Tank in the Bog

I was a Second Lieutenant in the Army and the platoon leader of 1st Platoon, Delta Company consisting of four tanks and sixteen soldiers. It was the 16th of November and we were just over three weeks into our month-long deployment at the Joint Readiness Training Center. Headquarters tasked our company to establish a mobile defense. Our mission was to block enemy scout vehicles' northward movement along the extensive trail networks of the Fort Polk woods. Upon receiving orders, we had eighteen hours to prepare our positions. The time was 0700 (7:00 a.m.).

My platoon had spent the last twenty-plus days conducting simulated "Operations other than War." This involved clearing minefields at 0200, escorting military intelligence operatives deep into unfriendly territory so that they could position hidden ground-based radar systems, negotiating with local villagers, and repelling enemy assaults on sensitive operational resources such as Blackhawk helicopters. When not on the move, our team of tanks and men condensed into a tight, 360-degree perimeter and pulled roundthe-clock security. The pace of operations left me about three or four hours per day to close my eyes and try to sleep. Having run out of Pop-Tarts and Gatorade about two weeks in, I was forced to eat the military issue MREs (Meal-Ready-to-Eat). But I could only handle one per day. I had not showered since October. My toilet was a temporary hole in the ground. Needless to say, I was hungry, dirty, exhausted, and ready to go home. And this was only training.

So in order to prepare the defense of the trail networks, my commander sent me out at around 1230 with a Global Positioning System. He tasked me to locate key artillery targets, record the respective ten-digit grid coordinates (accurate to within 1 meter), and to return to company headquarters not later than 1500 (3:00 p.m.).

The mission was simple. I took my tank crew of four, my map, and my GPS and started to navigate the trails. But only thirty minutes in, things got complicated. In negotiating a tight turn between two trees, we built up a substantial amount of soil underneath our left wheel, worked the angle too hard, and "threw track." In simple terms, when a tank "throws track" it is a large-scale version of having your bike chain come off — a portion of the track dislodges from the sprocket.

Under normal circumstances, a crew of four can break the track apart, maneuver the tank so that the sprockets, wheels, and track links are aligned, and then re-connect the appropriate parts in about two or three hours. Because of the extent of the damage, and the fact that we were deep in the Louisiana woods, we could not fix the problem ourselves. I radioed for maintenance assistance, and then we waited.

Sergeant Frye

Sergeant Frye, Delta company's head mechanic, arrived with his crew of four at about 1400 hours. The first words out of his mouth: "Holy s**t, sir. You could not do that again if you tried." Sergeant Frye had a mixed reputation. He was likely one of the best tank mechanics in the Army; he was also one of the most belligerent soldiers you would find anywhere. I was usually surprised when he called me "sir," and I'm not sure he even knew how to salute. In fact, prior attitude problems toward superiors as well as conflicts with peers had held him back from promotion to the next level.

Despite all that, I had cultivated a fairly positive relationship with him over the past nine months by asking lots of questions and deferring to his expertise on a regular basis. In my mind, this was a guy who wanted to be appreciated; he needed to feel like he had power in his area. As this situation wore on, it would test the fiber of that relationship. By 1600, Sergeant Frye's crew realized that they would need even more back-up, including a second maintenance vehicle with lift capability and an additional winch. The second crew arrived within thirty minutes, and all eight mechanics went back to work.

As dusk approached, I decided to reconnoiter a route out of the woods. My commander was obviously not pleased with my three-hour detour. I had not provided him the target locations, and despite my desire to make the butt-chewing go away, I could not provide him a reasonable estimate as to when this mess would end. So I figured establishing an exit route while light was still available would serve me well once dark had come. I set out on foot and marked a 1/4 mile trail out to the main road by placing fluorescent chem-lights at 100 meter intervals.

After marking the trail, I returned to my tank and waited (the mechanics definitely wanted me to stay out of the way). As I sat there, I felt like an incompetent idiot. I'd gotten us stuck in the woods, had not accomplished my task, and I had drawn the company's entire maintenance team away from their normal duties. Moreover, I had not even thought about my own platoon's plan for the night's defense (which was now just six hours away). At least, I thought, I'd had enough forethought to mark an exit route. (As a side note, I'd had just three hours of sleep in the last two days, and I hadn't eaten since dinner the night before).

Sergeant Frye and his team turned the last screw on our track at around 2345 (11:45 p.m.). He was more than upset by that time and voiced his displeasure over the radio as I took accountability of all personnel. Moving out toward the first chem-light, I was now leading a column of four vehicles and seventeen soldiers back to company headquarters (a second tank and a High-Mobility Multi-Purpose Wheeled Vehicle – a Humvee – had joined us earlier in the day to provide security watch). By marking a short-cut back to the road, I had saved us at least fifteen minutes — or at least that is what I thought. Just one hundred meters in, the tracks on my tank began to spin (similar to the feeling of being stuck in the snow). As I told those behind me to halt, and dismounted my tank, I saw that my route had led us into a bog -which I had not detected on foot; my tank was now stuck. I could hardly bring myself to trigger my headset…"Sergeant Frye, could you meet me at my tank?" "What the hell sir?" responded Sergeant Frye.

"Sergeant Frye, just meet me at my tank."

As he walked up, I wasn't sure how I was going to handle this. Sergeant Frye had been in fights in the past. He cared little about rank differences or threats of formal discipline. He was a competent soldier, but very explosive. He had just spent the better part of ten hours fixing my mess, and now I had gotten us into another one.

As Sergeant Frye approached with his flashlight, he saw that my tank was stuck. A few other soldiers had gathered around. "What the hell are you doing L.T.?" "F***, why didn't you just take the road? It was right there behind us. This is bull****."

I felt sick to my stomach. It was just past midnight. The temperature had dropped to 45 degrees. My commander was on the radio yelling at me every five minutes and now Sergeant Frye was yelling at me too. It occurred to me that this was what leadership was all about. These soldiers and this situation were my responsibility. I had to keep people safe; I had to maintain control; I had to figure out a way to get us out of here and get into a defensive position in less than an hour.

Options raced through my mind. How should I handle Sergeant Frye?