Victory Pond

Fort Benning, GA

March 8th, 2019

0945R

Hank POV

It was finally time for Class 3-19 to graduate. After 61 days of hell, Ranger School was finally over. But in all honesty, as much as I wanted that tab—the signifier of my achievement—that fact that I'd gone through it and passed was more than enough satisfaction for me... and I dare say that I had a good time going through the Army's toughest school. If the Academy still existed, it would be a damn good idea for the CIA to send officers-in-training through, at minimum, two military schools: Ranger School and Survive, Evade, Resist, and Escape (SERE) School.

But in all honesty, as tough as Ranger School was, I was more focused on the fact that I was going head-to-head against my old nemesis.

TWO MONTHS EARLIER, ON JANUARY 7th...

"What. The. Hell."

"I could say the same thing to you."

Somehow, some way, my little brother had managed to make his way to Ranger School. And while Ranger School is open to all of the branches—yes, even the Coast Guard—there aren't many slots for non-Army personnel. If Marines wanted a shot at going, they generally had to be NCOs or officers and operators in the US Marine Forces Special Operations Command or among the Marine Corps Special Operations Capable Forces... which is basically a long-winded way of saying that these Marines were special operators without being underneath the US Special Operations Command.

For example, I'm an ANGLICO—Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company—Marine, which is considered "Special Operations Capable." Throw in the fact that I'm an officer (a captain, if you're curious), my chances of getting a slot to Ranger School increase significantly. Chip, on the other hand, was not only a junior enlisted man in the Marine Corps, he was an infantryman—namely an 0331 machine gunner—so it was highly unlikely that he would be getting in.

But here he was, in the flesh, kitted up and ready to go for the first day of Ranger School. And he looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

"Uh... why the fuck do you two look so similar?" a fellow student—a US Army 2nd lieutenant—asked, looking back and forth between us as we stared at each other in shock, with more of our fellow students gathering around to see what was going on.

"Lance Corporal... you mind tellin' me how in the hell you managed to get here?" I asked, making my little brother grin.

"Believe me, Cap'n, I'm surprised my packet went as far as it did... 'specially considerin' that SOP dictates that you gotta be E-5 n' up if you're non-Army."

"Wait... you got a waiver, didn't you?"

"I reckon so. The battalion commander signed off on my packet, n' cut me loose."

"Wow... I'm legitimately impressed."

"Atten-SHUN!" a raspy-voiced man suddenly shouted, making us all snap to as our Ranger Instructors (RIs) arrived: a dozen men with their standard MultiCam pants and covers, long-sleeved black shirts with an enlarged image of the black-and-yellow Ranger Tab and their name and rank, and sunglasses to beat the Georgia sun, which shone brightly even in January. An older, grizzled man stepped forward—his shirt indicating that he was Master Sergeant Hayes, the same man who called us to attention—and began to address the approximately 250 of us present in the forest clearing. "Okay, boys. Welcome to Camp Rogers for Benning Phase. We start with the Ranger Assessment Phase for Days 1 through 3, then Squad Combat Operations at Camp Darby. Now, according to history, it is here in RAP where you will fail... prove me wrong. Now scream 'Ranger!'"

"Ranger!" we shouted back in acknowledgement.

"Try again. I don't think your lungs are working."

"RANGER!"

"Okay, sound off when your name is called. If we can't finish this shit fast enough, everyone drops. Adams."

"Ranger!" the student named Adams shouted. And this continued down the line until they finally reached the "S" names.

"Schacter," MSG Hayes called.

"Ranger!" Chip and I shouted at the same time, making all of the RIs look our way in confusion.

"Uh... Christopher J."

"Ranger!" Chip replied to his legal name.

"Now... Henry J."

"Ranger!" I replied to my legal name.

"Okay, are you two fuckin' brothers?"

"Ranger!" we answered.

"Chrissake, just answer normally, meatheads! Captain?"

"Affirmative, Sergeant!" I confirmed, wanting to keep things short and sweet. Sure, I may have outranked him, but he was the RI, and I was the student, so I wasn't expected any "sirs" out of him.

"You the older Schacter?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Wait a tic... your daddy a Marine? Jerry, from Texas?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Goddammit, are you serious? That big bastard still alive?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"The fuck, Sergeant?" one of the other RIs asked.

"We've got ourselves some legacies, fellas!" MSG Hayes said, pointing towards Chip and I. "These boys are the sons of my old classmate, the esteemed Jerry Schacter... the big-ass Texan Marine recondo-turned-Raider who got himself the William O. Darby Award. And they're just as big n' strong as their old man... now they get to suffer like he did!"

"Ranger!" Chip shouted, his tone proud and determined. Don't know why he did that, but it certainly displayed his confidence... or cockiness.

"Alright... but you boys better be aware that bein' six-foot-six n' jacked ain't gonna help you here. How your old man busted through this shit with his size, I don't know. But if you've got half the commitment, focus, and sheer fuckin' will he did, y'all will do alright. As our cousins across the pond say: don't cock it up."

"Ranger!" I acknowledged. It was certainly true: Ranger School was very much a mental and physical suckfest that took more endurance than brute force. And Chip and I, while being decent runners, looked more like run-of-the-mill gymbros... not the skinny-yet-tough little bastards who embraced and endured the suck.

But if there's one thing I knew about Chip, it's that he did everything to the max. He wasn't leaving here without that Ranger Tab, and failure was not in his already limited vocabulary.

As Benning Phase began, I noticed that Chip was often looking over at me to see how I was doing... which I was similarly guilty of. And while we didn't speak often, it didn't take long for it to go from Ranger School to just another day like our childhood: the two of us competing, trying to see who was the best. It didn't matter whether it was a fitness assessment like the Ranger Physical Fitness Test (push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups) or a skill assessment like the combination night/day land navigation test. We just wanted to be the better-performing student.

We didn't realize it at the time, but our desire to be the superior Schacter resulted in us outperforming most—and sometimes all—of our fellow students in the tasks we were given... which the RIs were quick to call out.

"Rangers, I love the effort, but don't forget that you're on the same team, alright?" one RI told us as we rested after the 12-mile ruck march, with both of us managing to finish in just under 2.4 hours—faster than damn near everyone else in our class. "Your goals should not be to outperform each other, alright?"

"Ranger!" Chip and I gasped out from the ground after gulping down some water, exhausted after hauling ass over 12 miles with 50 pounds on each of our backs.

"Good Lord... as competitive as your old man," MSG Hayes chuckled as he walked up to us, looking down on our collapsed, panting forms. "Just remember what you're here for, young Schacters. It'll keep you alive."

"Ranger!"

"Heh. Damn Devil Dogs..."

Squad Combat Operations at Camp Darby was... chaotic, to say the least. Chip and I both got assigned as squad leaders, leading to some interesting antics as we received instruction in patrolling, demolitions, fieldcraft, and battle drills. And when it came time to execute ambush and reconnaissance missions against OPFOR (opposing forces—simulated enemy troops), the RIs and our peers had labeled our squads as the best, though noted that Chip had an edge in ambushes while I had an edge in recon.

It made sense, though. If I was a needle, Chip was a damn sledgehammer.

There was also the infamous Darby Queen obstacle course, which was run. However, rather than competing with one another, the RIs—namely MSG Hayes—decided to pair us up. Now, the Darby Queen ain't a team course, but while we had to negotiate the supermajority of the obstacles as individuals, the Skyscraper—which required students to climb up several vertical wooden platforms without a ladder or rope—required two men to get past.

Of course, that didn't stop us from trying to run faster than each other and negotiate all the other obstacles faster... but we still worked together on the Skyscraper, flowing like a decently oiled machine. We may not have been in the same unit, with him in the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines while I was in 2nd ANGLICO, but we sure as hell could get the job done.

"Thanks," Chip grunted as I helped him up to the top platform of the Skyscraper. "Whoo... feelin' good?"

"Just like old times," I replied as I began swinging to the lower platform, beginning the journey down. "C'mon, lil' Chip. Haul ass."

"Roger that, Hank."

Benning Phase eventually ended with 100 students dropped and 150 left, Chip and I among the latter as we were sent to Camp Merrill near Dahlonega, Georgia for Mountain Phase, where we learned how to move, patrol, and fight for military operations in mountainous environment—like the mountains of Afghanistan—and we continued to be pushed to our limits. We had little food, little sleep, and little rest, with each student appearing to be on his last legs... except for Chip.

They say that at Ranger School, there are sleepy Rangers and tired Rangers... every man falls into either category. Chip, the Marine that he was, always managed to take catnaps without the RIs noticing. Despite his size and musculature, he never seemed to get tired. And I was the same way: I may have been an officer, but that didn't keep me from catching up on sleep whenever I could. And I sure as hell wasn't going to show weakness in front of my little brother.

Chip, like me, was so determined, it was like he was willing the exhaustion to leave his body. He kept pushing through exercise after exercise, training after training, sweating like a pig in the cool wintery air as we learned knots, belays, anchor points, rope management, mobility evacuation, climbing, and rappelling. As determined as I was to push through and earn my tab, Chip's sheer commitment only spurred me further.

We're brothers, after all: competition is practically our second religion.

The two of us ended up becoming squad leaders yet again during the field training exercises (FTXs), in which we had to move our squads cross-country over mountains, ambush vehicles, raid comms/mortar sites, cross rivers, and scale steep terrain. We conducted airborne assaults (static-line parachuting), air assaults (fast-roping or rappelling from helicopters), and plain ole ruck marching in order to reach our objectives. Chip continued to utilize the most aggressive approaches possible, while I opted for stealth. Either way, our squads performed the best out of everyone.

I had to admit: Chip was a dumbass, but he sure could lead men into combat.

134 of us would proceed to the final part of Ranger School: Swamp Phase at Camp James E. Rudder, Eglin Air Force Base in Florida... because apart from Louisiana, where in the hell are you going to find swamps tough enough for the Army's toughest school? Chip and I were among the men that parachuted into Swamp Phase, while the non-Airborne (or as they say in the 82nd, the FILTHY LEGS) students were bussed to Eglin AFB.

We continued to be pushed to our limits as we were trained in small boat operations, stream crossing techniques, and rainforest/swamp survival skills. But while it was still a suckfest, Chip and I glanced at each other at several points, trying not to laugh. You see, the benefit of growing up in the South—especially rural areas like where we were more and raised—is that we get to learn all about creepy crawlies and critters that we can eat or avoid. Some of our fellow students screamed like little girls when we encountered snakes, while Chip at one point picked up a big ole rat snake and ribbed one particularly skittish student.

"C'mon, Hardy!" Chip teased, shaking the big nonvenomous snake at the quivering Army specialist. "It's just a lil' bitty rat snake!"

"YOU FUCKING REDNECK, THAT THING'S FIVE FEET LONG!!" SPC Hardy screamed, cowering against a tree.

"C'mon, bud! Yer a dadgum Ranger! Can't be scared of a lil' dude like this!"

"HE'S LITTLE TO YOU!! YOU'RE SIX AND A HALF FEET TALL AND FUCKING JACKED, YOU INBRED HILLBILLY BASTARD!!"

"Ease up, city boy! He ain't gonna hurt you!" Chip assured him, as he proceeded to lay the snake on SPC Hardy's shoulders.

I'm fairly certain that boy's screams could be heard all the way over in Miami.

By luck of the draw, Chip and I ended up serving stints as platoon leaders, being at the head of a 40ish-man element (including ourselves) as we underwent continued training and simulated missions against increasingly realistic OPFOR. Things would culminate with a 10-day FTX in which we raided the Atropian Liberation Front's (ALF; a simulated cartel) island stronghold, to take down the organization. In this FTX, all three platoons of students had to work together, carrying out separate missions in support of the larger operation, to take down the simulated cartel's final point of strength.

ON MARCH 4th, AT 2210 HOURS...

"Okay, with Martinez and Farlow dropped... I've got thirty-five men," Major Barrow—the third platoon leader, hailing from the US Army Reserve—said as we convened in a platoon/squad leaders' powwow. "How about you, Lance Corporal and Captain?"

"Thirty-six," Chip replied.

"And I've got thirty-seven," I added, quickly doing the math. "That's a hundred n' eight all together."

"Hank, remind me again how in the hell we lost twenty-six men from the start o' Swamp Phase?"

"Injuries n' failures, I reckon... plus the RIs giving guys 'no-go' marks."

"That'd do it," MAJ Barrow replied. "Okay... any ideas, Marines?"

"I reckon Hank can take a squad to reconnoiter the AO while another establishes overwatch," Chip suggested, using a stick to annotate the map we'd drawn in the damp dirt. "Major, your men can set up blockin' positions an' support my platoon with crew-served weapons as we assault the compound."

"Yeah, that's a good plan," I agreed, patting my brother on the shoulder. "Recon squad can find targets while overwatch squad gets some eyes up high. Then when I give the signal, y'all start the assault."

"... helluva plan," MAJ Barrow remarked.

"Speed, surprise, an' violence of action, sir," Chip said with a grin.

"A-firm," I concurred, with a similar smirk. It was time to finish of the ALF and get the hell out of here.

The final mission went almost exactly as planned. The only alteration was that SPC Hardy fell out of his boat while conducting the amphibious assault on the island, and got jumped by a surprisingly aggressive 6-foot alligator, catching everyone—from the students to the OPFOR to the RIs—off-guard, as it latched onto SPC Hardy's rucksack (and yes, the poor city boy was screaming his head off). Chip jumped in without hesitation and attacked the alligator head-on, bashing it on the head with his M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (fitted with a blank adapter, of course).

"Dadgum gator, if I weren't tryna kill a cartel, I'd be killin', cleanin', and cookin' yer carcass fer dinner!" Chip growled as he then tackled the belligerent alligator, ripping it off SPC Hardy before finally lifting the thrashing reptile into his arms, using one hand to keep its jaws shut. He'd lost a lot of muscle mass since the start of Ranger School—due to our food and sleep deprivation—but he was still as strong as a bull. He wanted that Ranger Tab more than damn near everyone else combined... and this alligator was slowing him down. I watched my brother all but throttle the gator through my night vision goggles, trying not to laugh as my fellow students looked on in shock and horror.

We didn't seem to have any Florida Men in our class that could handle this situation, but Chip certainly seemed like the next best thing.

"Now, GIT!" Chip yelled as he chucked the gator back into the water from which it came, the 6-ft reptile splashing down a few yards away. Adding to the hilarity was the fact that, despite the low illumination and dark waters, I could just make out the silhouette swimming away as fast as possible. Evidently, it didn't plan on encountering a "six-foot-six leatherneck hillbilly Hulk," as one RI called Chip.

"Nice work, Ranger 2-6," I called on the radio, addressing Chip by his callsign (leader of 2nd Platoon). "Now git back in the fight, boy."

"Copy, 1-6," he replied, before turning around and yanking SPC Hardy to his feet. "All Rangers, let's get some! Charlie Mike!"

"Charlie Mike" meaning "continue mission" broke the reverie, refocusing everyone's attention on the mock-raid. The students attacked with renewed aggression, and it didn't take long for us to complete our simulated takedown of the ALF, after which MSG Hayes made the announcement that brought about our salvation.

"ENDEX, ENDEX, ENDEX!!" he thundered on a bullhorn, making every man cheer in tired jubilation. We'd done it. We'd passed the Army's toughest school... and we were ready to graduate.

BACK TO THE PRESENT...

I smiled at the memories as MSG Hayes was explaining the Victory Pond walk, with one of the graduating students running through it to demonstrate. I glanced into the crowd, seeing the friends and families of my fellow students, all eager to see their sons, their brothers, their fathers, their cousins, and their uncles earn the coveted Ranger Tab. But there were only two faces that mattered to me, and I'd just found them when...

"And now, after ascending the ladder, the Ranger will negotiate the beam before utilizing either the commando or monkey crawl to the Ranger Tab," MSG Hayes explained as the student ran across the beam posted 40 feet up, leaping over a couple steps bearing the Ranger Tab insignia. And yes, I did say "leaping over," not "walking across," because guess who the student was?

Yup... none other than Chip, or the "Crazy Redneck Terminator," as some of the RIs, students, and OPFOR called him (with me being referred to as the "Sane Redneck Terminator"). Clad in his MARPAT cammies—short of a cover (the RIs told him to forgo his headgear)—Chip reached the thick rope, grabbing onto it and hanging from it like a koala as he moved towards the wooden Ranger Tab.

"At the tab, he will request permission to drop forty feet into the water below," MSG Hayes explained as Chip slid down the rope towards the tab head-first. "Hey, Ranger! Hustle up!"

"RANGER!!" Chip bellowed back as he completed the slide, slapped the suspended Ranger Tab, and unlocked his feet so that he was hanging from the rope in a chin-up position. To signal that he'd completed his task, he again shouted "RANGER!!"

"Alright, you know what to do," MSG Hayes said.

"RANGER!!" Chip acknowledged as he performed a single chin-up before returning to a dead hang.

"Families, special guests, whaddaya think? One more?"

"YEAH!!" the crowd cheered with thunderous applause.

"RANGER!!" Chip yelled as he performed yet another chin-up.

"Naaaah, not good enough. Class 3-19, you want another outta him?" MSG Hayes asked.

"YEEEAAAAAHHH!!" 106 other men and I cheered, wanting to milk this for all it was worth.

"RANGER!!" Chip shouted, executing yet another chin-up.

"Not enough for me... Ranger, one for teamwork!" MSG Hayes ordered.

"RANGER!!" Another chin-up.

"One for fallen brothers!"

"RANGER!!"

"One for honor!"

"RANGER!!"

"One for God and country!"

"RANGER!!"

"Alright, drop," Hayes ordered after appearing to get a thumbs-up from what appeared to be either the command sergeant major of the Airborne and Ranger Training Brigade.

"RANGER!!" Chip shouted as he released the rope, standing at attention and saluting as he plummeted into Victory Pond with a glorious splash, receiving applause, laughter, and cheers from our classmates, RIs, and the crowd of visitors alike. And finally, at long last, the graduation ceremony began as MSG Hayes handed the mic off to the ARTB's CSM.

"Good morning, and welcome to the Airborne and Ranger Training Brigade graduation for Ranger Class 3-19..."

The ceremony went on with the flags being presented, a brief word being said by the chaplain, and some more speeches by the CSM, MSG Hayes, and two staff officers from the ARTB commander's inner circle... a lieutenant colonel and captain whose names I couldn't quite make out through the military-grade microphone.

And yes, "military-grade" is a synonym for "crappy," despite what the media will tell you.

But after fifteen minutes of monotonous malarkey from the CSM and staff officers, it was finally time for the "commendation collection" to walk up to the mulch pit in front of the audience. I was among this group, along with Chip, MSG Hayes, and two other RIs. The instructors, looking professional and proud with their tan berets—they were bonafide Rangers, having served in the 75th Ranger Regiment—were definitely getting some sort of teachers' award, but I had no idea why Chip and I were in line with them.

"The heck is this?" Chip muttered behind me, still soaking wet after his plunge into Victory Pond.

"Shut up," I whispered back, not turning around as the captain finally called for us to march into the mulch pit in a single-file line. Upon reaching the center, we halted and did a quick left-face, before finally standing at parade rest. Chip and I were the oddballs in the line, being Marines and significantly taller than the RIs (and everyone else for that matter). But that didn't matter as the CSM and lieutenant colonel walked up to our line to begin handing us awards.

"The Army Commendation Medal goes to Master Sergeant Ryan Hayes, Sergeant First Class Don Schell, and Staff Sergeant Bill Robertson for outstanding instruction and leadership of the Ranger students of Class 3-19," the captain announced as the three RIs received the medals, certificates, and handshakes to the applause of the audience. "And now for the class awards. Based on the reviews of their instructors and peers, only two awards are being given today. The William O. Darby Award is given to the Ranger Class's Distinguished Honor Graduate, awarded to the Ranger that shows the best tactical administrative leadership performance, has the most positive spot reports, and has demonstrated being a cut above the rest. He has also exceeded expectations on all graded leadership positions and peer reports. The recipient of the Darby Award for Class 3-19 is Captain Henry J. Schacter of the United States Marine Corps' 2nd Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company!"

The audience broke into applause as I received a wooden plaque and got my Ranger Tab pinned to my left sleeve. I saluted the captain and shook both his hand and the CSM's hand, but the only praise I truly cared about were my two special guests in the crowd: my father, Master Gunnery Sergeant Jerry Schacter, and my girlfriend, First Lieutenant Tina Cuevo. Both were in their combat uniforms—Pa in MARPAT and Tina in OCPs—and while Tina was definitely cheering the loudest, Pa bore one of the biggest grins I'd ever seen on him as he gave a standing ovation alongside my girlfriend.

"The Glenn M. Hall Award is given to the Ranger Class's Enlisted Honor Graduate, awarded to the enlisted Ranger that exceeds expectations on all graded leadership positions and peer reports. He has not lost any equipment due to negligence and has no retests on any critical tasks," the captain continued as the applause for me died down. "The recipient of the Hall Award for Class 3-19 is Lance Corporal Christopher J. Schacter of the United States Marine Corps' Weapons Platoon, Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines!"

The crowd erupted into applause yet again for my little brother. I wished I could join in on the praise, but I was stuck standing at parade rest. But I couldn't keep the smile off my face: sure, I'd gotten the most prestigious award, but Chip had gotten the best prize an enlisted man could get in Ranger School... and he'd defied all the odds, embracing and enduring the suck despite looking like the kind of guy (namely, a big ole meathead) who wouldn't last 61 hours, let alone 61 days.

"One last round of applause for Ranger Class 3-19!" MSG Hayes said as he took the mic back from the ARTB staff officer, eliciting the loudest standing ovation yet. "Thank you all for being here... now, please enjoy your time with these men. And as always, Rangers, what do we do?"

"RANGERS LEAD THE WAY!!" we bellowed, remembering the motto of the 75th Ranger Regiment. The school may not have been directly affiliated with the Regiment, but they shared many of the same principles, so we still learned the motto.

"Class dismissed!"

We let out another cheer as we were finally released, at which point I turned to Chip and held out my hand. He clasped my hand into a handshake before yanking me into a hug, laughing in jubilation. We'd done it. We'd beaten the Army's toughest school.

"Nice work, Hank," he congratulated with a grin.

"You too, Chip."

"Hi, boys!" a cheery feminine voice said: none other than Tina, who'd jogged up to us with one of the biggest smiles I'd ever seen on her face. And damn, did she look beautiful.

"Good mornin', ma'am!" Chip greeted, rendering her a crisp salute as per military doctrine. She rolled her eyes but nonetheless responded in kind... she was in uniform, after all.

"At ease, Chip."

"Don't you salute me, missy," I warned as I pulled her into a hug, making her giggle as she embraced me back.

"Alright, alright... congratulations! The Darby Award's the big-time!" she exclaimed. "And great job on the Hall Award, Chip!"

"'Preciate it, Tina!" Chip thanked, before looking up to see our other important special guest, walking behind with what appeared to be a minor limp. "Mornin', Massa Guns!"

"Mornin', sir, Lance Corporal," Pa greeted me in his deep, thick Texan accent (allegedly... it's definitely different from what I've heard around my hometown, but I can't say for certain) and Chip as per regulation.

"Pa, what happened to your left leg?" I asked. "Sprained it?"

"More like a strain, followin' a HAHO exercise. Ain't too bad... oughta be good to go when we deploy in autumn."

"Well, well, well... if it isn't Mr. Everything is Bigger in Texas!" MSG Hayes exclaimed as he walked up to us, looking at Pa. "Schacter, you old sonuvabitch!"

"Hayes? Good Lord, yer still a small fry!" Pa greeted, shaking the significantly shorter man's hand.

"Ah, shaddap. That's what bad genes n' Airborne Ranger life'll do to you... surprised you haven't gotten shorter."

"I actually have... lost me one, maybe one-n'-a-quarter inches after all these years of jumpin'."

"... And you're still a giant."

"I reckon that's just good genes, good fitness, n' good food."

"Goddammit... okay, what the fuck is that rank on your collar?"

"Master Gunn'ry Sarn't."

"Which means...?"

"E-9."

"... fucking hell, man. First you snatch the Darby Award from me, now you outrank me?" MSG Hayes exclaimed, sounding both amused and exasperated.

"C'mon, I thought there wasn't any bad blood from us," Pa chuckled. "Besides, when we were in Ranger School, I seem to recall you gettin' the Hall Award yerself."

"Shit, man... you got me there. But what is it with you Schacters being huge country boy Devil Dogs that do super fuckin' well in Ranger School?"

"That's just their charm, Sergeant," Tina answered, shooting me a wink. "Ain't that right, Hank?"

"I reckon so," I replied with a grin. "That's just how we do it, huh Chip?"

"Dern right," he affirmed, giving me a fist-bump. "Not bad for a coupla 'Redneck Terminators.'"

"Fuck it. Hey, Schell!" MSG Hayes called.

"Wassup, boss-man?" the other RI replied, turning away from the family he was conversing with.

"Snap a pic of us, will ya?"

"Sure thing!" SFC Schell said as MSG Hayes tossed him his phone and arranged us so that he was in the center, I stood to his left, Chip to his right, Tina to my left, and Pa to Chip's right. The Army master sergeant looked almost as proud as my father as he posed with us for a picture, reaching up and clasping Chip's and my shoulders while Tina looped her arm in the one that wasn't holding the Darby Award plaque. "Alright, lady and gentlemen... 'Ranger' on three! One, two, three!"

"RANGER!"

HAPPY BELATED FATHERS DAY!

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter... this one was tricky as hell to write. But hey, more of the Schacter brothers as they humorously undergo Ranger School while trying to outdo one another (outdoing everyone else in the process)... plus a cameo from their dad, a Ranger School Distinguished Honor Graduate who is now a master gunnery sergeant in MARSOC... and lest we forget, the lovely US Air Force 1st Lt. Tina Cuevo! More on Mr. and Mrs. Schacter, as well as Tina, in future chapters.

I wanted to add some humor before things get serious in the next chapter. Don't forget to comment your feedback (good and bad). Stay hydrated, stay safe, and give your dad a hug.

https://youtu.be/NMGIHOo4sc4

https://youtu.be/oz5tLqgHVNI

Rangers lead the way!

Until we meet again,

- ADF-2