Blueberries and Bracelets

Adam was not so comfortably settled into his fighting position after consolidating on the objective following the early-morning assault. He was glad to finally rest the SAW (Squad Automatic Weapon) he had carried throughout the night on the berm in front of him. With 200 rounds of ammo, it added another 25 pounds to his combat load. The long patrol had started late last night and ended just before dawn with an attack on the objective. He was relieved he could stop moving, at least for a bit.

A cramp kept seizing his right calf muscle. His knees and hips were throbbing from the exertion of carrying the eighty-pound pack up and down these perverse North Georgia Appalachian Mountains. He was soaked in sweat that, ironically, even in the July morning humidity, gave him chills as it evaporated off his body. He could smell an ammonia-like odor in his sweat, his body so far into a calorie deficit that it was metabolizing its own muscle. He wondered how much he weighed now, nearly 30 days into Army Ranger School. He had heard the stories and seen his Ranger Battalion teammates return emaciated after losing 20-25 pounds in two months or more, depending on how often they were recycled. He noticed that he really had to cinch up his web belt recently to keep his DCU trousers from falling off.

He dreamed about the feasts he would have when this was finally over; then he would have to get back into the weight room and build back his lost muscle, but food comes first! Now his eyes were getting heavy. Stop for just a moment, and the urge to sleep became overwhelming. He couldn’t even remember his last sleep: two hours yesterday… or was that the day before? It was like waking from a dream: everything seemed so real and vivid in your dream state; then you wake, and those once-clear memories instantly dissolve into a foggy mist. Am I a sleepy Ranger or a hungry Ranger? BOTH!! He drank some water from his canteen and splashed some on his face as he scanned the tree line for roving Ranger Instructors. Getting caught asleep, or even dozing, was an instant negative spot report. I gotta stay awake, but maybe a quick snooze…

The bushes rustled behind him. Adam turned with a start, thinking he had been caught napping, when his team leader, George Taber, emerged, crawling low through a thicket behind him. His helmet was askew and sweat-smeared olive-drab face paint framed a wide grin.

“Ha, caught you!” he said as he tumbled ingloriously into the hole beside Adam, like a box turtle losing its footing and rolling sidelong into a ditch.

“Well, that was a hoot,” Taber said. “For a while, I thought we were going to the wrong hilltop, but Jonsey, the point man, made a nice correction and pulled it off. I don’t think the OPFOR expected us to come from that direction, just a little sleight of hand we will swear was tactically intentional. Of course, I could have done without the extra klick of humping, but here we are, another day down and another sunrise.”

They exchanged small talk that kept them awake, which, as usual, segued into favorite foods and inexplicably led them down a shrimp-and-grits rabbit hole.

Adam, from Pennsylvania but now stationed in Savannah, had had a most pleasant crash course in the finer delicacies of southern cuisine over the past year. His girlfriend’s family, who lived just outside Charleston, introduced him to shrimp and grits. He loved the incredible combination of stone-ground grits topped with fresh-caught Atlantic shrimp, lightly sautéed in a delectable sauce. He loved that no matter where you went, each chef had their own original twist on the recipe, so you never had the same experience twice.

George, who spent time as a kayak ecotour guide in St. Augustine, Florida, before joining the Army, became a shrimp-and-grits aficionado in Florida, often experimenting with his own recipes. Despite all the great restaurants in coastal Florida, the best shrimp-and-grits he ever had was, ironically, just a few miles from where they were sitting in Dahlonega, Georgia. One Christmas, he was in Dahlonega with his mom, stepfather (who grew up in the mountains of North Georgia), and his sister. They went to Bourbon Street Grill in downtown Dahlonega, where he had the best shrimp and grits ever.

Adam was unconvinced; it couldn’t be better than Savannah. No way! They made a plan right then and there to try it out together with their families after they graduated from Ranger School.

“Now that you’ve got me salivating, how’s that toenail, or lack thereof, doing? Take off your boot and let me take a look at it,” said Taber.

Early in Mountain Phase, Adam’s big right toenail was infected, purple, and oozing pus. Taber, an 18D Green Beret medic by trade, became the platoon’s go-to resource for medical questions, big and small. Of course, he was a student, so he wasn’t allowed to carry an aid bag or offer medical opinions or treatment, but he did anyway. “Once a medic, always a medic,” especially in the austere conditions of Ranger School. He had to take care of the boys first, “rules” be damned.

Sometimes, like with a recent brown recluse spider bite, he grabbed the objecting Ranger by the arm and bodily escorted him to the Ranger Medical tent, saying, “You need medical attention now; that bite is showing signs of necrosis.” In Adam’s case, he pulled out a headlamp, scalpel, Gerber multitool, and antiseptic and said, “This will hurt like hell, but I can take this toenail off for you.” After the excruciating procedure, he carefully wrapped Adam’s toe with gauze and even sent him off with a couple of ibuprofen, saying, “Take two and call me in the morning.”

“Where did you get this stuff?” Adam asked incredulously, referring to the “illegal contraband” Taber had set up in his “mini OR” on his bottom bunk at Camp Merrill.

“Ah, secrets of the Delta trade that I cannot reveal to you, sir.”

Rumor had it that during a Darby recycle, Taber became so frustrated with the level of medical support from the Cadre medics that he and another Ranger, on a pass, went to a CVS, bought basic medical supplies like gloves, antiseptic, poison ivy cream, Tylenol, gauze, and bandages, and smuggled them back to camp in their socks and underwear waistbands. Most illegal contraband contained calories, alcohol, caffeine, or nicotine and was for purely selfish purposes. This contraband was for the platoon’s welfare as they headed into Mountain Phase. Either way, if they found the contraband, you got a one-way ticket home, no matter how noble the purpose. Apparently, Taber considered it a risk worth taking and put it to good use as he cleaned and rebandaged Adam’s throbbing big toe.

“Hey, Adam,” Taber said, scanning the ravine below and checking their flanks, left first, then right. “Stay right here, and I’ll be back in a bit.”

Adam looked at him incredulously and shook his head. “Where do you think I’d go, dude? While you’re out, pick me up a breakfast burrito and a large black coffee.”

Taber gave him a sardonic grin. “I’ll see if the drive-through is open yet. I’ll be back.” Taber gathered his gear, crawled low back into the underbrush, and disappeared.

Adam muttered to himself, “Where the hell is he going? Crazy Green Beret, no telling.”

Adam was alone with his sleepy thoughts again, wondering how he’d ever gotten here. “Ha, if Rick could see me now! How did I ever let him talk me into this?” He thought of his buddy and mentor, Rick, a bartender at his favorite watering hole back at Clemson University. Adam noticed the memorial bracelet Rick wore, a permanent fixture on his right wrist. The black had faded to silver, the imprint nearly undecipherable, worn down by years of around-the-clock wear as it slid up and down his wrist while he filled endless pitchers of beer from the bar tap. At first, when Adam asked about it, Rick was cagey about his military service, saying only that he was in 3/75. “Oh, so you were a Ranger?” Adam responded. Rick perked up when he realized this young college kid knew something about the Army. Their friendship took root slowly, beer by beer and tale by tale.

Adam grew up in a small town outside of Philadelphia and played football and lacrosse in high school. He followed his dream of playing college football and got an offer from a regional D2 school as a cornerback. But after an injury in his freshman year, that campus held little appeal if he wasn’t playing under the lights with the team. He gave up football and transferred to Clemson University, where he picked up his lacrosse stick again. He had always felt drawn to the military, but he honored his mom’s wish to get a degree first. She assumed the military itch would subside after he earned his bachelor’s degree in business management and stepped into the “real world,” but it didn’t.

After graduating from college, he spent most of the summer at home teaching golf at his local country club when an Army recruiter showed up at his home. His mom casually brought it up the next day, and the cat was officially out of the bag. After a family meeting, or perhaps an intervention, his mom and dad eventually gave him full, if not guarded, support. He could have/should have gone the Officer Candidate School route since he had his degree, but it didn’t appeal to him. He wanted to challenge himself, be on the pointy end of the spear, and do something in the special operations community.

He still had Rick’s contact and called him. After a two-hour conversation, he was sold again. He appreciated that Rick did not just cover the “recruiting video highlights” of being a Ranger, but the ground truth as well: the incessant training, the long deployments, the boredom, the necessity of earning your scroll every day, the forever pain of losing teammates, the intense competition, and the career imperative of graduating from Ranger School following your first year or so in Regiment.

It was not a “nice-to-have” school. To become a team leader, you MUST graduate from Ranger School. If you fail, you go to the regular Army for the remainder of your contract. Nothing was wrong with the regular Army, but Adam came in to serve with the best of the best. He quickly learned it would be a hard, uphill climb.

After talking with his recruiter, he learned he would need a series of medical waivers because of his long list of football and lacrosse injuries. The MEPS doctors doubted his body could survive the grind of the special operations pipeline. As a result, he couldn’t get an Option 40 contract, which would have guaranteed him a shot at RASP (Ranger Assessment and Selection Program), essentially an eight-week smoke-fest that determines whether you have what it takes to be a Ranger. Hell, he couldn’t even get Airborne School in his contract because, upon enlistment, he couldn’t pass an Airborne physical due to lingering injuries. His recruiter said he would have to enlist as an 11B (Infantry) and, after basic training, voluntarily attend a Ranger Regiment brief to apply for RASP.

To Adam, it sounded like a recruiter’s tall tale to meet his monthly quota, so he called Rick to verify. Rick confirmed that was the case; in fact, that was the route that brought him into Ranger Regiment. The blueprint worked, eventually. There were a few bumps along the way, like having to do RASP twice because he got COVID and was put on a medical hold for an infected spider bite on his first go-around, but he finally made it to 1/75.

He loved being a Ranger. His teammates’ professionalism, fitness, and character never ceased to amaze him. “Imposter syndrome” was real. He had to go to work every day to prove he belonged there, just as Rick said. Endless rehearsals and drills in individual and unit combat tasks were exhausting, as his team leader and squad leader demanded a level of perfection that seemed unattainable. But then there were those moments when it all came together.

He recalled one late-night live-fire exercise at Fort Stewart. It was hot and humid under a new moon. His company was raiding an old, abandoned airfield. Advancing steadily, his squad would pause to lay down a base of fire while their sister squad moved forward. Then the roles reversed: his squad moved under the other squad’s covering fire, classic fire and maneuver. The firepower on display was a sound-and-light show that made a Pink Floyd concert look like a kindergarten play.

The staccato bursts of machine-gun fire were deafening; tracers lit up the landscape, impacting and ricocheting high into the air like shooting stars before fizzling out. Swirling smoke and sharp flashes of blinding light completely washed out the grainy green aperture of his night-vision goggles mounted on his ballistic helmet. Team ICS comms were kept to a minimum as his team fired and maneuvered like the well-oiled machine they had trained so hard to become.

Adam glanced right to make sure his spacing was correct when an airburst illuminated the field. He caught a quick glimpse of his entire company moving online in unison, like a well-choreographed IMAX movie. But this was no Hollywood production; this was real time, firing live ammunition, training to be prepared for the unthinkable. It was all second nature, born of hours and hours of monotonous practice. God, if I ever go to combat, I want to go with these guys to my left and right; nothing can stop us. Those brief moments made it all worth it. Rangers Lead the Way!

But today, at this time and place, he had to get through this wicket called Ranger School to get back to his team. It was harder than he had expected. The skill-level one tasks (weapons, fire and maneuver, land navigation, and individual movement techniques) were easy, but he had never been responsible for mission planning, briefing the five-paragraph order, or leading a platoon-sized element. Those new concepts stretched his comfort level. Now, add a continuous sleep and calorie deficit, and try to lead other soldiers who are experiencing the same deficits, which sometimes led to droning, hallucinations, and explosive arguments, and you have a recipe for a supreme leadership challenge. His stomach gurgled with hunger, and he just wanted to lie down and sleep. He was so tired of this shit and ready to be done with it.

The bushes rustled behind him again, and Taber, grinning, rolled down beside him, holding his patrol cap bill tight and upright as if he were trying not to spill a cup of hot coffee. “Hey, I found something at the drive-through for you,” he said, pulling an overflowing handful of wild blueberries from his sweat-stained patrol cap. They were small and powdery blue. Adam tossed a couple into his mouth and was surprised they weren’t sour but deliciously sweet. After days and weeks of the occasional, highly processed MRE, they were a taste explosion that almost overwhelmed his senses. And he didn’t even like blueberries, he thought, until this moment. They tasted like heaven. He quickly devoured the rest of the blueberries, feeling an almost instant dopamine boost in his body, mind, and soul.

“Dude, where did you find these?” Adam asked.

Taber replied, “I landed in a thicket of them on our final approach to the objective. They were a little farther back than I remembered, but I found them. I was just hoping I wouldn’t miss the next movement, or I would be in a world of hurt. Hey, here are a few more,” he said, reaching into his right trouser cargo pocket. “This should take the edge off until they decide to feed us again.”

Taber then scurried off to check on the rest of his team. “Did they get blueberries as well?” Adam wondered. The last few berries were a bit crushed and sandy, but they too went down like a sweet memory.

Adam was in Florida phase when he heard the news that devastated him and his squad. There had been a storm on Mount Yonah; a tree blew over during a lightning lockdown, killing SSG George Taber and 1Lt Evan Fitzgibbon. How could it be? First came frustration, then anger because Taber should have been with them in Florida. He, of all Rangers, had recycled mountains while most of the rest of them advanced to the swamp phase, largely because of him.

The man who helped them get their “go’s,” who volunteered for every crappy duty, carried the most weight, helped with the planning, and served as point man, navigator, or whatever ungraded position was needed to accomplish the mission and help the team: he would do it, with a grin on his face and an infectious spring in his step. But somehow, when it was his turn for a graded event, he got a no-go. Did we let him down? Were Green Berets held to a tougher standard? Did a RI have it out for him? He was better than all of us; that wasn’t just personal opinion, because his peer evaluations proved it. If he had been here in Florida with us, he wouldn’t even have been under that fucking tree. It was not fair. He should have been with us.

Adam recalled the last time he talked to Taber. They were getting on the bus to head to the airport for the jump into Florida phase. Adam gave him a bro hug and said, “Hang in there. I’ll be back for your graduation. Besides, I have to try those shrimp and grits, remember?” Taber replied, “Don’t worry about me; just another bump in the road. I’ll be right behind you. I’ll see you in a few more weeks. Stay strong, brother!”

Adam glanced down at the memorial bracelet on his right wrist, George Taber’s name engraved on it. The black had worn to polished silver over four years of constant wear. He smiled, remembering the heavenly taste of wild blueberries that day and the man who had taught him so much: memories forever etched in his heart.

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Tab Taber is a Gold Star father and retired Marine Corps and Army veteran who runs a fourth-generation wholesale plant nursery in Northeast Florida. He served eight years in the Marine Corps and 15 years in the Army before retiring from military service in 2014. For The Havok Journal, he writes personal reflections on grief, remembrance, family, and military loss, shaped by the death of his son, Staff Sgt. George L. Taber V, a Green Beret medical sergeant with 7th Special Forces Group, during Ranger School on Mount Yonah in August 2022. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.