WRITINGS

“We ended up leaving the desert that night with eight people left behind.”

The principal enlisted advisor to the commander in chief of U.S. Special Operations Command, MacDill Air Force Base, was describing his experience 20 years ago in the Iranian desert.

“The aftermath of that was really devastating. There was a lot of anger, a sense of failure, and frustration. We were very, very confident that had the helicopters got us there, we could have gotten the people out. We were ready to do the ground portion. We just didn’t have the time.”

Command Sergeant Melvin L. Wick spoke evenly about Desert One, the watershed event for Special Operations Forces (SOF) that witnessed the attempt of a special mission unit to rescue 53 hostages from the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, Iran. This year commemorates Desert One’s 20^th anniversary and it was the preliminary action that laid the foundation of SOF capabilities today.

“The hostages were taken while we were still in training,” said Wick. “It was November 1979 and what we did back then was primitive compared to what we do today.”

The name Melvin L. Wick is practically synonymous with special operations. It’s been more than three decades since Wick first walked into the SOF arena. He contributed firsthand to special operations missions in Vietnam, Iran, Grenada, Somalia, and Panama. A native of Bozeman, Mont., he spent most of his career in charge of special operations forces. Wick has been a role model for special operators and has been vocal about the concerns of their augmentation and their missions.

“There was a lot of enthusiasm when the initial planning began,” Wick explained his role in Desert One. “But there was also a strong tendency at the senior levels to wish away problems. I think we had seven full-scale rehearsals. Never once during training or preparation did the helicopters arrive at the right time, fly the right pattern, or do the right thing. So we never had a high level of confidence in the capability that the aircraft could get us where they said they would.”

Before the U.S. Embassy was taken by the terrorists, Wick’s special mission unit was developing procedures and experimenting with techniques and equipment. “We really had the freedom to try anything we could dream up. It was a very busy, but very exciting time, where we were truly inventing a lot of things that are still valid today,” he said.

Wick discussed the reasons for the failure of the hostage rescue effort. “I believe the problem was in the way pilots were selected. One pilot was chosen because he has the longest night flying record. But he wasn’t selected for doing tactical flying at low levels with night vision devices,” he said. “But you can’t really blame what happened on one single thing. It was the whole government system at the time. Our traditional services did not want special or elite units, maybe because they felt threatened by them. And there was a lot of service rivalry.”

Commander in Chief of U.S. Special Operations Command Gen. Peter J. Schoomaker was also at Desert One with Wick. The two warriors have been teammates six times and have worked side-by-side for more than 20 years. “Desert One created this command,” said Schoomaker about USSOCOM. “It was a significant event.”

The hard truths generated from the downfall of Dessert One led to the attention that SOF desperately needed. “That was the catalyst that got high-level interest so that something (like Desert One) wouldn’t happen again. Special ops started to get money and better equipment, aircraft, and training. Capabilities were broadened,” explain Wick, a soldier for 33 years now. He was 29 when he headed out to the desert with the special mission unit.

If the Desert One operation was an assignment today, Wick is positive that it would be a success. “There is no comparison between SOF then and SOF now. If that operation had to be done today, it would be relatively easy,” he said. “The big difference we have now is quality people. All units have a formal assessment of selection for their operational folks. Everyone is screened, tested, and selected because of special skills and personality traits – things that are essential to accomplish these types of operations.”

These days there is about a 40 percent decline in military personnel. Wick believes it doesn’t affect the fundamental qualities of special operators. “Obviously the pool of eligible people is much smaller, he said, “but our standards have not changed. We believe that quality is better that quantity.”

It was in 1980 that the Joint Special Operations Command was formed and according to Wick, this was the milestone. “JSOC brought the joint special operations capabilities together,” he explained. “Then USSOCOM was created in 1987. We got our own budget, and a tremendous difference was made when the commander in chief acquired interoperability among all SOF units. Routine operations done today make Desert One look like child’s play. We now maintain the highest level of training in the world.”

Wick said his most memorable experiences during his SOF career were simultaneously positive and negative. Like a lot of U.S. troops, Wick went to Vietnam when he was 21 years old. “You would see the best and the worst of people because they approached living like it was their last day. The casualty rate was so high, and some teams never came back,” he said. “Others had true character, willing to sacrifice themselves. They did a dangerous job – and they did it well.”

Wick found his duties in Vietnam rewarding. After North Vietnamese reconnaissance, Wick trained hundreds of Cambodian troops for combat. “I learned so much doing that,” Wick shook his head. “The responsibility, the pressure, the maneuvers – it was all very exciting. You could see individuals had the opportunity to go as far as they were capable.”

In 1983, Wick rode in a helicopter over his team’s target in Grenada. “Six people were shot on the first pass – in the first 30 seconds. There was a tremendous amount of fire,” Wick reflected. “No one got in the first time. On the second run, nine out of 13 people with me were already wounded. Overall, SOF may have won at Grenada, but we never got our target. It was the perfect example of how to not use special operations. We planned a night attack. The mission was compromised by being delayed until daylight.”

In October of 1993, SOF entered the Battle of Mogadishu in Somalia. “It was the most intense combat since Vietnam,” Wick stated. “In less that 20 hours, eighteen were killed and 70 were wounded. It was horrendous. But the adverse conditions gave way to the true character of the troops where they did unbelievable things. There were literally hundreds of examples of them rising to the occasion. It completely validated the training and selection processes. But I will never forget the first truckload of casualties where blood was running out like rain. Some were wounded, some were dead. The most memorable experiences were both positive and negative for me.”

Special Operations Forces view operations in Panama as a huge success. “There was early on planning and early reconnaissance,” Wick explained. “We were fully integrated with the unified commands and theaters. We were able to conduct true special operations.”

Schoomaker spoke about his senior enlisted advisor Wick. “He epitomizes special operations. He is the most mature Special Forces soldier on active duty today, the last of the original ones. If you take a look at USSOCOM headquartes, Wick deserves a lot of the credit.”

“We go back about 23 years,” Schoomaker continued. “Wick is a great leader with compassion. He understands the troops. He learned special ops the hard way – not from school. He has always had the insight and knowledge about the joint team with all the components. Wick is not an easy guy; he is very disciplined. But he has never been afraid, and I have always appreciated his courage.”

Schoomaker first met Wick at Fort Bragg, N.C., in 1978 while attending special mission unit selection. Wick was one of the instructors for the selection process and Schoomaker was up for assessment. Wick actually put the four-star general through his initial training.

Though instrumental in the success of SOF, Wick admits there are still challenges ahead. “We try hard to recruit and retain special operators,” he said. “We need to think ahead, plan, and then fill the voids. We cannot be content with where we are. Special operators need to continue to seek change.”

Hollywood had a fantasy-like version about special operations in 1986 with a movie titled Delta Force starring Chuck Norris. Wick laughed about it. “I am still trying to find one of those motorcycles with the rocket,” he said.

Wick joined the Army at Fort Lewis, Wash., in 1967. He made the decision to join at the age of 12. Attending a church summer camp, speaker Desmund T. Doss, a World War II Medal of Honor recipient, addressed the kids about his war experience, his commitment, and selfless service. “Doss  struck a chord with me, and I knew I wanted to be in special operations.” Wick added that his father served in the Army Air Corps.

With all his expertise in and his monumental service to SOF, Wick moves into the civilian world to begin his retirement with a new job in Washington, D.C. The warfighter courageously dedicated more than half his life to the Army and to Special Operations Forces. He helped to mold the livelihood of SOF. Wick’s unruffled nature and authentic quiet professionalism define special mission units. And his contributions to the SOF community will have lasting effects on the future of special operators.

A new command sergeant major will arrive in the fall to lead enlisted personnel at the four-star headquarters and active in SOF units worldwide. In the words of Commander Schoomaker, “those are some pretty big boots to fill.”

Command Sergeant Major Mel Wick retires Thursday, May 18, at the Special Operations Memorial, MacDill Air Force Base, Fla., at 1600.

The Iraqi equivalent special operators are now training with the premier U.S. Army Special Operations Forces soldiers — The Green Berets.

VIRGINIA

He woke us up around 4 o’clock in the morning—if memory serves me well. It was about two hours before we usually got our own selves up for school. He said, “Pack a bag for a few days and get in the truck.” He then chose me to go out and pump the diesel.

Dad had a big white GMC Blazer. One day, prior to this morning, he brought home a small backhoe and began digging a big hole near the garage. He did this sort of thing: whatever he wanted.

The man had actually recently been told by “experts” that the Virginia shale on our property was too hard and thick for an inground swimming pool with a deep end. They suggested a 3-foot wading pool. Dad wanted what he wanted, and like I said, did what he wanted. So, he brought home some explosives and blew the shit out of our backyard. And there it gleamed and bubbled—a big pool behind our house. Ten feet deep – seven feet deeper than the suggested wading pool. But that was months ago.

So, this time, the backhoe showing up wasn’t really that surprising. After this second gaping hole in our yard, a big tank was delivered and he buried it. A tall pump was erected and 400 gallons of diesel arrived next. Dad had his own gas station now. Only problem was that I could barely reach the handle for the pump. I had just turned 11 years old and was probably 60 pounds wet with no blossoming upward in sight.

I got smart after the first fill-up, though, and carried a milk crate out to the pump that morning so I could get taller, a better grip, and some leverage on the pump handle. Round and round I hand-cranked fuel into the Blazer’s tank. I remember it was cold, before dawn in front of the Blue Ridge Mountains, on that spring morning, even though I began to sweat. I remember thinking, this pump thing sucks.

I wondered where we were going instead of school.

We didn’t really know our dad. We never really saw him. He served in Special Forces and their usual duty was 50 weeks a year. Who we saw was our mom.

Our Dad was a lieutenant colonel at the time. We lived outside of Manassas, Va., and the year was 1982. He had just buried his wife, our mother, a few months before this out-of-the-ordinary morning. It was sudden, how she died. She now rested under a headstone in Arlington National Cemetery.

My two brothers and I did as we were told, packed, and piled into the truck.

Dad didn’t like a lot of chatter. He didn’t stand for squirreling around, either. And cutting up was an absolute no-no. He raised my younger brother, older brother, and me, like a military squadron. There was a pecking order, rotating chores, and you guessed it, discipline.

I don’t think any of us even asked where we were going. Dad had a Thirty Second Rule. His lesson was that if you asked a question that could take you 30 seconds to answer on your own, it was a waste of his time.

He pulled the truck down the mile-long, gravel drive, and turned right onto Route 619. We knew we were headed south and toward Quantico Marine Corps Base at the initial sum of it all. Black smoke billowed behind us as we built up to Dad’s usual speed of high 70’s—pretty fast in those days when the speed limit was 55 miles per hour.

I’d seen him get pulled over once near Fort Bragg, N.C. Must have been nine. Dad greeted the younger police officer with a “sir” and handed over his driver’s license and apparently his military ID as well. The cop literally apologized right there through the truck window for bothering him. He then tipped his hat to me in the passenger seat and said, “Ma’am.” First time anyone called me that. And the very first time I ever saw my dad smile to himself. We pulled away, unscathed, and both felt uplifted from the encounter.

We now blew past signs for the famous Marine Corps base and kept heading south, now on Interstate 95. Older brother T.J. was 13 in the front seat. Younger brother Jake was nine at my left in the back. I remember thinking how cool it would be to watch the movie Star Wars while in the truck. Dad had just bought our first microwave back in Manassas. The sky was showing light to our left.

Our dad was pretty important in the military. He had been issued an Iridium phone and it truly was a brick. He also carried his pistol everywhere he went. Both, he said, were in case violence broke out. One thing was absolutely for sure about my dad: I always felt safe with him.

The miles go by. T.J. finally asks where are we going. Dad replies, Fishing. We were immediately suspicious because we didn’t bring any gear. But what are you going to do or say about that? The miles go on. Hunger sets in. We are starving children pretty much taken captive from our school routine hours earlier, two states back. It’s almost lunchtime.

The signs keep blowing by: McDonald’s, Burger King, Arby’s. I figure, in Dad’s mind, he is making us tougher. Starving us. In my mind, he is neglecting us.

“Can we stop for some food, Dad?”

No reply.

“Dad, I’m really hungry. Can we stop for burgers?” Another kid asks another hour later.

No response.

But I literally see my dad cut the slightest smile under his face to the left of his bottom lip in the rearview mirror, just like when that police officer let us go for speeding. “Hostage,” I think, “he has taken us hostage. And he is enjoying this.”

More miles go by. Signs read, “Dairy Queen, next exit,” and “Hardee’s Roast Beef Sandwiches, five miles.” Three little stomachs, and most likely his as well, growl at the thought of something to eat. More miles and road food signs go by.

Finally, and I notice the fuel gauge on his dash is nearing “empty,” Dad puts on his blinker and blazes from the fast lane all the way over to the off ramp. My brothers and I, near fake dead, come alive with joy. Our prison has a light. Dad rips into the diesel pumps first. Naturally, he is building character in us.

And just there hails the “Golden Arches.” Like the blessed Virgin Mary arriving with all the saints singing, we enter the drive-through. Dad leans in to us, “OK, kids, what do you want?”

The possibilities and menu seem endless. We each have our standard order, but mom knew those. We are doubly starving, with apparently an unknown number of miles to go, so we begin to holler out our favorites: hamburger with no onion, cheeseburger extra ketchup, large fries, chocolate shake, two Happy Meals, Quarter Pounder with cheese, vanilla shake, Coke, Dr. Pepper…”

We are happy. We are smiling and buzzing with delight, basically bouncing in our truck seats.

Dad raises his right hand from the steering wheel and says, “OK. I got it. Everyone shut up.”

The speaker blasts a friendly voice, “Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?” I remember smiling at T.J. up front, and he gave an approving nod and smile in return. Jakey, the baby of us, just star-eyed and pleasant.

Our father replies to the speaker box:  “Yes, we will take four Big Macs, four fries and four Cokes.”

Well. That is what he wanted. He just multiplied it by four. We did not like Big Macs. We did not eat Big Macs. Our pure and simple joy was destroyed with twelve words. Three hearts broken right there.

The fries were my only savior, and I used the stiff ones to scrape off the special sauce, lettuce and onions. I cried. I don’t think we even got ketchup. All I remember thinking was, going fishing sucks.

And there was Dad’s little side smile.

Another time I would see my dad smile to himself was 20 years later. I’d had my son by then, my first little house, and a pretty good career going. He was mad at me for something, probably more like someone, and he showed up in the front lawn, still trailing the black smoke of a diesel engine, just a newer model.

Dad chewed my ass, as he would call it, and turned to leave the little Florida property, when he abruptly did an about face and looked me right in the eye. He was still upset with me so I held his eye respectfully, with a downward slant of my head. “And I’ll take that kid away from you in a heartbeat,” he said.

He mustered up something in his cheek and lip, and then, from about six feet away, he spat a big hunk of tobacco juice right out between us. The wad of brown spit flew through the air, kind of stretched out of itself and then came back together. I was wearing flip flops. It landed right between my big and second toes of my right foot. Right on the flip flop toe divider. A perfect shot. Point made.

And there was that hint of a smile to himself, just under the left of his bottom lip.

We continued to ride south on I95 into the night, three miserable kids who obviously had no choice about going fishing.

He said, “If you fart in my truck, just raise your hand.” Dad didn’t want anything sneaking up on him.

FLORIDA

We saw signs for Disney World, but we were Chuck’s kids, so that was that. Just past the famed park was a sign for Lake Kissimmee. “Are we there yet?” I asked.

“We will be there when we get there,” Dad said.

The interstate turned into a smaller highway, and that turned into a side street, then cut into a little neighborhood. A right turn into a short driveway displayed a small, quaint house. A bass boat was tucked in under a carport with a pickup truck parked in front of it. The hearty engine cut off and the new silence was almost deafening. Maybe we are going fishing.

A tall blonde man emerged from the little house, a classic one-story Florida style home with plenty of shade from trees to cover it. We knew this man. It was Don Strickland. He had one of those names that was always presented with both his first and last name. He wasn’t Don. He was Don Strickland. He was one of my father’s closets friends. We knew him from the drop zones. Don Strickland jumped out of airplanes with our dad. The two men had been members of the Golden Knights, the U.S. Army parachuting team. It was a special thing to know your dad and his friends were world championship parachuters. But to us it seemed normal.

We were raised on drop zones when Dad was not in some foreign country, speaking a different language. Our mother herded us three kids across them. Dad would pack his chutes in our house the night before jumps. The long drifts of nylon clouds would stretch the entire length of our home and he would tuck and pleat them into themselves until the long expanse became a perfect bundle cradled into a pouch. He would ride gravity for a little while in the morning.

So here was Don Stickland. In Florida. With a bass boat. I knew it was a bass boat instinctively. I knew it because our dad had talked about bass boats and bass fishing.

Looking back, I see that Dad needed to get away from our house in Virginia. Mom was still there; all her things, her furniture, her piano, her framed pictures, her art—her smell even, were still there. I also believe that Don Strickland was one of my dad’s favorite people. Since Vietnam. And they loved to fish for bass.

A couple years later they would become partners in the Bass n’ Buddy catch-and-release fishing tournaments in Orlando. Dad would actually win his own bass boat in one of these competitions, 1983. Everything he did, he did with supreme craftmanship and uncompromising skill. That’s why he is in the Guinness Book of World Records. But that was for skydiving in Moscow—not bass fishing in Kissimmee.

KISSIMMEE

I don’t remember any food. I do remember begging to go to shore to pee. My brothers said they saw me standing up to piss like a guy by a tree. That wasn’t true, but they said it anyway.

We trolled around through lily pads. Dad said, “Hey, kids, look at that.” Well, the boat had to be 20 feet long. So was the gator. We floated right up alongside him and looked down on him. Alligators roll. This huge creature began to turn over and over when we got really close. We could see its white belly, right there. White belly, dark green skin. White belly, dark green skin. It occurred to me that the gator was really mad. The boat started to rock. It was amazing, but I was scared. Dad didn’t care though.

No fish that day. We left and went to a place called Fat Boy’s BBQ, the one right there in Kissimmee. We ordered, were eating, and then we realized there were pictures of parachutes in the restaurant. Then we realized they were pictures of the Golden Knights. And then, we saw, right there on the wall, Dad and Don Strickland photographed free-falling together. And their signatures were right there on the matte board to prove it. I was proud of this.

We crammed into a hotel room and were awakened again at 0400.

This day was different. I remember peanut butter sandwiches, crackers, and Cokes. I remember Don Strickland pulling a bass into the boat. A smallish one, a couple pounds. And I remember the backlashes.

A backlash is what happens when an 11-year-old is trying to cast. I was getting the hang of it, but every now and then I would screw up and the fishing line would get tangled and knotted in the reel. I tried to hide this from my father. He was already pissed because he hadn’t caught any fish.

We zipped across Lake Kissimmee, traveling through things called “locks” that allowed us to move between different water levels, and fished. Cast after cast. All day. Yup, I thought, fishing does suck.

Going 65 miles per hour across the lakes reminded me of our last fishing adventure. Lake Anna, Virginia. Months earlier. Same thing: 0400, hungry, having to stay very quiet to not scare away the fish. All day.

Finally, just before dark, we raced miles in the boat back to the ramp. Bouncing, holding onto my brothers at the high speed, something smacks me right on the top of my head. I cry out. Dad motions to my big brother to deal with me. I’m cold and now my head hurts. It’s wet. I wonder if it’s blood. We eventually get to the ramp, off the water, in the truck, and on the road back home. When we get there, Dad says, go to bed. So, we go.

The next morning, I head to the kitchen where Dad is making breakfast for us, scrambled eggs. I tell him my head has little cuts on it. He feels the spot in my hair. A bump and little cuts. He smells my head. He says, “Holy shit, Jen. You’re the only one who got a fish yesterday.” That’s what slapped me in the head. We flew under a fish jumping out of the water at 60 mph. I had the scale marks and scent to prove it.

Not a big fan of fishing at this point in my life.

Then it happened. I got a tremendous backlash that I could not fix and could not hide. Dad gets mad. “Gimme that rod.” He hands me his. Cussing, using toenail clippers to cut and pull out the fishing line, I watch him, embarrassed and sulking.

My brother T.J. is behind me as I nonchalantly hold Dad’s rod to the side of the boat, out of his way. T.J. says carefully, “Jen, something’s at Dad’s line.”

We all look to the water and see the line moving a little, then getting taut and pulled. Little brother Jake blurts with excitement, “It’s a fish, Jenny! Set the hook!”

Now, I don’t really know how to do this part. I’d never caught a fish before out on a boat like they wanted me to. But I’d seen my brothers, Dad, and Don Strickland do the maneuver. So, I yanked back, hard. I lost my balance a bit and had to grab my Dad’s leg to stay standing. So now I have the rod in just one little hand.

“Don’t you lose that fish, Jennifer,” my dad orders.

Two hands back on the rod and I begin the struggle to bring the fish toward the boat. “This thing is heavy,” I think to myself.

“Jen got it!” yells Jakey.

“Pull the rod back up, Jenny. Keep cranking it in,” says Don Strickland.

T.J. reaches for the fish net and goes to the side of the boat where I’m now sweating and struggling. “It’s big,” he says.

Dad is standing behind T.J. and me, and he gets pissed again. He says, “Dammit, Jen. You caught a big mudfish.”

Closer now, I’m getting the fish closer to the boat.

T.J. is at the ready with the net in the water, ready to scoop up this big mudfish.

“That’s not a mudfish!” Don Strickland exclaims.

“It’s a big ole bass,” T.J. says calmly, catching it in the net.

My Dad pushes over to us to help get it in the boat.

“That’s MY FISH!” he yells. And Dad is pissed all over again.

Eleven pounds, three quarter ounces she was, with a big ole white belly on her.

“Eleven pounds for her eleven years,” Dad said to me. And there it was, that side smile struck again.

So, if you ever visited our house years later in Tampa, Fla., you would’ve noticed the big bass mounted over the stone fireplace.

Dad probably told you that was his fish. Because, essentially, it was.