Ashley's War (9 page)

By 7:45 a.m. she stood cooling her heels in the now-crowded lobby, where several dozen women were getting ready for what many expected would be the biggest test of their lives. By 8 a.m. the truck arrived to take them to Camp Mackall at Fort Bragg, where the men’s Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) also takes place. The women, by contrast, would have a week of selection. And, if they were lucky enough to make the team, six weeks of training.

By late morning the would-be CSTs had reached their destination: a line of evenly spaced large canvas Army tents they would call home for the next six days. They were arranged in a semicircle, and Amber thought they looked like brown caterpillars waiting to become butterflies. She located her assigned tent and stepped through the wooden door into a space large enough to fit five cots comfortably on each side, along with a few desks and some standard-issue metal folding chairs. Lightbulbs dangled from wooden struts lining either side of the tent. Power outlets could be found here and there for computer work and writing exercises.

One of her tentmates, an officer who held the rank of major, Amber guessed was the most senior female trying for this new position.
Judging by her officer rank, age, and the fact that she had worked for Admiral Olson, she was clearly a star. Also in the room was a soldier she nicknamed “the Trucker,” who chewed Copenhagen Long Cut tobacco, stashed her spit cup beneath her cot, and had a mouth that would put a sailor to shame.

The only distinguishing feature of the uniforms was a rectangle-shaped piece of tape with the candidate’s ID number written upon it attached to their camouflaged arms and legs. No tabs or insignia displaying rank or any other outward sign distinguishing between enlisted person and officer was permitted. Everyone had an equal chance to shine or shrink in the course.

The first official test commenced right then and there at the tent. Of the many challenges that would come over the next several days, this should have been the easiest, since it judged not endurance or intelligence but organization. The Army special operations trainers had given the women a precise packing list in advance of their arrival, and now they wanted to see if the soldiers had followed instructions and brought everything on it.

Among the mandatory items:

Two pairs of standard Army-issue boots (or their commercial equivalent, since almost everyone found other brands more comfortable)

Two pairs white cotton socks

Five pairs green/black socks

Gore-Tex top, Gore-Tex bottom

100 mph tape (better known as duct tape to civilians)

Two reflective belts

Long underwear

Two towels

Shower shoes

Sewing kit

Three pens, three pencils

Eyeglasses if needed. (Contact lenses are prohibited.)

Poncho

Canteen

One rucksack with frame

One duffle

Sleeping bag

Officially issued laptop

One headlamp

One flashlight

One penlight

They were also provided with a list of the
only
additional items candidates were allowed to possess:

Pace count beads for tracking distance traveled

Pocketknife

Bungee cords

Foot powder

Insect repellent

Lip balm

Map case

Moleskin

Vaseline

Scissors

Parachute cord

One book (and one book only). It could be a Bible, the Ranger Handbook, or a novel. No magazines were permitted.

A stern-looking female instructor approached, and Amber suddenly felt queasy as she realized in horror that she had failed this first, most simple test. All her gear was neatly sitting there, on the gravel entryway in front of her tent, at perfect attention. Everything, except for one item.

“Where is your duffle bag?” the instructor asked in a monotone. She was maybe a decade older than Amber and had a similar no-nonsense demeanor.

“I didn’t need it, ma’am,” Amber answered. “I packed tightly enough that I fit all the other gear on the list in my rucksack.” As she spoke, she realized the folly of her hubris. She had only just stepped off the truck and already was showing herself incapable of following simple instructions.

The instructor didn’t allow a hint of emotion as she began her interrogation about the missing item.

“Was it on the packing list?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it was,” Amber answered. Her stomach roiled.

The instructor scribbled something in her notebook and moved on.

Dammit, Amber thought. Seriously, if my own cockiness is what keeps me out of this . . . She forced herself to buck up her crushed spirit and remain at attention as the instructor moved down the line of fellow CST hopefuls. It was hardly an auspicious start to the week. And it had begun so well.

As the instructors proceeded from tent to tent Amber learned that others had also left stuff behind: a notebook, a canteen cover, an extra pair of socks. She watched as other aspiring CSTs who had completed their checks ran the missing items over to their fellow soldiers. The spirit of solidarity and leadership surprised and impressed her. Sure, they all were competing against one another, but they understood that each had to succeed if anyone like them was ever going to get this chance again.

The first physical challenge came in the form of the Army’s standard physical training (PT) test. Amber busted out push-up after push-up in the two minutes she had, careful to focus on form so that every one counted.

“All the way down,” she commanded herself. Focus on making them count. Don’t go for one hundred, just make sure a few dozen are picture-perfect. But she went ahead and pounded out a lot more
than that, a benefit of her own intense CrossFit training and a heavy surge of adrenaline.

For Amber and many of the others, including Kate, the West Pointer MP who had played football in high school, and Tristan, the sockless track star, the PT test was largely a formality. Much to their consternation, the Army had different standards for male and female PT scores, and they yearned to be treated equally in every respect. In any case, most of them always performed so well they left the top score of the female scale in the dust, proving they could be measured against the male standard on any metric, from push-ups to two-milers.

Amber, like most of the others, had long ago dedicated herself to spending hours in the gym and out on the track each week. She was not a naturally gifted runner—lifting weights was a lot easier for her—but, like Ashley, what she lacked in talent she made up for in tenacity. As soon as she had heard about the CST program Amber began training in CrossFit with kettle bells, Olympic lifts, and lunges upon lunges. By the time she arrived at Bragg in May she was in better shape than she had ever been. Here, at the start of the most demanding program she had ever faced, Amber felt more alive than she had in years, and more confident.

That first road march for an “unknown distance” quickly separated the crowd of candidates. Ruck marching—walking a long distance with a heavy backpack packed tight with gear—is a physical and mental trial some soldiers love and others loathe. Every pound matters since the weight will be borne across hours and miles and hills that would test even the heartiest soldier. In this case the would-be CSTs carried around thirty-five pounds of gear from the detailed packing list, plus the weight of the water in their canteens; all of it would be measured on a scale to make certain no one was cutting corners—or ounces. For Amber, Ashley, and the fittest CST candidates, years of training and growing their endurance had accustomed them to the physical misery. Many had come to find a
certain kind of solace in the lengthy treks through every kind of terrain, their mind and body focused on transcending the next step to reach that rush of endorphins that over time rewards hours of exertion. Amber had learned how to mentally approach the trudge ahead by measuring the distance in klicks, military slang for one kilometer—1,000 meters or .62 miles—and running calculations in her head to estimate at what point she would reach the correct stride and pace that would carry her through the remaining hours. Ruck snugly packed, weapon slung across her chest, hat firmly in place keeping sweat at bay and every strand of hair pinned: she found herself in love once more with the work of soldiering for her country. Traversing the soft earth up and down the hills in her trusted Altama boots on this mild May day, she felt there truly was no place she’d rather be.

Of course, it was not all inspirational and bucolic. Eyes straight ahead, feet pounding out the first few miles, Amber passed a fellow CST candidate who was crying. The soldier moved slowly, clearly hobbled by pain of some sort, maybe a turned ankle or an aching tendon. It was easy to trip on a rock or fall over some uneven terrain out here in the wilderness. As she passed the woman the hard-edge side of her won out over the compassionate team player. Come on, Amber thought to herself. Really? If you are crying you shouldn’t be here. There are things you should shed tears about—death, severe illness—but a ruck march isn’t one of them. She kept marching.

I got this, she promised herself. Just don’t get cocky again. And for God’s sake, don’t screw up.

A
few tents away from Amber, Kate rejoiced at having hit the selection group jackpot. Rigby was part of her team and her enthusiasm for the week ahead showed in the first emphatic handshake she offered when introducing herself. Given the ban on contact lenses, Rigby sported dark-framed glasses that gave her the air of an aspiring PhD candidate. Tristan was also in her tent, and as it turned out,
Tristan and Kate had been classmates at West Point. They hadn’t been close in school, but since women made up only around 15 percent of their class—about the same percentage as in active-duty military—most of them knew one another by face if not by name. Tristan and Kate became instant friends.

Rigby, for her part, had not expected to bond with or even like any of the women she roomed with in this selection. She had grown up with a hippie mom and a Navy veteran dad who taught her that nothing in life was either easy or handed to you, a reality that was reinforced by her dad’s job woes, her parents’ eventual divorce, and years of financial precariousness. She had arrived at Assessment and Selection with something of a chip on her shoulder. The West Point women, she thought, were sure to be an uppity bunch; her lower-middle-class upbringing made her mistrust anything that suggested pedigree. But just as she had been forced to question her stereotypes after Kristen bested her back in Arizona, Tristan and Kate made her feel embarrassed about her prejudices. These West Point women weren’t just tough as hell; they were smart and funny. And
nice.
She wanted to dislike the naturally perky Tristan with her ridiculous physical stamina born of decades of race running and track training, but she simply couldn’t: her good nature and her self-deprecating humor had won her over during their time as roommates back at the Landmark.

Instructors informed the women about what would be required of them during selection week by using a system of postings on a whiteboard that were updated throughout the day. Instructions were sparse and by design omitted much critical information; it was up to the women to figure it out. This meant that the soldiers had to be ready to leave the (relative) comfort of their tent at any moment, including during their rare rest periods, to find out what was coming next and when. In a selection process designed to keep soldiers off balance at all times, staying abreast of information was critical to success.

Tristan volunteered to be their tent’s messenger, and neither Kate nor Rigby objected. After all, from that first day she looked like she had been born on her feet. When the ten team members returned to the tent after the opening ruck march, they crashed on their beds, peeled sticky, aching feet out of damp socks, and gingerly nursed their new blisters. Everything hurt—standing
and
sitting—and the thought of rucking again in a few hours was daunting. But not for Tristan. She was perched on her cot, airing out her infamous smelly boots and breezily chatting with the others as if she had just returned from an afternoon of sunbathing on the beach. Years of running and marching barefoot in her sand-colored Nike military boots had hardened her feet against blisters. Her feet were so calloused and tough it would take far more than twenty miles of marching to faze them.

Tristan also had her own unique strategies and mental tricks for bearing up under the stress of no sleep. First and foremost: she stayed ready, 24/7. On one of the first nights of selection the candidates had to pull a near all-nighter working on a written assignment their instructors would judge early the following morning. When they finally finished they all slid into the comfort of their PT gear—a cotton tee and nylon shorts—to grab an hour or two of sleep. But not Tristan. When dawn arrived barely a few hours later and Kate yelled for everyone to get up, it was Tristan who leapt from her cot first.

“What, what? Okay, I am here, I am ready,” she said, fighting through a haze of sleep. The sight caused Kate to laugh out loud.