out of camp and returned to my hiding
spot along the river to change back into my combat boots and recover my full
gear compliment.
Since no one was after me any longer I sat down and heated up
some coffee and a meal. After a meal and a short nap I strapped on my
ridiculously huge pack and hiked to the “Aggressor” camp. I was just full of
myself for having defeated this experienced group.
As I walked into camp I was set upon by the instructors who ripped my pack off
of my back and jointly punched, kicked and beat me to the ground. They then
stripped me naked and tied me hand and foot.
I was dragged in front of the Senior Instructor who was really
upset with me for evading them. He said to me, “No one ever escapes.” I made
the mistake of looking him in the eye and saying, “But Sgt Major, I did evade
you, I even changed your board.”
I never should have said that to someone in his condition and
state of mind.
A few words to one of his men and they put a rope under my arms (pulled behind
my back) and lowered me into a deep pit mostly filled of water. Then they
pulled a tarp over the pit making it pitch black and steamy hot.
I was in there for what seemed like a week, but was really “only”
a little more than thirty (30) hours.
They drug a rope with a bicycle inner tube tied on the end of it
across me telling me don't worry about the snakes. In that utter darkness they
had a cage with rats in it squealing, peeing and pooping right above and on my
head. It is hard to describe the range of emotions that scenario created then
and still does in my nightmares.
When it was again dark outside, they pulled me up out of the water and hung me
upside down. They then proceeded to beat the bottoms of my feet with bamboo
canes trying to get me to talk.
The problem was that they never asked the right question. I
would have given up the phony secret I was told if they had asked me, because
it was game over, I had won.
But they didn't ask me for that; they accused me of cheating and
leaving the reservation. That pissed me off all over again, so I told them
nothing. The senior sergeant said “fine” and threw me back into the pit.
I had my arms tied behind my back and my hands were tied to my feet, the rope
holding me up was through my arms. If I had gone forward the rope could have
traveled to where my feet were higher and I would have drowned. No one bothered
to check on me after I was thrown in the pit.
When the psychos came back with a field phone I thought I was in
for it big time.
Fortunately the Senior Instructor and the Captain he worked for
showed up and told them to get me out of the hole and dressed. The other
instructors seemed genuinely disappointed but did as they were told.
I was bruised and scraped from one end to the other. My feet
were so swollen I nearly screamed out loud when I pulled on my boots. The
instructors laughed at my struggles.
They made me hike out to the nearest paved road with my pack on
and they rode in their trucks. It was about two very long miles the way they
went. If they had followed the river trail we would have been there in one
quarter of a mile, but I’m sure that they knew that.
I went before a review board and answered their questions. I gave statements
about what went on in camp and who was there and when. All proving that I was
in fact on the reservation the entire time.
There was little choice left for them; the course completion was
awarded to me.
I never got credit for beating them at their own game. So I
never told them where I hid.
=============================
Epilogue
There was far more effort to instill fear than to ever teach
anything. Instead of twenty young men trained in techniques of E & E and
survival, they instead taught us about degradation and brutality.
These were men I had trusted. That damage could not be undone.
I know that there will be those who say their techniques were necessary to
train soldiers about what to expect from an enemy.
My answer to that comes in the form of two questions:
Why were they more interested in beating and humiliating captives than learning
anything from them?
Why are we not interested in training men to avoid capture and succeed?
PS
I have been asked by those who have read this story before you,
what the significance of my reference to the "field phone" was.
This is a hand crank powered telephone unit that is used as an
electric shock device. Wires from it can be (and have been), connected to
various parts of the human anatomy to cause pain when the hand crank is turned.