Ranger training takes place in the mountains, which means it demands real nerve. Of all the courses, the ones that involved crossing between peaks or rappelling down them brought out a special kind of fear.

So I let trainees with a fear of heights sit those out and do PT instead. A small mistake up there could easily turn into a matter of life and death, and if it did, my assistant instructor and I would be the ones to answer for it.

In the army, "answering for it" could mean military prison. 

So I went over the safety rules more times than I could count and never forced anyone through.

Even so, something unexpected always seemed to happen. The One Rope Bridge was one of those things.

The One Rope Bridge Course

The One Rope Bridge is a course where trainees cross a mountain gap along a rope about thirty meters long. They wear a harness clipped to a double safety line, so even if someone slipped, there was no real risk of falling.

Still, once training actually started, they found themselves staring down from roughly ten stories up, and it overwhelmed them. F-bombs went off in every direction, followed by groans. And yet almost no one ever asked to sit this one out for PT instead. They were all fired-up young men, after all.

Three Ways to Beat the Fear

I had three tricks for helping them work through the fear.

The first was asking for a volunteer.

After my assistant instructor demonstrated the course, I'd look for the first person willing to go. If he made it across without trouble, watching him usually gave the rest enough confidence to follow.

The second was having them shout "Ranger" over and over as they crossed. It worked pretty well at pulling their minds away from the fear, though plenty of them were too scared to get the word out straight.

The last was having them shout their girlfriend's name instead. That worked surprisingly well too.

Tom Cruise Turns Into a Chicken

That day, I went looking for a volunteer as usual. A baby-faced soldier who couldn't have been more than twenty raised his hand.

"Got a girlfriend?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Shout her name three times, loud. Go!"

"Emma~ Emma~ Emma-a-a~~~"

He set off light on his feet. Compact, solidly built—for a second he looked like Tom Cruise out of Mission: Impossible.

And then, wouldn't you know it, he turned into a "chicken." 

The course is meant to be done lying flat on your stomach across the rope, inching forward while chanting, "Ranger, Ranger, Ranger..." But once a soldier lost his balance, he'd flip over and end up dangling by his hands, body hanging underneath the rope.

Which, admittedly, looks exactly like a chicken strung up on a line. So the chant changed.

"Chicken, chicken, chicken."

That day's Tom Cruise managed to haul himself back onto the rope and finished the course chanting "Ranger" again.

That counts as a real success story. Out of sixty men, maybe one or two ever made it across without once turning into a chicken.

The Trainee Who Froze

As usual, trainee after trainee that day suffered the indignity of turning into "chicken." Two gave up partway across.

Usually, when someone gave up, my assistant instructor would go out, clip the trainee's harness to his own, and get him the rest of the way across.

But there was one time—just once—a trainee froze solid on the rope and would not move.

He'd seemed a little slow and unsure of himself even before he started. Sure enough, he moved slowly and flipped into "Chicken" almost immediately. Still, he made it about halfway.

And that's where it ended. My assistant instructor went out and clipped onto his harness, but the man didn't budge an inch.

Yelling did nothing. Pulling did nothing. And on top of everything, he was a big guy—there was no dragging him by force.

So I reached for my usual trick.

"Got a girlfriend?"

"No, sir."

Time for Plan B. 

I started asking him whatever came to mind—where he was from, his family, how long before he'd see them again back in the States. 

Bad idea.

The moment we got to family, he looked even more miserable.

Change the subject. Something lighter.

There was always one moment on the One Rope Bridge that made everyone laugh: when a trainee flipped over, and I made him change his chant from "Ranger" to "Chicken."

So I told him to try it.

"Chicken."

Sweating and pale, he finally began to move.

My assistant instructor shouted with him. Then the trainees watching from the ground joined in.

"Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!"

Little by little, he made his way across.

When he finally reached the other side, we all gave him a round of applause.

Safe Today, and Hopefully Tomorrow Too

The training that scared me so badly that day ended without incident.

Three days down, four to go before this batch finishes Ranger training. Then they'll leave, and next week another group of American soldiers will take their place.

Some will make it across chanting "Ranger." Others will turn into "Chicken" and find their way back.

And—though I hope not—there might be another man who freezes halfway across. And so another day will pass.

That night I lay down and counted how many days I had left before I could get out.

Today's done, so 119. 

Tomorrow night it'll be 118, the night after that, 117... 

I counted myself to sleep like that.

Author's Note

This story is based on my mandatory military service in South Korea in the late 1980s, with a little imagination added.

During my service, I was a ranger instructor for American soldiers. I spoke some English naturally; the army decided I was qualified to yell at Americans in the mountains.

At first, I was happy about it. I figured my English would improve while I was in the army.

Then I saw the training grounds. My happiness disappeared. I couldn't imagine surviving there.

The job was pretty much the opposite of who I was.

The army was already crawling with guys in their early twenties, and the ranger course was the kind of place where you had to have enough testosterone to power a small city.

It was also dangerous. One wrong move could lead to a serious accident, or worse, so everyone had to stay tense from beginning to end.

And the instructors were expected to be intimidating. We were supposed to have enough presence to make trainees nervous just by standing there. Discipline was everything. Kindness was, apparently, not part of the curriculum.

The first thing we learned was how to wear our hats.

You pulled the brim down to your eyebrows so the trainees couldn't see your eyes. The idea was that if they couldn't see your eyes, they couldn't read your mind.

It worked surprisingly well. With your face half-hidden in shadow, you looked scary before you even opened your mouth.

Your voice mattered, too. Loud. Clear. Short. Commanding.

Unfortunately, I was about as far from macho as a man could get. I didn't drink or smoke. I liked dogs and children. I enjoyed exercise, but I had no interest in boxing, hockey, or anything else that involved people enthusiastically trying to hurt each other.

Given the choice, I'd much rather spend an afternoon in a quiet library with my girlfriend than run around with a bunch of guys.

And that was the guy who became a ranger instructor.

Looking back, standing there in my instructor's hat, I was basically a Golden Retriever with a decent build.

What they wanted was a Doberman.

Still, I pulled my hat down to my eyebrows and did my best to look the part.

The loud voice wasn't a problem. I already had one. Short commands weren't a problem either. I was never much of a talker.

The real problem was intimidation. I needed the trainees to feel something when they saw me.

Fear, preferably. But I decided to go with respect.

So I came up with a little plan

The ranger course involved running up mountains over and over again, which exhausted the trainees pretty quickly. Within thirty minutes, their uniforms were stuck to their bodies and sweat was pouring down their faces.

I always made sure to reach the top twenty or thirty meters ahead of them.

My assistant instructor was behind them, keeping track of anyone who fell behind, so I had nothing to worry about.

Once I reached the top, I took off my hat. Then I did what any highly trained military professional would do.

I rested.

I cooled myself down, wiped away the sweat, and caught my breath. Then I stood there looking completely relaxed, waiting for the trainees to arrive.

I wanted it to look as if I had simply floated up the mountain.

Eventually, I'd hear it.

"Ranger! Ranger! Ranger!"

They were almost there. That was my cue. I'd put my hat back on, pull the brim down to my eyebrows, look down at them with a completely expressionless face, and yell:

"Hurry up!"

The trainees, red-faced and gasping for air, would look up at me with what I later learned was something close to admiration.

Once that image was established, everything became much easier. They were intimidated by me. Some of them even respected me.

It still makes me laugh when I think about it. These were American soldiers; some of them had actually been in combat, and yet they were wary of a guy who had simply been drafted into the army.

They had mistaken a Golden Retriever for a Doberman.

Before long, word spread throughout the American unit: the instructor who never got tired and never broke a sweat.

Every group of trainees finished their week of training and went back to base carrying the story with them. So whenever a new group arrived, I was already a legend.

Which meant I had no choice but to keep the trick going.

The legend disappeared quietly the day I was discharged.

I went back to the world I used to live in—the world where I didn't have to pull my hat down over my eyebrows.

Author's Note

In South Korea, military service is a national duty. Based on my experience decades ago, with some fiction added.

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