And second, it starts right now!”
We bolted to our feet and ran. As we did we could see that the boats and paddles had been shoved out onto the lake.
“Devious bastards!” someone said.
Now the boats were floating about 25 yards from shore, and the paddles were floating around them. As we got to the water, there was some momentary confusion and hesitation, but then we jumped in and it felt great. We all dashed toward the boats—over 100 men headed for 30 of them. Lots of yelling, pushing and shoving, but our small group managed to get out in front.
“Shove him in,” André ordered, as he and I pushed Bob up and over the side.
“Grab some paddles,” Bill said, “and throw them in the boat with Manning.”
What a circus. Everyone was thrashing around. Bob pulled me and Monty Rogers, another Midwesterner, into the boat and André scrambled in as well. Then we shoved the others away as they tried to get in. Some weren’t too happy. It was pandemonium. We spotted Ward and Mike Deuel and hauled them aboard.
“Grab another paddle,” someone yelled, “and get lined up on either side.” It was Bill, and he became our coxswain of the day, more by default than anything else; we didn’t have time for an election.
We started for the other side of the lake, noting with pleasure that we had gotten under way first.
“Great!” Bill yelled. “We’re far ahead. Most of them are still in the water.”
We lined up, paddles in hand, on both sides of the boat. We started chanting in unison and pulling as hard as we could. We had been training together for a while now, so it hadn’t taken us long to get organized. That wasn’t the case for any of the other groups, and soon we enjoyed a big lead.
“Where are the SEALs?” Monty asked.
Over the whole training course the only group we ever worried about was the SEALs. They were in great shape, they were obviously accustomed to using the rubber boats, and they had lots and lots of stamina. We greatly respected their ability.
“They’re coming,” Bill answered. “Paddle hard.”
He wasn’t a great coxswain, but he kept us headed in the right direction and we made good progress.
“Right side paddle, left side hold,” he yelled.
Our forward motion slowed a little while we righted our course by pulling less on one side or the other. Bob’s left-handed strength helped us on that side, plus he had experience paddling a canoe.
“Pull,” we all shouted. We were humming along and we felt confident as we neared the orange buoy.
“SEALs are coming,” said Bill, the only one who could sneak a glance behind us. “They are clear of the mêlée and paddling hard.”
No one doubted it. We knew the Navy guys wanted to win this race for the sake of their pride and they wouldn’t be deterred by our big lead. But we, the unlabelled civilians, also wanted to win. We pulled even harder.
We rounded the buoy and for the first time we got a clear view of our position in the race. The SEALs were about 30 yards behind but closing. The rest were strung out behind them, looking like a band of marauding pirates. Men were shouting, standing in the boats, waving paddles.
The SEALs went right by us, headed for the buoy. They weren’t wasting any breath or strength with emotional outbursts. They looked serious and determined. We tried to keep pulling hard while maintaining our rhythm.
Then some in the oncoming horde, realizing they had no chance of winning the race, decided to become spoilers. Several of the boats altered course to block us. We viewed their actions in a most unfavorable light.
“Never mind, we got ’em,” Bill shouted.
We cleared the offending boats about halfway back to the beach. Now the SEALs had rounded the buoy and were bearing down on us. None of the other boats bothered them. We were running out of breath and had given up the chant, but we kept to the paddling rhythm.
“Pull harder!” Bill implored, sounding less confident. The SEALs had narrowed the gap. We were nearing the beach. We urged each other on with whatever breath we could spare.
Our strength held out and we won. In fact when we hit the beach we were able to get out of the boat and haul it ashore before the SEALs arrived. They had cut into our lead but not enough. Our great start and physical condition had carried the day.
We savored our victory, inwardly. We said nothing to the SEALs or anyone else. Now that I think about it, maybe we were so out of breath and tired that we couldn’t gloat. Likewise, no one mentioned the victory to us.
“Okay, into the trucks, we’re headed back,” the senior instructor said impassively after the last boat had been beached. Maybe we surprised them.
The next day dawned like all the rest—clear, sunny and hot. Word had gotten around that the last training exercise would be really tough. Possibly, but we would be flying back to Virginia the following evening, so how bad could it be?
As usual we finished breakfast and took off in the trucks around 7:30. The ride seemed longer than usual. They had started out from the headquarters and barracks area, which was located at the end of a peninsula, and followed a red-clay road along the shoreline. When we reached our destination we were in a large clearing halfway up a hill.
We felt an uneasy anticipation.
An instructor, standing on a small platform in the middle of the clearing, began.
“Today will feature an escape and evasion exercise, and I’m going to give you the ground rules. Listen carefully, because I don’t want any screw-ups. Here’s the scenario. You’re in an enemy area and have just pulled off a successful raid on their headquarters compound. They are pissed off and have alerted all their forces to apprehend or kill you. The plan calls for you to be exfiltrated by submarine from the point on the map you are now being given. A reception team will meet you, and that will signal the end of the exercise. The exercise will start soon.”
His description intensified our uneasiness.
“There are more ground rules,” he continued. “We—my friends and I—will function as the pissed-off enemy. All roads will be patrolled and guarded. Road crossings will be risky and must be accomplished with care. If you are caught, you lose points. If you are caught more than once, you don’t pass the exercise. If you try blatantly to escape capture, you will be considered killed, which also means you don’t pass the exercise. Is all that clear?”
There were no questions. It was straightforward. We had to travel 18 miles through the jungle, avoiding enemy patrols and returning approximately to where we had started out, to the exfiltration point on the beach.
“There’s more,” said the instructor. “The submarine can’t wait past noon tomorrow, so unless you get there by then you won’t be exfiltrated. That also means you don’t pass the exercise.”
We were carrying light packs and M1 rifles. Even though we were now much more accustomed to the jungle than we had been that first night, covering that distance was going to
