By
Tommy Batboy
The first thing you learn when you are a private in the 75th Ranger Regiment, or in my case, the first thing that was drilled into my head through repeated physical activities, is that you do what your are told, when you are told. Even more important for a Curious George such as me, you don’t ask questions.
When I arrived at battalion I was assigned to 1st Platoon, 2nd Squad. The squad was led by the man known as “The Weid.” The Weid had grown up in the logging towns of Oregon and was something of a legend around the battalion, having jumped into Panama with 2nd Ranger Battalion as daisy fresh private in the days of yore. Accounts differ as to whether it was his upbringing or his baptism by fire that led to The Weid’s special temperament, but this much was certain, he was a hardass and old school.
Upon initial inspection of me he remarked in his gravely voice and slightly off kilter cadence “you’re soft…”, pausing slightly as he gave me and his other new cherry private another once over. “Don’t worry I’ll toughen you up!”
Through the first two weeks or so I learned life according to The Weid. Rule number one: You didn’t quit – ever. He was so serious about this rule, and I was so scared of him, that I passed out midway through an intense ruck up and down the stairs of a local high school’s football stadium.
Rule Number 2: You couldn’t be stupid in the Weid’s world. Within my first two or three weeks in his squad he must have made me read 3 or 4 books on military history. Forgotten Soldier by Guy Sajer is still one my favorite books, a book I only found because of The Weid.
Rule Number 3: You also didn’t act like a nice guy or be overtly friendly in The Weid’s world. This was the mantra I had the most problems with. So bad was I at smiling and being nice to people, making conversation and asking them random things, that it led to a hell of a smoking and his declaring “You need to toughen up Tommy!” He would scream this of course, as he was making me do push-ups. “I think I’m going to call you ‘buddy’ cause you’re always trying to be everyone’s fucking buddy!” The statement would prove prophetic in short order.
Messing with the recent SERE grad is probably a good idea…
Tuesday mornings were usually reserved for combatives-based PT in our platoon. Rather than going over a lot of the basic BJJ you are taught in level one, we focused a series of moves designed to put a captured person in flex cuffs so we could get the hell off the objective. The session that morning was being led by 3rd squad’s leader, Homie (so called because it riffed off his last name). Like a good private I was in the front row on a knee intently watching the instruction when I heard The Weid croak out “Hey Rob, get over here!”
I glanced quickly, least I was accused of not paying attention, which would result in me getting smoked again, to see Homie’s Alpha Team Leader standing off to the side, a pissed off look on his face, and his body language clearing showing he did not want to be part of the mornings lesson. Rob had gotten back from SERE the night before and did not look happy to be standing there. About 6’ tall, it didn’t look he’d lost much weight off his typically 200 pound frame.
When you graduate SERE you are put on a weeklong psychological profile. You’re not supposed to jump out of planes, fly a helicopter, or do things like combatives. The profile is written so your mind has a chance to recover from the trauma you just underwent in the school.
You can guess with The Weid thought of that.
“Rob get your ass over here, now!” The Weid screamed, causing Homie to stop his lesson to figure out what was going on.
“Weid, he just got back, he doesn’t need to do this,” Homie told him standing up from his demonstration.
The Weid ignored him.
“Rob, get your ass over here and start participating!” The Weid screamed at him.
“Not doing it,” Rob said in his typical, almost sardonic, tone.
“Tommy!” The Weid suddenly screamed over his shoulder in my general direction. “Go over there and make Rob come over here.”
The God of War hates he who hesitates…
A normal person would have taken a moment and thought it out. If that normal person had been in my body they would have thought that my 5’6”, 150lb frame might not be the best one to take out Rob’s 6’ 200lb one. They might have thought that Rob was not a happy camper and that he had just spent a sizable period of time getting beat up in an effort to condition him to resist enemy interrogation, should he fall into enemy hands. That same normal person might have thought that Rob probably had enough in SERE and didn’t need me trying to do anything to him just then. Unfortunately for me, at that point in my life I lived in The Weid’s world.
If I don’t do this, The Weid is going to be pissed.
That’s the thought that raced through my mind. It was followed by:
Maybe if I get a good head of steam up and tackle him, I can do something here.
And with that I initiated my own version of the Charge of the Lightfoot Brigade. Turning to face Rob I sprinted towards him, closing the twenty or so yards fast as I could. Staying low, just like my peewee football coach had taught me, and with classic football tackling posture- head to the side of the target and feet under me so I could drive and dump the tacklee, and with my shoulders square I closed on the target.
WHAM! I hit him in his midsection with a full head of steam, and almost bounced off. Nothing. He didn’t move an inch, he didn’t grunt, he did nothing but remain fixed right where he was. I might have had better luck pushing Washington into Oregon the next time I got smoked.
Quickly, and deftly for a man so big, he moved his right arm around my neck in what can only be described as a textbook guillotine choke, and arched his back. Suddenly, I was staring at the ground with my feet up in the air. I heard Homie scream, “Rob put him down! PUT HIM DOWN!” The guillotine just got tighter.
I was vaguely aware of my feet kicking up in the air in some sort of mad hope that the air would magically give enough traction to try and get out of the very serious situation I found myself in. As my feet twitched hopelessly and the edges of my vision started to get black I heard Homie scream one final, panicked, thing “Rob! Let him go! You’re going to kill him!”
And with that the world went black.
A nickname is formed…
I woke up on my back with the whole platoon crowded around me. A sea of horrified faces stared back at me. Except The Weid who was snickering and cackling as he looked at me laying on the ground. Homie breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief as I opened my eyes and started to look around. I sat up realizing that I couldn’t have been out more than a minute. Just in time to see Rob walk off screaming “Fuck this, I’m going upstairs!” over his shoulder as he headed towards the platoon AO. Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs I looked over at a suddenly smiling Homie.
“Buddy Lee! Man of action!” Homie yelled through a chuckle as looked at me. “Look at him, he looks just like the Lee jeans guy,” he went on, suddenly excited with himself. “You can’t bust him!”
The combination of The Weid’s initial prognosis and Homie’s declaration that I looked like a doll on a TV commercial lead to the inevitable, and I was known as “Buddy” for the rest of my time at 2nd Ranger Battalion.
Copyright of Tommy
