The Army Ranger Training Tragedy That Never Should Have Happened |
The Yellow River begins in southern Alabama, near a country crossroads called Rose Hill, and flows into the Florida panhandle, that westering arm of the Sunshine State where Bible Belt hymns crowd the radio bands and the Latin ballads of Miami stations, if you pick them up at all, seem like music from another world. The Yellow doesn't lend itself to stirring adjectives; it isn't "raging" or "mighty," but a mere yeoman of a river—sluggish, undistinguished, and dull. From the state line, it continues due south for thirty-odd miles, slips under Interstate 10, then turns abruptly westward, uncoiling like a drawn gut through swamps in whose moss-draped precincts gators bask and cottonmouths nest, before it finally empties into Pensacola Bay. This part of its journey takes it through Eglin Air Force Base, a vast military reservation over which pine and live-oak forests roll for miles. Tucked into a remote corner of the woods, at the end of a dirt road so red and powdery it seems to have been paved with brickyard dust, is a small army base: Camp James E. Rudder, headquarters for the 6th Ranger Training Battalion. With its brown-and-khaki clapboard buildings and dust-blown airstrip, the camp could serve as a set for a World War II movie. Its actual birth was during the Korean War—1951, when the Army established ranger school. Ever since, soldiers seeking to win the rangers' coveted black-and-gold shoulder tab have come to it for the final phase of their training. Three miles from Camp Rudder's main gate, the Yellow courses under a low promontory called Metts Bluff. A narrow cove cuts into the bluff, its bank rising toward a point where a jeep track breaks through stands of towering longleaf pine. It was there, at midday on February 15, 1995, that the 102 students of ranger class 3-95 launched rubber rafts to practice waterborne operations, raids, ambushes, and other skills of their deadly trade. Later that afternoon, sixty-eight of them disembarked some eight miles downstream and, advancing on their imaginary enemy, plunged into the cypress-shaded gloom of the swamp. They had only six days until the end of their training, six days until they could sew the tab onto their sleeves. Gold letters on a black field, maybe two inches long by half an inch wide: RANGER. |
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| One Man's Search For the Perfect Suit |
I knew it was time for me to raise my style game late last year, when my friend John asked me to officiate at his wedding. Attending a wedding is a good excuse to pick up a new suit, but for the officiant, there's almost no excuse not to. I knew it would be a roomful of stylish people, so I wanted something that would give me confidence. I knew the pressure would be high, so I wanted something I'd be comfortable in. And I will level with you: I wanted to upstage the groom just enough. So I went searching. With each subsequent suit I tried on, I realized that love at first sight is absolutely real. Because it was the first suit I saw—the Soho, by Paul Smith, in a burgundy color that could pass for purple or a rich brown depending on the light—that had me hooked. It called out to me. No, it suited me. The price tag was $1,595. Sure, I wanted the right suit. My Suit. My investment in looking damn good. But I'll admit that I—accustomed to the deflated price of a Decent Suit—winced ever so slightly. See, in recent years, fast fashion has lowered the price of the Decent Suit to a reasonable $400 or so, an amount that doesn't make the eyes water, a price point we can present to our groomsmen with a clean conscience. The Decent Suit is decent! I've got a few in my closet. They get the job done, if the job is "technically be a suit." But they don't put a spring in my step. |
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Bob Dylan Isn't Done Lying to Us Just Yet |
The title of this book is a lie. There's no "philosophy" offered here—no overarching theory or argument made about writing or singing songs. There's not even an explanation of why Bob Dylan selected these particular 66 records as subjects for essays which encompass criticism, history, and fantastic leaps of reasoning. As for "modern," well, I guess that depends on your perspective. The most recent recording considered here is of the oldest composition—Stephen Foster's 1849 "Nelly Was a Lady" cut by bluesman Alvin Youngblood Hart in 2004. Otherwise, there are just two songs from the 21st century included, while almost half of the choices date from the 1950s, Bobby Zimmerman's formative years. (It's also worth noting that only four of his picks are performed by women.) |
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Republicans Claim They'll Fix Inflation. We Asked Eight GOP Senate Candidates How. |
It's perfectly reasonable for Republicans to batter Democrats on inflation. Gas prices have fallen way off their June highs, but the rising cost of living is still a problem for Americans from most walks of life, and Democrats are the party in power. That's politics. But now that Republicans have chosen inflation—and particularly gas prices—as their number-one issue for this political cycle, it follows that their candidates would have detailed plans to turn things around if they're elected. That's governing. We asked the campaigns of eight Senate candidates in competitive races—J.D. Vance in Ohio; Mehmet Oz in Pennsylvania; Herschel Walker in Georgia; Blake Masters in Arizona; Ron Johnson in Wisconsin; Ted Budd in North Carolina; Adam Laxalt in Nevada; and Mike Lee in Utah—how they plan to lower gas prices and fight inflation. |
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Am I a Superhero to My Sons? |
I live in the same county where I grew up. So when my family and I drive to the Oldham Theatre to see a movie, almost always a superhero movie, because it seems like there's a new one every single week, it's hard not to remember eating Jolly Ranchers in this same theater while watching Batman in 1989. My sons, fourteen and nine, are sitting in the same chairs that I sat in when I was their age, and they have to hear me say, every single time we go to the theater, "You know, I saw my first Batman movie in this very same theater." And they say, "Yes, god, we know. And you ate Jolly Ranchers from the concession stand." And I say, "But not the Jolly Ranchers that you kids eat—" And they interrupt to say, "Yes, they were a different size. We know. Dad, the movie is starting." |
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"If You Bother Me, I'm Going to Whip Your Ass": The Night Charles Barkley Threw a Man Through a Glass Window |
Charles Barkley had settled into Phineas Phogg's at Church Street Station, the entertainment district in downtown Orlando, with Clyde Drexler and five or six young female friends at around 11:00 p.m. on October 25, 1997. Known for its stained-glass windows, Top 40 playlist, and Nickel Beer Night, Phineas Phogg's made the area at the time a premier destination for party people of all backgrounds looking to have fun or make bad choices. It was about 1:45 a.m. and almost closing time. Jeffery Williams, an off-duty cop working at the bar that night, recalled that all seemed calm as people were exiting. In the middle of his police academy training, Jerry Colon had gone out to get his mind off the grueling program and happened to find himself next to Charles's table. The conversation that night was filled with basketball and laughter. That was about to change. |
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