MIGHTY CULTURE

The true, bloody story of Delta Force's ironman

Master Sergeant George Hand US Army (ret) was a member of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, The Delta Force. He is a now a master photographer, cartoonist and storyteller.

My Delta Selection class gifted the Unit with ten U.S. Army Rangers. K2 was one of the ten. He spoke very little, but his Ranger brothers spoke for him:

"Yeah, well, there's strong and then there's K2 strong," was a catchphrase among the men. I guess so... or, I mean I just didn't get it. He was medium in every way as I saw it; medium build, personality, intelligence, spirit... I just didn't see where the super strength part came into play.

Perhaps I would eventually.


In my day, the Unit was a very evenly split down center with 50% of the operators from the Rangers and the other half, including me, from the Green Beret groups. To us, the Rangers were rigid meatheads; to them, we were lazy cheaters. I resented but agreed with the Rangers' assessment of us Green Beanies — in fact, it is the very reason why I left the groups to seek out Delta.

K2 and I rarely spoke at first. I remember the first time during our Selection and Assessment course. It was the night before our final test of strength and endurance. We were given a chance to sleep for almost three hours.

Twenty men hit the ground in their bags to saw logs. Another man from the groups and I sat and chatted up a host of disparate nonsense.

K2 sat up looking like a mummy in his bag, unzipped, and revealed a disenchanted expression:

"You guys mind shutting the phuq up? We're trying to sleep here."

He zipped and lay back down.

Army Green Berets are respected for their flexibility, broad reach, and extraordinary

ability to improvise.

"That's the first thing he's said to me this whole month!" I whispered to my bro. "Same here!" my bud whispered back... ah, but we whispered! You see, us lazy cheaters still caught on to the fact that we were asses for talking while the men tried to sleep, and we both felt a distinct aura coming from the man whose strength wrought an aphoristic statement from his brethren: the night is as long as K2 is strong.

We graduated and moved on to the next training phase in Delta, the advanced skill training course, one that would last for some six months. The heavy lift subject for us was Close Quarters Combat (CQB), a subject for which Delta has no known peer. It's a subject that I claim total immersion for myself. I ran through CQB scenarios in my mind even as I walked to the restroom at Taco Bell; I didn't just enter the restroom, I cleared it first.

Countless days and the thousands of bullets whizzing by inches from everyman rendered a couple of holes through pant legs. That was cringeworthy... but so far nobody was getting hit. That is, up until the day K2 got hit squarely in the leg from a 9 x 19mm round from a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. The stray round had rabbited along a wall and punched through K2's leg.

9x19mm Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun.

"I'm hit," he stated as flatly as he stated his name the first day of training.

K2 was hit with a flyer shot that missed its target. It was a good thing it happened in training, as a "thrown round" once assigned to a Sabre Squadron could get a man getting reassigned from the Unit. K2 looked instantly worried, not about his injury... rather his ability to remain with the class.

We returned to training K2-less, as he was taken to the compound clinic for treatment in-house. To take him to the main post hospital would raise unnecessary attention. His wound was a through-and-through one; no bone was broken, though the bullet did spank a long bone good as it passed.

Word was that K2 would remain in training for as long as he felt he could continue. That was great news — except for the bad news, which was we had a ten mile run scheduled for that Friday. It would not be possible for K2 to finish that. The collective question from the class was couldn't K2 skip, or at least defer that run?

The answer was he had to complete all events with the class.

Bullet wound as seen from the compound clinic.

(Courtesy of MSG Carlos Sanchez)

Friday was a gloomy morning where we collected to start the run.

"How's it going, K2?" I asked.

"Not so good, Geo... those twinkies and raisin vinegar I had for breakfast this morning are really talking to me," the K2 responded. I laughed and slapped him on the back.

We ran, and K2 ran. He ran in the middle of the pack with his head up; he had an almost-indiscernible limp. We whispered back and forth that K2 looked great and how great it was that he looked so great...

At perhaps the six mile mark, K2 slipped to the back of the pack slowly. His head was bowed low and he was no longer paying attention to his surroundings. He ran the next couple of miles in an intermittent skip, as if he were trying to hop on his good leg. We stressed for him.

Eight miles in, K2 fell back behind the pack. Falling back is not falling out, we postured; he's still in the run. Two men fell back to run with K2 to encourage or even pull him along.

"Get back up in formation!" warned the cadre. That was certainly the end of it, as nobody dared to disobey ANYTHING at this point long into training. The two men stayed back with K2. Another man fell back and then I stuttered my step to join the pull for K2.

"If you don't finish with the formation you will not pass the event!" the cadre cautioned.

K2's shoe was soaked in blood from where his wound had begun to seep. It made a wet splatting noise with each step. K2 regarded our staying back with him with pain and disbelief... and more pain still. He couldn't run any faster; he just couldn't do it, but we weren't going to leave him.

And then a thing happened.

Ahead of us, the Delta cadre sergeant looped his formation back, back around and brought it up behind the K2 clan at a reduced speed. We, the mighty, ran with our heads up over the finish line. The sergeant disappeared.

In the mingling sea of back-pats and handshakes, K2 grabbed a shake from me, thanking me for what I had done. I "confessed" to him that I was lazy and a cheat and used him as an excuse to fall back and take a gravely-needed rest... a thing that made him grin a powerful K2 grin.

"Good luck in training today, Geo," K2 bid me as we parted.

"RGR, K2... break a leg!"

K2's run diet: vinegar and twinkies.

George Hand is a retired Master Sergeant from the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, and the Seventh Special Forces Groups (Airborne). The views and opinions expressed in this article are his own.