Ah, but it was better than a Calgon bath. When the strong recoil becomes too much for our shoulders, we strip off our T-shirts, wad them up and used them as padding between the weapon and our shoulder and keep spraying hate at a maddening pace. We pump grenades at the targets as fast as we can cycle them through our M-79s, just wanting to be the first one to score on the target. We challenged each other with hitting skinnier and skinnier trees out there, just saplings really. I say, 70 grenades is a bit much for just two men, but Guido and I just kick back and plug away out on our demolition range. On this day he pulls a case of 40mm grenades out of the back of the van and two M-70 grenade launchers. If was always something mindless, relaxing and fun. Guido always brought along a surprise to christen the week’s fine training effort. Left: Guido, geo, Chill-D, Daddy-Mac, Cos) (Above photo: a chance Kodak moment at a departure airfield, we saw the B-17F Flying Fortress “Memphis Belle” parked nearby and jumped from out C-5A to get a team photo by it. The morning peaks with a raucous crescendo of noise, sweat, oaths, brass, and gun oil. Cokes are on the line for the best shooter as men dart around in sprints and pushups to add physical distress to the mix of their shooting drills. The next few hours are a fog of dirt, brass, cordite, supersonic bullet reports and thunderous booms of men cursing and challenging one another to bouts of speed and accuracy.
Life of delta force series#
Read Next: Delta Force’s James Nelson Sudderth- Conan the Barbarian (A frame pulled from a cartoon series depicts the ubiquitous Cos delivering his mantra, and Guido flexing “Ol’ Bettsy”, the bicep that was torn from his humerus bone and relocated near his elbow as a result of being a towed jumper on an airborne operation.) That always cued Guido to holler out at the top of his lungs: “NO, NO REALLY… NO, NO REALLY!!” My, how they loved each other. erupts as he always does in the morning spouting off preposterous supposed truths which receive calls of “bull$hit” from the team and Cos’ countering: “No, no really… no really… really, no…” This was Bart’s morning ritual without deviation: he goes to Guido’s locker next to mine and begins shaving with Guido’s electric razor as he roots through the team leader’s locker looking for hardboiled eggs that he was known to bring back from the chow hall in the morning. Navigating the obstacle course(s) wearing a gas mask was enough to keep a man from feeling guilty for the rest of the day if he did nothing else.īack in our team room, our next-door neighbor Bart from assault team A comes in while we were grabbing guns and kit for range fire.
I always tried to get in a good workout before the day began in case fluid events ruined my noon and/or evening workouts. Stumbling into a quick shower I race the clock to make it to breakfast with a couple of the squadron boys who have just begun to arrive. Mad-dashing into the team room to grab my gas mask I high-tailed it to catch up with him for a PT even that I regret to this very minute. I catch the ghost of a figure running by wearing a gas mask and knew it was my brother Ironclad heading out to run the obstacle course - alone - a thing that was severely frowned on by the Unit with safety in mind. The guard at the front gate runs his thumb over the photo on my Unit access badge and renders a sharp salute that I always return.
Shooting through the pine woods on a shortcut that McNamara discovered on his bike I was mindful of fauna in my headlights, otherwise, I introduced higher and higher speed. This morning Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter House Five (Schlachthof Funf) was blaring over my CD player, and so it went. I staved off the sting of time loss with books on tape.
We both hated windshield time because it robbed us of productivity.
Life of delta force mac#
Mac laid his bike down at an interval pressing the speed margin hard to shave off those last few tenths of a second from his travel time just like a man possessed. On the way to the compound, I keep a lookout for signs of my neighbor and great Delta friend Patrick Arthur McNamara and his motorcycle, as they both were known to incidentally crash into the wood line. Jumping into my combat-parked truck I skillfully maneuver my coffee mug tipping it slightly into the direction of travel to preclude it from spilling as I speed ahead.
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