Читать книгу The Craft We Chose: My Life in the CIA - Richard L. Holm - Страница 7

We finished our instruction with two weeks at the Army’s Jungle Operations Training School at Fort Sherman, at Toro Point in the Canal Zone. We had heard about how demanding the sessions would be down there, but we looked forward to the challenge.

By then we had really improved our physical conditioning and honed our abilities in the areas I’ve mentioned.

We felt ready.

Fifteen of us landed in Panama late in the morning on a pleasant, sunny day in May 1962. It had been a long flight from Washington aboard Director McCone’s private plane, with one refueling stop in Tampa, Florida. Happy to touch down we practically tumbled out of the plane, stretching our legs and waiting for the base bus to pick us up.

“What’s that?” Bob Manning asked, gesturing at a sleek, black jet aircraft taxiing to the end of the runway where we had just landed.

“Don’t know,” I answered. “Never seen anything like that. What are those things under the wings?” I asked, referring to the droppable skids that supported the wingtips when the plane was fully fueled.

“I think it’s a U-2,” Ralph McLean said.

Ralph was an officer in the Marines assigned to the agency in a special program, as was Mike Deuel. I figured he had seen one before at some military base.

“Yeah, I think you’re right, Ralph,” someone else said. By now we all watched intently as the plane prepared for takeoff. We whipped out our cameras, everyone wanting a photo. The U-2 had gained international notoriety in the spring of 1960, when an agency pilot, Francis Gary Powers, had been shot down flying a high-altitude reconnaissance mission over Russia.

Powers, who remained in Soviet custody for two years, had been sent home in February 1962 as part of a prisoner exchange. The incident caused increased tensions between the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. It also caused worries within the agency, because Powers had failed to autodestruct his aircraft before ejecting, and so the Reds were probably able to recover or reconstruct some of the plane’s secret equipment.

As JOTs we didn’t know any of this at the time. We only knew the U-2 was an amazing-looking airplane, and we watched, fascinated, as the pilot started his takeoff and accelerated down the runway. As the plane gained speed, its wings, which could only be described as droopy, visibly lifted, and the wheel struts attached beneath the tips dropped away. Designed by the technicians at the famed Lockheed Skunk Works in Palmdale, California, the U-2 needed its extra-long wings for efficient cruising at high altitudes. But on takeoffs, when the fuel tanks were full and the wings sagged, the struts kept the tips from dragging on the runway, and when those wings lifted in takeoff they almost seemed to flap like a bird’s.

As soon as he had the wheels up the pilot must have given the engines full throttle, because the U-2 mounted an angle of ascent steeper than I had ever seen. It shot up into the air and soon disappeared from sight, mightily impressing us observers on the ground.

At Fort Sherman we settled into a small section of a large, concrete barracks, nothing fancy but adequate. Just like at the Farm we would not be spending much time there. We joined a group of about a hundred military officers sent to Panama from all over the United States to take this course, which was given only twice a year.

Except for our group and a platoon of SEALs, all of the men were young Army officers. Such a large class embarking on the two-week course surprised us, but we felt no less eager to get started.

I’m not sure why, but we also sensed the others were looking askance at us unlabelled civilians intruding into a military training program. Maybe they suspected who we were, or they wondered whether we’d be able to keep up. Either way, that perception piqued our competitive spirit, and we resolved to make a good showing.

After dinner the first evening our instructors assembled us behind the barracks for what they billed as an administrative briefing. Instead they gave us an introductory exercise in the nearby jungle. It was nearly dark. Just a walk through the jungle to a nearby clearing, they told us. We milled around before they lined up our groups, one behind the other.

“Okay, let’s move out,” one instructor announced, leading the first group into the thick vegetation. Soon we could barely see, as is the case near the equator when night falls quickly. Other instructors positioned themselves along the path while we moved forward into the darkness, which had become almost total.

“Hold hands,” another instructor ordered. No one argued.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” said Bill Watkins, a former Marine helicopter pilot.

“It’s like walking in a bottle of ink,” I heard another man say.

“I hope all the snakes are asleep,” someone else muttered, and everyone chuckled.

We half-stumbled through thick undergrowth up and down small knolls, holding on dearly to the hands in front of and behind us. The trees had sharp needles. I didn’t hear much conversation, just a few curses as people tripped or encountered the needles, but otherwise we stayed quiet. Soon we arrived at another clearing, relieved to be out of the ink bottle.

The instructors had set us up, but it was an effective learning experience. They knew that our inability to see while trying to move amid unfamiliar jungle surroundings would unnerve us. When they led us from the well-lit clearing behind the barracks into the darkness, the sudden change gave our eyes no chance to adjust to night vision, and the brief walk didn’t allow time to adjust, either.

The experience created a memorably negative first impression about nighttime movement in the jungle. But we learned later that the impression was false. Our instructors would correct it over the two-week program, which would start the next morning.

“Be sure to keep a firm grip just behind his head,” the instructor told me, as the 2-foot boa constrictor threw a couple of coils around my arm and started to hug.

The snake wasn’t big enough to hurt anyone, particularly during a controlled demonstration. The point was to show the spot just behind the head that would cause the reptile to go limp if you squeezed. I was getting my hands-on shot at seeing how it worked.

“Can I squeeze now?”

“Go ahead.”

As I did I could feel the coils loosen and fall off my arm. I handed the snake to the instructor and was pleased to do so, wondering if I’d ever need that bit of information for real.

How the hell would I get hold of the head of a big one?

The constrictor demonstration marked just one part of a first morning of useful briefings about jungle animals, birds, snakes, trees, plants—edible and inedible. All were interesting, informative and of practical use over the next two weeks, as well as to those of us headed to Africa or Southeast Asia.

Not so the course on rappelling. In a jungle setting the prospect surprised our little group, though not many of the military officers. They had obtained advance knowledge of what to expect during the two weeks and knew what was coming, while we JOTs mostly had to wait and see what each day would produce.

We had become fairly competent at rappelling back at the Farm, where we practiced it regularly. Here it was included not as a jungle skill but a confidence builder.

We loaded onto trucks and drove inland. After dismounting, we walked for half an hour up to the top of a precipice overlooking the Chagres River. It wasn’t exactly a waterfall, but here and there the footing was slippery, because water lightly flowed across the rocks and fell about 150 feet to the river. We couldn’t see all the way down until we got to the edge, where the rappelling ropes had been secured. What we could see, about two-thirds of the way, was a rock shelf where we would change ropes.

At the Farm we had practiced on a 20-foot tower, and some of us had gotten good enough to make it to the ground in one or two pushes. This looked considerably more challenging.

The tropical sun beat down on us, as we waited to rappel.

“Looks neat; should be fun,” Bob Manning announced, moving to the edge. He would be first in our group.

“I never did like heights,” Mike L., another member, responded from farther back.

We watched Bob prepare.

“Throw the rope over your shoulder and between your legs,” the instructor explained.

“Yeah, I know,” Bob answered, as he took the rope. He had been a pole vaulter at Princeton and had done some rock climbing in New Jersey. He also had practiced rappelling a lot back at the Farm. He knew what to do.

“No, the other shoulder,” the instructor said, sounding alarmed, not knowing Bob was left-handed.

“Okay, thanks,” Bob responded.

Without further ado he went over the edge, and we watched as he more or less swooped down the cliff. We weren’t surprised, but the instructor was. I was tempted to quip that it was his first try, but I didn’t. My turn was coming.

“Throw the rope over your shoulder and between your legs,” the instructor repeated for the umpteenth time that morning. I stepped into position with my back to the edge of the cliff. He looked me over, approved, and I pushed off, but less forcefully or boldly than during our tower drills.

I watched the rock below me, looking for my first touch. As soon as I connected I bounded outward again, feeling pretty comfortable. My foot slipped once and I bumped against the rocks, but I swung clear and continued down. When I reached the shelf I moved right away to the second rope, where another instructor waited. He had been watching me, as he did everyone coming down. He saw that I could rappel, so he just handed me the rope and said, “Move on.”

I took a moment to look up to the top of the cliff, admiring the rugged natural beauty and enjoying the pleasure of the day. Bob was right, this was fun.

More confident now, I started the shorter leg.

Shove off, facing back and down.

Let the rope run freely over your shoulder and between your legs, making sure you place it on one side or the other.

Squeeze the rope a bit to control your speed, and catch yourself with your feet as you swing into the rocks.

Pay attention.

Try to touch on flat, solid spots to avoid slipping.

I got more aggressive as I neared the bottom and covered a longer vertical distance with the last several bounds. No mishaps. I slipped off the rope and handed it to a waiting sergeant.

Maybe they thought we needed more confidence building, because the next exercise of the day involved a river crossing under a zip wire. The terrain on our side of the river was higher than on the other side, and the gorge was about 200 feet wide. They had built a crude platform in a tree about 30 feet up from the ground.

I watched those in front of me cross using the wire stretched from the tree on our side to another tree on the opposite bank. Hanging just below the wire, fixed with a roller, was a 2-foot metal bar. The idea was to reach up and grasp that bar from the platform while standing well over 40 feet above the water.

“Just hold on tight,” the sergeant told Bob Manning, who stood on the platform. “And drop into the water when you get to the other side,” he added.

Bob let out a yell, leaped off, slid down the wire—much as we had done from the tower during our parachute training—and dropped into the waist-deep water. He waded ashore, all grins.

By the time it was my turn, several of our group had already made the crossing. This exercise differed from the tower, because from there we had jumped with a parachute harness securing us to the wire and just slid down. Here we had to hang on as we slid and dropped off at the right time. The instructors on the other side yelled when it was time to let go.

I felt confident I could handle it.

“You got the bar?” the sergeant asked.

I nodded and gripped it firmly.

“So fly away, man!”

I jumped off the platform and started down the wire. I quickly gained speed and felt like I was rocketing toward the opposite bank. It happened quickly and there was no time to worry. I dropped off just as I heard the instructor tell me to let go. Relieved, I waded ashore and climbed up the bank.

It wasn’t as much fun as the rappelling.

Fourth or so behind me was Don Farley. The oldest man in our group, he had served in the Office of Medical Services. After receiving an assignment to South Vietnam, he had volunteered to take the paramilitary course. A pleasant, likeable guy we all admired for his grit, Don wasn’t as physically fit as the rest of us, but he hung in there on our field exercises.

As Don made his descent, something didn’t look right.

Watch out!

He froze, holding onto the bar too long; he crashed into the bank.

We rushed to him, but two of the instructors beat us there.

“Relax,” one ordered.

Don was lying half in the water.

“I think I broke something,” he said, in obvious pain.

“Don’t try to stand,” the other instructor said.

Don was right; one of his legs was clearly broken. A third instructor was already on his radio calling for a helicopter evacuation. Carefully and with considerable effort, because Don was a big man, they helped him onto the bank and tried to comfort him until help arrived.

“I suppose this means you’re going to poop out on us,” Bill Watkins joked.

“Nah, I’ll be back after lunch,” Don kidded right back.

“Tough break,” Bill said. “But heck, one week in this steamy jungle is probably enough anyway.”

We all knew Don would be sent home. That would be hard for him, but he had a much harder moment coming. Because of the broken leg his impending assignment to Vietnam was postponed. Eventually he went and was in the U.S. Embassy in Saigon on March 30, 1965, the day it was bombed. Like many others Don caught glass splinters in his face and eyes. The incident cost him his sight and forced his medical retirement. But his grit came through then, too, and he made a terribly difficult adjustment look easy. He continued to pursue life vigorously despite his blindness.

That afternoon we returned to the Chagres for a second river crossing. This time we would use a rope hanging about 8 feet above the water and tied to trees on either bank. We considered this drill more practical because it was the way to cross a river during a real operation.

First you stretch out atop the rope, grasping it with both hands in front of you, letting one leg dangle for balance, and hooking the other ankle over the top. To move forward you pull with your arms and push with the leg hooked over the rope.

The key is keeping your balance. If you lose it you find yourself hanging under the rope and fighting rapidly building fatigue. To cross in that position means pulling hand over hand with your legs wrapped around the rope. It’s so difficult that the strong incentive is to keep your balance and stay on top.

To make the exercise seem realistic, the instructors told us that the current was forceful enough to carry us away and there were crocodiles in the water.

When my turn came I just followed the instructions. By then I had watched about a dozen others make the crossing, and I could see the advantages and pitfalls.

Don’t get the rope swaying sideways.

Push with the hooked-over leg more, and pull with your arms less.

I started slowly and finished slowly, but I stayed focused and didn’t fall off.

This wasn’t the case for André Le Gallo, who was two behind me. In the middle of his crossing the rope started swaying sideways, and André fell under.

“You can’t get back up,” one instructor shouted, as André hung in the middle letting the swaying stop.

“Just come on ahead, hand over hand,” another instructor yelled.

Born in France just before World War II, André had been raised in Paris, where his family, originally from Brittany, spent the war years. They had immigrated to the United States in the late 1940s and settled in northern New Jersey, where André’s father, an excellent chef, ran a restaurant. André, a varsity wrestler, had very strong arms and upper body. Either he hadn’t heard the instructors or he elected to ignore their counsel. With our shouts of encouragement from both banks, André calmly hoisted himself back up, a feat requiring both strength and balance, and finished his crossing.

Bravo, André!

He had impressed the instructors, but he would achieve true notoriety in another way. One night early in our second week we made camp in a clearing near the river. As usual it had been a physically demanding day, with the heat and humidity taking a lot out of us. We had been hauling packs and web belts containing personal items—underwear, socks, Dopp kits—and some field gear including a shelter half, which is essentially half a pup tent, plus a poncho, a shovel-like entrenching tool, and a machete for clearing the way through the jungle.

We paired up, using two shelter halves to set up rows of tents, with our ponchos doubling as mats to sleep on. We carried no sleeping bags. We weren’t comfortable, but no one complained. We were too tired. Besides we were in the middle of the jungle, so we expected hardship.

As dusk descended we ate C-rations—small cans and boxes of prepared but cold food. We carried a couple of flashlights among us, but once it was dark there wasn’t much to do except try to get some sleep. The camp quieted quickly as fatigue took its toll.

Suddenly there was a loud cry.

“What the hell is that?” Bob Manning shouted.

Bob and André were sharing a pup tent. Both stood over 6 feet tall and didn’t quite fit into it. André, seeking some fresh air, had been lying with his head just outside of the tent.

“I don’t know. Is that blood?” André asked.

Somebody produced one of the flashlights. It was blood. We were all awake now.

“There are two small holes on the top of your forehead,” Bob told André.

“A bat?”

“A vampire bat!” Bob exclaimed, grabbing everyone’s attention.

The bleeding stopped quickly. André’s forehead contained two small punctures where the thing had bitten him. He had been attacked by a real vampire, Desmodus rotundus, whose range extends from Argentina all the way to Arizona and New Mexico and has been known to avail itself of the blood of humans sleeping outdoors.

The question foremost in our minds was, would it come back? The return to our tents caused a lot of shuffling around, as everyone tried to keep his head inside and his booted feet outside.

No one slept well that night.

Someone mentioned the possibility of an infection, but I don’t think André even put a Band-Aid on the wounds. Before we departed for Panama we had received all of the required shots, so that might have helped André ward off any problem.

The story spread quickly, and André became famous among trainees and instructors alike.

The next day’s theme was “Living off the Land.” It was particularly tough, and many of us dragged through it for lack of sleep—though they did feed us a field-kitchen hot breakfast at dawn.

They divided us into a dozen groups to conduct compass-reading exercises, meaning lots of walking through the jungle. The point man would lead each group by wielding a machete to clear a path. Two men would follow with compasses to keep him on course.

Maps in hand we started out at about 7:30 a.m. We found one checkpoint after another and moved quickly along our assigned route. Our practice at the Farm came in handy. The exercise wasn’t difficult, but it was physically tiring. We rotated point men regularly, because that was the toughest role.

By noon we had finished the course and arrived at a large clearing, where the field kitchen had set up for lunch. Hungry and tired we looked forward to a good meal, but our anticipation quickly turned to disappointment, as we noticed that lunch would be C-rations again. Usually it was a type of meat dish, some fruit, cookies or crackers, and maybe some chocolate.

“What’s your fruit?” Mike Deuel asked me. “I got peaches.”

“Fruit cocktail,” I responded. “Want to trade?”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m looking for pears.”

“I got apple sauce,” Bob Manning chimed in. “And beef stew. Anyone want this beef stuff?”

“Got to be better than ham,” Ralph McLean said, handing Manning his meat dish. “I hate this ham.”

“I don’t like it much either,” Bob said, “but I’m sure tired of beef stew.”

It was always the same, no matter the group, location or conditions on the ground. No one liked what he got. Still it was fuel for the engine, so we always ate it all.

After lunch we gathered for a briefing on the afternoon’s effort. Each group would have to build a bohio (bo-HEE-oh), Panamanian Spanish for a small hut constructed from trees and thatch. The instructor explained that a bohio is nothing more than a platform several feet off the ground—and away from snakes, bigger animals and vermin—enclosed by walls and a roof overhead. The walls and roof would be palm branches—no corrugated tin available—spread over a wood frame.

“One more thing,” he added loudly. “Pass by the trucks on your way into the jungle and pick up dinner. See you here in the morning for breakfast at 6:30. Now go ye forth and build tonight’s dwelling.”

We moved to the trucks and formed lines. Looking ahead we could see what they were handing out for dinner.

“They’re giving ’em chickens, live chickens!” Bill half-shouted in disbelief.

“And yucca roots and rice,” André added.

“So that’s dinner?” Bob asked, not really wanting an answer.

Each group got the same thing: two live chickens, a handful of rice and some yucca roots to boil. We collected ours and headed off to construct our bohio.

“Anybody ever kill a chicken?” Ward Warren asked of no one in particular. No one responded.

“We’ll draw straws for the honor tonight,” he said with a laugh. Ward, a graduate of the University of Michigan, had studied Chinese affairs and spoke Mandarin fluently. He was an internal, meaning that he had joined the JOT program from a position elsewhere within the agency.

We picked a site under some shade and started planning the structure. To sleep seven we figured the bohio platform would have to be at least 12 feet by 24 feet. Thank goodness there was no shortage of trees.

None of us had studied engineering of any sort, and we had only machetes and entrenching tools, so this would be no mean feat. The soil was soft, however, so digging the holes for logs to support the platform’s frame would not be too difficult.

Three men got started with that. The rest, machetes in hand, set out to bring back suitable trees. The jungle was full of softwood varieties, and we were able to chop down trees with waist-sized-diameter trunks after about 15 minutes of hacking. Then we trimmed off the branches before carrying them back to the site.

Where possible we selected trees with a sturdy V shape in the trunk somewhere, so we could lay other trees onto them to build up the platform. We lashed some into place with vines we had stripped down with our bayonet knives.

As the afternoon wore on, the bohio gradually took shape. It wasn’t going to win any prizes, but it would serve our purposes for one night. By dusk we were spreading the roof of palm branches, and the bloody thing was done. Ill-proportioned and uneven, lacking stairs to get in, and with a roof that likely wouldn’t stop much rain, at least it was sturdy. We felt satisfied that we had completed it, and we wondered how many other groups had actually finished theirs.

Exhausted, we turned our thoughts to dinner and eyed the two poultry specimens tethered to the ground nearby.

“So who wants the honor?” Ward asked.

None of us city kids felt eager to kill and clean chickens, so Bill stepped into the breach.

“I’ll kill the damn birds,” he growled.

“I’ll help,” Ralph announced to Bill’s satisfaction, and they approached our still-walking dinner.

“Do it somewhere else,” Bob offered. “Blood might attract snakes.”

Bill glared at him, but he and Ralph grabbed the squawking birds and headed off into the jungle.

“Let’s get a fire started,” I suggested. “We also have to boil the rice and yucca.”

“Easier said than done,” André commented. “It’s hard to find dry wood.”

He was right. It rained frequently in the jungle and sunlight didn’t penetrate the canopy in many places, so dry kindling was scarce. But it had to be done, and we spread out looking for anything that would burn. Eventually we got a fire started, not a very hot one but a fire.

“Anyone ever boil rice?” Ward asked. “Do you put it into the water before or after the water boils?”

“After,” Bob said. “I think that’s how my mom always did it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” André interjected. “It’s not Minute Rice from Uncle Ben. We’ll just cook it until it’s soft enough to eat.”

We agreed that was a good idea.

It had grown dark—very dark—and quiet; no squawking from the chickens. We used our metal canteen cups to boil the rice and the yucca roots, neither of which looked appetizing. We rigged up a crude spit to roast the chickens—nobody thought about boiling them in pieces—and set the canteen cups on rocks as close to the fire as we could. Lord only knew how long it would take for the water to start boiling.

“Here they are,” Bill announced, as he and Ralph returned with the hacked-up chickens.

“We threw the insides as far away as we could,” Ralph added.

“Many thanks, you guys,” I said. “Couldn’t have been much fun.”

“Wasn’t,” Bill mumbled.

We skewered the chickens and put them on the makeshift spit over the fire. We waited and waited—and waited. Nothing happened. The fire wasn’t hot enough to cook them. We waited some more. At least the water boiled, barely, and the rice cooked a little. Same with the yucca, but it remained hard.

Hungry as we were, in the end the fatigue won out. We managed to eat a few mouthfuls of half-cooked rice, chucked the yucca, and threw the still-raw chickens as far into the jungle as we could. Nobody wanted to wait for what might have been hours to finish cooking the food. Sleep seemed a much better choice.

We climbed onto the bohio, which I am pleased to report did not collapse under our weight. We settled ourselves on its hopelessly uneven floor and tried to get some rest. It really was uncomfortable, but I fell quickly into a deep sleep. The others did as well, and nothing bothered us until dawn. We had dug holes, felled trees and labored to construct our bohio for over seven hours, so we felt the effect.

Along with the slogging through the mud back in paramilitary training, I often wondered about the value of this effort as well. Did building a bohio also build character?

Next morning the field kitchen produced a hot breakfast that we thought was delicious—mainly because we were famished. I noticed everyone attacking their meals with gusto and suspected that not many of those chickens had actually been eaten.

“Wonder what this fine day has in store for us,” André said.

Now in the middle of our second week we sat in the back of the truck, as it headed again into the jungle on another bright and sunny morning.

“Who knows?” I answered. “We’ll find out soon. The trucks are slowing down.”

We poured out of the back and found ourselves next to Gatun Lake, actually a part of the Panama Canal. The shore was sandy and the water looked inviting. About 30 large, black rubber boats floated in the shallow water, a stack of paddles on the shore. The head instructor faced the lake, and we faced him.

“Each group should get a boat and paddles,” he announced. “We’re going to do some work on the water today. This exercise is going to familiarize you with how to handle a small boat. No big thing, you just coordinate your paddling.”

He hoisted a paddle and demonstrated where to place your hands and how to pull forward.

“Across the lake and back,” he continued. “Just go around the orange buoy over there on the other side.”

He seemed to be taking a lot longer than necessary to explain something that was pretty simple.

“Two more things,” he continued. “First, this is going to be a race.”

Everybody perked up.

“The first boat back wins. 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 be no picnic. Still, we had almost 27 hours to do it.

The instructor continued.

“The exercise gives you a grace period of 15 minutes, during which you will, if you’re smart, get the hell out of here and make tracks for the rendezvous point. After the 15 minutes, the enemy will react on sight. Clear? The exercise starts when I drop my hat.”

He dropped his hat and all hell broke loose.

Just like the previous day at the lake, men ran in every direction trying to put distance between themselves and the clearing. They knew the enemy patrols would start soon, and the patrols would know where we’d be heading.

Try to get across the first road as soon as possible, we were thinking. “We,” in this instance, included André, Mike Deuel, Monty, Mike L. and me. We hadn’t planned it that way, but that’s how it worked out. We were standing together listening to the instructor’s briefing, and we had taken off in the same direction when he dropped his hat.

Nobody had set off alone, as far as I could see. The groups ranged from two to six men. I have no idea what the optimum number would have been. We ran along the road for almost 10 minutes then cut into the jungle along the spine of the peninsula. We saw a couple of other groups, but soon we were alone. It was still early morning, but the heat was rising and we had worked up a heavy sweat from the run.

We stopped to gather our thoughts and figure out where we were. They had given us good maps, so it didn’t take long to pinpoint our location. Our sprint along the road had gained us about a mile, so we had 17 to go to reach exfiltration.

“If we can make 2 miles an hour, we could be on the beach just after dark,” Mike Deuel said.

“Yeah,” I responded, “but hacking our way will slow us down.”

“Whatever,” André said. “We need to start walking if we’re going to get there.”

“I’ll start on the point,” Monty said.

We picked up our gear and fell in line behind him. Monty handed me his rifle—he couldn’t carry it and use his machete at the same time—and led us into the jungle. Within a couple of hours we reached the first road we’d have to cross. We heard a truck pass and assumed it was an enemy patrol.

How often do they pass?

We approached the road carefully after locating our position on the map. Our progress had been slow despite a steady pace and few breaks.

“Likely there will be foot patrols or outposts along the roads,” Monty said.

“You’re probably right,” Mike Deuel added. “Let’s get a good look at things before we try to cross.”

Our caution was rewarded after only about five minutes. Hiding in the brush we had fanned out along the road, another red-clay ribbon about 15 feet wide running through dense jungle. We tried to spot a good place to cross while watching for patrols or guard posts.

As André and I scanned a straight stretch we saw another group crossing about 50 yards away. Whistles blew and an enemy patrol suddenly appeared.

“Busted,” I heard one of them yell, probably to others still hiding on our side of the road.

We moved silently in the opposite direction and regrouped. Nobody else had seen anything, but we all had heard the shouts and whistles. Getting across the damned road was going to be trickier than anticipated.

We distanced ourselves from the patrol until we reached a curve. The patrol couldn’t see us there, but we knew they were taking the names of the men they had stopped, and soon they would be on the lookout again.

We couldn’t wait until dark; we had to cross right away. We decided to go one at a time, regrouping on the other side about 20 yards into the jungle. Everything seemed quiet. We’d just have to chance it. Mike L. would go first, and we’d each follow if all went well.

Our luck held. Mike dashed across and dove into the jungle. Nothing but quiet. We sighed in relief then followed one by one. As I crossed, keeping as low to the ground as I could, I saw a ditch that ran along the road on the opposite side. The others had probably seen it but couldn’t warn me. As they had probably done I half-slid into the ditch—it was too wide to jump over—and scrambled up the other side.

Back together we regrouped and set off again. According to our map only two crossings remained between us and the beach.

“If the other crossings take that long, we’ll never make it to the beach today,” said Monty.

True. It had taken us quite a while to scout out a site and finally get across that road. We lost time.

“Doesn’t really matter,” Mike Deuel said. “We have to just push ahead.”

We did, crossing the second road without incident by mid-afternoon. Afterward we reached a small stream and stopped to fill our canteens. The water was clear and cool, and I was tempted to avoid adding the mandatory purification tablets. I splashed some onto my head and face. It felt good. The others did the same. All were perspiring heavily, and our fatigues were drenched with sweat. We took 10 minutes to eat some C-rations. It was a welcome break.

Back on the trek under the quiet and pretty jungle canopy we reached an area that was higher in elevation with much less undergrowth. The point man had less hacking to do and the rest of us just watched our compasses. Go east, young men.

When we took our bearings again we found out we had covered about half the distance to the beach, and nobody was showing signs of fatigue yet.

Good thing we’re all in shape. Things could be worse.

They were about to be.

We approached the last crossing point around 5 p.m. and sensed signs of activity. We assumed some of the other groups had made about the same progress we had and were moving in our vicinity. We also assumed the instructors knew we’d be passing by here, and acting in the role of our enemy they would try to make things as tough as possible.

We decided to play it cautious again. We found a good vantage point and just watched. Sure enough there was more road traffic than we had seen on either of the previous crossings. The noose was tightening, as our side funneled into a smaller and smaller area. It was built into the exercise. As intended, the enemy activity increased our stress level.

We talked quietly about our next moves.

“Hell, I think that curve will give us enough time to get across,” Monty said, gesturing to our right. “I say we move out. We’re losing time again.”

“Monty’s right,” Mike Deuel said. “Unless they’re right across the road, we’ll have time to make it. We can hear jeeps or trucks well before they get here.”

“Agreed,” I said. “The only difference this time is more traffic, but Mike’s right, we can hear them coming.”

André and Mike L. nodded. We would make the crossing now.

We approached the road carefully, listening for any sign of a presence on the other side. We heard nothing. Monty was first to cross this time and Mike Deuel was last. At Mike’s signal, Monty jumped out of the covering jungle and took off across the road. I began just as he disappeared on the other side.

I saw them just as I finished the crossing: an eight-man patrol. They nabbed Monty and then me. I yelled a warning, but André was already coming. Bad luck for sure. They got us all, and we had to give them our names before we could continue.

We had stumbled right into them. We cursed our bad luck, but there was nothing to do except make it to the beach within the time limit and try not to get caught again.

Soon we had moved well away from the last crossing and noticed the terrain was getting rougher: small hills, ravines and thick undergrowth. Another map check showed we had about 7 miles left and only a couple of hours of daylight. What to do?

“If we push on, we can be on the beach sometime after midnight,” said Mike Deuel. “But covering this terrain in the dark won’t be much fun.”

I worried about someone slipping into a ravine.

“I’d love to get in tonight,” I said, “but I guess discretion may be the better part of valor.”

“Yeah, we don’t want any injuries,” Monty added.

“Well, let’s at least make it as far as we can before dark,” André said, “and we can see what it would be like to continue.”

“So we move out briskly,” Mike Deuel concluded with a grin. We did, but the terrain didn’t get any better.

Dusk came and went. Mike L. had taken the lead. At one point he almost walked into a tree. We took it as a sign to call it a night. We could move through the jungle in darkness, but there were limits. This terrain was difficult enough in daylight. At night it just didn’t seem smart to keep moving. We decided to get some rest and finish the last miles starting at dawn.

I leaned my rifle against a tree, took off my pack and sat down. It had been a long, stressful, demanding day. I was dead tired.

We spread out the ponchos to sleep on and got out more C-rations. Suddenly we heard noises behind us. Was it a patrol looking for us? Another bunch headed for the beach? We didn’t know. There wasn’t time to do much. I reached for my unloaded rifle, just because it seemed a sensible thing to do.

Just then three men we thought were from the SEAL group ran—yes, ran—right by us. We watched, amazed.

What the hell are they doing? How long have they been behind us? Was this just for effect?

Whatever the answer, the SEALs just kept going. We later learned they had arrived first on the beach, well before midnight. However imprudent they might have been, watching those men run by raised our already high regard for them.

Despite the conditions—hard ground, bugs and intermittent rain—I slept well. Fatigue will do that. Someone shook me lightly just before dawn and I rolled out and put my boots on—we had all slept in our fatigues. Much to the concern of the rest of us, Mike L. had not taken off his boots. He said he was having trouble with his feet and didn’t want to look at them until we got to the beach. We had all argued that some air and dry socks would be a good thing, but he wouldn’t listen.

We were already walking as dawn broke, and our spirits were high. This would be the last day of the course and the end of a tough two weeks in Panama. The sleep, fitful for some, had done us all good, and there was a spring again in our steps.

Mike Deuel took the point and set a good pace. We all wanted to get this over with. A pretty blue sky appeared over the jungle canopy, and it looked like yet another sunny day. The terrain grew less difficult as we approached the rendezvous point. It took only a couple of hours to cover the rest of the way. We reached the beach and checked in by 8:30.

I looked forward to a long hot shower and some hot food.

The military had watched and graded everyone during those two weeks. Even though we were civilians they included us in the evaluations, which turned out to be advantageous. We had done very well both individually and as a group. They awarded us points for our performance in each exercise, and total points determined how we finished. Above certain levels they awarded badges of distinction.

I left with a Jungle Expert badge, meaning I had performed at the highest level. So did all but five in our group.

The badge aside, I also left with a much greater respect for the jungle environment and how to deal with it. That turned out to be very important. What I had learned and experienced in Panama would serve me well and soon.