Fighting the Urge to Quit

April 2

The mountains seem to be taking a toll on one of the platoon’s oldest members, Julio Dominguez, 31, who has yet to receive a go on a graded leadership position. With each passing day, the mental stress will increase on those who aren’t yet sure they’ll move on to Swamp Phase. Most students I talk to agree that the psychological difficulties of the course eclipse the physical demands.

Dominguez is no stranger to challenges, having joined the Army in his early twenties, hoping to escape Puerto Rico’s struggling economy and experience something “bigger and better.” He has two young children at home, and though he’s a veteran of three deployments, saying goodbye to them has only gotten harder. Still, he’s committed to doing “whatever it takes to keep my family afloat,” which right now means overcoming the previous night’s hour and a half of sleep. It’s during the seemingly endless, freezing mountain nights, Dominguez says, when “you pretty much want to cry and lay down and not wake up. Everything possible is going through your mind—the pain, fatigue, wanting to quit. The only thing that stopped me was looking around at the rest of these miserable SOBs.”

One student who somehow remains in decent spirits is Brandon Sakbun, the Indiana Hoosier, who stealthily asks me how his basketball team is doing during March Madness. A top graduate of the Infantry Officer Course, he first attended Ranger School in late 2018; he failed a test the first week and was sent home. Now he’s going through it all again with this group, and as always he’s gung-ho. Even Carchidi, accustomed to working with high-performing Special Forces soldiers, is impressed by Sakbun, pointing out that “he never seems to be in a bad mood.” Sakbun credits the influence of his mother, who grew up in difficult conditions on a coffee farm in Jamaica but always fought to remain positive.

Today’s mission is a night ambush, with a low of 35 expected. As the students get ready, I see a young lieutenant who’s been having a tough time. He’s crouched on his ruck, alone and shivering. He shows me hands shredded by the cold. I feel bad for him, his vulnerability reminding me of another lieutenant who had struggled during Benning Phase. At one point, when it came time for him to fire the heavy automatic weapon he had to carry, it jammed. A few students glared at him. He asked, with a tone of self-pity, if anyone could help carry his ammunition, a request greeted with awkward silence. Moments like these, when weak performers are ostracized, can feel like Lord of the Flies.

Meanwhile, T. J. Decker, a young NCO from the First Special Forces Group, looks little worse for wear, saying he feels “pretty good. It’s a little chilly, but you warm up when you get moving.” Decker says the physical punishment of high school wrestling helped prepare him for Ranger School. His father, a Ranger School graduate and Special Forces veteran, also fuels his drive. When Decker graduated from basic training, his dad reminded him that he had yet to get his Green Beret. When he went on to graduate from the Special Forces Qualification Course and earn one, his dad wryly pointed out that he still didn’t have a Ranger tab.

We cross the Appalachian Trail around noon, not far from its southern terminus at Springer Mountain. It has warmed up to become a gorgeous day. We pass two college-age girls out for an afternoon hike, who look on with surprising composure as 46 heavily armed Ranger students in face paint pass by, offering an occasional “excuse us.”

I walk alongside Staff Sergeant Jesus Amaton, a talkative RI from El Paso, Texas. During a previous patrol, I watched him tear into some students who’d dozed off while ­waiting to cross a frigid stream, so I’m surprised when he takes the conversation in a personal direction. He tells me that he sometimes uses these patrols to scout campsites for himself and his eight-year-old son, who has autism. Amaton says he’s never really been able to get much communication or emotion out of the boy at home. In the woods it’s different. Amaton describes setting up a swing on the branches of a mountain laurel, which always makes his son smile. This recollection brings tears to his eyes. “I need the woods for my son,” he says.

Eventually, the platoon arrives at the ambush site. Some help fellow students find positions to place weapons and wait, while others simply fight to stay awake. As I watch the different ways in which people navigate the tricky psychological terrain of the course, I recall, from my own Ranger training, the value of being able to block out thoughts of pleasurable things in the civilian world. An effective way to do this, used by standouts like Decker and England, is to stay busy. Decker says that remaining focused on assisting his squad helped keep him from daydreaming about fishing in the Georgia countryside.

To help fortify the students as they confront these challenges, the chaplain in the mountains, Bryce Wiltermood, a Ranger graduate, conducts a well-attended nondenominational service. Students often talk to him about things they would hesitate to reveal to each other, such as how homesick they are, or anxiety about earning their go. This stress is magnified by the awareness that they can quit anytime. Wiltermood warns students that if they do, “The moment you get a good night’s rest, you will regret quitting for the rest of your life.”

The ambush commences and quickly becomes a disaster. I can’t tell who’s in charge, and I hear an RI say, “If you can’t identify the leader five minutes into a firefight, that’s a problem.” Suddenly, the platoon leader, who was nowhere to be seen during the ambush, emerges from behind a tree. A laugh escapes me before I’m able to stifle it. Then I feel guilty, standing there, rested and fed, snickering at this exhausted young man as he gives his all and comes up short.

The sun sets, the temperature drops fast, and the mission continues to be a mess. The platoon staggers down the road, “casualties” assessed by the RIs during the mock firefight slung over their shoulders. One exhausted student drops a classmate before mumbling an apology. An RI asks, “Is anyone controlling this?” No answer.

The lights of the nearest town, Dahlonega, flicker in the distance. I imagine the people there nestled in their warm beds, comfortably undisturbed by the daily drama that unfolds in these mountains, a world stripped to its essence—humans battling rain, mud, cold, heat, hunger, and fatigue.