Inside Delta Force ERIC LAMAR HANEY.pdf

Inside Delta Force

ERIC LAMAR HANEY

DURING THE 1970s, THE UNITED STATES BECAME THE favorite whipping boy for any

terrorist group worthy of the name. They had come to realize that American interests could be

struck with practical impunity throughout the world, and as the decade unfolded, the pace and

severity of those assaults quickened. America, the Gulliver-like giant, had sickened of warfare in

Vietnam and was both unable and unwilling to slap at the mosquitoes of terrorism.

For years, famed Special Forces officer Colonel Charlie Beckwith had been the lone voice

crying in the wilderness about the terrorist threat facing the nation, and what it would take to

effectively confront that threat. He had seen the need within the U. S. military for a compact,

highly skilled, and versatile unit able to undertake and execute difficult and unusual "special"

missions.

Modeled along the lines of the British commando organization, the Special Air Service (SAS),

such an element would be the surgical instrument that could be employed at a moment's notice to

execute those tasks outside the realm of normal military capability.

It was Charlie's tenacity that finally won the day and set the wheels in motion that would

ultimately bring such a unit into existence. But creating that organization and bringing it to life

within the hidebound hierarchy of the Army was a task not dissimilar to electing a pope.

As a rule, armies hate change--and no one hates change more than the ones who have benefited

most by the status quo: the general officers. Now and then, innovative thinkers do happen to wear

stars on their collars, and Colonel Beckwith's loud and persistent calls for a national

counterterrorism force had found the ears of two such men: Generals Bob Kingston and Edwin

"Shy" Meyer.

Kingston was stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and he readily saw the possibilities of the

type of force Beckwith was proposing. But he knew that presenting the idea through Army

bureaucracy was like walking in a minefield--it could be killed a thousand different ways. To

make headway would require someone with horsepower and a mastery of the military political

system, and Shy Meyer was that man.

General Meyer was serving as the Deputy Chief of Staff of the Army, and rumor had it that he

would soon become the Chief. Beckwith and Kingston floated their idea of a counterterrorism for

Meyer and immediately realized they were preaching to the choir. Meyer, too, had entertained

ideas along that same line, and now the three men enthusiastically shared their thoughts on the

subject. The need was evident, but creating a force from whole cloth was going to be extremely

difficult.

First they had to determine what types of missions their fictional unit would be tasked with,

because the mission dictates a unit's size. With that they were able to build a Table of Organization

and Equipment (TO&E), which outlines unit configuration, rank structure, and arms and

equipment. The completed TO&E allowed them to forecast a budget for both start-up and annual

costs.

Once their "straw man" was complete, from his position in the Pentagon, Meyer started digging,

looking for the places to extract the money and the men for the outfit. It may come as a surprise,

but the Army does not just have men hanging around and unemployed. Every unit has a manpower

quota, and every soldier is assigned to a unit, even if he doesn't work there. But sometimes there

are units that are alive on paper but not actually in existence at the time, with the men allocated to

those paper units being used elsewhere. Meyer found enough of those slots to man their dream

organization, and he uncovered a source of untapped money to breathe life into it.

Next they spent months "what-iffing" their paper unit. They had to be able to anticipate every

objection to their creation in advance and have a sound, well-thought-out response to every

question. Allies were sought. Powerful and influential generals who could block the formation of

the unit were sounded out as to their feelings on the idea. Nothing was ever presented to anyone as

a proposal; it was much too early for that. For the time being they just wanted to know who were

the friends and who were foes.

But when the more powerful generals realized that a new unit wouldn't intrude on their turf or

siphon money from their budgets, they gave their nods of acceptance, if not approval. With that,

the trio of Kingston, Meyer, and Beckwith were ready to present their plan. The formal proposal

for a national counterterrorism force was presented at the Fort Benning Infantry Conference in the

summer of 1977. With all the details and political machinations completed in advance, the

proposal was duly approved, and it was recommended to the Chief of Staff of the Army that such

an organization be formed immediately. By that time General Meyer was the Chief.

1st Special Forces Operational Detachment--Delta was given official life on 21 November 1977

by order of Headquarters, Department of the Army. When Beckwith was chosen to command the

new outfit, he immediately set to work. He handpicked a few staff members, found an old derelict

building in an out-of-the-way spot on Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and started the struggle to

midwife his baby.

It would not be an easy birth.

In The Beginning

"C-One-Thirty rollin' down the strip,

Airborne Ranger on a one-way trip.

Mission unspoken, destination unknown,

Airborne Ranger ain't never comin' home!"

-- Ranger Running Cadence

THE C-130 TRANSPORT PLANE BUCKED AND SHOOK SIDE to side like a malevolent

rodeo bull. It's going to be a helluva ride till we can get out of this baby , I thought as the big iron

bird descended to jump altitude. Then the plane leveled out, and the bouncing and shivering,

though still severe, took on a slightly more predictable tempo.

Now it was time. Barely able to move, encased in the weight of parachute, rucksack, equipment

harness, and rifle, I lurched to my feet, hooked the parachute's static line to the overhead steel

cable, and turned to face the forty other Rangers still seated on the red nylon benches that ran

down the sides and center of the aircraft.

I looked at the Air Force loadmaster as he spoke into his microphone and watched for the red

jump light to come on. Then, with a sudden whoosh followed by a deafening roar, he and his

assistant slid the jump doors into the opened and ready position. Wind howled through the plane

and whipped at my legs as I glanced across the plane to my assistant jump master, Sergeant Allie

Jones. He nodded that he was ready, and it began.

I looked back down the line of expectant men seated in front of me, gave the fuselage floor a

powerful stamp with my left foot, threw my hands and arms into the air with my palms facing the

men, and yelled at the top of my lungs, " Get ready! "

The men unbuckled their seat belts, focused their attention on my assistant and me on the other

side of the plane, and upright in their seats, ready for the next command.

"Outboard personnel. Stand up!" I shouted, as I pointed to the men seated against the skin of the

aircraft. They struggled to their feet in spite of the plane's wild lurching, and when they were in

line facing me, I continued the jump commands.

"Inboard personnel. Stand up!" I pointed with extended arms and hands to the men still seated on

the centerline seats. With help from their standing comrades, they got to their feet, and the two

groups formed into a continuous line.

The plane was bouncing and rattling now like an old truck hurtling over a washboarded dirt

road, and it was all the men could do to keep their balance. I hope no one starts throwing up. If

they do it'll spread like wildfire, and the floors will become slippery and dangerous . But this was a

veteran bunch of jumpers and no one became airsick, even though the ride was getting worse now

that we were on the jump run.

"Hook up!" I called, extending my arms high overhead and making crooks of my index fingers.

Only the first few men in line could hear the commands and understand my voice over the

roaring blast coming in the open doors, but everyone could see the hand and arm signals of the

jump commands, and it was a code they knew by heart. In unison the jumpers detached their static

line clips from the top of their reserve parachutes, snapped them in place on the overhead steel

cable running the length of the fuselage, and inserted the safety wire through the sliding lock.

I slid my fingers back and forth over imaginary steel cables. "Check static lines!"

Every man check his own static line and then the line of the man in front of him. This was the

crucial check; a fouled static line could kill you.

With exaggerated movements I patted the front of my chest with both hands. "Check

equipment!"

Each Ranger checked his helmet, his reserve parachute, his rucksack and lowering line, and his

weapon, making sure everything was securely and properly fastened.

I placed cupped hands behind my ears and shouted, "Sound off for equipment check!"

Beginning with the last man in the rear of the plane, the response came up the line, each Ranger

slapping the ass of the man in front of him and yelling into his ear, "Okay!" I heard the muffled

reply faintly at first, but it gathered power and speed as the call rippled up the line, until the man

directly in front of me threw out his hand with the circled fingers of the "okay" signal, stamped his

foot on the aluminum floor, and shouted, "All okay!"

Now I turned to the open jump door. I checked to make sure my rucksack was securely tied to

my upwind leg. Then I took a firm hold of the door frame with my right hand and ran my left hand

down the other edge of the door, making sure there was no sharp edge that might cut a static line.

Next I kicked the side locks of the jump platform and gave it a stomp with one foot to make sure it

was secure.

Satisfied that all was well with the door, I slid my legs forward, hooked my toes over the outer

edge of the platform, and with a white-knuckled grip on the frame of the door, arched my back and

shoved my entire body outside the plane to perform the first air safety check.

The 120-mile-per-hour wind tore at my clothes and equipment and tried to wrest the plane from

my tenuous grasp, but I hung on with determination. I still had a jib to perform, and we were miles

short of the drop zone.

First I looked forward to orient myself and then I checked for the position of the other planes.

Then I looked up to make sure no one was above us, and toward the rear to make certain no one

was back there. We were the last plane in the flight, and I was glad to see the other birds all in

their proper position. I tilted my head down just a bit so the brim of my helmet helped cut the wind

from my eyes and then concentrated on the ground ahead as I looked for the checkpoints that told

me we were approaching Fort Stewart, Georgia, and Taylor's Creek Drop Zone.

In the distance ahead, I caught sight of the huge DZ, showing as a rectangular slab of white sand

and scrub brush in an endless green forest. I watched its steady approach, and when it was just in

front of the plane's nose, I wrenched myself back inside, pointed to the open doorway, and shouted

to the first man in line the phrase that thrills every paratrooper, "Stand in the door!"

The human energy in the plane crackled as the soldier threw his static line into my waiting hand,

put his feet on the jump platform, and grasped the outside of the shuddering door frame. Knees

cocked like levers, arms tensed, he looked with steady eyes straight out the wind-blasted and

howling door, waiting for the ultimate command. An eighteen-year-old private first class, Ricky

Magee was the youngest jumper in the plane, but he was showing the steady courage of an old

hand.

I held him by his parachute harness and looked around the front of his chest as the drop zone slid

under the belly of the plane, then I looked back inside just in time to see the red light extinguished

and the green light come on in its place.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. My right arm felt electric as I swung it sharply forward,

gave the jumper a stinging slap low on the back of his thigh, and yelled into his ear, "Go!"

He sprang out the door like he'd been shot from an automatic cannon, while behind him a human

conveyor belt of fresh ammo rushed for the breach of the exit door.

Slap, "Go!" Slap, "Go!" Slap, "Go!"

The rapidly shortening line of men disappeared from sight as the wildly lunging plane, a

thousand feet above the ground, disgorged its human cargo into the ether. Like Jonahs from the

belly of the whale . As the last man hurled himself into space, I looked out the plane and back down

at the descending jumpers to make sure no one was hung up on the plane and being dragged to his

death.

Satisfied that all was okay, I looked to my assistant in the other doorway who had been doing the

same thing. He shouted across to me, "Clear to the rear!"

I gave him a thumbs-up and answered "Clear!" then pointed a finger at him and yelled, "Go!"

He turned to the door, hesitated the split second he needed to take a good door position, and then

launched himself from view. I quickly checked outside and below to see that he had a chute over

his head, glanced at the still-green jump light, and rocketed myself out the door into the full blast

of the air.

Tight body position. Feet and knees pressed together, hands grasping the ends of the reverse

chute, head down with my chin tucked into my chest, I counted.

One thousand! Two thousand! A hard tug at my back as the parachute was jerked from its pack.

Three thousand! The drag of the elongated but still unopened chute acted as an air brake,

immediately slowing my forward movement, tilting my back toward the earth, and I watched as

the tail of the plane sailed past over the tips of my boots.

Four thousand! A full parachute. Feet once again pointed toward the ground, I checked the

canopy. It looked good. No tears in the green fabric and no lines out of place. And after the

overwhelming noise inside the airplane, the world is suddenly silent .

I grabbed the handles of the control lines and pulled them down to the level of my helmet as I

quickly looked all around for other jumpers. Ah, plenty of clear air. I checked for the direction of

smoke on the drop zone and then let the parachute fly so that I could also gauge the direction of

the wind up here. I let the canopy run with the wind; I was a long way from the assembly point

and I wanted the parachute to take me as close as it possibly could.

Shove the rifle over so that it's not under my armpit or it'll bend the barrel and dislocate my

shoulder when I hit the ground. Legs slightly bent, feet and knees together, elbows in front of the

face, hands even with the top of the helmet . . . and relax. Now the ground came hurtling upward

with amazing speed and the rucksack hit with a solid thunk. Relax, relax, relax. . .

At a speed of twenty-two feet per second, I made jolting impact with the earth. Balls of the feet,

calves, sides of the thighs, ass, and backs of the shoulders making contact in a practiced rolling

sequence that spread the energy of the controlled crash across the length of my body. I heard, as

from a distance, the thump and jangle of equipment as my load and I completed our short flight

and suddenly landing. And then it was over.

Everything still works. And any parachute landing is a good one if you can get up and walk

away. I came to rest, shucked myself out of the harness, and ran to the canopy to fold and stow it

away before a puff of wind could inflate it again. I quickly stuffed my chute into its hit bag,

donned my gear, and set out at a fast trot to rejoin company.

Today we had a rare and unexpected treat. Following an exercise, we usually road-marched the

twenty miles from the drop-zone back to the barracks. But we were returning from a long and

arduous month in the jungles of Panama. And we had a lot of work ahead of us cleaning and

turning in weapons and equipment, so the colonel has us trucked back to camp instead.

Four hours later everything was accounted for and back in its proper place. The formation came

to attention, the first sergeant called, "Dismissed!" and with a thundering "Hoo-ah!" the 158 men

of Charlie Company, 1st Ranger Battalion, were released for a well-deserved three-day weekend.

I watched my platoon as it immediately disintegrated into individuals and small groups of

buddies. I was about to walk away when Glenn Morrell, the battalion command sergeant major,

called me to his side.

"Sergeant Haney, I want you to report to the battalion conference room and meet someone who'd

like to speak with you."

"Certainly, Sergeant Major," I said. "Who is it? "

"He's an old friend of mine, and I think you'll find what he has to say pretty interesting," he

replied with the lopsided smile that habitually adorned his rugged face. "He's waiting for you

now."

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