Brotherhood of Warriors by Aaron Cohen

Author:Aaron Cohen
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061859762
Publisher: HarperCollins

FOURTEEN

From the two platoons of roughly forty guys in basic training, we were down to fourteen real survivors after about two weeks at C.T. School. So the core group who would later form my operational team were all there. We knew we were getting near the finish line, but we were keeping our distance psychologically, knowing that our best buddy could be gone from the base, suddenly, without any good-bye or explanation.

The Krav Maga during basic and advanced training was bad enough, but during Thursday-night sessions at the C.T. School the instructors turned up the dial in terms of aggressiveness and intensity. This was without a doubt the pinnacle of brutality during our entire Special Forces training. It became pure survival in the gym—fight as fiercely as you could or be pummeled into a bruised, bloody, broken heap. The instructors made us go one-on-one against our closest friends—there was no sparring here; nothing sporting about it. We had to kick the shit out of our buddies, fight with genuine ferocity, like one of them just laid his hands on your sister.

Sure, surviving something like this makes for a special bond between you and your teammates, but with every shuddering kick to your rib cage, every attempt to inflict maximum damage, you truly start to hate these guys, at least for the duration of the training. They are genuinely trying to hurt you. And many times, they do. In fact, injury is the biggest pitfall from this point on in the training. We actually lost two or three guys from the fractured shins, ribs, and fingers from Thursday-night Krav Maga sessions.

After the Krav instructional, the instructors would send one guy into the center of the ring. Then another one of us would be chosen to go full contact one-on-one until one of us got knocked out. Punching and kicking to the head were not allowed. It’s surprisingly hard to knock a guy out with a body shot—you have to connect to his chest, really knock all the wind out of him, in order to score a TKO.

I’d be gasping and limping by this point, but the Krav Maga kept going full-bore. The fight became two-on-one; then three-on-one. The battle culminated with one guy in the middle of the ring, trying to fend off the punches, elbows, and kicks from six of his teammates.

“Fight him! No pitty-pat shit! The whole team—fight!”

Twelve fists, twelve feet, twelve elbows, twelve knees, nothing but a blur of pummeling, elbows swinging, knees flying. It was like a modern-day version of a Roman gladiator school, a freestyle mix of boxing, wrestling, ju-jitsu, karate, and Krav Maga. No pauses; no tap-outs; no punches pulled. Besides intentional head shots, only eye-gouging, hair-pulling, and blows to the balls were off-limits. The instructors goaded us on with rewards: the last man standing—usually crawling—would win a weekend pass. I was bigger than a lot of the other guys, but right away the instructors singled me out as the potential weak link, figured I was some pampered Southern California kid who’d cave when the abuse intensified.

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