Surviving Belize ebook

WE DO NOT TRAIN FOR PROMOTIONS OR MEDALS.WE TRAIN SO THAT YOU CAN FEEL SAFE,SO THAT YOU HAVE SOMEONE TO FIGHT FOR YOU IF THE NEED ARISES.

Words of my friend and Commander of GROM’s Naval Combat Squadron at Diabeł’s funeral.

Copyright © by Naval, Warszawa 2017

Copyright © for this edition and translation by Dressler Dublin 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Cover design

Paweł Panczakiewicz

Cover photo

Kamila Szkolnik-Gołdyn

Publisher:

Bellona Publishing House

An imprint of Dressler Dublin Sp. z o.o.

ul. Poznańska 91

05-850 Ożarów Mazowiecki

www.bellona.pl

E-book:

ISBN 978-83-11-16039-2

Number 4000487

Table of Contents

Welcome to the jungle 6

1. SELECTION 8

2. THE TRIP 13

3. MY LEFT FOOT 15

4. YOU BETTER BELIZE IT 19

5. LEAVE THE SNAKE ALONE 22

6. A LITTLE GUIDE TO JUNGLE SURVIVAL 33

7. KICKING MUD AND WATER 41

8. BEGINNINGS OF A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP 51

9. COOKED 57

10. PACKING 61

11. A HUNTER’S HANDBOOK 64

12. MONKEYTRAP 70

13. CONTACT 76

14. THE KILLER RABBIT ATTACK 80

15. BLUE CREEK 88

16. BOREDOM 96

17. GIVE IT A WIDE BERTH 98

18.JUST LIKE THE REAL THING 100

19. RETURN 106

20. THE CANCELLED GRENADE SESSION 108

21. THE GAME 113

22. THE MASTER PLAN 117

23.THE CHASE 120

24. LOOKING FOR THE LOST RIVER 123

25. TRIAL DIVES 129

26. MISSION COMPLETE 132

27. SAYING GOODBYE TO BELIZE 135

EPILOGUE 144

In memory of those who sacrificed their livesso that you can be safe and read books such as this

SZCZUPŁY

KAŚKA – ŻUKU

DIABEŁ

OUSI

POZIOMKA

WITEK

KRZYCHU

Welcome to the jungle

Imagine thirst that makes water taste like wine and hunger that makes a cracker with a bit of pâté fill you up for a whole day. Under such conditions, your body screams in exhaustion, and your mind complains in anger. Your swollen legs refuse to keep moving. Your body yells that it can’t go any further, forcing you to give up. But you are not listening at all. After a meager meal and a bit of rest, you feel the enormous satisfaction of a job well done and of all the kilometers you’ve left behind. You continue moving forward, even if a flat, straight road seems like a steep way up a bloody mountain.

That’s how my marches felt. Every single step making my severely aching body omnipresent: backpack straps about to saw my arms off, my gun weighing a ton and my feet covered in blisters. Every single step makes you think that it just can’t get any worse, but it always does. Yet, giving up is not a possibility, and every minute you prevail spells success. There’s no satisfaction like it.

Although exhaustion hurts, it’s a pain I enjoy. I like feeling my heart pounding like a hammer while I’m drenched in sweat. I want to push myself harder and get that extra bit of adrenaline while I do. In my line of work, exhaustion is the norm. No one forced me into it; no one pushed me onwards. I chose this path; I became a soldier and made it through the selection process into one of the best units in the world; I made it into GROM, where heavy training is a lifestyle.

How do you continue going when the environment and your own body are against you? We all search for something to focus our minds on; everyone seeks an escape of their own. I found it in the travel journals of other earth-walkers. My favorites amongst them are the stories of Sergiusz Piasecki, the author of The Lover of Ursa Maior.By reading it, I came across the idea of writing a journal of my own. That journal became the book that you are now diving into.

I would like to take you with me back to the jungle in Belize. It certainly is not a safe place, so I think you’ll consider yourself lucky that we are heading there together. I want you to experience what fighting for your life is like when just about everything is a potential threat. Hopefully, you’ll experience it the way I did, with sweat, exhaustion, blood… and incredible satisfaction.

1. SELECTION

In order to earn a Special Forces beret, you have to prepare yourself for hell on earth. You will experience it more than once. I’d say I visited the devil’s den for the first time while going through the selection process for The Firm, the name we use when referring to GROM. By the time I completed it, my feet looked like red and purple balloons, just a puff away from bursting. I remember sitting barefoot on the sidewalk in front of my house, numbing my feet on the icy concrete. My head spun in exhaustion, but I was far from feeling sad or gloomy; I was just delighted and grateful. I had made it! I had managed to pull through harsh punishment, high-fiving instructors at the finish line.

The army I had known was all about yelling orders and putting people down, so I was surprised to see that the soldiers that ran the selection process were calm and controlled, even though I could easily feel the strength and power that emanated from them. Actually, that had proven to be an even more effective combination when trying to break us down; they poisoned our minds slowly but surely. “Let it go,” a calm and understanding voice would say, “if you are tired, take a seat and rest for a while.” I had done my best not to listen, repeating to myself over and over the words I had spoken when it all began: you need to want this, you are doing this only for yourself.

So, I did it. For myself.

For everyone in The Firm, selections are a common thing. For us it’s a constant process, it never really ends. When we heard about a jungle patrol course in Belize, we immediately knew that another selection process was going to be necessary. The rules were simple: we had to assemble a team of six, the leader had to possess an English B2 level certificate or better (A2 was acceptable for the rest), and everyone would have to pass a CFT1.

Training overseas is considered a huge honor in Poland. Furthermore, a course like this would make our résumés so powerful that we’d become untouchable, at least in the opinion of some of our top officers; others had a weird perception of hard training. Still, we didn’t argue over who would be going, but indeed there were more candidates than available spots.

English tests were held by the British military attaché. I knew some basic expressions (I had attained the A1 certificate), but my written English was worse than a child’s. I had one of my friends write a superb essay on how I felt I was destined to participate in this exercise and how much I was going to learn from it. I memorized every bit and then wrote it down carefully word by word during the test, expressing my infinite love for the wilderness. The oral portion of the exam was just a quick chat with the attaché, who fortunately had no intention to be hard on us. I wasn’t too talkative, but I had prepared a secret weapon; I recited some beautiful phrases I had memorized on how soldiers always understood each other, regardless of languages. I think I got through to him…

Once we were done, the attaché politely thanked everyone and further invited us to the course in Belize. Calling it an “invitation” might’ve been an overstatement, considering that we had to pay for it. Or at least The Firm did. Well, the taxpayers really.

Our commanding officer came in and congratulated us all, emphasizing that he hadn’t doubted for a second our ability to pass the tests. Still, he didn’t announce who had been chosen to attend; we’d have to wait a little longer for that information.

When the list was published, no one was shocked. There was a major, two captains, two colonels, and… one sergeant. Some of the guys joked about this being an officer’s trip and how Naval (barely a master sergeant) had only been invited for show. This wasn’t entirely true, as no one cared too much about ranks within GROM. I guess it was merely a coincidence. It might not be evident to everybody, but a squad always needs at least one officer, and a squad can be made out of officers alone.

Śniady was designated squad leader. He immediately began preparing a very ambitious training plan. Honestly, the rest of the team wasn’t too thrilled about it, but his plan had no space for opinions, and he went through with it anyway. I trusted him nonetheless; he had been my green tactics2 instructor during our introductory training, and he had proven to be very good at it. I should mention that he had passed the American Green Berets’ training course too.

He proceeded to define our roles and marching order. I was to go at the front as the squad’s scout, clearing the route, seeking threats, and measuring the distance marched. Shaggy would be behind me working as a navigator, a considerable responsibility, as he’d be the one to lead us towards our objective. Śniady came third. As the leader, he had to know just about everything, or at least know how to best exploit our skills to work out what he didn’t. Karol would be marching fourth as our radio operator, which meant he’d have to carry a pretty heavy radio station, plus spare batteries. Maniek was second in charge and would be the fifth in line. Finally, Bazyl would be responsible for securing our rear and would also have to navigate if anything happened to Shaggy.

Śniady’s plan turned out to be a nightmare and executing it, hell. Yes, planning is important, but we were spending endless hours looking at maps and plotting out courses, over and over again. Usually, this is something that the people at headquarters do: playing war games on maps, pointing targets, and trying to foresee the enemy’s movements. I was quite good at planning and navigating with a compass, or at least I thought so at the time. I became tired of all this sitting and planning, so I jumped at every chance I had of standing up and leaving the room. I became so helpful! I was always running around searching for pens, maps, and other materials, although I must admit that every trip took a little longer than necessary.

After the planning was done, Śniady prepared a set of lectures. Keeping awake while he spoke was almost impossible, so he came up with a nice trick to help us through: he commanded Maniek to keep watch and to report if any of us dozed off. If we were caught, we had to listen to the rest of the lecture standing up. Only when everyone was on their feet were we allowed to take a break. After a couple of days, I somehow managed to fall asleep with my eyes open, just to avoid standing up.

The lectures were followed by a practical test. We failed miserably. The challenge was quite simple: we had to conduct reconnaissance on some soldiers riding a vehicle by lying down at a clearing in the forest. Shaggy and I carefully camouflaged ourselves and hid in the forest ground, lying low, waiting for the vehicle. Once it showed up and began approaching, it became increasingly clear that the driver would inadvertently lead it straight over our heads! My buddy and I had no choice but to get up and jump out of the way, thus revealing our presence and screwing up the mission…

Last but not least, we had to face the dreaded CFT. It begins with a thirteen kilometers march carrying a backpack weighing no less than fifteen kilograms. Then you must run two and a half kilometers in less than nine and a half minutes. Finally, you have to do several series of crunches and push-ups. Maybe it doesn’t sound too bad, but trust me, it is. Even the strongest guys, having conquered all kinds of mountains and trails, have failed to complete the CFT. The whole idea of having such hard tests is to eliminate the stragglers even before the actual courses begin.

For us, fitness tests were an everyday thing. We prepared for the CFT individually, considering that all the planning sessions, briefings, and debriefings made it impossible to do so collectively. I was happy to get off my ass and exercise again. At the time, I lived in a 17-story building, so I trained going up and down those stairs until I was drenched in sweat. No one really used the staircase, so aside from the occasional chatty person, I was mostly alone. All in all, I must’ve climbed enough stairs to make it up Mount Everest.

HOW TO PREPARE YOURSELF AHEAD OF A DIFFICULT MARCH

The key is to appreciate sweat and exhaustion. I will teach you how:

1. Sit down and talk to yourself, to your very soul. Do you really want to do it? If you don’t, don’t bother, you will only succeed if you truly desire to.

2. Choose your equipment wisely. Select adequate shoes, comfortable underwear, and clothing that adjusts to the weather conditions.

3. Start by testing yourself. You need to know which level you are starting from. Besides, we all like to feel challenged, even by ourselves.

4. Always remember that your legs are not the only ones that’ll do the walking. Your arms and back will carry the backpack, and your abdomen will have to keep it all together. So, test your physical abilities as a whole: test yourself running, swimming, taking on pull-ups, and crunches. Don’t forget diving.

5. Begin your training by pushing yourself at about sixty percent of your capacity. Introductory training is supposed to be enjoyable and, if you continue increasing the load evenly in time, you’ll soon realize that you can do more, faster and better.

6. Look after your diet, and don’t forget about resting. These are essential parts of your training.

7. Feeling tired and unable to go any further? Sit down on a bench and have some rest! You are doing this for yourself and for yourself only. Train in a way that makes you want to keep on going.

8. Every now and then (once a month, for example) push yourself to the limit. Do it without watching the timer, but have somebody watching it for you. Do not do this on your own, but do it for yourself. Think of it as a situation where you are forced to fight for your life, so give it everything!

9. Testing and results are not really that important, but they will let you know how your body behaves in extreme situations and if you are submitting yourself to excessive strain. If you are, slow down!

10. Look after yourself! If you are injured, take the necessary time to recover. We are only human.

The rest of the guys needed to figure out a training plan too. Well, all but Maniek. He didn’t have to do a thing; he was born fit and ready to march. He would just walk and walk and walk, and at a pretty good speed as well.

Counting steps is critical for navigation, as it’s the only way to estimate the distance you’ve advanced (if you’re not using a GPS, that is). Being the scout, I had to perfect my skills. I’d had some trouble before measuring distances in the Polish forests, so I was certainly concerned about having to do so in the jungle! With the aid of a GPS, I calculated that one hundred and forty steps were roughly one hundred meters. I bought a pedometer (a step counter) that worked perfectly in flat terrain but struggled when in uneven ones, as it depended on body movements to measure. So, the more I learned of the challenges the jungle would pose, the more aware I was of the need for special tools.

We received an equipment list from the British Army. We were instructed to take only the essentials and nothing more. It was surprising for me to notice that no night vision devices were included. Considering that Poland is not exactly a jungle, getting our hands on most of the stuff was quite a challenge. At least I had my GPS…

People don’t realize how important having adequate equipment is. Not only because of their intended function but also because they provide safety assurance. Riding boats, I witnessed countless items saved from hungry seas only because they’d been strongly tied to their owners. In other words, you need to be entirely confident that the rope won’t break, because only then will you know you won’t break either.

A few days before leaving for England, Śniady decided we would do a CFT of our own. It seemed relatively simple: we needed to cover thirteen kilometers with fifteen kilograms on our backs in less than two hours. Having walked countless distances on my own, I felt confident this would prove an easy task, yet I wasn’t accounting for the fact that marching as a group is quite different from marching alone. When I trained, I could do so at my own pace, running if needed to regain lost time, but moving as a team would prove to be another story altogether.

Śniady thought it would be best for us to march on a nearby road behind a car tasked with measuring the distance covered. Thirteen kilometers over heated asphalt. To make things more interesting, we began our journey at midday. The temperature was overwhelming. As we set off, I proposed to abandon the road and to march under the cover of the adjacent trees, but Śniady replied there was no reason for making our lives easier! For fuck’s sake, we are Special Forces! We’re supposed to be creative! At least I had packed a full two-liter CamelBak; not only would I stay hydrated, but I would also shave weight as I drank from it.

We had been ordered to wear our newly acquired jungle boots. I didn’t take special powers to imagine how our feet would end up after walking such a distance on a hot day while wearing new, hard, rigid boots made out of stiff leather. You could feel every stitch, every protrusion on the inside. I didn’t consider following that command for a second, and so the talking began: “Naval shouldn’t pass,” “he’s wearing inadequate shoes,” “his equipment doesn’t comply with regulations.” Shaggy had been the smarter of us all. Using an old injury as an excuse, he skipped the march altogether and instead calmly sat in the car, enjoying the view while measuring our advance. That’s what I call creativity!

And so, the march began. Every once in a while, we switched the lead, which allowed us to keep a steady pace. Believe it or not, it actually helps, it cheers you up and maintains fresh forces at the front. The sun was unforgiving, scorching us mercilessly. Maniek was thoroughly enjoying his new boots, marvelously tight, its delicate stitches gnawing at his skin. While our legs slowly weakened, we did quite well for the first ten kilometers, the switches going smoothly.

When you’re marching as a group, you become aware that something is wrong when the lead has to literally stop for his replacement to catch up and take point. So, when it was Karol’s turn to move forward, I knew we were in trouble. I slowed down beside him and tried to boost him, but he was gasping for air like an old, failing engine. He had no water, so I gave him some of mine, but by then, it made no difference. He zig-zagged, slowed down, and finally fell by the wayside, severely exhausted and dehydrated.

Shaggy immediately stopped the car and jumped out to help him, but he was stopped in his tracks by Śniady. “I will not accept aid from individuals outside the marching order!” he yelled.

The rest of us gathered around him and helped him up. I took his backpack and swung it over my back, right on top of mine. I was now carrying twenty kilograms. We had a mere 250 meters to go until our last turn, and then another 500 meters to the finish line, but Karol was in bad shape, and he was rapidly worsening. Overheated and exhausted, not only his legs had abandoned him, but his mind and will, too. While he bumbled and cursed, the clock kept moving steadily. Maniek helped him get to the turn, where he left him under Shaggy’s care. I abandoned his load there too, as there was no one to carry it for anymore. Without looking back at the stragglers, Maniek and I pushed forward. Somehow, we finished that feet-destroying ordeal in time.

While we enjoyed the infinite pleasure of dropping our backpacks and resting our butts in the ground, Śniady and Bazyl waddled their way to the finish line. The jungle boots had bloodied up all of my teammate’s feet, but our leader didn’t care too much about it. I would dare say he was actually proud of his wounds! I was absolutely pissed off. Although my feet were in good shape, I had seriously injured my ankle somehow during the damned march, and every step I took made me cringe. Not a good thing when you’re a few days away from heading into the jungle.

The next day I woke up doing even worse. I had come up with a fever, and my ankle looked like it needed a cast, while I was supposed to train and take a physical test in England before the week was over. It would be Shaggy and five cripples traveling. Everyone’s feet were covered in bandages. But we had all passed the test, including myself, even if my boots were not in regulation!

Packing is a vital part of any journey, especially for a soldier. Whatever you forget, you cannot buy or borrow later, yet if you pack too much, you will have to carry that excess weight all the way. Well, sure, you could throw stuff away, but most items are quite expensive and valuable to their owners. You genuinely need to put some thought into the art of packing.

On this occasion, we were limited by our baggage allowance. We needed to take so much stuff with us that we packed it on chests, which are relatively comfortable to carry and provide proper protection.

The day before leaving, Śniady gathered us for inspection. We were taken by surprise, as we had considered the Brit’s list to be a suggestion rather than an obligation. All of us lacked something and hence were regarded by our leader as unprofessional. I’m ashamed to admit it, but here it goes: I had sharpened my pencil on one end only (even though the Brits clearly stated that we had to sharpen both), and I lacked a spoon and a fork. You know, I always carry a knife, but the argument that I could use it to sharpen my pencil at any time was disregarded.

When packing, it’s crucial to keep a basic set of essentials in your backpack. This is something I’ve learned after several years in The Firm. I feel pretty uncomfortable when I don’t have twine, plastic handcuffs, black tape, a tiny first-aid kit, and a few other small but tremendously useful items with me. And I absolutely must have a small knife in my pocket. You might think that it has to do with having to fight for your life, but you won’t be cutting anybody’s head with a pocketknife. How often do you find yourself struggling with a knot you cannot undo or something that’s trapped by some string or rope? A sharp blade solves it all, it just makes your life easier. And I, for one, love to keep things simple.

Always have a list of stuff you can’t live without. My list goes as follows: knife (preferably one you can operate with a single hand), lighter, flashlight, two meters of string or twine with a strap hook on one end, and a first-aid kit. I carry all of this with me almost all the time. If I go on a small journey, I pack some extra things: Leatherman multitool, spare batteries, water, protein bars, and depending on the season, an extra set of clothes.

HOW TO PACK – NAVAL’S CHECKLIST

Essentials:

• Knife

• Mobile phone

• Flashlight

• Twine (two meters, with a strap hook)

• Plastic handcuffs

• Lighter

• Chemical light

• Watch (equipped with a compass)

• Sunglasses

• First aid kit

• Protein bar

Additional items

(For longer and/or more complex journeys)

• Spare batteries

• Matches

• One meter of elastic cord

• Multitool

• Thermal foil (rescue blanket)

• Map

• Compass and/or GPS

• …and, generally, everything that I think might be useful in the terrain and weather conditions I’ll be facing

2. THE TRIP

Soldiers in movies always seem to travel quickly and uneventfully. They get onto a plane here, they jump off a chopper there… and that’s pretty much all there is to it. Well, in real life, things are a bit different, especially for Polish soldiers. We have this way of making things more complicated than they need to be. We walk in situations where American soldiers would ride a truck. We ride a truck when they would take a helicopter. We take a helicopter when… well, I think you get the idea.

Even though this time we would depart on a plane (like anyone else would), Command saw fit to send us on one of the smallest transport aircraft out Air Force possessed. While the M28 Bryza is comfortable and well-equipped, it is short-ranged and propeller-driven. In other words, we would have to refuel at Cologne, Germany, as flying non-stop to England was simply impossible. All in all, it would take us about seven hours to reach our destination.

Our adventure began long before arriving in Belize. The Pterodactyl (the nickname I gave our M28 Bryza transport) was a good but short-ranged airplane, so we had to refuel in Germany.

The flight itself was quite pleasant, but when we landed at Cologne, the Germans asked if we were exhibiting our plane at an antiques air show. I couldn’t stop thinking that during World War II, the Allies would fly from England to Poland non-stop, and yet we were unable to do so in the 21st century. And we didn’t have to deal with German fighters and anti-aircraft batteries! Wouldn’t it have been a lot easier to book us a regular commercial flight?

When we finally arrived at the airbase in Norton, we were met with suspicion. I’m sure the airmen stationed there were wondering who came in such a monstrosity, and why. Chest after chest, we unloaded all of our belongings and took them with us into a cozy waiting room. The only problem was no one was there to meet us. In situations like this, you appreciate Polish hospitality so much more; It’s not like we would be expecting foreign soldiers with a huge welcome party, but at least we would have someone waiting for them on a truck. Śniady desperately tried to reach somebody on the phone, but no one was answering his calls. With every passing hour, it became more apparent that for the Brits, we were little more than a nuisance.

Maybe because we drank all of their tea, maybe because Maniek wouldn’t stop laughing loudly at his own stories, or maybe because they began to pity us… The British officers eventually agreed to lend us a bus and a driver to take us to our destination.

I sat down and enjoyed the view while we rode through the English countryside for about two hours, only to arrive at the wrong base. My only consolation was that being on an island, we could only drive so much before stumbling into the correct place. It took a further two hours to get there, and, as expected, no one was waiting for us there either. Some good Samaritan was friendly enough to point us towards the barracks, and that was about it. Supper was out of the question as the canteen had closed hours ago, but we could help ourselves to some tap water.

“So what?” sighed Karol, “we have been trained to withstand hunger, too.”

I laid down, unable to sleep. A mosquito buzzed around somewhere, and my head was filled with thoughts. How had I even made it there?

In 1993 I had decided to trade my locksmith’s file for a soldier’s rifle, afraid that boredom would drive me crazy. Initially, I believed it would only be temporary; I would go back to being a locksmith once I had completed my service. While I was in the Army, I met people like Wiesiek, a fellow soldier I spent six months in Lebanon with, who made me consider becoming a professional soldier. I didn’t want to remain in the Polish Army, so I thought about joining the Foreign Legion. I knew about GROM, but it seemed unreachable for a simple soldier like me. The name alone was overwhelming, not to mention the legend surrounding it and its commander, General Sławomir Petelicki.

Still, I was a decent enough soldier. When I ran, I rarely saw the backs of my rivals; under the water, I was faster than a shark, and I couldn’t walk by the training grounds without doing a couple of pull-ups. After completing my mandatory service, I spent three years in the Industrial Guard while I finished high school, thus completing the requirements to apply for GROM. I qualified to participate in the initial exam at Legionowo, where I met a bunch of guys as inconspicuous as me.

The Firm turned out to be utterly different from the army I had known. Standing at attention for hours made no sense; what really mattered was a job well done. I won’t pretend that everything was perfect, but I would not trade the days I spent there for anything else. For me, GROM is defined by its people, people filled with undying passion. People that do something that matters.

3. MY LEFT FOOT

It was a typically cold and rainy English morning. We were happy nonetheless; we had enjoyed a decent breakfast at the canteen. A lot of the cooks and cleaners on base turned out to be Poles, so we gained access to some insider information. They warned us that the Brits were very stringent on kitchen and pantry regulations, so it would be hard for us to eat our fill. Food is especially important for soldiers, so this became a sensitive issue: after a few days, the Canadians began openly complaining about it. Apparently, they had become used to American canteens where Uncle Sam is known to be quite generous.

Aside from the Canadians, we met several other future companions during breakfast: Kenyans, Filipinos, Norwegians, Irish, Czechs, Germans, and the slightly odd-looking Bangladeshis with their pressed uniforms. I greeted some Gurkhas (Nepalese commandos serving within the British Army) with a friendly ram ram, something I had learned while working with them in Lebanon under the United Nations. We found out that all of them had someone waiting to pick them up at the airport.