Читать книгу Dutch Clarke -- the War Years - Brian Psy.D. Ratty - Страница 13

The next week was final qualifications on the obstacle course. All recruits had to finish the course in fifteen minutes or less. If they failed to qualify, they could be held back for further training. Each platoon would be given two chances to complete the course within the allotted time. The course itself was two miles long, going mostly uphill on loose sand. Along the way, there were a large number of different hurdles that had to be traversed, obstacles like high walls that had to be scaled, cliffs that had to be climbed by using ropes, and swinging bridges over muddy ponds. The base record for the course was ten minutes, twenty seconds. The platoon would have to run the hurdles while wearing full battle gear, which meant an extra seventy pounds of weight.

On the first day of the qualifications, we were paired by squads, with two men leaving every sixty seconds. My running companion was Kurt. He was strong, with long, muscular legs. He could run like a cougar, so I knew I had competition. Sergeant Nelson started each pair, using his whistle and a watch to record the start times. As his shrilling filled the air, we were off.

The first hurdle was a long row of old tires lying on the ground. High-stepping through twenty wheel openings takes balance and coordination.

Kurt took the early lead, but by the third obstacle, scaling a twenty-foot wall, I had caught up. The day was hot and the humidity high. By now, we were both nothing more than sweatballs running along a sandy trail. At the half way point, I took the lead and never looked back. Stumbling across the finish line, I gasped for breath as Corporal Johnson recorded my finish time. A few seconds later, Kurt joined me as I was pouring water over my head. He was out of breath and panting like a new puppy. “I almost beat you, Dutch. Boy, can you run!”

That evening, the results were posted in the Day Room. My time was ten minutes, thirty-four seconds; Kurt’s was ten minutes, thirty-nine seconds. We had the best times in the platoon. Sergeant Nelson made a big deal about our times, and challenged us to beat the base record, the next day. Kurt and I shook hands and accepted the challenge, knowing it could be done.

Before leaving the Day Room, I noted that five guys, including the Comedian, had times over fifteen minutes. When I talked to Jim about his time, he put a good face on it and told me that he had fallen down twice and was confident that he would be okay, the next day. His words were positive…but his expression was doubtful.

We were fortunate to be the first platoon on the course the next morning, at 0800. The morning was cool and the air still crisp. It was a good omen for our attempt to break the base record. My squad was the last to start, and Sergeant Nelson held Kurt and me for the last. We stood like Olympic athletes, waiting for his whistle. Then we were off.

I took the early lead and was determined to hold it. My rifle and backpack seemed lighter today, and my legs felt stronger. By the halfway point, I still had a good ten or fifteen seconds on Kurt. The breeze on my face felt cool and refreshing.

Finally I came to the last obstacle, a muddy pond that had to be crossed by a swinging rope line attached to a log A-frame. As I reached for the rope, I saw the Comedian lying on the ground, on the other side of the water.

“What the hell are you doing, Jim?” I screamed as I swung across.

“I twisted my damn ankle. You keep going. I’ll be all right.”

With beads of sweat rolling down my face, I stopped and looked down at him. He was holding his right ankle and there was a look of pain in his eyes.

“You’ve got to finish this. You have to get going!” I blurted out.

“I can’t. It hurts too much. Please, you keep going,” he answered in agony.

Reaching down, I grabbed him under his shoulder blades and pulled him up. “The hell you say.”

With effort, I got him standing; then, in one fluid motion, I put him across my back like a fireman. His extra weight made me stumble a few time as I started moving down the trail.

He protested from my back, “Dutch, you can’t do this…”

My run was now down to a stagger, but I was moving forward. Coming around a bend, I could see the finish line, some fifty yards ahead.

Just then, Kurt arrived at my side. “You need help, Dutch?” he panted.

“No, you keep going,” I mumbled back. And he did.

A few moments later, we stumbled across the finish line, and I slid Jim off my back into the waiting hands of Corporal Johnson. Out of breath and exhausted, I fell to the ground, joining Kurt. We just breathed for a few moments, gasping the cool morning air into our lungs.

Looking up, I could see Sergeant Nelson hovering over us. “Do you guys want to know your times?”

We nodded, still unable to speak. “Benson: ten minutes, twelve seconds. Clarke: ten minutes, twenty-eight seconds. Good show!”

Panting, I asked, “And Wilson, sir?”

Looking down at his clipboard he replied, “Wilson: 14 minutes, 52 seconds.”

Smiles beamed across our faces. I looked over to where Jim sat, rubbing his ankle; he glanced my way, with a nod and a tear. There is a special reward for doing the right thing, a reward more valuable than all others. God, what a great feeling!