“We could do an LZ defense.”
“Yes, get them into it.”
Dewitt called the men around him, and explained the exercise. “We have wounded, we’re in enemy territory. We’ve called for a helicopter lift-out. The choppers are on their way, five minutes out. They request a red marker flare. We shoot out a flare at a good LZ, and then form a perimeter around it. We defend it against attacks from all sides. Who has a red flare?”
“I do,” Jack Mahanani said.
“Fire it out about a hundred yards line of sight. As soon as it hits, we converge on it and deploy around it thirty yards away in a circle. Go, Mahanani.”
He fired the red flare. It arced out, hit the ground, and kept burning.
“First squad to the right, second squad to the left. Let’s defend our LZ or we’ll never get out of here. Go, go, go.”
They ran for the flare, and went down in prone positions facing outward thirty yards from the red light. Ed’s three-round burst from his MP-5 started the firing. They kept up the firing for a full minute; then Ed used the Motorola.
“Sustain fire, but on five-second intervals. Conserve rounds. We don’t hear the chopper yet.”
The firing tapered off, then came on with single-shot rounds at intervals. After two more minutes, Ed called a cease-fire.
“Come on in around me for an evaluation,” Ed said in his mike.
The men assembled.
“Jaybird, what happened?”
“Went fine. We fired too fast at first, but we didn’t have any targets so we overshot. With something to fire at, we’d be more conservative. I’m almost dry on ammo.”
“Douglas,” Ed said.
“I ran out of ammo. It’s been a long drill. Like Jaybird said, with real targets I’d be more conservative. Knowing we were waiting for the chopper, we’d all save more ammo for the landing and to protect our men as we loaded.”
“That’s about it, men. Let’s form into a column of ducks, First Squad on the right side, Second Squad on the left, and get ready to move out.”
“Where to, L-T?” Doc Ellsworth asked.
“Anyone have an issue compass?” Ed asked.
Two of the older hands groaned.
“You wouldn’t, L-T,” a plaintive voice called out.
“Would, and will,” Ed said. “This one is called getting home alive.”
“Oh, damn, I think I’m coming down with appendicitis,” Ron Holt called. Half the men laughed. The other half didn’t know what was coming.
“Move out to the north,” Ed said. He put Joe Lampedusa leading one file and Jaybird the other.
“No talking, this is a quiet maneuver.” Ed led the group generally north. Murdock brought up the rear. Every two hundred yards he tapped two of the men on the shoulder, and told them to hold their position for ten minutes, then regroup.
He had dropped off four pairs before one of them said something.
“Commander, this is a find-your-way-home drill, right? We ain’t gonna regroup.” It was Horse Ronson. He was with Fred Washington.
“Well, now, Horse, you figure it out. Just hope to hell you have your compass.”
As they walked away, Murdock could hear Horse swearing up a storm.
In twenty minutes, they had dropped off all the pairs of men except the leads. Jaybird had watched behind him. He had it figured out.
“Hell, Commander, I know how to get back,” Jaybird said. “No compass, but I got me the stars. I’d be the first swabby back at the bus.”
“Maybe not, Jaybird. You see, you’re with us. We four, no more.
Lieutenant Dewitt here is going to be our guide and scout to get us back to the bus. Before dawn, we hope.”
Ed muttered something they couldn’t hear, and took his compass out of his combat vest. He stared at the stars in the clear sky overhead, and then pointed. “We go south and west. We’ve been working generally north and east. Should work.”
“I figure we’re about twelve to thirteen miles from the bus,” Murdock said. “What do you think, Joe?”
“Closer to fifteen, Skipper. It’s now about twenty-hundred. If the L-T can do the job, we should be in our blankets by midnight.”
It was almost 0100 before the foursome arrived at the bus. Two teams had beaten them back: Ronson and Washington, and Doc Ellsworth and Joe Douglas.
Another team came in about 0200, but the last six men didn’t make it back until an hour after daylight at 0630.
Murdock and the others had fires going for coffee and hot MRE main dishes. The last men in ignored the food, and fell on their blankets for a quick rest.
“Sack out,” Murdock said. “We don’t have our first call here for another hour and a half.”
Al Adams groaned, and pulled his blanket up over his head. “I may never walk another step in my lifetime,” he growled.
Murdock let them sleep in until 0800, then rousted everyone out.
“Today we get to wash the dirt off our cammies in the good old canal. It should be a fun morning.”
Before they left the bus, Murdock checked in on the SATCOM with Master Chief George Mackenzie.
“Checking in about my laundry list. Anything new there at the zoo?”
“Not so you could notice, except it’s much quieter than usual with the Third Platoon out gallivanting around the countryside.”
“Anything from our friend and fisherman Don Stroh?”
“Not nary a word, sir. You did have a personal call from Washington, D.C. The nice-sounding lady did not leave her name or number.”
“Thank you, Master Chief. She never leaves a name. She figures I must know who’s calling.”
“And do you, lad?”
“Aye, that and I do,” Murdock said with a brogue to match the Scotsman.
They both laughed.
“Master Chief, I’m figuring at least another day here. I’ll check in tomorrow morning and see what’s happening.”
“Aye, do that.”
“We’re done here. Out.”
At 0900 the SEALs marched away from their “home” at the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range toward the Coachilla Canal. Technically it was outside of the gunnery range boundary, but the SEALs didn’t let that stop them from utilizing the wetness for training purposes. The authorities that ran the canal that fed water to the water-starved Imperial County from the Colorado River aqueduct had never complained about a little bit of wetness training in their water.
The SEALs were ready for combat. They had restocked their combat vests with their regular supply of ammunition, grenades, and other operational gear, and stuffed in one MRE each. Just one today, not two, which should mean a shorter training day. Everyone had his issue weapon.
“Let’s move out,” Murdock called. “Diamond formation with Lam out front a hundred. Let’s go.”
It was less than half a mile to the canal. Murdock watched the water, tossed in a piece of dry cactus wood, and saw it swept downstream.
“Looks like about five knots today,” Murdock said. “Motorolas in the waterproof. No rebreathers and no fins. Just a nice little swim.
Let’s go downstream for a quarter of a mile; then we’ll come back up against the current.”
They waded in and swam by twos with their buddy lines attached.
Murdock took the point, and when he stopped, he stepped out on the bank and waved the others to turn around.
“Okay, upstream now. Swim for it. Doc, Quinley is wounded. Has a bad arm and can’t swim. How are you going to get him upstream?”
Quinley had been pulled out of the water as the others began to move upstream.
“Ronson, Fernandez,” Doc called. “Get back here, and help me with a casualty.”
The two came back and waited. Doc took out of his kit an inflatable collar that looked like half a life vest, attached it around Quinley’s neck, then pushed a pin and it inflated.
“Left arm or right,” he asked Quinley.
“Left.”