Authors Note: This story is comprised from personal conversations I had with many of my son’s Ranger buddies following SSG George Taber’s sudden death on Mt Yonah on August 9th, 2022. I have changed names, units, locations, and some supporting details to provide anonymity for those involved. The dialogue I have reproduced to the best of my ability, but it is not verbatim since I was not there. I never attended Ranger School nor was in Ranger Regiment so any errors I may have made in telling this story are mine and mine alone.
Part 1. Ranger School, Camp Merrill, Dahlonega GA.
Jason grimaced as he pulled off his soaking wet left boot. He had been on a four-day patrol in the steep terrain of North Georgia during the Mountain phase of Ranger school. It was brutal as he felt the blisters turn bloody inside his boot during the last 12 hours. As he peeled the dried blood and sweat stained sock from his foot, the emerging stench was palatable but that did not bother him as much as the sight of his bloody, purple, and swollen big toe. F**k, this is worse than I thought! He winced as he gingerly tried to clean up the blood and grime from around his blackened toenail.
Mountain phase was less than halfway over, and his foot was a bloody, painful mess. How am I going to get through the next two weeks rucking up and down the endless traverses of the Blue Ridge mountains with an 80 plus pound pack while my foot is already trashed, he wondered to himself. That all-too familiar gnawing knot was growing again in the pit of his stomach like a gaseous ball; that incessant inner voice reminding him that he was not good enough; that he was an imposter; that he was in well over his head; that he was letting his buddies down and a disappointment to his leadership who sent him to Ranger School; that foreboding shame of returning back to 3rd Ranger Bat without his Ranger tab… again.
He reminded himself he felt the same inner struggles as he was going through RASP (Ranger Assessment and Selection Program). He was always an athlete in high school and felt like he was in great shape, but suddenly, he was average-maybe even below average. He was amazed by the quality of the studs surrounding him, all gunning to be Army Rangers. He had had to pick up his game there too and he had made it out of sheer determination and a refusal to quit. He passed RASP and was an Army RANGER, and he loved it.
Now, he had to prove himself once again to retain that Ranger status. He was up for team leader, but first he had to complete Ranger school. In Ranger culture, earning your Ranger tab is not just cool bling to wear on your shoulder. It is a GONOGO hard requirement to be a team leader and to continue in Ranger Battalion. Fail, and bye-bye to everything that you’ve worked your entire adult life to achieve. Worse yet, you must leave all your Ranger buddies in shame and probably be sent to a regular Infantry unit.
Jason found himself envying all those soldiers from outside Ranger Battalion who were just attending Ranger School for the challenge, the leadership development, and the prestige of the “tab”. There were Green Berets, Military Police, and Field Artillery: Hell, there was even an Apache helicopter pilot stationed in Hawaii, who was at this god-awful school–“just for the fun of it-what was I ever thinking?” The captain had said with a laugh, as they pulled “gear guard” early one morning outside the dining facility, dutifully devouring a MRE while the rest of the platoon dined on the legendary blueberry pancakes that Camp Merrill in Dahlonega Georgia was famous for. Crazy that soldiers would volunteer for this. But their career would not be trashed like his if they failed. They would just go back to their unit and continue doing whatever their job was before Ranger school- humbled perhaps, but at least they tried.
Who am I kidding? The epiphany slowly dawned on Jason. If you have the gumption to volunteer for this school, you have an internal drive that says no quit. The pressure they put on themselves is probably greater than any pressures that come to bear from outside influences. Maybe we are all pretty much the same after all…
He tried to turn the tide of these inner voices by giving himself a pep talk- This is no different from RASP, Jason- you did it once, you can do it again! But as he stared at his toe again, his internal cheering squad fell silent and defeated. F**k, what am I going to do?… His mind gymnastics were suddenly interrupted when his bunk mate Rick, startled him back to reality,
“Dude, that looks gnarley, you gotta go to sick call!”
Flashbacks ricocheted in his mind as he remembered his last Ranger School sick call- the last time he was sent home packing. He swore he would never step foot in another Ranger school medical facility. Just eighteen months previous, he had been medically DQed for a severe ankle sprain. He had somewhat innocently gone to sick call hoping to get an ankle wrap and he was sent back to his unit due to a “hairline” fracture.
“I can’t do that; they may send me home again…” Jason trailed off.
“I probably won’t get a third shot at Ranger School…I gotta suck it up!”
Rick, perks up, “Hey, I’m gonna go find Taber. I think George is his first name. He doesn’t say much, but he seems pretty solid. He’s a Delta–Green Beret medic and he seems not to mind giving medical advice. He’s the one who IDed Sulivan’s brown recluse bite and physically dragged poor Sully kicking and screaming down to sick call himself. I overheard the PA say that if he hadn’t gotten treatment when he did, he could have lost his hand or worse. They had to send Sully to the local hospital because they couldn’t treat it here. Probably not what you wanted to hear, but I think Taber will give it to you straight. Some things you just can’t or shouldn’t mess around with, at least he will keep you from doing something stupid.”
“Yeah, I remember him from Darby. He Seems cool and approachable for a Green Beret. I think he’s over in 1st Squad. OK, go see if you can find him,” Jason relented.
Taber eventually comes over in PT shorts and shower shoes. He takes a closer look and smirks. “Yeah, that’s a ripe one! Your toenail needs to be yanked out or it’ll get infected. It’ll hurt like hell, but I can take care of it for you… if you want. I’m right over there in the next squad bay, cleaning up my gear. Come on over after lights out if you want me to operate and, Oh- bring Rick there with you so he can hold you down and keep you from squirming too much,” says Taber with a sardonic grin, as he walks off to the showers.
Jason and Rick talk it over.
“Hey, what do you have to lose?” says Rick.
“He seems pretty confident, and you won’t be putting yourself in the hands of sick call, again. Besides, I’ll be there to hold your precious little hand to keep you from squealing. I’m just glad it’s you and not me bro… ”
They shuffle over to Taber’s squad bay after lights-out and are surprised to see that he has a mini operating table set up on his bunk. Taber has a poncho spread over his neatly made mattress, Petzl headlamp on, surgical gloves, a roll of bandages, his multitool soaking in a canteen cup of hand sanitizer. He looks up and grins confidently, “You ready to rock n’ roll I see. Sorry, I don’t have any painkillers or booze. My OR is kinda limited here, but we’ll have to make do. I’m ready for the amputation if you are,” says Taber as he theatrically unfolds the angry looking serrated saw blade from his black Gerber multitool.
Jason’s eyes get wide as Taber laughs and quickly switches back to the traditional knife blade. “Sorry dude, you should have seen your face…bad time for a bad joke. I always got low marks for bedside manners. This will hurt like hell, but you will have some immediate relief when I am done. I promise you that.”
Jason relaxes a little and looks again in wonder at all the “contraband” medical supplies he sees around him. “Where did you get all this stuff, Taber?”
“Secrets of the Delta trade I cannot reveal, my friend. You are better off not knowing. Remember, I went through over a year of various schools learning how to practice medicine in an austere environment. I just never thought that my most austere environment to date would be stateside at Ranger School,” Taber chuckled. “At least when I was deployed to Columbia and Panama, I had my aid bag. Here they tell us—”
Taber puffs out his chest and robotically struts down the middle of the squad bay, chanting the words in a deep, staccato, drill sergeant-like voice, rendering a perfect imitation of one of the platoon’s least favorite RI’s.
“REMEMBER, You Are a Student Here, Not A Medic. You Are to Refer ALL Medical Issues to the Ranger Cadre Medics. You Are Not Allowed to Treat Fellow Rangers or You Will Be Sent Home, Period. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR? RANGER TABER!”
Jason and Rick rolled in laughter, immediately recognizing the spot-on impersonation of the RI in question. Taber grins and explains.
“I was just helping Jonesy with an ankle wrap when the RI surprised us and delivered his inspirational speech. I told the RI– ‘this hardly rises to the level of medic care, this is simply buddy-care, you may recall that part of the Ranger Creed that says- ‘Never shall I fail my comrades.’ Whew, that sure did piss him off! Probably not my finest moment. Now I’m sure I have a big target on my chest. I’ve got to watch that attitude…or I’ll be here longer than I want…not that I really want to be here in the first place.”
Taber paused in thought and then continued.
“I’m sorry, you just can’t tell a good medic to ignore dudes that need your help-it’s just not in our DNA. They don’t even let me carry my aid bag. That’s like losing my right arm. I instinctively reach for it every day and it’s just not there. It’s maddening. So, I make do and improvise, just like I was trained.”
Taber affectionately pats the neatly organized, but spartan OR/bunk beside him and says:
“Case in point. Jason, jump up here on my bed and let’s get this bro-mance started. You’re lucky- I don’t share my bunk with just anyone. Hopefully, this nail will just pop off and I won’t have to do a lot of cutting. I like the cutting part, but you probably won’t….and please control yourself and don’t bleed all over my bunk, OK? Let’s do this, shall we? I’ve got to get a little sleep tonight. And keep this little slumber party on the downlow so they don’t send me back to 7th Group prematurely.”
Taber begins his procedure by pushing back the skin from around the toenail followed by a few preliminary incisions with the sterilized multi-tool blade. Jason is suddenly wracked with sharp, unrelenting pain. Taber casually carries on a conversation as if sitting at an ocean-side bar back in Destin nursing an ice-cold IPA, trying to divert Jason’s attention from the pain he was inducing…not that Jason heard much of it.
“Maybe it would be better if they did send me ‘home’ to 7th Group, but I just can’t return without a ‘tab’, my pride just won’t let me do that. I was supposed to go to Ranger school in the fall but a teammate who had a family emergency had to back out. I was ‘volun-told’ to take his spot. I figured that if I was to go, I would rather suffer in the summer than in the winter- I’ll take the heat over the cold any day. My ‘plan’ was to knock out Ranger school in 62 days and get back just in time to go to SFAUCC with my ODA… but, you know what they say about the ‘best laid plans’ when you’re in the Army.”
Jason’s leg jerks mightily followed by a muffled groan as he is doing his damnest to not wake up the entire squad bay. Taber readjusts his head lamp and douses the multi-tool again in sanitizer after rotating it back into ‘plier’ mode.
“Hey, Rick, sit on his leg there to keep it still. Hang in there Jason-you’re doing great. This works much better with a local anesthesia, but I’m fresh out. Almost done. I know this sucks, but It’ll be worth it.”
“What did you call that training you are missing SOFUCCK… something?” Rick grinned.
“’SFAUCC’, some long-assed Army acronym which I have no idea what it stands for-basically ODA level CQB training. Individual schools are OK, but I really didn’t want to miss that one with my team and here I am stuck in Camp Merrill. I still can’t believe I recycled Darby after the ‘Q” course and all the other training I have been through. After my last deployment, I went to Freefall school, then Sniper school and then I recycled Darby of all things. To add insult to injury, I recycled during block summer leave, so my extended stay option cost me six extra weeks. That was and still is a gut punch! I should be in the stack, kicking in doors with the boys now instead of still here in this rat hole.”
The toenail makes a distinct popping sound as it finally dislodges from its stubborn moorings. The intense stab of pain causes Jason’s eyes to roll back in his head as his world nearly spins out of orbit.
“OK, there we go… all done… all better now,” says Taber as he begins to wrap the toe neatly in a bandage. He finishes taping the toe dressing and then rifles through his wall locker procuring a tiny white packet.
“Take two of these and call me in the morning.” Taber discreetly slips Jason two Ibuprofen tablets wrapped in cellophane and tissue like they are in a dirty back alley conducting an illicit drug deal.
“Where the hell did you get this?” Taber waves Jason’s query off with a grin, saying.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, remember?”
Jason downed the Ibuprofen and wondered in amazement about his throbbing toe. It still hurt like hell but the pain was different now; before it was the steadily increasing ache and building heat of impending infection, now it was still severe, but ebbing slowly but steadily towards healing. Still intense pain, yes, but more of a good pain– if that made any sense at all.
Two days later, the Ranger students are sitting against a wall, boots and socks off as the Ranger medical staff are conducting a foot check. A senior medic calls the PA over to look at Jason’s toe as he is peeling back the neatly wrapped bandages.
“This is good work,” says the PA as he stares quizzically into Jason’s face.
“Did we do this? I don’t recall seeing you before in the clinic.”
Jason silently stalls and stammers, sweating while trying to stay calm and to escape the focused spotlight of the PA’s queries.
“You are not in trouble, Ranger. I just want to know who did this?”
“I, ah, did it myself, sir.” Jason blurts out.
The PA shakes his head slowly and mutters. “I highly doubt that, but nonetheless, it is healing nicely. Re-bandage it and we will check it again later.” He says, motioning to the senior medic.
Whew, that was too close and way too uncomfortable, but there is no way I’m ratting Taber out. I’ll get kicked out before I ever give up his name, Jason thought.
Maybe, just maybe, I might make it through Ranger school after all…
Part 2. Several weeks earlier at Camp Darby, Ft. Moore, GA., during recycle holdover.
A group of Ranger candidates are on a work detail pulling vines off an old building. One of the Lieutenants on the detail points out to the RI cadre who is supervising them.
“You know this is poison ivy you are having us pull off this building, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” says the RI. “Keep your gloves on and you will be OK.”
Several days later, the members of the work detail are covered up with poison ivy rashes and oozing whelps. They go to sick call and are seen by a junior medic fresh out of 68W school who reluctantly gives them a generic lotion that does not even begin to faze the wounds.
Garcia, a 1st Bat Ranger, was one of the more severe poison ivy victims. He and Taber drive the rest of the platoon crazy by conversing and laughing exclusively in Spanish anytime they are together. Spanish is 7th SFG primary language and Taber jumped at the opportunity to practice his newly acquired language skills with a native speaker when he got the chance. Garcia would poke fun at Taber’s formal “classroom” Spanish and coached him up on slang, regional idioms, cuss words, and other important things–like food, and more food! They talked incessantly about preparing and eating their favorite Mexican dishes, and they looked forward to visiting a few favorite spots together after they graduated from Ranger school.
In Spanish, Garcia says. “Jorge, look at this horrible rash,” as he rolls up his right sleeve revealing a red purplish wound oozing and inflamed and sticking to the sleeve of his DCU blouse.
“What can I do about it? All sick call will give us is this worthless lotion. This is tearing me up and it’s only getting worse!”
Taber studies the lotion container prescribed by the sick call medic and says.
“This stuff is useless! The quality of medical care here is so frustratingly poor. I’ve got to do something about this!”
“Garcia, I know this is a lot to ask but we have a final Darby pass on Saturday-can you help me smuggle in some basic medical supplies from CVS? I have a feeling the platoon will need it when we get to the mountains. We could get kicked out if we are caught with unauthorized ‘contraband’, but I think it will be worth it to have a few supplies in our platoon ‘infirmary’ moving forward. Besides, I will pick something up to help relieve 2nd squad’s poison ivy epidemic.”
“I’m all in Jorge! Especially if I can quit clawing at myself all night.”
“We’ll just have to plan this mission carefully and execute it flawlessly, or we will both be sent packing!”
“OK. Amigo. Let’s do it!”
Authors post note:
It was interesting to weave a story together from primarily three unrelated perspectives. First of course was “Jason” who underwent the toenail extraction. But Jason had no idea where the medical supplies came from. I found the answer to that question when I talked with “Garcia”, who had poison Ivy and was with Taber during Darby recycle. Once I had those two pieces, I shared the story during a phone conversation with the PA who worked on George and Evan on the mountain that fateful day. It was an ah-ha moment for him as he recalled the foot check story. It helped solve that mystery for him. He also clearly remembered “Sullivan” and the severity of the brown recluse spider bite. He did not realize that it was Taber who insisted that he go to medical for immediate treatment. I then turned around and shared the PA’s story with Jason who remembered it well, so I had that conversation collaborated from opposite viewpoints.
“Jason” went on to graduate from Ranger school and went back to his unit to be a team leader. He credits George for getting him through and stays in close touch with the Taber family. He got out of the Army a year later and is now attending college in central Florida and doing a lot of surfing, a sport that he and George both shared a passion for. Losing his good friend still weighs heavy on him.
1Lt Evan Fitzgibbon also died that same day along with SSG George Taber in the same storm on Mt Yonah. We will never forget their service and sacrifice. Two phenomenal young men striving to become even better. They are both sorely missed by Ranger classes 08/09-22, USMA, 7th SFG and all who had the honor of knowing and serving with them. De Oppresso Liber/RLTW!
Tab Taber
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Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.
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