Read The Diaries - 01 for Free Online Page A

elite of the elite.
    Gage did
everything he could to prepare for the initial selection process: a three-week hell
course intended to eliminate the pretenders before the real carnage even began.   He marched day and night, preparing himself
for days without sleep.   Knowing he
wouldn’t receive sufficient nourishment during school, Gage packed on as much
lean muscle as he could, choosing a high-protein diet as he went through his
grueling preparations.   The selection and
assessment course wiped out nearly seventy percent of the candidates right off
the bat, leaving only thirty percent for the actual schooling.   It had been hell.   Straight hell.
    Hell or not, Gage
wasn’t the least bit relieved when he made it.  
    They gave the
candidates a week to physically recover before throwing them into the
proverbial fire of the full Qualification Course, beginning with a regimen of
grueling physical and mental activity that seemed to have no rhyme or reason to
it.   Days of loaded-down running, nights
of war games, tactical problem-solving, near-impossible physical tasks without
the aid of light: the trainees never received any warning of what was
coming.   The remaining thirty percent
dwindled to fifteen percent after only three more weeks.   By that point, all that remained were the
true hard-cases, and they each had brains to back it up.   From there, the cadre had only ten more weeks
to weed out the rest, nearly doing so in the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and
Escape Course (SERE).   The enduring trainees
knew there couldn’t be too much more time before the language blitz began.  
    They were
correct.  
    On Thanksgiving weekend
1993, the survivors finally fell to the promised five-percent.
    It had started off
innocently enough, with a promised turkey lunch in the small Quonset hut on the
pine-laden western range of Fort Bragg.   After a morning of intense physical training, and no breakfast, the
thirty one soldiers of class Bravo-212 were famished.   The long tables were arranged beautifully, centered
around three large birds, each mouthwateringly dressed and ready to be
devoured.   Just as Gage had been about to
stuff the first bite of succulent bird in his mouth, the alarm sounded.   The dreaded assembly alarm.   Each man, knowing they had been had, dropped
their forks and sprinted to the ready line in the small quad.   It was there they received their literal
marching orders.   They would road
march—nothing more than a painful run in boots—tactically to a spot on a map
approximately eighteen kilometers away, and they had only two hours to do
so.   Normally, such a task wouldn’t be
all that tough, but lined up across from them were their rucksacks, and they
were oddly shaped because of the bricks they contained.
    “Or you can quit
and go eat,” the instructor said.   “Got
turkey, stuffing, cakes and pies in there.   I’ll even pour you some egg nog and good
cheer, if’n you want that.”   He surveyed the formation of tattered
men.   No one budged.   “Alright then,” he said, motioning to the
rucksacks before lifting his Timex and touching the center button.   “Haul ass.”
    The entire squad
made it, with each man humping a hundred and twenty pounds of bricks, sixty
pounds more than they typically carried.   Hardened, calloused feet, more than used to the brutality of the
selection process were now bleeding, rubbed raw from the physical forces of the
weight grinding their flesh against the leather of their boots.
    At the checkpoint,
each man was given one half canteen of water.   The instructor again informed them that anyone wanting to quit would be
whisked back to the hut and allowed to sit in the heat, watching the Dallas
Cowboys on television, eating all the Thanksgiving dinner he wanted.
    No takers.
    “Fine, then,” he
said, displaying a small degree of pride.   “Here’s your next point,” he said, handing the map to the soldier next
to Gage.   “Another eighteen