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This is a pretty good description of what a road march is all about...
"Road Marches. We can all relate to this one. They were a mother.
RLTW Ron C Co., 1st/75th, 80-81
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THIS CAME TO ME AS AN EMAIL LAST YEAR FROM AN OLD RANGER BUDDY. IT IS
NOT ATTRIBUTED, MEANING, I'M NOT THE AUTHOR, AND I DON'T KNOW WHO IS. IF
YOU ARE INTERESTED IN BECOMING A RANGER, BUT ARE NOT CERTAIN AS TO YOUR
ABILITY TO HUMP, READ THIS FOR A BIT OF ILLUMINATION.
Weapon, ruck sack, combat load 100 lbs., field uniform. A team made up
of men with individual missions but one objective - to execute the
mission and survive until extraction. Each individual functioning as
one. One Ranger gets emotional, others suffer. One Ranger gets arrogant,
others die.
Move out to UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters, rig for jump, load, transport
to DZ, jump. Gather at assembly point, check equipment, and move out.
Leadership in front of split column, both sides of the road. Night,
black, luminescent Ranger "eyes" bobble on the back of the Patrol Cap in
front of you. Shut up. Follow. Obey. No nice here. No home and cookies
and TV, just pain and suffering. No warm and fuzzy anywhere near this
place. Just sacrifice. Just harsh, cold, hard reality stripped of any
embroidery or romance. Just pain and sweat ahead all night.
LT leads with the RTO, men follow, Platoon Sergeant takes up the rear
security position 50 feet behind the main body. We are aware of his
presence back there. 50 yards ahead, 2 man front security team. Their
death will buy us reaction time. 50 yards behind, 2 man rear security
team. Suffice it to say, this is the Ranger battalion, there aren't any
stragglers anticipated. Anyone close to being unfit for this unit would
have been DX'd back in the early qualification process.
Platoon moves out, easy, accordion in effect until the pace is set. The
pace is a ball buster. Initially, it's hard to believe the LT actually
thinks he can maintain it. Can't think about that now, move out, let's
go. Adjust the
100 lbs. of shit on my back, squirm, settle in, lean forward, hump! Ruck
sack straps digging in. Pain, sweat, I can't believe how heavy this
fucking ruck sack is. "Can I make it?" creeps into my mind. Fuck that
thought. That thought IS the enemy. Last time that phrase enters my
grape. Keep that bitch out at bayonet point. That will kill you,
thinking like that. Fight the pain. Fight through to the other side of
it. Laugh at it. Endure. Lean forward, make friends with the pain. Talk
to it. Tell it you're gonna kick it's ass.
Then it happens. Always the new guys. The cherries. The bitchin',
complaining, questioning begins. Like stupid little kids in the back
seat of the Station Wagon they say, "How much further?" "My straps are
loose." "Are we gonna take a break soon?" These whining bastards. All I
want to do is cap them off with a .45 slug to the fucking temple but
ammo is more valuable to you than they are at this point. These newbies
may have bodies that were strong enough to get this far in the Ranger's,
but their minds have yet to mature. No problem. That's what Corporals
are for. The bitching ends as abruptly as it began with a calm death
threat from the Corporal: "anyone who breaks silence again shall be
fucked over... big time". Instant silence. Corporals are more feared
than long term pain. A Corporal is a fledgling Non-Commissioned Officer;
if he fucks up so what... he's just busted back to his previous rank
where he can resume hanging with his buddies. He is the one to be
feared; he really has nothing to lose.
The LT doesn't notice the repartee' behind him. He's thinking of the
pace count, the azimuth, contingencies, Operations Order, enemy
situation, artillery support, mission, men, and his own pain last.
Silence again. Only the sounds of the entrenching tool clacking
hypnotically on someone's rucksack frame, the shifting of cloth on nylon
web gear, and the panting, coughing, cursing of men in the middle of an
effort to perform the mission and survive in order to make it back to
clean sheets, hot chow, ice cold brew and a babe or two. Time to reflect
later. Time to heal, always later.
Second phase begins. As I strain forward, I see a black figure coming
nearer in reverse. He's in the center of the tank trail, and he's
slowin' down. The unbelievable happens. This clown is bowing out. He's
quitting. A word that is even difficult to enunciate as a Ranger. The
first thought you have is "Hey, Dickhead, get your sorry ass back in
formation." The point of no return with a quitter is when he falls
behind the Platoon Sergeant. You just ain't allowed to get behind that
guy. The only option is to help this bastard. So men begin to whisper,
"Shithead, gimmie your weapon, gimmie your base plate, tripod,
something." "We'll split it up. You'll make it!" After all, anybody can
have a bad day. Besides, part of the Ranger Creed is, "Never will I
leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy." But all
this dead man walking says is, "I can't make it." "I can't do it!" Well
fuck me to tears, that's it for me, we offered and you are too stupid to
listen so, "Fuck You!" And I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You
reject the team and you reject life. A man who quits must be turned
from. He sets a precedent of weakness that may drag others on the brink
of quitting down with him. Other cherries may forget about making it all
the way and quit too. A quitter never existed. He was simply never here
to begin with. The Platoon Sergeant acts decisively in order to squelch
any further dissension in the ranks. He strips the guy's equipment off
of him and literally beats his ass down to the ground, kicking him off
the trail. He then calls for volunteers to go back and pick up the
equipment. We may have lost the "man" but we still have the supplies.
But now the team has to hump more weight. The quitter never thinks about
others and the extra weight they will have to carry in his absence, oh
no, he only thinks of himself. This is arrogance. The ambulance
following the road march picks his bruised and bloody body up and
carries him back to the "World" where the Black Chinook picks him up and
we never see him again.
After that debilitating episode, you resume the pain. Lean in. Sweat,
snot, drooling, blisters. You get mean. Hard. No bitching. No negative
or weak thoughts. Just mean. You look forward to the ambush just so you
can share pain with others. Inflict pain. Yeah. That will be good. One
thing becomes obvious, if you come this far; you'll make it. The worst
is the beginning, staying the course is where a man finds his feet.
Routine may be boring but if you do it long enough you get there. The
mission is a good one. The men you are with are good men. Training is
good for detecting quitters so they can be eliminated. In combat you
only want tested men with you. There's camaraderie among those left. You
can count on these guys and they on you. All types, ghetto rappers,
white farm boys, city boys, no matter, Americans. Every one. Tonight
we're brothers. Bound together by shared pain and a shared mission. You
care about these guys. You'd share your last chow with these guys.
Water, ammo, pogey bait, all shared. Nothing spoken. There's a mutual
respect because you and they are all faithful to the execution of the
mission and each other. They can hang.
Camouflage melts. Muscles explode with searing shots of pain as fresh
blood courses through your veins as you rearrange you ruck sack.
Breathing hurts. Then as if in a dream we're down. Word passes back that
we've reached the ambush site. We move in to occupy our space along the
perimeter. For the next hour we clear fields of fire, check commo, set
up firing positions, leaders move up and down the line to ensure correct
placement and that interlocking fields of fire are established. A terse
reminder to wait for the green star cluster before attacking, to sweep
the kill zone together so that no one makes a salient and gets shot by
his own men. Then after we are set in and ready, we try to stay awake
and ready and we reflect on what we've been through. The ambush itself
is a piece of cake, killing is easy, the road march is the bitch.
The Road March accomplishes many things:
A) It allows you to challenge your soul. B) It teaches you the
importance of teamwork. C) It provides a mirror reflecting who you are.
D) It exposes all good and bad in yourself. E) There's no way to hide on
a road march. F) It strengthens trust in your leaders. G) It toughens
you mentally. H) It beats complaining right out of you. I) It orients
you to authority. J) It makes you think about others. K) It matures you.
L) It makes you more objective. M) It provides a frame of reference for
suffering.
The Road March is the crucible in which the soul is refined. Pulling a
trigger is easy. Humping the load over the distance is where you find
out who will be on the ambush site to pull the trigger with you.
In the Battalion, after the mission, you go out to a bar. Drinking,
eating, laughing. Talking shit to your Ranger Buddies. Suddenly a cherry
who made the hump steps inside the bar. Funny... he doesn't look that
new anymore. Cuts on his face. Bruised. Walks with a limp. But the
Mother Fucker made the hump. Before we call this cherry over to proceed
with the brain damage, one of the old timers leans in close and
whispers, "Man that's one ruck sack humpin' son of a bitch!"
The Road March defines you. Never quit.
Come in ugly if you have to, but come in."
"If they mean to have a war, let it begin here." Captain John Parker, Battle of Lexington.
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