Hurricane Katrina - Nevada Air National Guard to the rescue

It was a rainy evening in late August 2005 and I was driving to a friend’s house when my phone rang and a sergeant that I worked with called.  She had a couple of questions for me and one of them was whether I would volunteer to go to Louisiana in the event that help was needed after the impending hurricane hit.  I had just enrolled for a full-time semester at the local university and was two weeks into it, so was not exactly enthusiastic about the idea.  However, I did enjoy opportunities like this, so I told her that if they really needed me, then I would go.  

The next day I got a call from the same sergeant and she told me that the Hurricane was really bad and we will likely go.  She asked again if I want to volunteer.  I was completely conflicted between my short-term desires and long-term goals.  My long-term goal was to be a veterinarian.  This meant at-least eight years of education and I was only in my third year.  The year prior, I dropped-out mid-semester to go to on a deployment to Qatar in support of the war in Iraq.  I was really debating whether these military deployments are going to be the demise of my long-term goals.  

I was also hesitant to volunteer, because I was housesitting for a friend at the time.  That friend also happened to be in the Nevada Air National Guard and was someone I used to work closely with.  I called her that evening and told her my dilemma.  She was completely supportive if I wanted to volunteer and said that she could have her mom come over and get the dog I was taking care of.  I told her how I really didn’t want to delay my education anymore and she was also supportive of that.  She said, “yeah, get through your education, then you can go save the world.”  

Shortly after this conversation I got another call from the sergeant and she said that they were really low on volunteers and that they might just order people to go.  I told her that if they just wrote the orders, then that would make it easier for me.  

At this time in the evening, there was news pouring-in about the devastation in New Orleans.  Hurricane Katrina had increased in intensity and was causing major damage to the coastal areas.  

The next day, I got a call in the morning.  It was the same sergeant.  She said, “are ready for this?”  

I said, “Alright, here it is….”  Knowing full-well that I was about to be handed orders.  She then proceeded to tell me that they are sending people this evening and that I was to be there 0600 the next morning.  This was an indefinite order that came from the state of Nevada.  I was to pack my bags and go to New Orleans to provide medical relief for a minimum of two weeks and possibly remain there for a few months.  It’s the type of order that you know can come at anytime when you are in the reserves. 

At that time, I was a Staff Sergeant in the Nevada Air National Guard (NVANG).  My job was a medical technician, which is essentially equivalent to an emergency technician, or assistant nurse.   In the Nevada Air National Guard I was considered a part-timer, or reserve member who was only obligated to attend training one weekend a month and two weeks a year.  I often exceeded my obligation though and spent a great deal of my breaks from school working on the base.  I really enjoyed being a medical technician and strived to be better at the job, but my heart was in veterinary medicine.

I also had a part-time job at a local veterinary clinic as a veterinary assistant.  This was my foot-in-the-door job provided to me by an officer in my medical group at the NVANG.  He was a public health officer for the group and also a part-timer who owned a veterinary practice.  He was a seasoned veterinarian who had been with the NVANG for over twenty years.   At the time, he was the person I idolized the most.

With my dreams of being a vet in my back pocket, I packed my two duffel bags with everything I could think I would need for a long-term deployment.  I rushed to get everything prepared for my absence as best as I could.  This included notifying all of my professors that I was going to be gone, but not dropping-out just yet.  They were all sympathetic to my need to go, but advised that if I was absent for too long, then I would miss too much course-work and exams to be able to pass the class.  I prepared for the possibility, but held onto hope that this would be a temporary stint.  

At O’dark thirty the next morning, I was in the PAX terminal at my Air Base.  In the crowded room were the majority of our medical group and many other military members to include the Army National Guard.  It wasn’t often that we got mingle with our counterparts/rivals in the Army.  When we did though, it was always a disaster in the making.  We loved each other, but didn’t mix well.  This could be further explained, but it’s simpler to know that every branch in the military thinks they are better than the other and all have their qualms with each other.  

The crowded room also gave me pause, because I then wondered how many planes we are taking.  I’ve flown enough in overcrowded military aircraft to know how unpleasant it is.  Unfortunately, this trip was going to be no exception.  

The NVANG flies a classic cargo place known as a C-130.  This plane looks like it’s straight out of the 1950’s, because it actually was.  With very few modifications, this four-prop plane was still the workhorse of the U.S. Airforce.  They were great for transporting cargo, people, and even vehicles (often times all at once) in and out of virtually anywhere.  I was even told that they could land on an Aircraft carrier – which is hard to imagine if you know the plane.  This was our chariot and when we all loaded in with our gear there was not much space left.  The seating was the classic fishnet benches running parallel to the body of the plane with two rows on each side facing each other.  There was no legroom.  Our knees interlocked with each other and it was shoulder to shoulder.  If you wanted to go down the isle to take a wiz in the open urinal, then you had climb over the middle of the seats, or balance yourself while stepping in-between peoples legs on the seats while you awkwardly make your way down.  A fall was not uncommon and always entertaining to watch.

The noise that comes out of those four propellers makes it so loud that nothing else can be heard.  To keep from going deaf, we have to wear earplugs.  Conversations are not possible, but if you need to talk to someone, then it requires shouting into their plugged ear; also very funny to watch.  

Somehow, through the noise and somewhat nauseating fumes of fuel that fill the cabin, you can still get a little sleep.  After getting no sleep the night before, I managed to nod-off a little on our journey to New Orleans.  The flight from Reno, Nevada to New Orleans, Louisiana is not short even in a jet aircraft and the C-130 is substantially slower.  It took all day for us to reach New Orleans and we arrived at the Louisiana National Guard base in the evening.  

We deplaned and unloaded all of our equipment and the plane took off back to Reno.  We setup in the main hanger where we were told we would have to sleep that evening.  The hanger was full of different military units.  There were many Army soldiers in there breaking down and putting back together their weapons.  We were there to provide medical relief, while they were there to provide rescue and protection to a city that quickly broke into anarchy after the destruction and evacuation of the city.  They seemed to be coming and going, but we had to wait the night before we could leave for our destination.  

One thing that I did not bring was a sleeping mat and the floor of a hanger is 100% hard concrete.  I figured that it wouldn’t be too difficult to sleep on, but I spent most of the night shifting from one position to another trying to get comfortable enough to sleep.  Apparently, there is not one position where a bony prominence gets spared.  It took about 30 minutes for something to start hurting enough that I had to shift.  It was another sleepless night.   

In the morning it became apparent that we were idle for a reason.  I didn’t know what was going on in the upper-leadership of the group, but eventually the news trickled down.  We were in the wrong location.  The rest of our group was at the international airport about ten miles away.  This was where the evacuation was taking place and where the medical services were needed.  Our trip commander Lieutenant Colonel (LTC) Nessler (the veterinarian) had apparently spent all night and the next day trying to find us transport.  With all of the ground transport available at the base, there was not a single one that could take us.   They were all too busy with their own missions.  The only other option was air transport and they too were not able to transport us.  Knowing that we were needed 10miles away and that no one could help get us there, the leadership from Nevada sent a plane back to us.  By the late afternoon, our plane landed and we loaded it back up and embarked on the shortest plane flight I’ve ever taken.  I was amazed how wasteful the trip must have been, but knew that it was the only option.

We arrived at the Louise Armstrong International Airport in the evening and besides the heat and humidity the other thing that struck me was the size of the bugs under the lamppost.  I had never seen so many huge flying insects.  One of my workmates said, “Those things look like they could pick you up and carry you away.”  

We loaded onto a bus and arrived to a terminal where we were greeted by the other members of our group that arrived the day prior.  They were relieved to see us, because they had been working non-stop.  At this time, New Orleans was under full evacuation.  The levies broke and the city was flooded.  A forced evacuation was in-place and the amount of those that needed medical attention was more than there was capacity for.  

I saw one of my workmates who arrived a day prior and eventually asked if there were any showers in the airport.  I was feeling a bit ripe being two days without a shower in the high heat and humidity of New Orleans.  He confirmed that there were no showers in the airport, but said, “don’t worry, the only person that’s going to know you stink is you.”

That was apparent when I entered the lobby of the airport where all the evacuees were.  The smell of intense body odor was high, because there were thousands of people pouring-in; many of them feeble, sick and injured.  

In times of mass casualties we were all taught how to setup collection points and triage patients.  Our medical group had trained for this many times, but this was the first time I saw it in action.  With triage in the military there are generally four categories:

1) Immediate (red) – needs attention right away to save their life.

2) Delayed (Yellow) – needs medical attention, but can wait a day, or two without medical attention before it becomes life-threatening.

3) Walking wounded (Green) – injured, or ill, but can likely go a long time without medical attention before in becomes serious.

4) Expectant (black) – person is essentially in the process of dying and medical attention is likely to be unsuccessful even if provided right away.  

The last category is one that we try to avoid as much as possible, but when there are people having seizures around you while you are attempting to triage, then you know that you can’t waste time with someone who can’t be saved.  This was the case in the lobby of the airport as thousands of destitute people poured-in.  It was like nothing I had experienced and I had been in a combat zone the year prior.   The amount of people needing medical attention because of illness, stab wounds, gunshot wounds, and other injuries seemed to be endless. 

The response was impressive though.  There were not only many branches of military members there, but also FEMA (government emergency response) and many other civilian medical personnel from all over the country as well.  Everybody came together and setup the casualty collection point and there were three hospital tents in the lobby of the airport - one for red, yellow and green patients.  The expectant and deceased patients were placed in a separate room and became so numerous that they had to be placed in an outside hallway.  

Red patients also lined the hallways as they quickly shuffled from the medical tent where they received life-saving interventions and staged to be placed on aircrafts.  From there they were taken by plane all over the country to various hospitals for further treatment. 

The amount of air traffic was a sight to see.  I’ve never seen so many airplanes and helicopters in the sky at once.  The runway was never empty.  If there was not a plane landing, then there was one taking off.  All kinds of different planes from military to emergency and commercial aircraft were taking off and landing.  There were four helipads just down from the terminal where we bunked and it was like clockwork with choppers coming in, unloading people and taking off again.  

The amount of rescuers was impressive and resulted in nearly everyone being treated and evacuated within two days.  The halls that were lined with stretchers and wheel chairs were empty and like someone turning off the water the volume of patients started to turn into a trickle.  

The days before were so mad that I think I was running on fumes.  I worked 14-hour days and had to pull myself away when I got a chance to get some rest.  Our unit had claimed one of the terminals as our bunk area.  We had rows of cots lined next to each other and we got sleep when we could.  Sleeping on the cots was easy compared to the concrete of the hanger and despite all of the activity around us, it was not difficult to sleep given how tired we all were.   

One night our supply sergeant let us in on a little secret that he and a couple of other guys were keeping.  He was a resourceful guy who was going around the airport networking and getting us supplies while we were working.  One of his contacts let him in on a stash of booze that was kept downstairs from us.  He brought about five people at a time to sit on the stairs outside and filled drink orders.  It was one of those moments that can’t be replaced.   Here we were drenched in sweat, hadn’t showered for a few days, coming off of an adrenaline high and having drinks on the metal stairs overlooking the helipads.  It strangely felt like we were enjoying a holiday in a tropical destination.  

The next day was slow.  There were a few patients here and there, but not enough to keep us all busy.  At one point, I took the opportunity to see what there was to eat.  Just behind our tents, there was a stack of boxes with ready-to-eat meals.  These were not the military ones though.  These were some sort of civilian one that was a step above what we were used to.  While I was digging-away at my box I met a U.S. Marshal equipped with his bullet-proof vest and pistol.  He was out on patrol trying to pick up and evacuate people.  He was telling me that he was just out on patrol and was finding people still wandering the streets.   He was frustrated, because these people did not want to be evacuated.  On his last trip he stopped to try and help a group of people sitting on the sidewalk of a flooded street.  He said the people were wearing tattered clothes and didn’t seem to have any food, or water.  Right next to them was a dead body facedown in the water.  The people still refused to leave.

With the lull in activity at the airport, the people organizing the rescue effort had requested that some of us go give some relief to the rescuers in the city at the convention center.  The convention center was one of the main hurricane shelters when the storm hit, but quickly turned into chaos when the levies broke and the city was flooded.  Days after the flooding, they were still having evacuees coming in.  

When the Chief Master Sergeant of our unit was asking for people to go, I jumped for the opportunity.  We boarded a Blackhawk helicopter and took-off over the city.  Before this, I had not seen anything outside of the airport.  I had only heard the reports.  The reports did not do it justice.  

As soon as we started flying, the devastation of the city was impressive.  The most striking thing was that the whole city was under water.  No streets were visible.  In some areas, the water covered two-story houses.  Multiple large buildings and structures heavily damaged by the winds.  Cars and boats were scattered like toys in elevated areas.  I had never seen New Orleans before this, but it was apparent that the level of destruction would change this city forever.   

When we arrived at the evacuation point next to the convention center, it was work as usual.  There were not huge crowds at this time, but a steady stream of people.  The people coming in off of the streets were not unlike those that we saw at the airport.  If you are looking at demographics, then it was African American and poor that was overrepresented.  Most people carried very little with them as they came for evacuation.  At most it was usually a black trash bag about halfway full of items.  Some of those items didn’t clear security.  

At the entrance of the evacuation point were our fellow Nevada Army National Guard Soldiers.  They were checking people mostly for weapons as they entered.  The amount and type of weapons they confiscated was shocking.  They had shopping carts filled with battle rifles, shotguns, knives, and pistols - many of them heavily modified.  

The other items that were often inside those bags were obviously looted.  A single father in tattered clothes and a shirtless boy showed-up to security with a bag that was full of jewelry, booze and pills.  No food, no water, no clothes and seemingly no personal possessions.  Since there were no weapons and no way to prove that the contents of the bag were not legally theirs, the security had to let them through.  

This was a common sight in the last few days of evacuation.  The people that were coming in at this time were obviously at the bottom rung of society.  These people were often mentioned in the media as neglected by rescuers, but I found there to be a different story.  

When I spoke to the evacuees they all freely spoke about how they were told to evacuate, but chose to stay.  I didn’t hear one person say that they wanted to leave, but couldn’t.  They chose to stay – many of them well after the city was under water.  The media loves the story of the stranded flood victim, but the reality is that those are very few.  

While the morals of those being evacuated were questionable, they were actually quite friendly people and one couldn’t help but take pity on them.  I remember one lady came to our treatment area and seemed to walk over normally, but then sat down and clutched her chest and said someone kicked her in the chest.  She quickly mentioned that she was in a lot of pain and asked if we could give her any pain medication - a common ploy seen in the ER by a drug addict.  The Physician’s Assistant (PA) that was treating her went ahead and gave her some prescription pain medication (opioids).  When I mentioned to him that she was so obviously after drugs, he said, “yeah, but I don’t really care right now.”  What he meant is that this was a different situation.  Here were people that you couldn’t help but feel sorry for and needed to be evacuated.  It wasn’t the time to interrogate someone over their need for pain medication.      

I couldn’t help but wonder how bad these people’s lives were before that they didn’t mind staying amongst the death and destruction.  What position do you have to be in where food, water and clothes take a backseat to drugs, booze, weapons and money?  My heart went out to those people and I was upset that their stories were not truly told.  Instead, those people were used as pons in a political chess game to blame the government for not evacuating them sooner.  They were used and then forgotten again shortly thereafter.  

After the eye-opening day at the convention center, I went back to the Airport where things were continuing to go slower.  While searching for things to do I met with the veterinarian LTC Nessler who told me that there were animals coming in and some of them needed veterinary attention.  When we first arrived there was actually a veterinary team (VMAT) that was part of FEMA and was providing aid to animals.  They were quickly pulled to another area when the airport started to get slow and LTC Nessler and I spoke to them right before they left.  With them leaving and us underemployed, we set-up our own veterinary aid station in the lobby.  With the leftover medical supplies and some medications and supplies left from the VMAT team, we made sure pets were evaluated and treated when they came in with their owners.  This kept us rather busy and we ended-up having a greater workload than anyone else.  It didn’t take long for other medical personnel to jump in and help out.  

One evening, this guy and his teenage son came in with two pit bulls- one male and one female.  The female pit bull seemed to walk in well enough, but then slunk to the floor as soon as the owner stopped to talk with us.  The owner did not seem overly concerned about the dog, but as he was talking to the Vet I went over to have a look at the dog.  I first looked at his gums and they were completely white (versus a normal pink color).  I alerted LTC Nessler right away and started an IV.  It was apparent that this dog had lost a lot of blood and was in critical condition.  LTC Nessler was able to do a blood test with the human equipment and found that the dog needed a blood transfusion soon to keep him alive.  LTC Nessler then orchestrated a blood transfusion from the healthy male dog to her.  In the meantime he managed to contact the veterinary teaching hospital at Louisiana State University (LSU), which was a couple of hours drive away.  They agreed to take the dog if we could transfer it.  

Fortunately, there was an ambulance team out of Pennsylvania that responded to out call for transport.  They had drove all the way to New Orleans a couple of days prior and had similarly run out of work.  I volunteered to be the vet EMT and help transport the dog to LSU.  The trip took us all night, but it was worth it.  Unfortunately, like every other patient I saw, I never knew the outcome of that poor dog.  He was one lucky dog though. 

When I got back to the airport and was finally able to lie down, I heard some stirring about me and I think someone tried to wake me up.  I had just fallen asleep though and was not able to wake up.  Later, I found out that our commander gave a speech in the morning and told us that we were going home soon.  

I also heard that there were some inevitable squabbles between the Army commander and ours.  The Army commander found out about our little cocktail parties and was not happy.  Apparently, this was not officially sanctioned, so she was ready to have our asses for it.  The word was that our commander basically squashed the Army crusader and said that he allowed it.  The Army commander was livid though and apparently this issue was brought-up again a few weeks later.  

I went back to work at our little vet treatment area, but was also getting more and more free time.  Around lunchtime some of our guys told us that there was a restaurant that opened in the airport and was serving free food.  We went to the crowded restaurant where the owner greeted us.  He gave us a big welcome as we entered and said that this was his way of thanking us for our help.  It was the traditional Louisiana dish Jambalaya.  A mixture of seafood, sausage, rice and spices served family style; with us all seated and the restaurant owner walking around with a big pot serving us in paper bowls.  After days of packaged food, this was a real treat.  It was not only as good as I could imagine, but also the only time I got to experience any local food in New Orleans.

With some more down time I was able to catch-up on some studies and prepare for going back to school.  I was able to study a lot in the next couple of days and by the time we got back home, I was able to do well on my exams and coursework.  Going home was uneventful.  We were all happy to have been there and were happy to be back to our normal lives.

When we returned there was a nice welcome by our base command and we all received medals for our work.  I also found out later that my orders had to be redone, because the orders given to me by the State of Nevada were actually not done correctly.  Apparently, the governor of Nevada wanted to send help to New Orleans, but the bureaucracy of the National Guard Bureau was making it difficult to make orders in a timely manner.   The governor decided to circumvent them and make their own orders; which meant that the Nevada National Guard was one of the first to send help.  

My friends and family were all interested to hear about my experiences in New Orleans, because there had been so much reported on the news.  Of course, the news painted a distorted picture of what was really going on and the amount of misperceptions was difficult to keep up with.  The most annoying one was the perception that help was not sent, or that it wasn’t sent soon enough.  Neither was true from my experiences.  It was obvious that government aid was being mustered prior to the hurricane and that many people were already responding as soon as the hurricane hit.  It was insulting to know that the tremendous effort put forward to help the people (and animals) of New Orleans was being ignored.  I know what was done and how many people came far and wide to help.  Hopefully this story will help to let others know as well.

The trial that nearly took my life - Surviving the desert in Djibouti

Across the Red Sea from Yemen is a small African country in the tip of the horn of Africa called Djibouti.  When I mention the name of this country people think it’s a start to a joke, but it’s no joke.  Djibouti is a harsh desert that boasts having the hottest point on the earths crust.  I can attest to that, because that heat nearly ended me.

 

Djibouti is a lesser-known country (even to Africans) that I had the experience of living in when I was stationed there as a Veterinarian in the U.S. Army.  While I was deployed there I had nothing but time, as I was mostly confined to Camp Lemoneir (a small Naval base that was given to U.S. by the French Army in the early 2000s).  One of the things I did in my ample spare time was work out.  I was new to the Army and I was out to prove that I was Army Strong.  I would wake up at 5AM most mornings and go for a 2.5-6 mile run, then spend some time in the gym lifting weights or doing other exercises.  It was also common for me to do some other sport activity in the afternoon, so I was rather fit at the time.  When the opportunity came for me to put my fitness to the test, I took it.  That opportunity happened to be a military combat course that I was not nearly prepared for. 

 

The French Army Desert Survival Course was a well-respected course amongst the toughest fighting forces the French had to offer.  It was sought after by those who were most likely to be on the front line and there was definitely bragging rights when you completed the course and received the coveted Scorpion Badge with a serialized number engraved in the back. 

 

Us yanks were still a bit naive about this course and many of us did not know what it entailed.  As a Veterinarian working within a command suite it was rarely talked about.  Most people I worked with were not interested in the course and there was no one around who had actually done it. 

 

One day I received an email from my commander asking if anyone from our section would be interested in attending the course.  The French Army always invited a select number of U.S. Forces to attend the course every year.  To make it fair, the base commander asked each section on the base to provide their volunteers for the course. This was a rare opportunity for anyone in the U.S. military, because it was not common to attend a course that was hosted by another nation’s military.  Not to mention that this type of course was very unique and we normally had limited interaction with the French military. 

 

The French Army had an established presence in Djibouti as it was their colony up until the 1970s.  At some point in time they founded this course that taught barebones desert survival skills in the remote barren hills of Djibouti.   The location of the course was in nomad land – meaning land that did not belong to anyone and was free for nomads to graze their flocks of goats and/or camels.  There was essentially no housing in this area.  Nomads would sleep in the wilderness and know all the right paths between watering holes to graze their livestock.  This was as rural as Djibouti gets. 

 

Going into the course I knew one thing; it was tough.  One soldier told me that I should expect to “get no sleep and I’ll be walking 20k a day.”  What I didn’t know was that this was not just a survival course; this was a survival/combat course.  In French, the course is called an “aguerrissement,” which is not an easy word to translate, but essentially means a hardening course – meaning a course to toughen you up.  However, this was well known as a course that not only taught you how to survive in the desert, but also how to fight in the desert. 

 

As a Veterinary Corps Officer who had prior service experience as a flight medic in the Air Force, my combat training/experience was not great.  In the military, the medical personnel are considered non-combatants.  We are taught basic fighting skills: weapons training, some maneuver tactics and a small amount of hand-to-hand combat.  We are not well trained on how to defend bases/positions, or how to do assaults in open combat, because it’s not something that we should be doing.  This made it quite awkward when I was selected as a Platoon Leader for a team on the course. 

 

The day we started the course was similar to any training exercise or operation that involves a bunch of people; it was a day of hurry-up and wait as we transitioned from one area to another and prepared to leave camp.  During this day I had plenty of time to talk with others in the course.  Most people in the course were in combatant positions like infantry, cavalry and special operations.  Moreover, many of these guys were selected above their peers to attend this course, because there were limited positions.  I was starting to feel like an imposter in the course as a veterinarian. 

 

We finally rode out of the French military base and out of Djibouti in the early afternoon.  We rode out in style in the back of old transport trucks - where two wooden benches line the side of a canvas-covered truck bed.  These types of trucks are fine to ride in when on smooth roads, but when you ride off-road, it gets painful real quick.  Those hard, fixed, wooden benches amplify every bump into your ass.  You are bouncing uncontrollably on a surface with no cushion the whole way.  That combined with 120°F heat and in full uniform made for a very uncomfortable ride.  This was nothing compared to what was about to come though.

 

We finally arrived to our first campsite after hours of driving through the hills in Djibouti.  We were told that we were to rotate between a few different sites every day that we were.  Each site had varying sources of shade.  One had a tarp and posts, another had two barren trees and tarps and one was completely out in the open. 

 

  

The first night we had the tarp and some posts.  When we put everything up, we quickly realized that we would all not be able to fit under the canopy.  There were four squads in this platoon and the first squad greedily took its place in the center of the tarp.  We were the third squad and ended-up on the fringes, because we were busy building defensive positions while first squad made themselves a comfortable place to sleep.  The entire first day, we did what we could to stay out of the sun and do as little as possible.  Since there was no space under the tarp, me and a couple of guys went to the defensive position and hung our sleeping sacks up over the position with some sticks to give a little shade.  We crammed into the space like a bunch of soldiers crammed into a foxhole.  For the remainder of the day we made small talk and got know each other a bit better.  I was the only officer there, which always brings a little bit of awkwardness to the situation, but my relaxed attitude gave me away.  One of the guys from another squad quickly picked-up that I was prior enlisted.  “Sir… you prior enlisted?” 

 

“Yep” I said. 

 

“You can always tell” he said. 

 

This was one of the best compliments I could hope to receive as a prior-enlisted officer (AKA mustangs).  As a Mustang, the last thing I wanted the enlisted soldiers to think is that I’m one of those direct commissions from college, or ROTC (reserve officer training course) officers.  You automatically get more respect as a prior enlisted, because you are seen as one of them and not one of those. 

 

That first day seemed to drag-on forever till the sun went down.  The temperature was still the same, but at-least there wasn’t the radiant heat of the sun’s rays.  However, when the sun went down, we knew that we were in for more work.  That first evening we were informed by the French Commander that we would be doing one of our first supply runs.  We were told that the French Army does not get supplies directly delivered to them.  Instead, the supply trucks stop a few kilometers away and we have to go find them and ruck the supplies back to camp.  The yank platoon was pegged for the first supply run.  The guys in first squad took the lead and mapped out the coordinates of the supply station.  We were told that we should treat every supply run as a tactical mission, because the scenario we were in was an active combat zone.  This meant that we had to be as quiet and invisible as possible.  We could only used red lights (which have a shorter wave length and can’t be seen far away) and they were only used as necessary by a few people.  The rest of us walked in darkness closely following the person in front of us through a rocky, narrow and twisting trail. 

 

In a combat zone, you must expect that you can be attacked at any time.  This first supply run seemed to be more precautious than necessary and we were given the command to halt many times.  The entire time, we were exposed to incredible heat and were walking in full uniform with ruck sacs on our backs.  It didn’t take long to sweat through your entire uniform with this heat and our soldiers knew that this amount of sweat required a lot water to be consumed.  About halfway through the supply run on one of our many halts, my Special Forces soldier came to give me some news.  He informed me that a few of the Soldiers had run out of water and a few were about to run out.  I wandered why all of these experienced Soldiers did not bring enough water and was at a loss of what to do.  We eventually divided up our water and planned to take some time to fill our water once we got to the supplies.  In that first night, we walked about 6km – half of that was with a rucksack full of supplies. It was too easy for all of us, but we didn’t get to our sleeping pad till after midnight. 

 

The sleeping arrangements were as bare bones as you could get.  I had a thin pad that I laid across the rocky ground outside the cover of the tarp.  I took off my sweat-soaked clothes and laid them out on the rocks behind me hoping that they would be able to dry in the high humidity.  I had my backpack full of clothes as a pillow and tried in vain to get comfortable enough to properly sleep.  I may have gotten an hour or two of full sleep that night before the scorching sun started to rise again.  As soon as the sun rose, we were off to our first instruction of the day.  This was done at set locations around the general area of the camp, where there was some protection from the sun by the sparsely-leafed acacia trees. 

 

The instructors were all French and only spoke French.  The instructors would break every couple of sentences for our translator to interpret.  The instructions were varied between combat techniques and how to live in the desert.   The combat techniques were quite foreign to what our soldiers were taught, so luckily they struggled with it as much as I did.  I quickly showed my ignorance about combat tactics though. 

 

I did not try to hide the fact that I didn’t know common combat techniques.  Instead, I relied on my Special Forces soldier to teach and lead me through different scenarios.  I was square with him and let him know that I would not be able to competently lead the squad through some of the combat scenarios and that there were situations where he needed to take charge.  I told him, “Whenever there is a combat scenario, you are in charge.  I will lead outside of combat scenarios.”  I think he appreciated this bow of respect, but in a way, it also lessened the respect I could gain.  From the beginning, I knew that respect would not be easily gained from this guy. 

 

I can vividly remember the first morning before we loaded the bus to go to the French Army Base.  I had a list of my squad and was calling out their names to ensure they were all there.  I hadn’t met Troy (the special forces guy) yet, but he entered the bus late that morning right before we were about to leave.   He was the last remaining Soldier on my list, so I asked if he was that guy.  “Are you Sergeant Husk.” I asked.  He smiled at me, stuck out his hand and said “Troy” as he shook my hand.  He then strolled along to find his seat.  In the civilian world, this sort of interaction would not cause for much pause, but in the military, Troy had crossed a couple of lines.  It was generally not acceptable for soldiers to address each other by their first name.  This was especially true between an officer and an enlisted soldier.  It was also customary for an enlisted Soldier to refer to an officer as sir; especially on the first greeting and after being asked a question.  Troy had inadvertently told me in that instant that he was not concerned with etiquette and that I would have to earn any respect.

 

To his defense, he was not unlike other special forces (SF) Soldiers.  These guys knew they were an elite force and were often separated from the rest of us “regular” Soldiers.  They also formed close bonds with the rest of their SF team, as they spent a great deal of time training and going on dangerous special missions with their teammates.  It was known that making the cut for SF was not easy and that most people could not make it.   SF Soldiers were all obviously very fit and more intelligent than your average Soldier.  The other thing that was known about an SF Soldier was that they have definitely seen combat and have likely killed people.  It’s a bit more understandable for someone who faces combat on a regular basis to not see the need to follow strict etiquette. 

 

Troy continued to help me throughout the course, but it was obviously difficult for him to fully respect an officer that didn’t know basic combat strategy.  He also ended-up taking over a leadership position in the squad when our senior enlisted squad member dropped-out after the third day.  He was the next highest ranking and the obvious pick for the platoon sergeant. 

 

The days blurred together as we rotated sleeping areas and went through the training courses.  We trained in the early morning and at dusk every day.  The middle of the day was too hot to do anything except sit in one position and try not to focus on how miserable you were. 

 

One day I remember sitting on a rock in partial shade wishing I could just sleep.  I was dead tired from the lack of sleep I got at night, but could not sleep in the sweltering heat.  As I sat there wallowing in misery, when I noticed two Djiboutian ladies walking across a wide path that cut through our camp.  They were following a couple of camels that were browsing on the sparsely-leaved acacia trees.  They were covered head to toe in garments that were traditionally worn by the women there.  They walked through the midday sun like they were strolling through the park on a nice sunny day – seemingly not bothered by the heat.  One of them sat down for a while and waited for the camels while the other one stood.  The thing that baffled me the most was that they didn’t appear to have any source of water with them.  In-fact, I can’t remember seeing a single Djiboutian nomad who carried a water bottle, or anything else with them.  This was shocking to me, because I was drinking 12 liters of water a day and barely staying hydrated.  I was constantly sipping from my camelback throughout the day and would still only pee dark yellow urine once, or twice a day.  “How did these Nomads survive?” I wondered.  They were traversing a desert that was far away from any signs of civilization and seemed to do so effortlessly and without much water.  One thing was for sure; any one of us would have died if we had to spend a day in the life of one of these nomads. 

 

On day four of the ten-day course, we prepared for the first big test of the training; the night land navigation course.  This course was about 10km and required that we find specific coordinates without any mapped trail.  We had to prove that we were there by marking it on the handheld GPS we had.  It seemed simple enough, but we knew that this course would take us most of the night and that we had to do another day navigation course in the morning. 

 

Around 9PM that night, our squad set out into the barren and uninhabited hills of Djibouti.  It was an odd feeling.  Here we were, a group of American Soldiers in full uniform walking in the middle of the night in a completely foreign land.  We seemed to be in good spirits though and I was confident in the ability of my Special Forces sergeant to correctly navigate us to the right locations.  We followed an improved trail for a few kilometers, but then found that we ended-up off the right path.  Our platoon sergeant stopped and was confused, because it appeared like our target was on the side of the hill.  He suggested we just climb the side of the hill instead of trying to find a trail to get us there and we were all for it.  This ended up being the first of a few big mistakes that night.  Climbing the hill was difficult, as there were loose rocks everywhere and desert shrubs with thorns over two inches long blocking the way.  There were many slips and swearing as we slowly and painfully made our way up the hill.  When we got to the supposed target location, we discovered that it was still not the right location and had to traverse the hill a little more before reaching a trail and our first of many targets. 

 

When we arrived at our first location, we met with the first squad who was already on their last location (they started in the opposite direction).  I realized that we were in for a long night if this were to continue, because the first squad had started their course two hours before we did.  We spent what seemed to be forever walking that night as we inaccurately traversed from one target location to another.  About half-way through the night we saw the unmistakable blaze of a flare light-up the sky in the distance.   We knew what this meant.  This meant that one of our squads was in trouble and needed rescuing.  We were all given a flare in case of an emergency and there was an emergency jeep on standby to come find us if needed. 

 

We plugged along until we hit our last location and knew that we were at-least on the way back to the camp.  We had left the camp at 10PM and were on the home stretch around 4AM.  About this time, one of our soldiers called out that there was a problem.  When I looked back, I saw one of our guys collapse to the ground.  I asked what happened and one of the squad sergeants said he saw the soldier swaying back and forth as he walked.   I went over to the Soldier and looked at him.  He was sitting flat on the ground with his legs spread out resting against his backpack and held his head down.  When I asked him if he was alright, he didn’t respond and was making deep sighs of exhaustion.  I asked again and he still couldn’t respond.   It was then that I knew I needed to call for help.  He was exhibiting known signs of heat exhaustion, which can be deadly if not corrected soon enough.  I immediately had my platoon sergeant radio for help.  As he was doing so, one of my Soldiers approached me and expressed his concern about calling for help.  We had already had a couple of Soldiers go to the medical tent for treatment and they never came back to rejoin the course.  We all knew that a trip to the medical tent meant the course was over.  For us, this course was a once in a lifetime opportunity and we felt pity for anyone who couldn’t complete it.   “I think he can make it Sir,” he said.  “I hate to see him leave the course if he still has a chance.”

 

I knew where my Soldier was coming from, but knew how high the stakes were.  I hated to see him miss an opportunity like this, but I knew I’d hate myself more if he died from heatstroke on my watch.  The jeep came and picked him up after about 30 minutes.  At this time, we knew that we didn’t have much time to get back to camp.  The guys on the jeep confirmed it by saying, “you guys need to hurry-up.  There are still a few more kilometers to camp.”  My legs were Jello at this point and I could feel the burn of a few blisters forming on my feet.  Unfortunately, I knew there was much more to come, so I mushed on until we got to camp at the crack of dawn. 

 

In all we walked 18km that night and got to camp just in time to change and make our way to the day navigation course.  This course was not as long and the targets were easier to find, but we were absolutely exhausted.  We could barely pick up our feet when we walked and continually tripped over the rocky terrain.  “Fuck rocks,” said one of the Soldiers said as he tripped his way to the top of a hill.  We did the course as quickly as we could and had barely enough time to splash some water on ourselves, pack-up and move to our new spot under the acacia trees.

 

That evening we planned for the second phase of our course.  At the officer’s meeting, I found out that our commanding officer was out of the course.  He was the reason the flare was shot the night before.  Apparently he also had signs of heat exhaustion and was puking his guts out.  The new commander was now Captain Willard who was the Squad leader from first squad.  He had actually been leading from behind already, because the former commanding officer was a non-combatant like me.  The former commander was a physically fit naval officer who was high-ranking, but also an accountant.  I think he knew even less than me about combat tactics, but was a good officer and was a lot easier to work with than his replacement.  Captain Willard was an artillery officer who was a bit arrogant and had the attention span of a ferret.  It was not easy to talk to the guy and he did not plan very well.

After we made our plans for the next day and everything was sorted, I couldn’t wait to finally sleep.  I had a nice spot right under the acacia tree and was just getting ready to lay down when I felt something rather large fall onto me and crawl across my arm.  I think I reacted how most people would and flung my arm in surprise.  I shined my flashlight at the spot on the ground where I flung.  There, I saw a rather large spider about five inches from end to the other.  I was not that afraid of spiders, but I still didn’t like to have them crawl on me unexpectedly.  A couple of seconds later I felt another spider scamper across the back of my neck.  I quickly brushed it off again and shined my light again to confirm that it was another spider.  I had no strength or desire to try and move somewhere else though and figured there couldn’t be too many more of them.  Unfortunately though, the spiders kept coming and I kept brushing them off until I finally gave up.  I was so tired that I saw no point in wasting my mind or energy on the damn spiders.  I fell asleep with spiders crawling down my face and body on the rocky ground and couldn’t care less. 

 

In the morning we prepared for the long days ahead.  For the next five days, we would walk 10-20km each night to a new location.  Each time, we would face attacks, or be planning ambushes along the way.  As part of the preparation, we had to give up half of our belongings.  When we first entered the course, we were allowed one rucksack and one backpack each.  For the second part of the course, we were only allowed one rucksack per two people.  Dividing our already small amount of supplies was not easy and meant we could only take a couple of pairs of cloths and a few other necessary supplies.

 

I felt relatively good before we set out on our first journey to our new camp, but I wandered how my feet would hold-up.  I already had a few blisters on my feet and it was painful to walk.  That night, we walked about 20km to our first destination; a small valley between two hills.  By the time we setup camp (Our campsite was nothing more than a piece of canvass tied between a couple of shrubs) it was nearly morning.  We maybe got an hour of sleep before we had to do a supply run and set-up defensive positions around the camp.  All the while, the blisters on my feet were getting bigger and more painful. 

 

Later that evening I met a French officer as I was walking back from my defensive position.  We were talking for a while before he found out that I was a veterinarian.  When he found that out, he looked at me with a puzzled look and asked “why are you here?”  I could only laugh at the question.  It was the same question that others had asked.  The answer was that it was a personal test and bragging rights.  A course this tough and rugged is not commonly offered to non-combatants and I would be one of the only veterinarians to have ever done the course and completed it.  It would also help me gauge if I could make it through similar courses in the future.  For these reasons and sheer stubbornness, I was determined to complete the course. 

 

The problem was that I wondered how long I could stand to walk with the blisters.  By the next day, I had blisters on every toe, on the bottom of my foot and on my heals.  When I heard the French nurses were coming to the camp to have a small clinic, I went over and removed my boots for them to have a look and see if they could do anything to alleviate the pain.  When the nurses saw my feet they gasped in disbelief and looked horrified.  They murmured to each other in French for a minute before telling me that I need to go to the main clinic outside of the course.  The platoon commander Captain Willard happened to be there when they told me this and said, “you don’t want to go to the clinic do you Kevin?”  We both knew that there was no return from the clinic and that I’d be out of the course.  As I laid there baking in the sun and looking at my mutilated feet, there was a small part of me that did want to throw-in the towel and go to some nice air-conditioned clinic.  I really didn’t want to take another step; let alone walk another 10-20km every night for the next three days.  But I couldn’t give up.  I didn’t know what my stopping point would look like, but I figured I’d just keep going. 

 

We spent the day being miserable as usual and I decided to pop a few blisters in hopes that it would feel better.  I knew that popping them sometimes made it worse, but I was willing to take the gamble.  I broke off a finger-sized thorn from a nearby bush and went to work popping my blisters and flushing my feet with water.  I then laid under the small piece of fabric covering the camp and spent the day wishing I could sleep through the miserable heat before we set out on our next excursion. 

 

This time we walked about 15km and ambushed an enemy supply train by morning.  When we got to the ambush site, we all hid on some rocks on a small cliff above the road and waited.  We got down on our bellies and laid really low so that we couldn’t be seen.  As soon as I laid down, I felt my eyelids get heavy and had no strength to hold them up.  I would have quickly drifted off to sleep if it weren’t for the sound of someone snoring right next to me.  I looked up and about half the squad was asleep.  It made sense considering we were all heavily sleep deprived.  There was no way to sleep in the sweltering heat of the day and we spent each night walking and going through combat scenarios.  When I saw everyone sleeping I felt obligated as the leader to wake them up, but I also knew that they would immediately fall back asleep, since they were in a recumbent position.  Instead, I laughed and said to myself “fuck it, let-em sleep.”   

 

By the time we reached our next campsite, I was running on fumes (figuratively meaning I had no gas left in the tank).  I had no energy and each step I took felt like I was walking on razorblades.  We spent the day gathering supplies and setting up the new camp.  The order came later in the day that our squad was going to be on night watch.  We were not going to walk very far that night, but we would not get much sleep.  We hiked to the top of the hill at the entrance of our camp and took turns watching any enemies throughout the night.  I took the last shift and felt somewhat tranquil as I watched night slowly turn into day.  I remained alert though and began to hear an odd, faint sound coming from behind me.  When I turned around and looked, I saw that it was the sound of a goat chewing on the little leaves on the thorny bushes surrounding us.  It was a dose of reality as I saw goats just going about their day delicately eating the leaves to avoid the massive thorns.  There was something serene about hearing nothing but the little goat nibbles.  I then thought that it was strange for the goats to be unattended and looked around for a herder.  Behind me, a few meters away, was a lady squatting between the bushes.  She dared not to look at me (a common thing for women to do in the region) and instead held her head down or to the side.  I sat there in amazement of how stealthy her and her goats were.  They might have ambushed us if they were the enemy. 

 

We were relieved of our watch by another squad and went down to camp to get a couple of hours of sleep before we headed out.  About an hour after we dozed-off, our wiry platoon leader got up and started shouting “stop, stop!”  We then heard rifles start cracking from both sides and it was obvious that we were under attack.  I quickly got up and tried to slip my boots over my mangled feet, so I could chase the enemy.  As I was doing this, I noticed my squad was still asleep.  Even my Special Forces platoon sergeant didn’t see the need to respond.  I figured I could yell at them to get up, or let them be and go back to sleep.  I decided in favor of sleep and we let the other guys stop the enemy. 

 

Later in the afternoon we set out for a new camp.  Along the way, I noticed that a guy from another squad was acting strange.  He was huffing and puffing like he just ran a marathon and he seemed disoriented.  I asked him if he was OK and he defensibly answered and said he was fine.  I didn’t know the guy, so I figured that might be normal for him and let it go.  That morning, we all bedded down for a nap in the scorching sun.  A couple of hours later I heard a commotion across from us.  There were panicked people crowded around that same guy.  Apparently, he went to sleep and couldn’t be woken up.  They quickly called the French Medics who drove in with their jeep.  About two hours later a French Helicopter came and flew the guy back to the hospital in Djibouti city.  Before then, I’d never seen heat stroke in a person, but I knew all too well how dangerous it was.  For all I knew, that guy might not make it.  I also knew that I could be next. 

 

In my squad was an infantry officer from the Comoros Islands.  He and I spent a great deal of time talking about our jobs in the Army and our personal lives.  After that guy had heatstroke, I remember him saying, “we are going to die here.”  I laughed at the statement, but knew there was some truth to it. 

 

That evening, we prepared for our last night of the course.  This would not be an easy final test.  We had to navigate over 27km to find our way out of the hills and across the grand barabara desert to our final stop and graduation ceremony.  I had no idea how I was going to do this, since my feet were absolutely destroyed.  I tried to stay off my feet as much as possible and let them air, but they were getting worse.  The blisters on my heals grew to cover the entire bottom and back of the heal.  Every toe was engulfed by a blister and the bottom of my feet were red, oozing sores where blisters used to be. 

 

Before we left, we were all talking about how much we wanted to be finished and what our motivation was to finish.  One of my Soldiers pointed to my bare, blistered feet and said, “This is my motivation.”  I was happy this gave inspiration to others and I knew I had to finish.  

 

The one thing on everyone’s mind was that cold beer and food that were promised at the finish line.  Food was always a topic that came up whenever a bunch of soldiers were limited to field rations for multiple days.  The rations we had on this training course were different than what we normally had.  For one, we were given the French Army version of an MRE (meal ready to eat).  I actually liked these better than our MREs, but they were all were super-processed food that did not match a fresh-cooked meal. 

 

If we didn’t have a French MRE, then the ration was a live goat.  The French Army would buy a few goats from the locals and each squad would get one goat to share.  We then had to slaughter, butcher and cook it in our Afar ovens that we learned to make under ground using lava rocks.  The goat meat was a nice change from the canned food we had in the rations, but was time-consuming and not that tasty. 

 

We had plenty of time to talk about all the things we were going to eat when we got back to base as we set-out for out for the final 27kms.  As dusk turned into night, we started to veer off the path and were walking through a field of rather large volcanic rocks.  We were walking tactically, which meant no lights.  This led to a lot of tripping and subsequent swearing going on as we stumbled our way through the minefield of invisible rocks.  For me, this added to the torture of walking.  Every step I took felt like I was walking on daggers and every time I tripped it was like a twist of the knife. 

 

This went on for a couple of kilometers and I was not alone in my misery.  All around me I could hear Soldiers swearing and asking, “who’s fuckin idea was it to go this route.” Finally, one trip brought me to the ground.  I was so fatigued and painful that I couldn’t maintain my balance through all the tripping.  I fell face forward and luckily broke my fall with my arms clutching my rifle.  Fellow Soldiers quickly picked me up and made sure I was OK and we continued the torturous walking. 

 

By the time we stopped for a break, I was fuming and navigated my way up to the front of the line to our Platoon Commander Captain Willard.  Straight away, I asked him what we were doing walking through these rocks and why we went off trail.  He was about to say something when his Sergeant stepped in and said, “excuse me sir, are you backing me up and making sure I’m doing this right?”  The Sergeant was obviously irritated that I would question his navigation skills, because he had been a hard-charger the whole course and out to prove himself as the best.  I understood he would be upset, but said “look, you assumed the role sergeant.”  As I said this, Captain Willard decided to come to his Sergeants aid and said, “do you even know how to do land navigation?”  At this point, I could see that the conversation was dissolving into a pissing contest and I switched gears.  I said, “look Captain Willard, I’m not trying to step on your toes, but we can’t afford to go off-roading like this.  We have 27km to walk tonight and a lot of people are already injured.  We need to stick with the trails.”  Captain Willard would have none of what I had to say.  It was not surprising, but I had to say it. 

 

I went back to my place with my squad and joked a little with my platoon sergeant who also did not think very highly of Captain Willard.  We rested for 15 minutes, then set out through the hills.  We soon started to see a change in topography and could see that we were moving out of the hills and onto flatter land.  There was an occasional small hill, but we were no longer surrounded by big hills.  As we walked passed a small hill, I saw one of the guys in second platoon fall down and another Soldier reached down to grab him.  As the Soldier reached down to grab him, he saw that the guy was obviously disoriented.  The guy who fell was not able to stand and when asked questions, he could only respond in gibberish.  He obviously couldn’t speak right and at one point started signing “la la la la la la la.”  This got a good laugh out of the other Soldiers, but I knew this was not funny.  This guy was obviously delusional which is a sign of impending heat stroke.  I knew that if he didn’t get treatment soon, then he could die.  I rushed over to the guy and told his mates to back away and start removing his cloths to cool him off.  At this time, the Platoon commander was calling on the radio for the French Medics.  The medic jeep must not have been far away, because it was there within fifteen minutes and they quickly got out and came to the Soldier’s aid. 

 

At this time, I figured that it would be best for me not to interfere, so I sat down with my squad and waited.  After about ten minutes, I wondered why the medics hadn’t moved the Soldier.  As a former medic and a veterinarian, I knew that he would be better off the sooner he got transported to a medical facility.  Around that time one of the Soldiers came back and said that the medics were not letting him help, because he was not a doctor.  This particular Soldier was frustrated, because he was a certified EMT and was the Soldier’s friend. 

 

Once again, I felt compelled to intervene, so I went over and asked what was going on.  I received no response from the French guy who was intently trying to find a vein to put an IV catheter into.  He had sweat dripping from his head and seemed a bit frantic as he tried to place an IV multiple times.  While he was doing this, I had a look at his other arm and saw a good vein that I was confident I could get an IV in.  I told the French medic that I could do this and he looked at me and said “doctor?”  I hesitated for a second, then said yes, then muttered “of veterinary medicine.”  I got the IV in right away and started running fluids as quickly as I could.  Meanwhile, the Soldier was deteriorating.   He was completely unresponsive now and was vomiting.  I told the Medic (who I found out later was actually a doctor) that we needed to get him out of there, but he didn’t seem to understand.  Meanwhile some of the other Soldiers had caught-on that we needed to get this guy out of there, or he may not make it.  One of the Soldiers had a working mobile phone with a direct number to the special operations division on base.  He called them and said that we needed air transport.  This was an unusual request, so it took a minute for it to be verified, but then we had assurance that a rescue chopper was on its way.  In the meantime, we put in interventions to prevent the Soldier from choking on his vomit.  We cut off all his clothes and were dowsing him with water.  The French medic had been pretty much obsolete and I took over the medical direction of the patient.  I jotted down some notes right as the helicopter was audible and a Soldier quickly got the helicopter’s attention by spinning a glow stick attached to a string over his head.  The helicopter slowly made its descent onto the rocky terrain and the Air Force Pararescue troops quickly got the patient, loaded him in the chopper and flew off.  After all of the excitement, I sat down to take a breather next to the Camoronian Officer.  He looked at me with a smile and said, “I guess land navigation is not everything.”  A joking reference to Captain Willard’s remarks a couple of hours ago.   

 

We had no time to rest after the heat stroke incident.  This debacle set us back about two hours there was not two hours to spare.  We plugged through as fast as we could and felt like we were getting close when we reached that flatlands of the grand barabara desert - a unique terrain where the surface dirt was cracked in distinct squares.  We knew this was where the final destination was, but there was no landmark in sight, so we also knew our journey was far from over.  The steps got shorter as time went on though, because everyone was absolutely exhausted.  We all started to walk like we were wearing concrete boots and my feet were as painful as ever.  The only thing I could do at this point was focus on putting one foot in front of the other.  I could not think or focus on anything else.  My body wanted nothing more than for me to give up and lay down, so it took every bit of mental effort to convince my legs to keep moving and allow my feet to press against needlelike pain over and over again. 

 

As I was focusing on walking, my Squad Sergeant Troy came beside me and asked how I was doing.  I told him that I was absolutely miserable, but going to make it.  He told me that the same thing happened to his feet when he was qualifying for Special Forces and the instructors gave him credit for completing the walk even though his timing was not good.  He said that my willingness to go on in the face of the pain was an inspiration to the Soldiers and that I got a couple of “cool points” from him.  I told him I was happy to get the cool points from a Green Beret (aka Army Special Forces). 

 

The sun was coming up around this time, and after a few minutes, we could see a group of military transport vehicles lined-up in the distance.  We saw our finish line and did what we could to get there as fast as we could.  By the time we got there, the graduation ceremony was about to start.  We quickly changed uniforms and got into formation.  I stood in line with disbelief that the course was actually over.  I was still miserable to be standing, but I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I could go back to my bed, put me feet up and sleep.  We stood there and received our coveted Scorpion Badge.  The French Officers presenting the badge were dressed in formal army attire that looked like a throwback from ancient Greece.  The Officer’s uniform was a loose, white suit complete with sandals and a cape.  It was definitely a sight to see them all out there walking around in with their capes flapping in the breeze as they individually presented our badge.

 

When the ceremony was over, they broke out the finger food and beer.  I was so tired that I feared the beer would knock me out, but I was not about to turn down a cold beer.  The entire time after the ceremony I just wanted to sit down, because my feet were absolutely on fire, but there were no chairs.  I thought about just sitting on the ground, but it would have been too embarrassing with everyone standing.  I made small talk until we finally loaded on the bus headed for base.  We got on the bus and it drove across the sand and came to a stop before getting back on the road.  That stop was a mistake, because the sand was particularly soft there and the tires just spun when the bus tried to move again.  The tires made a good-sized rut rather quickly and it was obvious that we were stuck.  It seemed to be the perfect ending to course filled with perils.

 

It took about two hours before they got the bus out of the rut and we were on the road headed back to the French base.  At the French base, we took some time to gather all of our gear and trade uniforms/patches with the French Soldiers before we finally were bussed back to our base.  When we got back, I B-lined it to my barracks.  I wasted no time getting in my bed and slept for about 20 hours before I could muster the energy to get up and eat.  When I got up, I put my shoes on as carefully as I could, but the slightest touch evoked intense pain and I couldn’t imagine how I managed to walk so far in this condition.  It took about a week for my feet to recover enough to not be painful anymore. 

My coworkers saw how much weight I lost in those 10 days and said that I looked like a POW that just got out of the camp.  They also knew about the two Soldiers that had to get airlifted out of the course and knew that it must have been tough.  I was happy to find out that the two Soldiers who had heat stroke survived.  One ended up having kidney damage and had to be flown to Germany for special treatment.  The doctors back at base said that if it weren’t for our efforts that they might have died. 

 

I ended-up receiving a medal for my actions in helping the Soldier with heat stroke, but it wasn’t nearly as valuable as my scorpion badge.  Whenever I look at my service dress uniform, my eyes go strait to that badge sitting near my right shoulder.  I won’t forget the trial that nearly took my life.