There are two kinds of Army Ranger. Graduates of U. S. Army Ranger School wear the Ranger Tab on their shoulder and are referred to as Rangers, regardless of what unit they serve in. They are informally referred to as “tab wearers”.
There is only one Ranger combat regiment in the Army, and that is the 75th Ranger Regiment. Personnel serving in one of the 75th’s battalions wear a scroll insignia on their shoulder. In contrast to the tab wearers, these Rangers are known as “scroll bearers”. This distinction is one of the many things I learned in the Ranger Indoctrination Program (RIP), where I was taken immediately following Airborne School. RIP is a training and selection course for the 75th Ranger Regiment.
RIP wasn’t quite the hazing marathon I had been expecting. I battled fatigue during routine classroom instruction, such as history lessons about Ranger unit lineage in wars past. I memorized the Ranger Creed. There were practical classes, like map reading. There were also several field exercises to teach us more combat skills… and in some cases, unteach us things from Basic Training that didn’t square with Ranger doctrine; Rangers have a special disdain for training standards in the broader Army. Finally, of course, there were challenging physical training sessions each morning.
RIP wasn’t a hazing marathon, but the instructors weren’t exactly friendly, either. RIP students were kept firmly in their psychological place. For example, the foot-path leading to the barracks entrance was adorned with a large arched sign in the shape of a Ranger scroll, mounted atop two wooden columns. We were told that because we hadn’t earned the right to walk under that scroll, we must walk around it instead.
There was still the occasional punishment-by-exercise. Ranger instructors were more imaginative at this compared to the other instructors I had encountered thus far. Push-ups? Bo-ring. Go grab that pull-up bar over there instead, and hang there until I tell you to stop. (You’d be surprised how fast your grip will give out completely, leaving your forearms pumped full of blood and your hands hanging like useless claws.)
Overall, RIP was unmemorable for me, perhaps because I was so tired, but three events do stick out in my mind.
First, this was my first Army experience where I witnessed people actively quitting. Since Ranger Regiment is a voluntary unit, aspiring students can change their mind if the going gets particularly tough. I saw tired, shivering students throw in the metaphorical towel. I was amazed. I thought, this isn’t even that hard yet and people in better shape than me are quitting already. That was the first time I realized physical conditioning wasn’t everything.
When someone who hadn’t already been assigned to a unit decided to quit RIP, they would go into a limbo-status to await new orders. Meanwhile, they acted as the “OpFor” (opposing force) unit for training exercises. I encountered this pretend-unit two years later while I was in Ranger School. They posed as “insurgents” from an enemy militant faction known as RQHM: the “RIP Quitters and Hold-overs Movement”. Morale was not high in the RQHM.
The second thing I distinctly remember from RIP is an off-handed comment made by one of the instructors. It was during a lull in some field exercise, and we were all extremely tired, dirty, and suffering from any number of minor contusions. The instructor, in a rare moment of open reflection, told us that Ranger life means spending significant time being tired, dirty, and covered with cuts and bruises. He said that to be a Ranger, you have to enjoy being in that state. That comment stuck with me because I remember thinking: well, so far I feel like this really sucks, so maybe Ranger life isn’t for me after all. I kept the thought to myself.
The third thing I recall was an absolute catastrophe.
At the end of RIP, you have to pass the Army Physical Fitness Test with some minimum score. It’s not a very challenging bar; I believe the requirement was 80% of the maximum score in each of three events: push ups, sit ups, and a two-mile run. I was not even a little bit worried about this. During practice sessions I was easily exceeding the threshold required to pass the test.
By test day, I had already received my orders indicating where I would serve. My shiny new orders had me reporting to 2nd Ranger Battalion in Fort Lewis Washington. It was my first choice, and I was thrilled. One easy fitness test to go, and I would be on my way to the big-time.
This is how the fitness test is scored for push ups: you assume the starting position, hands in the dirt, arms extended and locked, your body perfectly straight, your head up and looking forward. The instructor tells you to begin. You bend your elbows to lower your body toward the ground, body remaining straight, until your upper arms are parallel with the ground. Then you raise back up and lock out your elbows, back to the starting position. If you did this correctly, the instructor will announce the repetition count at the top. If you didn’t do it correctly, he’ll announce the previous repetition count. What you want to hear is something like “One, two, three, four,” and so forth. What you don’t want to hear is something like “One, two, two, two — lock your arms out — three, three, all the way down!” and so on. Having repetitions thrown out during this timed test is a serious psychological impediment.
My instructor for the final test was Sergeant Rowling. He was a giant. He had bulging arms and a bulging Copenhagen-packed lower lip. He was mean, and one of the more strict instructors. He was also the first instructor I had encountered who decided my push up form wasn’t very good. During training and practice tests, I was regularly exceeding 80 push ups in under two minutes. With Sergeant Rowling doing the grading, I ended up with about half that number. That’s not a passing score.
I was in shock. I was angry. I felt cheated. I felt embarrassed. I was called into the back office with a handful of other students who hadn’t passed the test. Another instructor was there, and he told us, “You have failed to meet the requirements on the test. This means you have failed RIP. You can be re-assigned to a non-Ranger unit, or you can repeat RIP with the next class, which starts next week. If you don’t want to join the next class, let me know right now.”
I raised my hand. He looked at me coldly. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to repeat RIP. I’ll do the push ups right now. I was robbed.” It all just blurted out of my mouth. My face was hot.
“Too late. You failed. That’s all. You can recycle next class or go to a regular infantry unit. Those are your choices.” Then, it sunk it. I had finally failed.
I agreed to recycle into the next class, but I had a few days between to think about things. I could drop out any time and go to a regular unit. To be honest, I felt very ambivalent. The failed test had put me in a crushing depression.
I called my parents to give them the bad news. Both of them were supportive. They told me I should do whatever was in my heart, they would support me completely if I decided not to pursue a Ranger assignment, that I was brave for joining the Army in the first place, and whatever I chose would be perfectly honorable. I imagined that I could hear a little bit of relief in their voices, or perhaps it was an acknowledgement that their son had finally fallen victim to his crazy, ambitious vision. I had been a soft, undisciplined computer kid; becoming an Army Ranger was just a crazy expectation to have, after all.
I thought about what the instructor had said about being a Ranger, the bit about needing to like being tired, dirty, and beaten. I wondered if I really had the inner strength to thrive in that world. I wondered if the failed test wasn’t a blessing in disguise. Maybe I should take the universe’s hint and find an easier path.
And then I thought: fuck that. I’ll make it or I will die, but I’m not joining the RQHM.
My second tour through RIP was easy. All the class work was review at this point. I was in better shape than the first time through. I was particularly obsessed with good form during my fitness tests.
At the end of my second RIP class, I passed the fitness test with a comfortable margin. I was now officially bound for my permanent duty station. This time I had missed out on the assignment to 2nd Ranger Battalion; my previous orders for that unit had been nullified when I failed the first class. I was now assigned to 3rd Ranger Battalion, which had been my last choice. 3rd Ranger Battalion was just around the corner from RIP, in Fort Benning, Georgia. I was so sick of Fort Benning at that point, spending another four years there seemed like a sentence. But I didn’t care; my least-preferred Ranger unit was far better than being sent off to a random Army unit.
Our graduation ceremony was held at the Ranger Memorial. I was given my black beret by none other than Sergeant Rowling, that sneering Ranger-hulk who had flunked me at my first attempt. I had no hate left for him at this point. I smiled and shook his hand, and thanked him. He just nodded and said, “That’s my job.”
Later: “The first thing that happens when you show up at Ranger battalion is they beat the shit out of you. They need to see how tough you are. So be ready.” That’s what my visibly-nervous RIP roommate said, and it seemed to be the general consensus among people in the know.
Soon I would be leaving for 3rd Ranger Battalion to find out for myself.
