The chapel was located in a large tent, long and broad enough to hold about forty chairs. The group chaplain, Major Kevin O’Reilly, was actually on his knees, praying, when we came in. We waited patiently for about three minutes while he finished up, then he walked to the rear of the tent where we were gathered.
As one might anticipate from a Special Forces chaplain, he didn’t look much like a priest. He had a broad face, a pugilist’s nose, and big, strong hands that squeezed painfully when we shook and introduced ourselves. I couldn’t imagine that people were inclined to act real sinful in his presence. I didn’t want to even imagine what kind of acts of contrition he exacted in his confessions.
“Father, thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” I said.
“Would you like to do this here?” he asked, waving around the chapel.
“No. Why don’t we walk around?”
“Fine.”
So we began strolling through the dusty streets of the big Tuzla compound, where several thousand soldiers and airmen were at that moment in a frenzy of cleaning up and preparing for another day of waging a nonwar against the Serbs.
“How long have you been with the unit?” I asked.
“Four years.”
“That’s a long time. You must like it.”
“Sure.”
“What do you like about it?”
“These are good boys, Major. There’s an image out there of Special Forces troops being wild, rowdy hooligans that’s completely out of character. Most of these men are good family people.”
“I guess Captain Sanchez is Catholic, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. A good one, too.”
I had already known his religion from his personnel file but wanted to lead into this obliquely.
“You know his family?”
“Very well. His wife, Stacy, and both kids. Mark is seven, and Janet is two. I baptized her.”
“Have you heard from his wife?”
“We’ve talked a number of times these past few weeks. It’s very troubling having Terry’s name splashed across the front pages as the man who commanded a massacre.”
“I imagine so,” I said, and I meant it.
“Three other members of that team were Catholic also, so I’ve been busy with all the families.”
“Of course. Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask a few questions. If you feel they’re too sensitive or I’m infringing on your clerical confidences, please feel free to tell me.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” he said.
“How would you describe the command environment here in the Group?”
He contemplated that a moment, and I sensed that his hesitation wasn’t obfuscation but because he wanted to get this just right. He finally said, “On the whole, pretty good. Special Forces soldiers, you know, are older than you find in regular units, and the men are rigorously tested before they get to wear the beret.”
“And if you could only use one word?”
“Gung ho.”
I smiled, then he smiled. I said, “How about another word?”
“Okay, troubled.”
“Why troubled?”
“Because these are can-do men with strong consciences. It’s very taxing to be around all these Kosovar refugees. Back in America, you see the images on TV, but it’s very rending on the nerves to have to witness firsthand what’s happening on the other side of that border.”
“Right, of course. I imagine that has a dampening effect on morale.”
He gave me a very trenchant look. “Dampening? Major, some of these men can’t sleep at night.”
“Have you had to do a lot of counseling?”
“We’ve had one suicide and one attempted suicide since we’ve been here. My days are filled with counseling.”
“So you’d say the men are frustrated?”
“I suppose that’s as good a word as any.”
“Did you have to counsel Terry Sanchez or any of his men?”
He stared off at a lumbering C-130 that had just taken off from the airfield and was beginning its climb to altitude. Finally he said, “I’m afraid I’d be uncomfortable answering that.”
“Okay, do you think the frustration you referred to might have caused that team to crack?”
“That’s really just the same question parsed a little differently, isn’t it?”
“Father, I’m asking off the record, one soldier to another.”
“Okay, I don’t believe Terry’s boys did it. However, the pressures are certainly there.”
Like hell, he wasn’t saying they did it. That was exactly what he was saying, although I couldn’t tell if he knew that for a fact, or just suspected they had and assigned it a reason, like everybody else in the world was doing.
“What can you tell me about Smothers’s battalion?”
“It’s a great unit. It should be, though. He’s a first-rate commander, and there’s a lot more veterans in his unit.”
“Veterans?”
“Yes, you know. A lot of his men saw duty in the Gulf, Somalia, Haiti, Bosnia.”
“Why so many veterans in his battalion?”
“As I said, it’s a very good unit, very reliable.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t get it.”
“How much do you know about the Special Forces culture?” he asked.
“Just hearsay.”
“Well, it’s very inbred. The Tenth Group has a European orientation, so the men have specific language skills and regional training. You don’t take a man from the Tenth Group and move him to say, the First Group, which specializes in Asia. Many men spend their whole careers in this unit.”
“But is there something special about Smothers’s battalion?”
“The men call it the old-timers’ club. There’s sort of an unwritten tradition in the Group that after five or ten years in another battalion, a lot of the sergeants put in for transfer to Smothers’s battalion.”
“Why would they do that?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer, but it never hurts to ask.
“Camaraderie, I suppose.”
We had arrived back at the chapel tent, and I could see several soldiers gathered and anxiously waiting. Father O’Reilly obviously had priestly things to do, and I’d heard everything I wanted to hear, so I thanked him and we parted ways.
As soon as he was gone, Delbert said, “That was really helpful.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” I asked.
“He was trying to communicate motive. He’s the confessor of four men in that team, and he was trying to offer us their motive.”
“Maybe,” I said, looking over at Morrow.
“Is there something we didn’t hear?” she asked.
I pulled on my nose a bit. “That old-timers’ club thing. That bothers me.”
Delbert said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Sort of a grouping of the elite of the elite.”
“Maybe.”
“You think there’s more?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“This is a combat unit, Delbert. A battlefield veteran is a very different breed than a green buck sergeant who might be highly trained but has never been truly tested. It’s the green guys who can get you killed. They might break under pressure. They might make mistakes, like maybe put a blasting cap in the wrong way, or use incorrect
